Love Omar at Theatro Technis is a warm, reflective new play by Hannah Khalil that steps backstage into the dressing room of legendary actor Omar Sharif during his 1983 appearance in The Sleeping Prince at Chichester Festival Theatre. Directed by Chris White, the production blends comedy, memory and quiet emotional tension to explore fame, ego and the strange intimacy of theatre life. Rather than presenting Sharif as an untouchable icon, the play allows him to exist in smaller, more human moments, such as sitting at a mirror, adjusting makeup, and trading remarks with the people around him while carrying the pressure of being watched both onstage and off.
The first image that settles in the mind is Omar alone at his dressing table, lit by the soft glow of bulbs around the mirror while the noise of the theatre hums faintly beyond the walls. He smooths his moustache, pauses, then glances toward the door with the impatience of someone who expects interruption before it arrives. It’s a simple opening, but it immediately places the audience in that peculiar backstage world where performance has already begun long before the curtain rises.
What works especially well is how the play lets conversation reveal character gradually. Omar’s exchanges with his dresser Daphne and assistant director Mag move between teasing humour and sharper tension, often within the same scene. When Daphne quietly questions whether he has “done something” to his moustache again, the line lands with understated comedy because of how seriously everyone treats such an absurdly theatrical problem. These details give the production texture rather than turning it into a straightforward biographical portrait.
Al Nedjari brings a charismatic restlessness to Omar, balancing charm with flashes of vanity and insecurity. His performance never feels like imitation; instead, he captures the rhythm of someone used to admiration but unsettled when attention drifts elsewhere. Opposite him, Ishia Bennison gives Daphne a grounded warmth that quietly steadies the room, while Lara Sawalha allows Mag’s curiosity and restraint to build gradually into something more emotionally revealing.
The design supports the intimacy of the piece beautifully. A cluttered dressing-room set filled with costume pieces, makeup and half-packed belongings creates the sense of a temporary world constantly being assembled and dismantled. Lighting shifts subtly throughout, sometimes warming the room with nostalgic softness, sometimes isolating Omar in colder tones that underline his loneliness beneath the celebrity image.
There are moments where the pacing deliberately slows, allowing stories and memories to settle rather than rushing toward dramatic confrontation. That patience works in the play’s favour. It lets backstage silences, unfinished thoughts and casual remarks accumulate emotional weight over time.
Love Omar succeeds because it understands that theatre history lives as much in dressing rooms as it does in performances. Through small gestures, carefully observed conversations and deeply human performances, it creates a portrait not just of a famous actor, but of the fragile, complicated people who exist behind the curtain.
