Russell's Theatre Reviews

Happy Christmas to all my readers!

2009-12-21T19:11:00.002Z

Peace and joy and yadah yadah yadah.

Here's a touching little video courtesy of YouTube and Charlie Brown. Have a cool yule, and see you in 2010 for another year of theatre reviews.

and I couldn't resist this little gem starring Donald Duck (who is a lot like me.....)

Rope - Almeida Theatre, Monday 14th December 2009

2009-12-16T22:00:00.005Z

Synopsis:

On a night not unlike any other night, Brandon and Granillo commit murder. They kill a fellow classmate in college for the simple sport of it. What do you do to top a murder? Why, you stuff the boy’s body into a chest in the middle of the room and you invite friends over for a dinner served off that very chest. And for good measure you invite the boy’s father too, One of the friends invited over is Rupert, slightly older and more sophisticated.
And it is upon Rupert that the truth behind the secret of the chest in the middle of the room begins to dawn.

Cast:
Philip Arditti – Sabot
Bertie Carvel - Rupert Cadell
Emma Dewhurst - Mrs Debenham
Michael Elwyn - Sir Johnstone Kentley
Henry Lloyd-Hughes - Kenneth Raglan
Blake Ritson - Wyndham Brandon
Alex Waldmann - Charles Granillo
Phoebe Waller-Bridge - Leila Arden

Creative team:

Roger Michell – Director
Mark Thompson – Design
Rick Fisher – Lighting
John Leonard – Sound

Finally, the Almeida produce something worth seeing. It hasn’t formally opened yet, and I suspect that the critics will be extremely divided in their opinions, possibly seeing this play as a bit of a museum piece. But its extremely well written, directed with panache and, with a few caveats, well acted.

It’s interesting that the director made the decision to set the play in its original period (the 1920’s) which comes as a bit of a shock to anyone who only knows the piece through the Hitchcock film. I must admit that I haven’t seen the film, but still somehow expected it to be set in the 40s. So it was a pleasant surprise to get an “authentic” production (even though I spent the first 10 minutes or so feeling that I had wandered into an Agatha Christie novel), and even more surprising that this is set “in the round”. This decision works well, because it’s quite a claustrophobic piece (particularly for the poor sod in the chest!) and being able to see the audience on the other side of the auditorium enhances this feeling of restriction and airlessness. The chest around which all the action is centred is therefore, quite literally, in the centre of the action and the centre of attention as it commands the middle of the octagonal stage. You therefore can’t actually take your eyes completely off it and it consequently becomes a brooding, menacing presence throughout the entire play, almost taking on a character of its own. Clever, clever! One thing I didn’t like about the production, however, was the final coup de theatre, which struck me as completely unnecessary and somewhat “theatrical” (in the worst sense of the word) - rather as if the director was trying to end the play “with a bang” when really such a well-written piece doesn’t need it.

Acting was practically perfect, apart from one or two slight quibbles. Alex Waldmann was a very milquetoast Granillo, and I noticed that Michael Elwyn played the role of Sir Kentley almost as two people, becoming softer round the edges as the action progressed and more “cuddly” almost, perhaps in a misguided attempt by the director to engender sympathy for the character. Bertie Carvel, however, walks away with the entire evening with his portrayal of Rupert Caddel as a lisping, mincing aesthete with a razor-sharp mind, although it has to be said that his projection was, at times, extremely poor and many of his lines simply didn’t reach us in the back row. This, however, may have been the fault of the production being in the round, which always causes problems as, try as you might to avoid it, the actors always end up with their backs to at least part of the audience. Credit to for Emma Dewhurst for making a good part out of a character who has less than a dozen lines throughout the entire play. I also enjoyed Henry Lloyd-Hughes’ portrayal of Kenneth Raglan for all the wrong reasons – not only did he look and sound exactly like he had stepped off the page of Agatha Christie, but there’s something indefinably sexy about a moustached cad in a well-cut dinner jacket….

My enjoyment of the play was spoiled somewhat by some kind of technical problem with the sound system for the first 15 minutes but thankfully this resolved itself just as I was starting to get irritated by it. I would also like to thank the stupid cow who shoved past me en route to the theatre causing me to drop a brand new library book into a muddy puddle. Merry Christmas, you daft bitch. I hope your bus broke down at the next stop.

What the critics thought:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/dec/17/michael-billington-rope-almeida

http://westend.broadwayworld.com/article/REVIEW_Rope_Almeida_20091217

http://www.theartsdesk.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=686:rope-almeida-review&Itemid=27

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/lon_rope_1209.htm

Aladdin - Wimbledon Theatre, Friday 4th December 2009

2009-12-06T21:33:00.005Z

Cast:
Abanazer – Brian Blessed
Genie of the Lamp – Ruby Wax
Genie of the Ring – Djalenga Scott
Widow Twankey – Jonathan Ellis
Wishey Washey – Paul Thornley
Aladdin – Ashley Day
Princess Jasmine – Leila Benn Harris
Emperor of China – Ian Talbot
PC Pong – Sam Bradshaw

Creative Team:
Writer – Eric Potts
Director – Ian Talbot
Choreography – Sarah Dean
Musical Director – Warran Wills
Lighting – Tim Macall

I admit that I had a really hard time enjoying this – not because there was anything intrinsically bad about the production but because I was feeling terribly depressed about life. And theres nothing quite like a theatre full of people having a jolly time to make you feel worse if you’re coming down with a cold and you’re having a rotten time personally. Particularly in the run-up to Christmas.

The place was packed out, and I have to say that not a single child misbehaved themselves. This can’t be said for the adults- articles have been appearing in the press for a couple of years about badly behaved audiences and the writers of these would have had a field day during this performance. Firstly, I was amazed at just how many latecomers there were – and just how many of these people seemed to have seats right in the middle, forcing everyone else in the row to get up and let them in. The sheer amount of popcorn and noisy sweet-eaters was outrageous. Yes, I know that noisy sweets are a very lucrative sideline for theatres, particularly in panto season, but I think I’m going to start my own campaign against this. Its soooo rude, distracting for the performers and the rest of the audience, and the upcoming generation of theatre-goers is being taught that going to see a show = eating noisy food and slurping drinks, just like going to the cinema is these days, and bugger the irritation it causes everyone else. And it wasn’t just the audience – the front of house staff were major noise culprits as well; constantly walking up and down the side aisles, leaning around at the sides to watch a bit of the show then congregating en masse to have a good, loud talk about it. Absolutely disgraceful – and extremely unprofessional.

Panto is, of course, a traditionally English form of theatre, so I was disappointed that this production soft-pedalled a lot of these traditions. There was no “behind you”- ing, very little “oh, no it isn’t”-ing and no comedy wallpapering scene. There was also only one Chinese Policeman; traditionally there are two, the production company obviously being too tight to pay for a second one (neither had the costume budget apparently run to providing the leading man with a pair of tights – not a good move as it looked like he had a pair of milk bottles hanging out of the bottom of his breeches. He could at least have put some make-up or fake tan on his shins). It was, however, nice to see that one particular panto tradition had been maintained – that of employing a troupe of absolutely hopeless dancers from the type of dancing school generally to be found over suburban supermarkets, in this case “June Pughe’s School of Dance, Allesley” (syllabus includes Jazz, Tap, Ballroom and loft lagging).

Brian Blessed was, well, Brian Blessed (as always). Never will anyone ever convince me that this man can play any part other than Brian Blessed. What I particularly dislike about him is a pathetic habit (one which he shares with the actor Royce Mills) of quite literally asking for applause by either making a gesture with his hands to the audience or, as he did this evening, by actually saying “Come on, that’s got to be worth some applause”. This is something that even the rankest amateur knows is tacky beyond belief. Djalenga Scott was particularly noteworthy as the sexy Genie of the Ring (nice to see this part actually included for once!). Jonathan Ellis was not quite on best form as Widow Twankey (sad fact: Twankey is a blend of Chinese Tea, so the late Mr. Twankey must have been a Tea Merchant) and some of his costumes were quite disappointing. One of the conventions of panto is that the Dame’s costumes are completely OTT, and that a different one is worn for every scene. Here, one costume was worn three times, and one “costume” consisted merely of a purple velour tracksuit that looked as if it had been bought at the local branch of TK Maxx that very afternoon).

Thank heavens for Ruby Wax – the saving grace of the entire production, with a nicely observed, sardonic and sarcastic turn of caustic wit that lanced through much of the saccharine bogging down the stage. The jokes about Pamela Anderson were particularly clever, seeing as the botoxed-to-buggery Ms. Anderson is taking over the role of the Genie in a couple of weeks’ time. In fact, I must quote you (at some length) from Ms. Anderson’s biog in the programme as it is quite heave-inducing:

The most recognisable icon of the new millennium continues to hit her stride again and again in so many different fields. this model, actress, mother, entrepreneur, philanthropist and activist has appeared on more magazine covers than any other star of her generation….. Her unparalleled career in television extends from the extraordinary global phenomenon which was Baywatch to her recent global documentary series Pam – Girl on the Loose. …though she does not think of herself as an “actress”[that's lucky!]..she has collaborated with some of the most esteemed artists and photographers of the age. … Pamela is currently delighted to be launching her own fragrance Malibu by Pamela Anderson, followed by an extensive range of related products. This is now available in drugstores across America and coming to Europe at the beginning of next year. Negotiations are ongoing for the launch of several international spa hotels based around Pamela’s name and her principles [so they will obviously be called the "Waggle your tits at the camera and take the cash Hotels"]…at 41 years old, this powerful woman, devoted mother, sex symbol and style icon continues to live life on her own terms and give meaning to everything she does.

Honestly, she’s got a great career in comedy ahead of her if she wrote that. It would almost be worth going back to see this show when she takes over just to see what an utter tits-up she’ll undoubtedly make of it.

What the critics thought:

(what hacks me off is that that none of the reviewers went to see the first performances of this and therefore Ruby Wax didn't get her deserved review. Everyone waited until Pammie appeared - two days late, apparently)

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/6821133/Pamela-Anderson-in-Aladdin-at-the-Wimbledon-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/dec/16/pamela-anderson-aladdin

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/article6958310.ece

Peter Pan - 360degree Theatre, the O2 - Wednesday 2nd December 2009

2009-12-01T19:04:00.010Z

Look into my eyes and whisper "I DO belive in fairies...."

Synopsis:

The Darling household is a place of joy, consisting of the three children, Wendy, John, and Michael; the practical and sometimes stern father, Mr. Darling; the loving mother, Mrs. Darling; and the children’s nurse, a dog named Nana. But sneaking into the children’s bedroom at night to listen to Mrs. Darling’s bedtime stories is Peter Pan. One night, Nana and Mrs. Darling see him and try to stop him, but are only able to catch his shadow as he flies out the window. So they roll it up and put it in a drawer. Peter, of course, wants his shadow, and returns later after Mr. and Mrs. Darling have left for a dinner party. He brings with him his not-very-polite fairy, Tinker Bell. However, when he finds his shadow, he can’t make it stick to him and wakes Wendy as he begins to cry.

Peter is entranced by Wendy and tells her that he had run away the day he was born because he heard his parents talking about all the things he would do when he was a man, and he went to live with the fairies so that he would never have to grow up. Now he lives in Neverland with the lost boys, children who fell out of their perambulators and were never found again.Wendy sews Peter’s shadow back to him, and then Peter convinces Wendy and her brothers, by teaching them how to fly, to return to Neverland with him and Tinker Bell. So off they fly, over the rooftops of London to Neverland, where the lost boys share the island with the mean pirates, led by Captain Hook, and a tribe of Indians led by their chief and princess, Tiger Lily. It was Hook’s greatest desire to capture Peter Pan and his friends because it was Peter who had cut off Hook’s hand and fed it to a crocodile. The crocodile had so liked the taste of the hand that he followed Hook everywhere, waiting for the rest of him. The crocodile had, unhappily, also swallowed a clock, and its ticking warned Hook of any approach.To this magical land Wendy and her brothers fly with Peter Pan. The lost boys, seeing Wendy and spurred on by a jealous Tinker Bell, think her a giant bird and shoot her with a bow and arrow. Peter arrives immediately and sees that Wendy is only stunned, and, after banishing Tinker Bell for a week, he tells the others that he has brought Wendy to them. They quickly build her a house and ask her to be their mother.

The next day, Peter takes Wendy to Marooner’s Rock to see the mermaids. While there, the pirates bring in Tiger Lily, who they have captured and bound and are leaving on the rock to drown at high tide. Peter saves her, and she and the rest of the Indians become their friends and guardians. Eventually, the children begin to worry about their parents and to feel the pangs of homesickness; and they decide it is time to return to their warm beds in London. The lost boys decide to go with them, but Peter will not hear of going if he will have to grow up. Hook and the pirates, however, foil their plans and capture all the children and take them to their ship. Only Peter, with Tinker Bell’s help, avoids capture.

The pirates are about to have their captives walk the plank, when Peter arrives and saves them. In the final fight with Hook, Peter forces the pirate captain to the edge of the ship where he hears the ticking of the crocodile and, unnerved, falls into its waiting jaws.The three children then return home, along with the lost boys, who the Darlings adopt. Peter stays in Neverland, coming to visit Wendy on occasion, but she soon turns into an adult and mostly forgets Peter. However, she has a daughter, Jane, who dreams of pirates, Indians, and magical places far away . .

OK, lets start with some facts. Fact 1: Peter Pan is a very long, wordy play adapted from a very long, wordy book. Both are very much a piece of their time, and are generally thought of as ideal fare for children – by adults, rather than the children themselves. Children are therefore dragged to the play by their parents or grandparents on the slightly suspect basis that it will be “good for them” to be exposed to classic English Literature of the type that only features in some golden Neverland childhood that didn’t really exist. The whole thing is therefore just an adult fantasy of the kind involving crumpets toasted for Nursery Tea before an open fire, Silver Cross prams, Winnie the Pooh and kindly servants straight out of Upstairs Downstairs. Peter Pan is actually quite a tedious play.

Fact 2: The general social demographic of 02 customers is not the kind of person who lives in a four-storey townhouse in one of the better parts of London. They do not generally take their young children to the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens to sail wooden boats, or afterwards serve supper on the Nursery floor in front of the fire, accompanied by another thrilling chapter from Mr. Barrie’s well-known book. The average O2 family (on yesterday’s evidence) is likely to consist of slatternly women in tracksuits trailing a large collection of children fathered by several different men, one of whom has coughed up the substantial amount of money he recently “earned” (by stealing hub caps) for tickets, and who would probably be happier dahn the boozer with his mates getting bladdered or sticking the DVD of Disney’s Peter Pan on to keep the kids quiet for an hour while he spliffs up with the new girlfriend. The children, one of whom has today been excluded from school for extortion and another who has some kind of unspecified “Attention Disorder Syndrome” are both high on the sugar contained in their Jumbo Bucket of Popcorn, have never seen any kind of theatrical performance before and are getting bored and twitchy.

Fact 3: put Facts 1 and 2 together and you have a recipe for disaster.

The evening didn’t get off to the greatest start when myself and Him Indoors, having negotiated our way round 2/3 of the circumference of the O2, (past an enormous array of naff-looking chain restaurants and the saddest, emptiest, most expensive “Christmas Fun Fair” on the entire planet - £4 a ride and they wonder why nobody is on the dodgems - staffed by a pack of sullen faced men who appear to be on day release from Belmarsh and for whom the addition of Santa hats is, frankly, doing nothing) to the “360theatre” have to walk most of the way back again to find the one public toilet in the O2. We then walk the remaining distance back to the entrance in order to find that the cashpoints are not working, and that getting money out involves trailing all the way back to the tube station. In the pouring rain. We walk all the way back to the “360theatre” to find that, having walked all that way under cover, getting to the “360theatre” now involves a 200 yard dash through the rain, the proprietors of which obviously can’t be arsed to pay for a covered walkway for their customers.

A glance at the programme (£5) reveals where the money for the covered walkway has gone. And honey, it ain’t on the cast. Crammed into the first couple of inches of a double page spread, tiny type reveals that there are 4 Lost Boys and 5 Pirates (most of whom seem to be understudying each other). The Pirates also constitute the on-stage band. White Man’s Diseases seem to have decimated the Indian Tribe down to TigerLily, its sole representative. There are 2 mermaids – Mermaid 1 is understudying TigerLily and Tinkerbell, and Mermaid 2 is understudying TigerLily, Tinkerbell and Mermaid 1. The credits for the production team takes the remaining 9/10 of the pages. The Wardrobe Mistress has a dozen Costume Assistants, 2 Deputies, a Wigs Mistress (and Deputy) and 2 Dressers. There are 4 Assistant Stage Managers, and a “Basketwork Co-ordinator” (who obviously provided the laundry hamper) and 83 musicians played the soundtrack. There are 3 Sound Engineers but the entire production is so badly miked that the moment any of the cast turn their back, their words disappear into thin air. As this is “in the round”, people turn their back quite often. The thin amplification has to contend with: rain on the roof, passing aircraft coming into land at City Airport, Latecomers admitted during the quiet bits, Latecomers in Very Loud Shoes, Latecomers Who Sit Down And Immediately Start Eating Popcorn and Latecomers In Loud Shoes Who Sit Down And Them Immediately Go Out Again And Then Come Back In With Two Glasses Of Wine. My blood pressure begins to inch towards Shouting At People Level
.
The first half 20 minutes of the play is very tedious and wordy, with lots of Edwardian Dialogue. Not much happens and the audience starts to get shifty. Peter Pan flies in, ragged shirt open to the waist and showing off his three Fairy Friends: Fairy Sixpack, Fairy Pectorals and Fairy Biceps. Fairy Tinkerbell, however, is a not the beam of light as Barrie envisaged, nor a twinkly little winged minx a la Disney, but a grubby Punkette wearing DMs, a dirty vest and a filthy tutu with a couple of Fairy Landing Lights sewn into it. Things perk up considerably during the flying sequence, when the entire roof turns into an enormous CGI screen on which the flight over London to Neverland is projected, and everyone ooohs and aaaahs and gets a crick in their neck and starts to feel slightly queasy after five minutes. However, Neverland seems to have shifted location since I last saw Peter Pan and is now not to be found “Second star to the left, and then straight on till morning”, but at the bottom of the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. The Mermaid Lagoon is the Serpentine, and the Albert Memorial sticks up out of the sea. Ah, I get it – the whole thing is being presented as an extended fantasy sequence, with Neverland being made up of aspects of the Darling children’s daily life (for those Readers baffled by this, and who obviously weren’t listening at bedtime, The Little White Bird, the first book to feature Peter Pan, is set in Kensington Gardens). This leads to some interesting ideas; the Wendy House is built using a cot, a couple of blackboards, nursery blankets and a tennis racquet, the pirate’s rowing boat is an Edwardian bathtub and the Crocodile is made out of coathangers and clothes pegs and has footballs for eyes. But the rest of the show is almost incidental to the CGI which switches rapidly between pirate ship, coral reef, Lost Boy hideout, mermaid lagoon, exotic forest etc. Most of the audience spend so much time staring up at this that they start to tune out what is happening on stage. When the CGI isn’t on, they have to contend with lots of Wordy Edwardian Dialogue which tries hard to be funny but is just painful, a loathsome Tinkerbell about whom nobody really cares much and a general feeling that the cast are rapidly giving up the fight to maintain the audiences’ interest. In fact, about 15 minutes from the end, a tiny voice pipes up “I’ve had enough of this” and the whole auditorium erupts in the biggest laugh of the night. TigerLily (Sole Representative of the Indian Tribe) performs an acrobatic dance which is faintly indecent, ending up on her knees in front of an obviously embarrassed Peter and looking for all the world like she is about to go down on him. Mermaid 1 and Mermaid 2 perform a series of vague rope tricks rather than be hooked up to the flying system, which is a major opportunity missed as regards spectacle in the underwater scene. Wendy gets more and more irritating and the entire show maunders on and on and eventually (pun intended) peters out completely.

Of the performances, none really stands out. Ciaran Kellgren makes a good stab at the title role, battling against what is really quite an unsympathetic role when you look closely at it, although I spend most of time looking closely at his Fairy Pectorals. The role of Tinkerbell is badly, badly misjudged by the writers and the hideous, tatty costume lends no magic to the portrayal. Abby Ford was blonde and bland as Wendy (and it irritated both me and Him Indoors that she wore pajamas, which would have been considered indecent for an almost pubescent girl of the period). Neither is she old enough or tall enough to convincingly play the older sister of Michael and John Darling. Jonathan Hyde seemed too weighted down by his dialogue to give Captain Hook anything like the necessary evil swaggering bravura, and his dark, rather tatty costume meant that he failed to dominate the stage visually. Captain Hook should be a panto villan in a bright red and gold frock-coat and an enormous feathered tricorn hat, not a slinky black and silver dressing gown affair. Note for the writer: Captain Hook’s first name is “James”, not “Jas” (although this is invariably how the name was signed during the period, rather like “Thomas” always being rendered at “Thos”. Someone didn’t do their homework properly).

Later, the autopsy report from Great Ormond Street Hospital reads “Cause of Show’s Death – Complete Lack of Heart”.

Look out for the coathanger as they fly past St. Paul's Cathedral! Of course, this is shot from the actor's perspective, not the audience's, so it doesn't look quite like this for them!

What the critics thought of the original run in Kensington Gardens earlier this year:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jun/11/peter-pan-kensington-gardens-review

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/peter-pan-kensington-gardens-london-1705124.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/5507345/Peter-Pan-at-Kensington-Gardens-review.html

http://www.thelondonpaper.com/going-out/whats-new/theatre-review-of-peter-pan-in-kensington-gardens

and a couple from the new run:

http://www.newsshopper.co.uk/leisure/4777738.THEATRE_REVIEW__Peter_Pan____/

http://www.wharf.co.uk/2009/12/review-peter-pan-meridian-gard.html

The Tsarina's Slippers - Royal Opera House, Friday 20th November 2009

2009-11-18T10:18:00.010Z

Synopsis:

As the witch Solokha admires the beauty of the moon, the Devil comes and flirts with her. He has come to the village to take revenge on her son Vakula who has painted an insulting image of him on the church wall.The Devil invokes a huge snow storm to cause confusion in the village, making the moon disappear so that he can steal it. He and Solokha ride into the sky on their broomsticks.The villagers, Chub and Panas, get lost in the blizzard below.

Oksana, the village beauty, is at home admiring herself in the mirror. Vakula arrives and declares his love for her but she ignores him. Chub, Oksana's father, and his friend Panas stumble in. In the dark of the blizzard, Vakula does not recognise them and kicks them out, believing them to be intruders.

Solokha and the Devil return from their broomstick ride and the Devil tries to seduce her. There is a knock at the door. It is the Mayor who has also come to woo Solokha; the Devil hides in a sack so he won't be found. There is another knock at the door, and the Mayor hides in a sack. It is the school teacher, he has also come to woo Solokha, and he also hides in a sack. Then Chub enters, also intent on wooing Solokha, he too conceals himself in a sack.Finally Vakula comes in to see his mother. He is miserable after being rejected by Oksana. He exits, carrying off all the sacks.

The villagers dance to celebrate Christmas Eve and one of the boys presents his girlfriend with a pair of slippers. Oksana is jealous and challenges Vakula to fetch her the Tsarina’s slippers. In return, she says, she will marry him. He sets off in despair, leaving all but one of the sacks behind. Solokha’s lovers (except the devil) all pop out of the abandoned bags - to everyone’s surprise.Vakula is so dejected that he contemplates throwing himself in the lake. Just as he is about to fling himself in the water, the Devil pops out of the last sack he has been carrying and offers him a deal: he will help Vakula get the Tsarina’s slippers in exchange for his soul. They fly to St Petersburg to find the Tsarina: Catherine the Great. They enter the palace where a great ball is underway. They marvel at the dancing, steal the Tsarina’s slippers and leave.

Back in the village, both Solokha and Oksana grieve for Vakula believing he has drowned himself in the lake. Vakula appears and they are overjoyed.Vakula offers Oksana the slippers and she agrees to marry him, declaring that it is he she wants – not the slippers.

Creative team:
Composer: Tchiakovsky
Director- Francesca Zambello
Set Designer- Mikhail Mokrov
Costume Designs- Tatiana Noginova
Lighting Designer- Rick Fisher
Choreography -Alastair Marriott

Cast:
Oxana -Olga Guryakova
Vakula -Vsevolod Grivnov
Solokha-Larissa Diadkova
Chub -Vladimir Matorin
The Devil- Maxim Mikhailov
Schoolmaster- Viacheslav Voynarovskiy
Pan Golova- Alexander Vassiliev
Panas -John Upperton
His Highness -Sergei Leiferkus
Master of Ceremonies -Jeremy White
Wood Goblin -Changhan Lim

Anyone who’s been following this blog for a while ( I HOPE there are more than six; six readers after four years of hard slog does seem a little disappointing, particularly when there are so many people fawning over the likes of the West End Whingers) will know that I don’t “do” opera. The idea of sitting for three hours listening to people sing at each other in Foreign while disguised as their maid or taking an inordinate amount of time to die ain’t really my idea of fun. So it was with a great deal of trepidation that I pencilled this outing onto the calendar in the kitchen a while back. Still, thought I, its Tchaikovsky, so there will be something to hum along to, at least, as well as a vaguely festive storyline (I see that the Royal Ballet are rolling out their incredibly dreary Nutcracker AGAIN this year, while the Birmingham Royal do their fantastic version for those people fortunate enough to live within striking distance of the Midlands). There was a slight contretemps when I announced to Him Indoors that at least Tchiakovsky might be vaguely hummable; he countered with “No, its by Rimsky-Korsakov” and we argued back and forth until an old programme was unearthed from god knows where of “Christmas Eve [the alternate title of the piece] by Rimsky-Korsakov”. I went and had a sulk until I read in the programme a couple of hours later that the original story had been turned into operas by four different composers, among them Tchaikovsky, at which point I became unbearably smug for another couple of hours.

The Opera House was completely and utterly packed out; loads of Russians and people with those insufferable little Jocastas and Tarquins that you get every time something vaguely child-friendly is on there. Standing room only. Sold out for the entire run. All of which makes what happened in the following three hours somewhat of a let-down. Somehow the whole thing didn’t gel. Yes, it was charmingly costumed and the whole thing looked authentically “Russian” in the manner of those little black lacquerwork boxes you get with pictures from Russian fairy tales on them. Yes, there were some very good voices on the stage (but also, it has to be said, a couple of the cast who were distinctly off form). But it looked rather under-rehearsed, with some poor staging of the chorus scenes; people didn’t look as if they knew exactly where they should be standing and there was a lot of vague milling about and gesticulating as a result. Scenes inside houses were very cramped, staged on small “floating” sets plonked at the front of the stage. Lots of opportunities for comedy were missed. Important parts of the story seemed to have been cut in favour of long, pointless recitatives which did nothing to progress it and the ballet sections seemed very badly placed on the stage. The only saving grace for me was, essentially, the final act, which exploded onto the stage as if the lid had popped off a toy box on Christmas morning. Finally the entire thing took on some life and everyone on stage looked like they were having fun. There was a dancing bear (in pointe shoes, a tiara and a tutu), lots of chorus movement, a panto-style walk-down of all the cast, a wonderful sunburst set and the campest exit for the hero and heroine I think I’ve ever seen in an opera; both piled into an enormous gold slipper which was on runners like a sledge. And then it was over.

I felt a bit underwhelmed really and not a little cheated of what I expected to be a fun night out. The pro critics of all the major newspapers have been incredibly sniffy about the entire production; this is just as expected. I sometimes wonder whether opera critics are trained not to like anything they consider "populist". OK, the evening wasn't fabulous, but it wasn't that bad.

What the critics thought:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/classical/reviews/tchaikovsky-the-tsarinarsquos-slippers-royal-opera-house-1825198.html

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/30a87f82-d77c-11de-b578-00144feabdc0.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/nov/22/tsarinas-slippers-review

http://www.theartsdesk.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=554:the-tsarina-s-slippers-royal-opera-house&Itemid=27

Mrs Klein - Almeida Theatre - Friday 13th November 2009

2009-11-13T09:18:00.008Z

Synopsis:

Mrs. Klein is one of the most admired psychoanalysts of her time, but her relationship with her daughter has been damaged almost beyond repair, and unexpected message from abroad brings it to a bitter confrontation.

Cast:

Mrs. Klein - Claire Higgins
Zoe Waites - Melitta

Nicola Walker - Paula

Creative team:
Director -Thea Sharrock
Design -Tim Hatley
Lighting -Neil Austin
Sound -Ian Dickinson for Autograph
Casting Director - Sarah Bird
Dialect Coach - Jan Haydn Rowles
Fight Director- Alison de Burgh
Assistant Director- Oliver Baird

Goot evenink, you are very prompt. This is good, no? Ven coming for psychoanalysis it is most important to be prompt, so zat ve ken do as much digging around in the liddle grey cells as possible. Zere are many, many dreadful zings to be discovered lurking around in ze depths of zat naughty little brain of yours. Please, to be sitting in zis chair. I am sorry zat it is only a chair, but after so many productions recently at Ze Almeida featuring counselling sessions, I am afraid zat ze couch is now completely worn out.

It vas a goot play, no? Veeeery interezting, veerry … vat? “Freudian”, you say? Ach no, zat Freud he vas a complete sex maniac, seeing villies and boobies and ozzer disgusting leetle bits and pieces of ze body all over ze place, effen vile vandering round zis loffley set, vich as you can see is all red. Veeerry red, veeery claustrophobic. Vat? “Klaus-trophobic”? Vat is dat? Oh, I see, you make the leedle joke. Very funny. I am glad ze set makes you feel so comfortable. Ze set is my drawing room, not a vis-drawing room. See, I make the little joke too, eh? Anyvay , the set is aaalll red. Just like going back to ze vomb, non? See, it has vindows, so it is a vomb viz a view. Ha ha, I make anozzer little joke.

Vould you like a leettle drink? Sherry? From zis bottle zat looks like a penis? No? Visky then? From zis bottle zat also, strangely, looks like a penis? Ach, goot. Let me pour you a liddle visky into zis glass zat looks like a vagina. Gott in Himmel, vat is the matter vis me today? I haf been reading too much about Herr Freud, obviously. Ze visky is very brown, no? Just like the little poo-poos you did ven you ver a liddle baby. I vonder if Herr Freud ever did ze little brown poo-poos? If so, zat probably means zat he hated his mozzer and his fazzer veeeeery much and vanted to have secks viz dem both. Visky is referred to in zis play as "symbolic urine".

So, about zis play. Vat? You found it a liddle “heavy going”? Vy? Did your mozzer play naughty games viz you ven you were a liddle baby doing poo-poos? Ach, goot, I can see zat you vill haf to be coming to me for a loooooong time in my liddle red room. Probably at least for ze second half of ze play. Ach, I haf dropped my pen. Please to be excusing me vile I pick it up. Vere haf you gone, liddle pen? Vere is der little pen…. Is it here? No, here ze pen is! Hmmm…. Pen. Is. Pen. Is. It sounds like “penis”, no? Vat? You zink I am fixating on ze penis? Zat is veeeeery interesting – I must write it down vis my little penis…ach…. PEN and remind myself to ring my analyst zis effening. My anal-lyst, in fact. Vat is this you say? Oh yes, ve anal-ysts are all veeeeery anal. Zat is why ve are called analysts. Ve aaall hate our mozzers and projects those feelings of hatred onto our kinder. Dat is why zey have to have analysts also.

You sink ze play vas a little bit too gloomy? Vy is dat? Zere were lots of veeery funny lines, I sink. Ach, zat is vat ve anal-ysts called “bleak humour”. It is veeeery important to make de silly liddle jokes all ze time, ozzervise ve vould be throwing ourselves off ze cliff. Just like my son. But not to vorry. After nearly two hours of make de liddle jokes and getting all vorked up about villies and poo-poo and blaming our mozzers for ze fect zat we are all monsters and very horrible to each other and our daughters and anyvon else who might happen to come into zis liddle red room – such as ozzer psychoanalysts fleeing from ze Germans who haf volunteered to vork for ozzer psychoanalysts by typing up there latest mansuscript - ve vill find out zat he did, in fect, not throw hizzelf off ze cliff shaped like ze boobie. It vas, in fect, just a liddle accident, despite ze fect zat he vas probably a raving loony from heving me analyse him for all those years ven he was a liddle boy growing up into a naughty teenager interested in villies.

I do vish dat det lady in zer row behind vould stop coughing so. It is veeeeery annoying and I am sure det it means she is suffering from being over-analysed about vanting to hef secks viz her father and vanting to chop off his villie and cover it with visky. Because the visky bottle looks like a penis, no?

Vat? Yes, it is a great shame dat ze couple in the seats next to you decided to leave at ze interval. Perhaps ze play made zem veeeeery depressed. Never mind. You vill probably see zem again veeeeery soon, hanging by de neck from a tree in zer street outside. Did you know, just out of interest, zat ze interval represents the dark void of the vomb?

Vat? You sink I sound like Julie Valters? I em chust doing my best Cherman eccent. Who is dis Julie Valters? Is she anozzer analyst? Ach no, I sink I sound like Claire Higgins. You know her? She is in a veeeeery strange play at ze Almeida, aaaaaall about poo-poo and villies and hating your mozzer.

Vat ze critics thought:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/oct/30/mrs-klein-michael-billington-review

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/11/01/review-mrs-klein-almeida-theatre/

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/mrs-klein-almeida-theatre-london-1813067.html

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/0e24d57e-c7d1-11de-8ba8-00144feab49a.html - can I just point out that several critics have chortled in an extremely over-intellectual way about the “three drawer filing cabinet”, each identified by the title character as “the ID drawer, the EGO drawer and the SUPER-EGO drawer”. What none of them seem to have noticed is that the cabinet on stage actually has FOUR drawers.

http://www.theartsdesk.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=458:mrs-klein-new-almeida-theatre&Itemid=27

Arturo Brachetti's "Change" - Garrick Theatre, Wednesday 4th November 2009

2009-11-03T17:40:00.004Z

Synopsis (from the Garrick Theatre website):

The world’s greatest quick-change artist Arturo Brachetti presents the world premiere of his new show written and directed by Sean Foley. In an amazing display of virtuosic skill that simply has to be seen to be believed, Arturo Brachetti brings over one hundred characters to the stage in a unique and spectacular show. From James Bond to the Queen via Johnny Rotten, he transforms between characters in the blink of an eye in an astonishing display of the time-honoured art of quick change.

Arturo’s own distinct brands of humour and charm combine with eye-popping illusions in a show that tells the story of a famed entertainer whose memories of his illustrious career come to life.

Well, what a bizarre night. Him Indoors was convinced that we were going to see Ennio Marchetto even though I’d done my best to persuade him otherwise. Trouble is, I couldn’t come up with his name to do a google search, and the keywords “Italian paper costumes” didn’t really come up with any possibilities. So, we didn’t get to see someone lip-synching Britney Spears and Edith Piaf. Which was a shame.

Having said that, it looked like the audience was doing its best to provide a display of outrageous outfits anyway. Five rows in front we had the old chap in a broadly-striped boating blazer and tie made of exactly the same material so he looked like at least one of his parents had been a deckchair, next to whom was a VERY expensively coiffured woman who looked like she should have been at the opera instead. Immediately in front of us we had the Scum Family, complete with 16 year old son wearing a Burberry Alice band, to the left an impassive Italian with the biggest afro I’ve ever seen on a white man. To the right, an old guy in carpet slippers and a slightly grubby parka (who took a tube of Rolos out of his pocket, opened it, put one in his mouth, put the tube back in his pocket, chewed the Rolo, swallowed it, took the tube out of his pocket, opened it, put one in his mouth…. repeat until tube empty, then drop wrapping on the floor), in the row immediately behind a black guy wearing dark glasses and a trilby. Somewhere off to the right a pair of very expensively suited Suits next to four Japanese lady tourists of decreasing height looking like those wooden dolls you unscrew to find a smaller one inside and, three rows behind us, Bobby Davro (mums and dads, boys and girls!), who spent the entire evening laughing in the manner of Zippy from Rainbow. So, the bello mondo, the alto mondo, the meta-mondo – tutti, in fact. I think the phrase they use in Theatre-speak is “heavily papered, dharling” – either that or the management were standing on Charing Cross Road with an extremely large butterfly net and dragging in anyone they could catch with it. In fact, we were the only normal people there.

Brachetti’s show is a strange thing, neither fish nor fowl. Essentially he is a quick-change artist/magician, and if you had seen one of his routines involving magic tricks, quick change, shadow puppetry etc on something like the Royal Variety Performance (not that any of my readers would ever watch such a thing) it would completely blow you away. But two hours of it and you start to get desensitised to exactly how incredible the whole thing is. Another problem is that his material is essentially old-fashioned variety but wrapped up in a modern theatrical way; I had to describe it later to someone as a stainless steel gift box with a copy of The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady inside – the two elements feel forced together and somewhat at odds with each other. And because of this, I think that the audience didn’t really know how to react to a lot of it. I mean, what would you make of going to the theatre and sitting watching someone making shadow puppets of bunnies and elephants on a big screen? Yes, I bet the Victorians would have loved it…Him Indoors, of course, loved it but then Him Indoors loves Ken Dodd, for pete’s sake.

Another problem with Brachetti’s material is that it is very uneven. Some of it is brilliant, highly entertaining in a kind of “end of the pier show” kinda way, with spectacular routines involving magic and mind-bogglingly fast costume changes. But this takes a long time to arrive – the first long section of the evening is merely him assuming different characters via costume changes and – basically – standing there waiting for the applause. Which sometimes fails to come. The “linking device” between each section is a rather grandiose multimedia “dialogue” between his “older self” and his “younger self” about “the final transformation”, which turns out to be death itself; all this feels laboured and completely at odd with what we are actually there in the theatre to see. The long end section is based around, and laden with references to, Fellini’s films, starting with The Clowns, then moving to 9½, La Dolce Vita and La Strada. Now, like it or not and however much theatregoers might like to deceive themselves and others about how well they know the works of Fellini, this fell spectacularly flat as it flew completely over the head of the vast majority of people.

The best section was undoubtedly the opening of the second half – a long, visually witty and extremely funny tribute to some of Hollywood’s greatest films. Using the enormous spinning “box of tricks” on the stage as an ever changing backdrop with projected images, doors, windows, ladders and screens, Brachetti proceeds to affectionately send up Nosferatu, Casablanca, The Wizard of Oz, The Sound of Music, Gone with the Wind, Carmen Miranda films, Shrek, Star Wars, the Harry Potter films, Frankenstein, Lord of the Rings, Titanic, King Kong, Jaws, ET and Cabaret (among others) in an almost never-ending stream of visual jokes and costume changes. Because the very vast majority of these films are cross-cultural references, everyone “got” practically every joke and I thought Bobby Davro (mums and dads, boys and girls!) was going to wet himself. It was brilliant – exceptionally clever, wonderfully paced and something I would happily sit and watch again. Unfortunately, it was followed by the Fellini sequence and this completely deflated the audience again. All in all, the evening was very much like the “Curate’s Egg” – good in parts. But parts of it definitely didn’t work for me, or for many other people by the sound of the very muted applause at times.

Still, I did manage to send an email today to the theatre journalist who wrote an article for the programme and correct a couple of points he made about two Shakespeare plays. Which was nice.

What the critics thought:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/6447934/Arturo-Brachetti-Change-at-the-Garrick-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2009/oct/29/arturo-brachetti-change-review

http://thepublicreviews.blogspot.com/2009/10/arturo-brachetti-change-garrick-theatre.html

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/26014/arturo-brachetti-change

Beauty and the Beast – Churchill Theatre Bromley, Thursday 22nd October 2009

2009-10-24T12:50:00.003+01:00

Synopsis: I'm sure you know, and if you don't you should be ashamed of yourself!

Cast:
Beast – Shaun Dalton
Belle – Ashley Oliver
Gaston – Ben Harlow
LeFou – Eddie Dredge
Maurice – Richard Colson
Mrs. Potts – Sarah Louise Day (understudy)
Cogsworth – Ashley Knight
Lumiere – Phil Barley
Wardrobe – Laura Barrie
Feather Duster – Sophia Thierens
Rug – Chris Cage
Monsieur D’Arque – Daniel Page

Creative Team:
Director/Choreographer – Alison Pollard
Set – Gareth Williams
Costumes – Elizabeth Dennis
Lighting – David Howe

From Broadway to Bromley – how are the mighty fallen! The No. 1 Disney production of this tale “as old as time” (an epithet which could be used about the “girl” playing Belle yesterday), having toured the provinces to the delight of little girls in yellow polyester ballgowns for what seems like an eternity is now being farmed out to touring companies who usually produce “all-star” pantomimes at venues such as the Anvil Theatre Basingstoke and the Grand Pavilion, Rhyl. “UK Productions” is run by two slightly dodgy-looking blokes who look like distant relatives of the Kray Brothers in their programme photos. There’s nothing “all-star” about this Beauty and the Beast – Belle’s biography reveals that “in 2006 [she] featured in a commercial stills photoshoot for Bishop’s Finger Beer” – so not quite Elaine Paige then.

Still, this was a reasonably good, if slightly work-a-day production of something I still wish I had seen when it was on in the West End. If it hadn’t been played quite so cartoony though, it would have been heaps better. Beauty and the Beast is actually quite a dark story (most fairytales are), and this was very firmly aimed towards the very young members of the audience who have spent hours plonked in front of the DVD while their mothers are busy painting the scuffmarks on their white stilettos with tippex. Most of them spent much of the performance screaming (the children, not their mothers). The show veered dangerously towards panto during the first half – scenery and direction for the opening chorus seemed lifted direct from something like Mother Goose, and Gaston and LeFou were played as classic panto villain and sidekick, complete with “comedy” sound effects while trading not-very-convincing blows. I was left thinking that it could have been played a lot more “down the middle”, which would have appealed to a broader range of audiences. Mind you, this didn’t seem to bother the gaggle of Bromley-ettes sitting next to us who spent the entire show with their shoes off and bare feet firmly plonked on the edge of the balcony rail. One of the major criticisms of Disney is that it always goes for the sugary goo in stories and downplays any darker nuances, and the sugary goo is applied with a bucket here to the entire production’s detriment. Its basically a cheesy version of the already-cheesy film version.

There was only one point when the creepy, slightly gothic nature of the story rose though the gloop (and interestingly its an aspect that never appeared in the film) – at several points, the staff of the castle comment on and worry about how they are gradually changing from people into inanimate objects as the spell progresses, nicely reflected in the script and in minor costume alterations – at one point, Cogsworth acquires a key sticking out of his back and the chambermaid’s hands start turning into feather dusters. Its commented on that one of the minor flunkeys is so obsequious that he’s turning into a doormat. It would have been good if this idea had been developed further, along the lines of the Birmingham Royal Ballet production I saw and reviewed in October 2008. However, the idea of giving the wardrobe a back story and making her into a faded opera singer makes little sense – what is an opera singer doing hanging around a royal castle? Still, it gives Cogsworth someone to pair off with at the end, I suppose, and of course everyone must have someone to hold hands with at the curtain call in Pantoland.

For some reason, the second act was played considerably “straighter” than the first, and this improved the production no end. Belle’s feeling of being “different” – she’s described in the programme as being thought odd by the villagers as she prefers books to boys – could have been pointed up and made more of, and would have chimed in nicely with the Beast’s problem of being perceived as something “different” because of the way he looks. Instead, we got the usual wide-eyed Disney heroine whose worries about being thought different are no more than a slight wisp of cloud in an otherwise clear and untroubled sky. Still, its easier to go for saccharine than psychology, isn’t it?

Set changes were impressively slick throughout, although there were a troubling number of front-and back-projections, which achieve nothing but blur the dividing line between live theatre and film, meaning trouble ahead for the next generation of theatre set designers who will find it increasingly difficult to find work, and easy times ahead for directors who will use projections as a lazy option. Some of the special effects were impressive – petals falling off the enchanted rose, the transformation of the Beast back into a human (although it was painfully obvious that there were two people wearing Beast costumes at one point, one keeping his face very obviously hidden and having his dialogue miked over the sound system).

Of the performances, I have to say that Ben Harlow was dreadful as Gaston. Yes, he had the biceps required, but where Gaston should be burly, boneheaded, baritone and butch, Harlow was stringy, soprano and sissy, milking the role for camp comedy value rather than having that “you lookin’ at me, mate?” arrogance that physically beefy but dunderheaded men have when they feel that their brawn is being outclassed by brain. He was obviously cast for his strange but unique ability of being able to grin exactly like a Cheshire cat and show off acres of teeth. He didn’t come across as being any kind of villain and consequently his demise at the end of the show didn’t really register. Ashley Oliver was OK as Belle – if rather too long in the tooth and she has an irritatingly squeaky speaking voice, pitched just below the range at which dogs start to whine. Sarah Louise Day did OK as Mrs. Potts considering that she’s the show’s “Swing” – theatrespeak for someone who understudies any part that needs understudying, whether principal, chorus member or dancer, but played it too young to be the kind of wrinkled motherly influence that Angela Lansbury achieved in the film. She also *gasp* CUT the second verse of Tale as Old as Time at which point I almost demanded my money back. Ashley Knight seemed a bit tired as Cogsworth; very slow to pick up on cues. The banter between Cogsworth and Lumiere should snap back and forth as the two friends try and top each other intellectually, and I felt that this wasn’t happening. Even Phil Barley as Lumiere didn’t seem quite on top form, although he was far and away the best person on the stage; I thought that many of the lines were just thrown away. If the production hadn’t been pitched at the very low intellectual level, perhaps he might have put in a bit more effort. But then Thursday afternoon in Bromley, a week before half-term (bad timing, UK Productions!) isn’t exactly going to be a cerebral fantasmagoria.

Annie, Get Your Gun! - Young Vic, Saturday 3rd October 2009

2009-10-02T11:49:00.006+01:00

Synopsis:

When the traveling Buffalo Bill's Wild West show visits Cincinnati, Ohio, Frank Butler, the show's handsome, womanizing star challenges anyone in town to a shooting match. Foster Wilson, a local hotel owner, doesn't appreciate the Wild West Show taking over his hotel, so Frank gives him a side bet of one hundred dollars on the match. Annie Oakley enters and shoots a bird off Dolly Tate's hat, and then explains her simple backwoods ways. When Wilson learns she's a brilliant shot, he enters her in the shooting match against Frank Butler.

While Annie waits for the match to start, she meets Frank Butler and falls instantly in love with him, not knowing he will be her opponent. When she asks Frank if he likes her, Frank explains that the girl he wants will "wear satin and smell of cologne",. The rough and naive Annie comically laments that "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun". At the shooting match, Annie finds out that Frank is the "big swollen-headed stiff" from the Wild West Show. She wins the contest, and Buffalo Bill and Charlie Davenport, the show's manager, invite Annie to join the Wild West Show. Annie agrees because she loves Frank even though she has no idea what "show business" is. Frank, Charlie, Buffalo Bill, and everyone explain that "There's No Business Like Show Business."

Over the course of working together, Frank becomes enamoured of the plain-spoken, honest and tomboyish Annie and, as they travel to Minneapolis, Minnesota on a train, he explains to her what "love" is. Buffalo Bill and Charlie find out that the rival show, Pawnee Bill's Far East Show, will be playing in Saint Paul, Minnesota while the Wild West Show plays in nearby Minneapolis. They ask Annie to do a special shooting trick on a motorcycle in Minneapolis to draw Pawnee Bill's business away. Annie agrees, since the trick will surprise Frank.

As Annie and Frank prepare for the show, Frank plans to propose to Annie after the show. When Annie performs her trick and becomes a star, Chief Sitting Bull adopts her into the Sioux tribe. Frank is hurt and angry, and he walks out on Annie and the show, joining the competing Pawnee Bill's show.

The Buffalo Bill show tours Europe with Annie as the star, but the show goes broke, as does Pawnee Bill's show with Frank. Annie, now well-dressed and more refined and worldly, still longs for Frank. Frank and Pawnee Bill plot a merger of the two companies, each assuming the other has the money necessary for the merger. They all meet at a grand reception, where they soon discover both shows are broke. Annie, however, has received sharpshooting medals from all the rulers of Europe worth one hundred thousand dollars, and she decides to sell the medals to finance the merger, rejoicing in the simple things.

When Frank appears, he and Annie confess their love and decide to marry, although with comically different ideas: Frank wants "some little chapel," while Annie wants "a big church with bridesmaids and flower girls". When Annie shows Frank her medals, Frank again has his pride hurt, and they call off the merger and the wedding. They agree to one last shooting duel. Annie deliberately loses to Frank to soothe his ego, and they finally reconcile, deciding to marry and merge the shows.

Creative Team:

Director: Richard Jones

Choreography: Phillip Gireaudeau

Costumes: Nicky Gillibrand

Lighting: Mimi Jordan Sherin

Musical Arrangements: Jason Carr

Cast:

Sitting Bull - Niall Ashdown

Annie Oakley - Jane Horrocks

Pawnee Bill - Eric MacLennan

Charlie - John Marquez

Frank - Julian Ovenden

Dolly - Lisa Sadovy

Buffalo Bill - Chucky Venn

The evening didn’t get off to a great start. Thanks to the Young Vic’s unreserved seating policy (booooo!), the queue was through the bar, up the stairs, round the corner, through the ticket hall and into the street, doubling back on itself several times, and threatening to merge with the queue for returns for Inherit the Wind up the road at the Old Vic. Anyone wanting to get a drink or go to the toilet would probably have needed an Indian scout to guide them through the crush. Getting to the cloakroom was like being at Custer’s Last (Hat) Stand. And anyone trying to track the footprints of the Programme Seller through the underbrush would have been severely disappointed as, although this show has been previewing for a week or so, they still hadnt arrived from the printers, which I think is disgraceful. There’s a strange sign right outside the auditorium saying “Annie Get Your Gun Downstairs” – a new fringe production, perhaps? Or an instruction? Whatever it means, its nonsensical as there are no stairs, unless it refers to the stairs up to the balcony, in which case the sign is in the wrong place. The chaos continued inside, where there were a lot of Excuse me, is anyone sitting here? conversations going on and lots of staff saying to people Can you move up?. At one point, cramming everyone in got so complicated that the staff were sending smoke signals across the auditorium to each other while trying to clear enough space for a party of six that had arrived slightly late. And then, two minutes after the curtain (vile mustard-yellow polyester and too long) was supposed to go up, one of the staff arrived carrying a big pile of photocopied sheets with the cast list and production team credits on, stood right at the front to hand them out and several small children, a pensioner and two gay men in plaid shirts were trampled to death in the crush. In fact, not so much Annie Get Your Gun as Annie Get Your Act Together.

The first major shock of the evening was that there was no orchestra, just four upright pianos ranged across the front of the stage where the orchestra pit wasn’t. . This, I suppose, gave the whole evening a folksy, Wild West (or “cheap”, depending on your point of view) feeling, reflecting the period in which the show is usually set. It was a novelty to begin with, but means that you miss out on all of Irving Berlin’s fantastic orchestrations, as well as making all the music seem rather thin and shoddy. Annie Get Your Gun was written in 1946, at the height of the American love affair with the Musical, and having only four pianos pounding away at what should be a lush, razzamatazz score (this is a show about “Show Business” remember) just feels so wrong.

The lights went down (in fact, the lights went up – they were chandeliers made of wagon wheels on ropes which were heaved on by members of the theatre staff – talk about “no frills”). The cheap mustard polyester curtains opened (as they were too long, this meant they swept across the fronts of the pianos – at least one of the pianists had to make a grab for their sheet music as the curtain went past) and the big shock of the night was revealed – this production isnt set in the fabled Wild West of vaguely 1890, but in a vague amalgam of the 1940s and 50s – the time the show was written, rather than the one its set in. This contrasted strangely with the “four pianos and wagon wheel chandeliers” set-up of the auditorium, and makes complete nonsense of a story featuring historical characters such as Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill and Chief Sitting Bull. In fact, the confusion permeates the entre show – the entre’act, depicting Annie’s triumphal tour of Europe, is a projected film incorporating Annie into historic filmreels featuring Winston Churchill (Prime Minister of the UK 1940 – 45 and 1951 – 55), Ghandi (died early 1948), Hitler (dead by 1945) and Chairman Mao and his Little Red Book (published 1964). Part of Act 2, to go by the costumes, is set sometime in the 50s. Was this the director telling us that the story is timeless, or are there shocking great holes in his “concept”?

Another shock is that the stage is only about eight feet deep, presumably because the auditorium has been designed in a way as to get as many rows of seats in as possible. This means that everything is very linear, lots of straight lines and absolutely no room to dance. The director had a cunning plan to get round this last problem – not having a single dance routine in the entire show. Sorry, but when you’ve got no dancing in numbers like No Business Like Show Business you really do start to feel terribly cheated. As I’ve said before, the entire show is about show business, and this production has practically no show-biz in it whatsoever. The set is almost without exception dreary, there's a see-through swing door plonked right in the middle which is very annoying and terribly over-used, and there's a strange upper level to the set giving a small room "upstairs"; thankfully this isnt used very much because practically nobody sitting left of centre out front can see into it. Horribly, the very final scene between Frank and Annie takes place in this and half the audience couldn't see what they were doing.

The lack of pazzaz and sparkle even extends to the cast. Yes, Jane Horrocks is charmingly kooky, and her interpretation entertains for a while, but she’s not a big enough personality to bring the thing off. I have sympathy for her - doing this part must be like playing Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. Every actress who plays this part has to wrestle with the ghost of Edith Evans, and every actress who plays Annie Oakley has to wrestle with the ghost of Ethel Merman, and also the recent memory of Bernadette Peters in the Broadway production. Horrocks just can’t cut it – there isnt enough theatrical weight behind her and Merman wins by at least three falls and a submission, if not a total Knock-Out. There’s also far too much reliance on Horrocks’s established stage persona – slightly Northern vowel sounds, crossed eyes and pursed up lips, which gets tiring after a while - and she doesn’t scrub up well enough to make the transition to glamorous leading lady in Act 2 (although there is a huge, unintentional laugh during Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better when she sings about how well she fills her girdle – Horrocks’s chest is like two peas on an ironing board). Lots of the second act looked horribly under-rehearsed.

Chucky Vennis a complete failure as Buffalo Bill. Not only can he not sing a note, he can’t act, is the wrong ethnicity (yes, I know its called “Integrated Casting” but Buffalo Bill was NOT black), is far too young for the part and is even the wrong body type. We all know what Buffalo Bill should like like – Howard Keel. Big and burly with long white hair and a big droopy moustache. Big Chief Sitting Bull is played here by Niall Ashdown, a tall, pasty-faced caucasian wearing a dreadful “Injun” wig that makes him look like Fenella Fielding in Carry On Screaming (and while I’m on the subject of bad wigs, the ladies in the chorus wear the worst-dressed wigs I’ve ever seen on stage – hideous!).

Still on the subject of hair, the book has also been scalped. There’s an entire romantic sub-plot gone missing somewhere as two major supporting characters have been cut out. A lot of their lines and one of their songs (which has been moved to the second act and, frankly, should have been cut completely) have been given to John Marquez as Charlie and Lisa Sadovy as Dolly. Now, here I change gear slightly and praise something. Marquez is completely wonderful, and is a joy to watch (as he was in The Good Woman of Schechuan at this venue last year. He plays his part with a great Noo Yoick accent, has total mastery of comic timing and could easily play one of the gangsters in Kiss Me Kate, so perfect is his characterisation. Sadvoy however, is far too old for her role, is deeply annoying and looks hideous in her red fright wig. I rather wish that Jane Horrocks had missed the bird on her hat and blown her head off instead.

Julian Ovenden, though looking eerily like a very young John Barrowman, was a brilliant, if not definitive Frank - very sexy in a veritable parade of increasingly OTT cowboy shirts and, finally, a pair of trousers so tight that you could almost read the cleaning instructions. However, it seemed that some of the songs hadnt been transposed for his tenor voice (Frank is usually a baritone, or even a bass-baritone) and there were a couple of occasions when he had to jump up from the register he was singing into one in which he was more comfortable. Ironically, this was most obvious in the song that Jane Horrocks was also having trouble pitching - in this case though it was written too high and she had to keep swooping down. He has great stage presence, great hair, a great voice and a great bod - its only a shame that he hasn't got a great Annie Oakley.

All in all, it was a spectacularly disappointing evening, and I came away feeling really cheated of what should have been a night full of escapism, great show choonz and outrageous costumes. The production was mildly entertaining, but completely ran out of steam very early on in the second act. I was forced to do my Ethel Merman impression on the train on the way home to compensate for such a dreary evening. And if you've never heard They Say That Falling in Love is Wonderful sung by a 6'4" bloke on the 2325 Waterloo East to Mottimgham then honey, you ain't lived.

What the critics said:

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/10/07/review-annie-get-your-gun-young-vic/

http://webcowgirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/07/review-annie-get-your-gun-with-jane-horrocks-the-young-vic/

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/review-23758120-songs-hit-target-in-annie-get-your-gun.do

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/8bd37dda-bcc9-11de-a7ec-00144feab49a.html

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article6879946.ece

ENRON, Royal Court Theatre, Wednesday 30th September 2009

2009-09-28T12:29:00.008+01:00

Synopsis: Based on true events, ENRON goes from a relatively small gas and oil company to one of the most successful companies in the world. Its dramatic expansion and ever-increasing stock price hide the fact that the coffers are empty and that something nasty is lurking in the basement....

Creative Team:
Written by Lucy Prebble
Directed by Rupert Goold
Design: Anthony Ward
Lighting: Mark Henderson
Music and Sound: Adam Cork
Movement: Scott Ambler
Video Design: Jon Driscoll

Cast:
Samuel West - Jeff Skilling, President of ENRON
Tim Pigott-Smith - Ken Lay, Chair of the ENRON board
Tom Goodman-Hill - AndyFalstow, ENRON Chief Finance Officer

Amanda Drew - Claudia Roe
With: Gillian Budd, Peter Caulfield, Howard Charles, Andrew Corbett, Cleo Demetriou, Amanda Drew, Susannah Fellows, Stephen Fewell, Tom Godwin, Ellie Hopkins, Orion Lee, Eleanor Matsuura, Ashley Rolfe and Trevor White

You get on a plane, you don't understand exactly how it works, but you believe it'll fly. And if you got out of your seat and said "I'm not flying, I don't understand how it works", you'd look crazy. Well, its like that. Except, imagine if the belief that the plane could fly was all that was keeping it up in the air. It'd be fine. If everybody believed. If nobody got scared. As long as people didn't ask stupid questions about what it is that keeps planes in the air"

To Sloon Skwyare, to the Royal Court Theatre, somewhere I’d never been before. Ironically, as this is the theatre where lots of plays about kitchen sinks were first performed and is thus the birthplace of “Theatre for the common man”, the place was heaving with Henrys, Caspians and Jamies – the kind of brayers who have first-hand experience of ENRON-type companies on a daily basis and for whom “kitchen sink” means the place under which Anna, their Taiwanese cleaner (in the country without a work permit, but happy to work like a dog for 17p an hour and eat plate-scrapings, such a find) sleeps during her few off-duty hours.

In fact, Anna probably has more room among the spare toilet rolls and bottles of Fairy Liquid than there is available for your legs in this theatre. I spent nearly three hours crammed into a seat so tiny that my chiropractor has had to cancel his golf on Sunday in order to unbend me. But, dear Reader, such is my devotion to the dwama that I will undergo any trial in order to tell you about the hottest show in town this autumn. Sold out, full house, returns only but don’t get your hopes up, get one of the West End Whingers to donate their ticket because they’re in Jordan and can’t go (no jokes about Peter Andre, please).

Him Indoors had rolled his eyes and muttered “Obsessed” when I expressed an interest in going to see this. Yes, I’ve followed the ENRON story but no, not obsessed – I just take an inordinate delight in seeing a certain kind of person get their comeuppance. Politicians, bankers, corporate fat cats, particular hospital managers – I do like to see a calling card from Nemesis on the silver tray on their hall table. And these particular corporate fat cats had practically cornered all the markets in hubris, so it was a great delight to sit and watch their downfall. And what a downfall. In fact, it wouldn’t be at all out of place to compare this play with Greek Tragedy, so expertly does it depict the rise and fall of those who would equate themselves with the Gods.

If presented as an ordinary play, this would be unbearable to watch. But with Light Sabre-wielding brokers, twisted accountants portrayed as ventriloquists dummies and Jurassic Park raptors stalking the basement (to say nothing of the Lehman Brothers portrayed as Siamese Twins, both inside the same enormous jacket and "the market" personified as the Three Blind Mice) its still unbearable – but in a can’t-take-your-eyes-off-the-stage-but-have-to-look-through-your-fingers way. What is essentially a multi-media presentation with a play woven through it becomes immediate, powerful and an utterly compelling lesson on the evils of capitalism, how it devours the morals of those falling under its spell and how it can ruin the lives of innocent people (no, please don't bother leaving pro-capitalist comments because I won't publish them).

Tim Piggott-Smith gave a terrific performance as Ken Lay, Chair of the ENRON board; paternalistic yet creepy, overlaid with all the cigar-waving insincerity and false bonhomie of Boss Hogg from The Dukes of Hazzard. Sam West (Member of the "They Who Can Do No Wrong" club) actually managed to make Jeff Skilling a strangely sympathetic character, progressing from uber-geek with comb-over and Joe 90 glasses to sharp-suited, slicked back lizard in a $1500 dollar suit and handmade shoes. There was more than a touch of Hannibal Lecter about his performance towards the end (those whom the Gods would destroy, they first make mad), particularly in the chilling closing speech in which he expresses his continued belief in (and almost worship of) "the market". Tom Goodman-Hill was completely credible as Andy Falstow, evil architect of ENRON's continued rise and keeper of the raptors in the basement

I think it was the raptors that really made this production for me. City-suited men with head-covering dinosaur masks (complete with creepy red-light eyes), they personified the companies-within-companies that ENRON "fed" with the debts they wanted to keep off their balance sheets, giving those of us in the audience with little or no knowledge of how financial markets work an easy way of understanding the complex procedures involved by turning the abstract ideas involved into something concrete and almost visceral. The play is full of clever ideas like this, which inform the audience without going into tedious detail. Lighting and choreography were excellent, blending seamlessly into the production - and incidentally providing much-needed light relief at times. And it was a masterstroke to have an electronic ticker-tape display showing share prices (with ENRON's highlighted in yellow each time) constantly flickering across the back of the set - as the price edged higher each time, it really became the focus of everybody in the audience's attention (exactly how this had been in real life for the ENRON executives) and I certainly couldn't tear my eyes away each time the display lit up. It was perhaps only right at the very end that the play ran out of steam - as it was put to my by Him Indoors "Once Julius Caesar is dead, the rest is a bit boring and you want to go home". Perhaps if it had ended with the incredibly moving scene in which two of the "ordinary people" ruined by the ENRON crash explain just how their lives had been changed, rather with than a long, rather dull speech by Skilling in which he tries to justify his actions, the evening might not have felt as if it ended with a whimper.

I was only just prevented from marching on Canary Wharf with a flaming torch and a pitchfork on the way home. This is a "must see" - but it might be a good idea to invest in some leg-room.

What the critics said:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/sep/23/enron-review

http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/finance/jameshall/100000989/enron-play-is-gripping-allegory-for-our-times/ - what I particularly like about this review is that it has obviously upset some Capitalist Suit who felt the need to ridicule it in a comment at the end – which is even more entertaining than the review itself and goes to show a) how closely this play has hit home and b)what a blinkered world these people live in.

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/features/enron-lies-greed-and-all-that-gas-1791631.html

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article6846278.ece

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/review-23747616-enron-is-a-dashing-tale-of-greed.do

http://www.curtainup.com/enronlon.html

Guest Review - Surrey Opera@ Chequer Mead, East Grinstead - The Barber of Seville - Saturday 12th September 2009

2009-09-22T22:34:00.010+01:00

Synopsis

Count Almaviva, a Grandee of Spain, is desperately in love with Rosina, the ward of Doctor Bartolo. Figaro is Bartolo’s barber, and, learning from the Count of his heart’s desire, immediately plots with him to bring about his introduction to Rosina.

She is strictly watched by her guardian, who himself plans to marry his ward, since she has both beauty and money. In this he is assisted by Basilio, a music-master. Rosina, however, returns the affection of the Count, and, in spite of the watchfulness of her guardian, she contrives to drop a letter from the balcony to Almaviva, who is still with Figaro below, declaring her passion, and at the same time requesting to know her lover’s name. Figaro tells her that the man is Signor Lindor, claims him as cousin, and adds that the young man is deeply in love with her. Rosina is delighted. She gives him a note to convey to the supposed Signor Lindor. Meanwhile Bartolo has
made known to Basilio his suspicions that Count Almaviva is in love with Rosina. Basilio advises to start a scandal about the Count.

To obtain an interview with Rosina, the Count disguises himself as a drunken soldier,and forces his way into Bartolo’s house. The disguise of Almaviva is penetrated by the guardian, and the pretended solider is placed under arrest, but is at once released upon secretly showing the officer his order as a Grandee of Spain

The Count again enters Bartolo’s house. He is now disguised as a music-teacher, and pretends that he has been sent by Basilio to give a lesson in music, on account of the illness of the latter. He obtains the confidence of Bartolo by producing Rosina’s letter to himself, and offering to persuade Rosina that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the Count. In this manner he obtains the desired opportunity, under the guise of a music lesson Figaro also manages to obtain the keys of the balcony, an escape is determined on at midnight, and a private marriage arranged. Now, however, Basilio makes his appearance. The lovers are disconcerted, but manage, by persuading the music master that he really is ill -- an illness accelerated by a full purse slipped into his hand by Almaviva -- to get rid of him.

When the Count and Figaro have gone, Bartolo, who possesses the letter Rosina wrote to Almaviva, succeeds, by producing it, and telling her he secured it from another lady-love of the Count, in exciting the jealousy of his ward. In her anger she disclosed the plan of escape and agrees to marry her guardian. At the appointed time,
however, Figaro and the Count make their appearance-the lovers are reconciled, and a notary, procured by Bartolo for his own marriage to Rosina, celebrates the marriage of the loving pair. When the guardian enters, with officers of justice, into whose hands he is about to consign Figaro and the Count, he is too late, but is reconciled by a promise that he shall receive the equivalent of his ward’s dower.

Cast:
Rosina - Kelly Sharp
Count Almaviva - Yuri Sabatini
Figaro - Jeremy Vinogradov
Bartolo- Gabriel Gottlieb
Basilio -Leon Berger
Berta - Katherine Price
Fiorello -Samuel Queen

Creative Team:
Director - Mark Hathaway
Design team: Susan Beattie, Francesca Branch
Conductor - Jonathon Butcher

The lovely people at Surrey Opera once again provided me with free tickets for this production. Unfortunately I was going to be away on holiday when this was on. I was sad to miss the opportunity to see the show but, rather than waste the tickets, passed them to a friend and asked her to attend on my behalf. This review was kindly provided in my absence by Vanessa C.

Lovely little theatre. The Set got the first applause – even if it was only three people. It was very simple and effective, quite bare and hard, but gave an excellent platform for the show with the balcony providing a second level for action and with the arches below making it a super space for all the sneakings in and out and busy-ness of the Barber.

I was dreading the orchestra – but what a delight! They were the best thing about the whole evening. A fabulous start (despite the backstage banging) to what turned out to be a rather weak show vocally. Neatly held together by Jonathan Butcher, the band made an excellent sound in what can be such a mess of an overture, and they continued throughout the show with some great solo playing from all of the sections.

I personally favour operas performed in the original language. One of the reasons being that singers too often forget about their technique when singing in English (because, I guess, they are trying to enunciate too much) and so the vocal line together with the support totally disappear. Surrey Opera’s performance was a complete example of this, particularly with Kelly Sharp, who proved to be a good actress, but who is not, in my mind, an opera singer – very pretty, but inaccurate, unsupported, no vocal line, singing, particularly in her oh SO well-known aria, she should have known better!

The selection of voices for the performance was disappointing – with so many thousands of singers around, why is it not possible to find singers who look good, can act AND who have a technique and most importantly, who have a ‘voice’. It is all very well having people running around and being funny but what about the voices? The actual quality of sound made by these singers was dismal. The inability to colour the sound, the lack of control – the inability to sing quietly but still with focus, the obviously lack of training to support the voice – particularly with Rossini – underneath all the runs – was evident throughout. Shaking the head violently whenever they are supposed to sing a grace note, or strutting around the stage from left to right at the beginning of each run thrusting an arm out like a sword, is just irritating.

Which brings me to Yuri Sabatini. I was excited when I read in the programme about an Italian singer, etc., etc. But after a couple of minutes my bubble was burst when Count Almaviva started to sing, and even more so when he forgot his lines and asked for a prompt (was it three times) instead of just singing anything…I mean WHO is going to know that he has got the translation wrong…and for him to have come right out of character (his whole body did a kind of “oh damn it of COURSE that’s what the stupid word was how silly of me, thanks Jonathan) – dreadful dreadful.

The worse thing for Sabatini was that his first entrance was to sing after the best vocal instrument in the show – Samuel Queen. He has a lovely fresh, baritone, evenly placed and free, and his voice made a stark contrast to the pinched, nasal, laboured vocal production of the Count.

The Chorus however were excellent. They had delightful costumes and made many pleasing pictures – all the maids with their numerous duties and up-and-downing of stairs and sweeping looked great. And the chaps in the band at the beginning sang and acted well, with nicely understated humour. I don’t quite understand the costumes for the soloists however. The Count (sorry to get at him again) at the beginning had a very weird tabard-thing going on that was way too big for him, and Bartolo had a massively distracting wig, so much so that one couldn’t really see his face – which is always disappointing. Figaro, who was very dashing, wore boots with metal tips that made a lot of unnecessary noise.

Overall the production was visually pleasing and entertaining and the orchestra really excellent. I can quite understand how an audience would have found the show an extremely enjoyable night out – the humour and of course the story come across so well particularly with the Holden translation. For me, however, I was disappointed by the solo voices.

Final comment: Hoorah for Jonathan Butcher!

Geekery:
The Barber of Seville is a “prequel” to Mozart’s opera The Marriage of Figaro (or “Figaro” is a sequel to “Barber” depending on your pov).

The overture is played during the end credits of the Beatles film Help! “Largo et Factotum” (arguably the most well-known piece of music from the opera) has been parodied by Woody Woodpecker, Tom & Jerry and Homer Simpson, among many others.

Rossini composed the opera in little more than 2 weeks. Time to prepare for the first performance was limited so he borrowed the plot of a story that had earlier been used in an opera by Giovanni Paisiello. Paisiello was quite angry at this so he sent a group of loyal friends to disrupt the opening night of the opera. They booed and hissed and threw things on the stage. This made the singers nervous and caused one to trip on his robe; another broke a guitar string; and a third fell through a trapdoor. Someone even let a cat loose on the stage. The opera ended up even funnier than Rossini had intended.

During a performance in Cincinnati in 1952, four audience members died during Act II.

Shall We Dance[?] - Sadler's Wells - Wednesday 12th August 2009

2009-08-10T13:30:00.016+01:00

Synopsis (official version):

Set to a score comprised entirely of melodies by Richard Rodgers, Shall We Dance[?]tells the story of one man's extraordinary quest to find true love. His panoramic voyage transports us from the Orient to the Wild West by way of Russian folk dance, New York jazz and the delirious waltzes of a Viennese ballroom.

Synopsis (actual version):

The Guy works in a nightclub. There is a lot of dancing. The Guy can't find a decent shag, not realising that The Right Girl is nearby. He is picked up by a cute-looking drunk who becomes His Friend. Awwww! They join the Navy and sail off round the world. They land in Vienna [which is nowhere near the sea. The backdrops all show Notre Dame so this is obviously Vienna, France]. They gatecrash a ball; there is a lot of dancing. The Guy snogs a princess, not realising that The Right Girl is nearby. The Princess's boyf isn't best pleased. The Guy and the Cute Friend get chucked out. Boooo!

They go to Russia where some creepy puppet show is being performed at a fair; there is a lot of dancing. The Guy snogs a peasant girl, not realising that The Right Girl is nearby. The Peasant Girl's boyf isn't best pleased. The Guy and the Cute Friend get chucked out. Booo!

They go to Some Oriental Place [with a Chinese Dragon and music from The King and I, so this is obviously Beijing, Thailand]. They gatecrash a betrothal ceremony; there is a lot of dancing. The Guy snogs the bride-to-be, not realising that The Right Girl is nearby. The bride-to-be's boyf isn't best pleased. He seals The Guy inside a barrel and throws it in the sea. Booo! The Cute Friend disappears completely from such plot as there is. Awwww!

The barrel is washed up on the coast of Oklahoma [which is nowhere near the sea], where there is a Hoe-down in progress; there is a lot of dancing. The Guy snogs a Cowgirl, not realising The Right Girl is nearby. The Cowgirl's boyf isn't best pleased. The Guy gets chucked out. Boooo!

The Guy returns to Noo York and goes to a seedy club. There is a lot of dancing. The Guy snogs the Mafia Boss's moll, not realising that The Right Girl is nearby. The Mafia Boss isn't best pleased. He shoots at The Guy but misses and kills The Moll. The Guy isn't best pleased. He kills The Mafia Boss. The Guy finds The Right Girl! She has Loved Him All The Time and The Guy Never Realised! Hurrah! There is a lot of dancing!

Cast:
Adam Cooper: The Guy
Emma Samms: Swing Girl
Lorraine Stewart: European Girl
Rachel Muldoon: Russian Girl/Dance Captain
Noi Tolmer: Eastern Girl
Pip Jordan: Wild West Girl
Sarah Wildor: Slaughter Girl
Ebony Molina: The Right Girl
Tom Dwyer: The Friend

Creative Team:
Director, Choreographer and all round luvvie: Adam Cooper
Musical Supervisor: Richard Balcombe
Designer: Paul Farnsworth
Lighting: Paul Pyant
Video projection: Thomas Gray
Sound: Matt McKenzie
Associate Director: Kenn Burke
Mr. Cooper's muscles lovingly buffed up with: Johnson's Baby Oil

I'm on the warpath, filled with righteous anger. I'm writing to The Daily Mail, Watchdog, Lynne Truss and anyone else who will listen. The title of this show is a quotation, taken from the great number in Rodger's and Hammerstein's The King and I, "Shall We Dance?" You know the one (altergethernaw):

"Shhhhaaall weeeee dance? pumpumpum

On a bright cloud of music shall we fly? pumpumpum

Shall we dance? duh um pumpum

Shall we both say 'Goodnight' and mean 'Goodbye'? umpumpum

Or perchance pumpumpum when the last tiny star has left the sky deedeedee

Shall we still be together with our arms around each other

And will you be my new romance?

On the clear understanding that this kind of thing could happen

Shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?" duh um pum pum

and, as you can see from the context of the verse, the use of the word "shall" means this refers to a possibility and is therefore clearly a question, not an imperative. And as we all learned on practically our first day at school, along with our teacher's name and the location of the toilets in case of emergency, questions are followed by a question mark. So where's the question mark, Mr. Cooper? Harrumph!

Even without punctuational indignation, the evening got off to a rocky start. It pissed down with rain (we're talking 40 days and 40 nights here) and we discovered that our favourite pre-Sadler's Wells greasy spoon caff now closes every day at 4pm, so we were cold and wet and there was no chance of a lovingly-crafted friedeggsbeanschipsandacuppateathreefiftydarlincheers. I could have cried. So I wasn't really in the best frame of mind when the curtain went up. Still, things could have been worse. I could have actually been in this. Honestly, what a crock of banal shit.

This was just a lame excuse for a rummage through the dressing-up box (Oooh look, here's a stetson. We can do a cowboy dance! I've always wanted to do a cowboy dance! And a peasant blouse. Can we squeeze in a Russian section somehow?) and a chance to throw together some well-known (and some considerably more obscure) show choonz, cobble them together with some vague semblance of a plot that requires a lot of dancing and stalk around the stage looking moody, wearing a black vest so that we can all see your biceps. And, preferably, adulate.

Well, there seemed to be plenty of people in the audience last night prepared to adulate at the shrine that is Adam Cooper. But I'm not of one of them. Sure, Cooper can hoof it up. But choreographer or dramatist he ain't. You would have thought that someone with all his classical training, who spent many years perfecting his craft under Matthew Bourne (no sniggering at the back, please) could put a few dance steps together and come up with a decent storyline. But Shall We Dance [?] just shows the truth of the Oriental proverb: The Pupil must become better than the Master in order to become a Master himself, Grasshopper. But the Pupil hasn't learned, preferring outward show for inner depth. The choreography is flashy yet uninspired, empty and repetitive (the same lifts occur time and time and time again). The "storyline" would disgrace Jackanory and has the dramatic shape of a plate of cabbage. There's no characterisation, just Adam Cooper. The one inspired section of the entire evening - the tapdancing Hoe Down - comes too late to save the show from banality. Cooper, carefully togged out entirely in black to draw the eye, places himself both outside and above rather than of the company throughout the entire evening. The craving for adulation is almost palpable, but as Dorothy eventually discovers in The Wizard of Oz, if you pull back the curtain and look past the smoke and mirrors, The Great and Powerful Oz is a bit of a humbug, a false idol. And one that can't punctuate.

what the critics thought:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/dance/5940560/Adam-Coopers-Shall-We-Dance-at-Sadlers-Wells---review.html

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/shall-we-dance-sadlers-wells-london-1765990.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/aug/02/shall-we-dance-sadlers-wells

http://www.express.co.uk/features/view/117347/Shall-We-Dance-Sadler-s-Wells-London

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/9001aa8e-7d28-11de-b8ee-00144feabdc0.html - I can't believe that the FT are the only newspaper to have picked up on the lack of punctuation!

GEEKERY: Rodgers is one of only two persons to have won an Oscar, a Grammy, an Emmy, a Tony Award and a Pulitzer Prize (Marvin Hamlisch is the other).

Rodgers was considering quitting show business altogether to sell children's underwear, when he and Hart finally got their first hit in 1925.

Too Close to the Sun - Comedy Theatre, Wednesday 5th August 2009

2009-08-05T12:44:00.005+01:00

Synopsis:

In the summer of 1961 on the Hemingway ranch in Ketchum, Idaho, Ernest Hemingway's young secretary, Louella, is plotting to become his fifth wife and heir to his estate. Rex De Havilland, an old friend of the author and now a struggling Hollywood producer, arrives to secure the film rights to Hemingway's life. Anxious to achieve his goal by any means possible, he tries to convince Hemingway's wife Mary the project will give the ailing writer a new lease on life. Hemingway, however, fails to succumb to the charms of either Louella or Rex, and he banishes both from his home before committing suicide with a shot to his head.

Creative team:
Music: John Robinson
Lyrics: Roberto Trippini and John Robinson
Libretto: Roberto Trippini
Director: Pat Garrett*
Set and costumes: Christopher Woods
Lighting: Mike Robertson

* not the Pat Garrett killed in the shoot-out with Billy the Kid. Unfortunately for us all

Cast:
Rex: Christopher Howell
Mary: Helen Dallimore
Ernest Hemmingway: James Graeme
Louella: Tammy Joelle

“It’s like asking a fire hydrant what it thinks of dogs”

Well, when so many people are so disparaging of something, you’ve just got to go see it really, haven’t you? When its being referred to not as Too Close to the Sun but To Close on the Sunday? When the closing notices go up three days after the opening night? When the writer’s other hits are such popular and long-running works as Leonardo!, Which Witch?, Behind the Iron Mask and Botero Forever? Hold me back!

Actually, yes, please hold me back. Preferably hold me back in my seat with broad leather straps so that I can cope with the rising tide of hysteria engendered by lyrics such as “Make Yourself One With The Gun” and lines such as “My whang-dang-doodle needs a crankshaft to get it going” or “I’m not going to stop living until I’m totally dead”.

Honestly, this was so painful that writing a review becomes quite difficult. I want to pour scorn on the writers at the same time as pouring pity on the cast. Even the fact that its running (but hurry, not for long!) at The Comedy Theatre is embarrassing to point out. Because, really, this one should never have got past the “Let’s write a musical about Ernest Hemingway committing suicide” conversation (a conversation that in all likelihood took place about 3am while some damned good skunk was being passed round the table). Roberto Trippini deserves a round of applause and an award for his sheer self-deluded arrogance, if nothing else. Hemmingway was a dinosaur, a macho shithead who shot, smoked, boozed and screwed his way through life, before sticking a shotgun into his mouth and splattering his brains all over the walls (“Hello? Is that the E-Z-Clean maid service? This is Mrs. Hemmingway. Can you come early tonight? And bring some extra scrubbing brushes. And a lot of Cilit Bang”). I doubt that he was a big fan of show tunes, Hollywood musicals or people tapdancing round his living room. Especially those doing jazz hands at the same time. Had he met anyone doing such a thing, their head would probably have been mounted on the wall between the elephant and the bison, with an engraved plate saying “Faggot, Ketchum, Idaho” underneath. So writing a musical about Hemmingway is bizarre, to say the least. Writing a musical about him committing suicide is off the doozy-scale, wouldn’t you agree? Mount said musical in the West End during the worst recession since the 1930s and its as much commercial suicide as Hemmingway rug-splattering version. The other 38 people in the auditorium last night thought so too. In fact, so gripped by the action was the woman in the row behind us (note, not a woman – the woman; she was the only person in it) that she had time to take a call from someone at home and advise them that “There should be a squeezy bottle of Marmite in the cupboard. Go to bed and I’ll see you tomorrow”. Real thrilling stuff. Did they find the Marmite? Why were they going to bed so early? Was there a connection between them wanting both Marmite and an early night? Alas, we will never know, because the people on stage were talking too loud for me to hear properly.

Honestly, either work in the acting profession is so shit-scarce at the moment or the cast had been liberally plied with Mogadon before the first read-through but I really don’t know why any of the people concerned hadn’t dug their eyes out with spoons rather than have this on their CV. Helen Dallimore was good enough to create a major role in Wicked a couple of years back, so what is she doing in what could be subtitled Ernie, Get Your Gun? Tammy Joelle will presumably disappear from sight and never be heard of again until her neighbours complain about the smell coming from her flat and she’s found dead having been eaten by her dogs.. Having read a review of her performance which said that her singing would best be appreciated by canine members of the audience, I thought that might be a little harsh, but having actually heard her last night, I’m somewhat inclined to provide the dogs with forks, a plate of fava beans and a nice chianti, just to save time. Jay Benedict, who was to have played Rex, at least had the good sense to “injure his knee” at an early preview and send his understudy on, putting him on a par with the man who cancelled his booking on the Titanic after having had his palm read at the fair. And James Graeme was quite the happiest, jolliest suicide this town is going to see until another banker snorts 8 grams of coke and throws himself off the balcomy at ChinaWhite.

Certainly one for the dustbin of history. Lovers of absolute twaddle should hurry along to the Comedy Theatre before the show’s 10th (and final) performance. But don’t hurry too fast. You might get there in time for curtain-up. As we left, a woman whose face had the pallor of someone staggering up a railway embankment after a derailment clutched wildly at my arm and stammered “Well, that was an experience, wasn’t it?!” It soitonly was, Ernest, it soitonly was.

What the critics said:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/5917303/Too-Close-to-the-Sun-at-the-Comedy-Theatre-review.html

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/07/25/review-too-close-to-the-sun-comedy-theatre/

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/25104/too-close-to-the-sun

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/first-night-too-close-to-the-sun-comedy-theatre-london-1760703.html

http://www.whatsonstage.com/reviews/theatre/london/E8831248684950/Too+Close+to+the+Sun.html

Hello, Dolly! - Open Air Theatre @ Regents Park, Friday 31st July 2009

2009-08-01T18:36:00.010+01:00

Synopsis:

It's the turn of the 20th century, and all of New York City is excited because widowed but brassy Dolly Gallagher Levi is in town Dolly makes a living through what she calls "meddling" – matchmaking and numerous sidelines, including dance instruction and mandolin lessons . She is currently seeking a wife for grumpy Horace Vandergelder, the well-known half-a-millionaire, but it becomes clear that Dolly intends to marry Horace herself. Ambrose Kemper, a young artist, wants to marry Horace's weepy niece Ermengarde, but Horace opposes this because Ambrose's vocation does not guarantee a steady living. Ambrose enlists Dolly's help, and they travel to Yonkers, New York to visit Horace.

Horace explains to his two clerks, Cornelius Hackl and Barnaby Tucker, that he is going to get married. He plans to travel with Dolly to New York City to propose to the widow Irene Molloy, who owns a hat shop there. Dolly arrives in Yonkers and "accidentally" mentions that Irene's first husband might not have died of natural causes, and also mentions that she knows an heiress, Ernestina Money, who may be interested in Horace. Horace leaves for New York and tells Cornelius and Barnaby to mind the store.Cornelius decides that he and Barnaby need to get out of Yonkers They blow up some tomato cans to create a terrible stench and a good alibi to close the store. Dolly mentions that she knows two ladies in New York they should call on: Irene Molloy and her shop assistant, Minnie Fay. She tells Ermengarde and Ambrose that she'll enter them in the polka competition at the fancy Harmonia Gardens Restaurant in New York City so Ambrose can demonstrate his ability to be a bread winner to Uncle Horace. Cornelius, Barnaby, Ambrose, Ermengarde and Dolly take the train to New York.

Irene and Minnie open their hat shop for the afternoon. Irene wants a husband but does not love Horace Vandergelder. Cornelius and Barnaby arrive at the shop and pretend to be rich. Horace and Dolly arrive at the shop, and Cornelius and Barnaby hide. Irene inadvertently mentions that she knows Cornelius Hackl, and Dolly tells her and Horace that even though Cornelius is Horace's clerk by day, he's a New York playboy by night; he's one of the Hackls. Minnie screams when she finds Cornelius hiding in an armoire and Horace storms out, realizing there are men hiding in the shop, but not knowing they are his clerks.Dolly arranges for Cornelius and Barnaby, who are still pretending to be rich, to take the ladies out to dinner to the Harmonia Gardens to make up for their humiliation. Alone, Dolly decides to put her dearly departed husband Ephram behind her and to move on with life. She asks Ephram's permission to marry Horace, requesting a sign from him. Dolly catches up with the annoyed Vandergelder, and convinces him to give her matchmaking one more chance. She tells him that Ernestina Money would be perfect for him and asks him to meet her at the swanky Harmonia Gardens that evening

Cornelius and Barnaby are determined to get a kiss before the night is over. As the clerks have no money for a carriage, they tell the girls that walking to the restaurant shows that they've got "Elegance". At the Harmonia Gardens Restaurant, Rudolph, the head waiter, whips his crew into shape for Dolly Levi's return. Horace arrives with his date, but she is not as rich or elegant as Dolly implied; and bored by Horace, she soon leaves, just as Dolly planned.Cornelius, Barnaby and their dates arrive, unaware that Horace is also dining at the restaurant. Irene and Minnie are excited by the lavish restaurant and decide to order the most expensive items on the menu. Fearful of being discovered, Cornelius and Barnaby become increasingly nervous as they have less than a dollar left.

Dolly makes her triumphant return to the Harmonia Gardens and is greeted in style by the staff. She sits in the now-empty seat at Horace's table and proceeds to eat a large, expensive dinner, telling him that no matter what he says, she will not marry him. Barnaby and Horace hail waiters at the same time, and in the ensuing confusion each drops his wallet and inadvertently picks up the other's. Barnaby is delighted that he can now pay the restaurant bill, while Horace finds only a little spare change. Barnaby and Cornelius realize that the wallet must belong to Horace, who recognizes them and also spots Eremengarde and Ambrose. The ensuing free-for-all riot culminates in a trip to night court. Cornelius and Barnaby confess that they have no money and have never been to New York before. Cornelius, Barnaby and Ambrose each professes his love for his companion.Dolly convinces the judge that the only thing everyone is guilty of is being in love. Everyone is found innocent and cleared of all charges, but Horace is declared guilty and forced to pay damages. Dolly mentions marriage again, and Horace declares that he wouldn't marry her if she were the last woman in the world.

The next morning, back at the hay and feed store, Cornelius and Irene, Barnaby and Minnie, and Ambrose and Ermengarde are each setting out on their own. A chastened Vandergelder finally admits that he needs Dolly in his life, but she is unsure about the marriage until her late husband sends her a sign. The sign comes in the unlikely form of a roll of wallpaper in Dolly’s favourite colour, and all ends happily

Creative Team:
Director: Timothy Sheader
Designer:Peter McKintosh
Choreographer: Stephen Mear
Musical Director: PhilipBateman
Lighting Designer: Simon Mills
Orchestrator: David Shrubsole
Sound Designer: Mike Walker
Casting Director: David Grindrod Associates
Dialect Coach: Majella Hurley

Cast:
Samantha Spiro : Dolly
Mark Anderson : Ambrose Kemper
Allan Corduner : Horace Vandergelder
Oliver Brenin : Barnaby Tucker
Clare Louise Connolly : Ermengarde
Daniel Crossley : Cornelius Hackl
Josefina Gabrielle : Irene Molloy
Akiya Henry : Minnie Fay
Andy Hockley : Rudolph
Annalisa Rossi :Ernestina
John Stacey : Judge

“We’re gonna find adventure in the evening air……”

July was a complete no-go area as far as theatre trips was concerned, so it was nice to be able to get tickets for a preview of every gay boy’s favourite musical. And, for once, we cheated the weather, which has bedevilled practically the entire season at the Open Air Theatre this year. OK, it wasn’t blisteringly hot, but at least it wasn’t raining. There was, as expected, a very high PPSI (Poofs Per Square Inch) ratio, and unfortunately a high NGPSI ratio too (Noisy Germans Per Square Inch) – four extremely Aryan ladies of a certain age (methinks they had all just visited their good friend Miss Clairol) who sat next to us explaining the plot details to each other, hooting and pointing and singing along in direct inverse volume to the amount of wine left in their communal bottle. I gritted my teeth until the interval when I asked them to keep it down please, ladies, but this only meant that they spent the second half doing their best stage whispers, shushing each other loudly and giggling. Still, at least they didn’t urinate on the stage, which I gather happened at a performance of A Little Night Music recently:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article6736114.ece

Hello, Dolly! is a strange musical if you only know it from the film. The beginning is very, very muted compared to Ms. Streisand’s frenetic opening number and I admit that I was feeling a bit disappointed. Even the fantabulous pull-apart set (resembling a cross between a Grecian temple and a paddle steamer) couldn’t cheer me up. But I enjoyed the way that Dolly appeared from a door right up in the back of the auditorium and “worked” the audience, handing out business cards left, right and centre. And Ms. Spiro, despite her lack of inches, really did seem to be giving it her all, like a mother hen on speed. But she has a very strange voice; by no means is she a singer and I foresee vocal problems ahead for her during the six week run – her voice isn’t deep enough to hit the low notes, and not high enough to hit the high notes, and so it sounded like she was really struggling to get enough power through anything but the mid-range stuff. Not that what she sings isn’t well sung – its just that it was extremely obvious that she can’t belt out a big number. One exchange of dialogue which I don’t think appears in the film was a bit of a wake-up call for me to Dolly’s real character and occurred just before this section – she only makes a pretence of paying for her train ticket then manages to wheedle someone else into paying for it. And there were lots of other little touches that made her rather less sympathetic than she should have been. In fact, the more I listened, the more I heard that was inconsistent with other characters as well. There was a distinct suggestion that the first Mr. Molloy didn’t die of natural causes, and Horace Vandergelder’s sudden assertion near the end that “Money is like manure; its no good unless you spread it around” seems distinctly at odds with his tight-fistedness throughout the rest of the show.

For me, the show didn’t really get going until “Put on your Sunday Clothes” when the chorus almost literally burst onto the stage. Their energy level was amazing, their costumes very well designed and – importantly – appropriate in colour and style to the entire production. They also hoofed like maniacs – full marks to the choreographer. Their number was full of simple but very effective moves and the section where they became the train, with Dolly up in front on a luggage trolley, was deservedly applauded. But the bit I liked best was when the walking canes of the men got slotted into holes in the back of the shop counter and became stands for the hats in Mrs. Molloy’s hat shop. Very simple, very effective and showing that the production had been directed with an eye to detail, which always gets full marks from me. In fact, I think that the chorus numbers really make this particular production special. When the Parade Passes By, which closes Act I, for all that Ms. Spiro should be screaming her tits off and throwing top Gs all around the stage (and couldn’t) was made really something special by the fact that the chorus were all working overtime to get the number across. The big number danced by the waiters in the second act practically stopped the show and I would have happily stood up on my seat and called for an encore of this had I not wanted to draw attention to myself for fear of being labelled A Rowdy Element and chucked out.

Other elements of the performance grated rather – the hat shop scene always falls a bit flat for me; not only because it slows the action down to walking pace, but the elements of farce bore me. I always find Ribbons Down My Back rather a tedious little song – Josefina Gabrielle seemed to be another one having problems with her pitching, which made it doubly difficult to sit through, and I could have happily slapped Akiya Henry who was playing Minnie Fay rather in the fashion of Butterfly “I doan know nuffin’ bout birthin’ babies, MizzScarlett” McQueen.

Now, there are certain readers who I know are going to roll their eyes at this point, but I have to say that I do like a well-choreographed walk-down at the end of a show, and if you are also of this ilk, then do get yourself a ticket for this production because the curtain calls are wonderful – although the lighting box need to be considerably tighter with their follow spots because it looked for a moment like the entire stage was under attack by a squadron of killer fireflies. A fine show nonetheless, and one which deserves to be seen. And nobody urinates on the stage.

Theatre Geekery:

The show was originally entitled Dolly, A Damned Exasperating Woman. It ran on Broadway for 2,844 performances, garnering 11 Tony Awards.

Ethel Merman, who had originally turned down the role, citing exhaustion from a long run of Annie, Get Your Gun, agreed to take on the role for the final two months of the run.

Both Barnaby and Cornelius make several references to the stuffed whale at Barnum’s Museum, although the museum had been long gone by 1890, the year the action takes place ,as it burned down in 1880.

The 1969 film version, in which Dolly was played by Barbra Streisand, was directed by Gene Kelly. In the Harmonia Gardens scene, the wall of Captain Von Trapp’s ballroom from The Sound of Music can be seen behind the hat-check desk.

During filming, Walter Matthau (Vandergelder) and Michael Crawford (Cornelius) took a trip to a nearby racecourse. Discovering that there was a horse running that day called Hello Dolly, Crawford put his entire fee for the film on it. Matthau called him a fool and there was an argument. The horse won. Crawford made a lot of money. Matthau never spoke to him again, on set or off.

What the critics said:

http://londonist.com/2009/08/theatre_review_hello_dolly_regents.php

http://www.thelondonpaper.com/going-out/whats-new/hello-dolly-at-open-air-theatre-review

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23598314-details/Hello+Dolly!/showReview.do?reviewId=23730673

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/25247/hello-dolly-

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/hello-dolly-open-air-theatre-regents-park-london-1771103.html

The Cherry Orchard - The Old Vic - Wednesday 24th June 2009

2009-06-22T00:22:00.007+01:00

Synopsis:

Early one May morning, after a long absence (during which she lived in Paris), the widow Madame Ranevsky returns home to her family estate to find that it has been heavily mortgaged to pay for her extravagances and that it is to be auctioned off. With her arrives her daughter, Anya, and Anya’s German governess, Charlotte. They are greeted by Varya, Ranevsky’s adopted daughter who manages the remnants of the once-grand estate; Gayev, Ranevsky’s brother; Lopakhin, a former peasant who has become a wealthy merchant and neighbour members of the staff; and other neighbors and friends.

Amidst her recollections of her girlhood nursery, Madame Ranevsky is reminded that the estate will be sold to clear debts in August, unless the family can raise sufficient funds. Generous and distracted, she seems incapable of recognizing andacting on her desperate situation. Lopakhin offers to lend Ranevsky 50,000 roubles to cover the debts and save the estate--if she will permit the land to be divided into lots for summer tourist homes. This, however, involves cutting down the estate’s famous cherry orchard, which Ranevsky loves dearly; and the plan is rejected as sacrilege. Several other ideas to save the estate also arise: Gayev will try to secure a loan, or perhaps Anya will visit her wealthy great-aunt, a countess in distant Yaroslavl, and be richly married. Nothing is resolved.

Later in the summer, courtship seems to preclude business. The new servant, Yasha, competes with the estate clerk Yepikhodov for the attentions of Dunyasha the maid; Varya tries to prevent a union between her sister, Anya, and the perpetual student Trofimov (former tutor to Ranevsky's infant son, who drowned at age six), and everybody assumes that Varya will marry Lopakhin, though there has been no proposal.
In the midst of this, Lopakhin tries vainly to get the family to be more practical, but Ranevsky confesses that she squandered her fortune on her unfaithful lover in Paris and is probably not capable of practical dealing with the immediate problem. Firs, an aged servant, longs for “the good old days” before the serfs were emancipated, but Trofimov dreams of progress. He is glad the estate will be sold, for to him every leaf in the cherry orchard tells of a serf’s complaints and sufferings.

August arrives, and the estate must be auctioned to meet the mortgage payments. Gayev attends the sale, hopeful that the great-aunt’s money will be enough to satisfy the creditors. At the mansion a farewell party is underway even though there are no funds for the orchestra. The household members dance and quarrel until Lopakhin returns with Gayev from the auction to announce that he has bought the estate where his father and other family members once was serfs, and he intends to carry out his plan for cutting down the orchard. Seeing Ranevsky’s sorrow, Lopakhin remorsefully wishes that “this miserable disjointed life could somehow be changed.” Anya comforts her mother, promising that together they will build a new, happy life.

In the autumn, with the estate and orchard now gone, Ranevsky readies for her departure to Paris, where she will live on the money from the great-aunt. Anya will accompany her and attend school. Gayev has a job as a bank clerk; Trofimov, as a translator. Lopakhin has failed to propose to Varya, so she will become a housekeeper for others. However, Lopakhin does hire Yepikhodov to work for him and promises to find a new position for Charlotte. Ranevsky is worried about the old and ailing Firs, but is told that he is in the hospital. Once the family and their entourage depart, however, Firs finds himself alone, locked in the deserted house. Axe strokes resound outside, as the woodsmen begin at last to cut down the cherry orchard.

Cast:

Ranevksya – Sinead Cusack
Anya – Morven Christie
Varya – Rebecca Hall
Gaev – Paul Jesson
Lopakhin – Simon Russell Beale
Trofimov – Ethan Hawke
Simeonov – Dakin Matthews
Charlotta – Selina Cadell
Yepikhodov – Tobias Segal
Dunyasha – Charlotte Parry
Firs – Richard Easton
Yasha – Josh Hamilton

Production Credits:
Director - Sam Mendes
Translation - Tom Stoppard

Set Designer: Anthony Ward
Costume Designer -Catherine Zuber
Lighting -Paul Pyant
Sound-Paul Arditti
Music-Mark Bennett
Music Direction-Dan Lipton
Choreographer-Josh Prince
Casting-Maggie Lunn & Nancy Piccione, C.S.A

To Waterloo on a broiling June evening, along with seemingly thousands of teenage girls dressed as jailbait, who booked tickets for this show not because they wanted to get to the bottom of Chekov’s enigmatic tale of a civilisation in decline and family angst, but because they wanted to swoon over Mr. Ethan Hawke, who is apparently an actor in moving pictures. No, I haven’t seen any of them, and no, I had only vaguely heard of him before. So I can’t tell you what all the fuss was about, except that teenage girls currently seem to be going for lank, beardy types who would look more at home in the kind of bar that has wooden floors, half-length louvre doors, a pianola playing honkytonk music in the corner and possibly Mae West sipping moonshine and tonic at one end of the counter while keeping an eye on her scantily clad burlesque dancers. Unfortunately for said teenage girls, Mr. Hawke’s appearances were mercifully brief so, during the longeurs between his scenes, they kept themselves occupied by doing their nails, texting their friends (“Chelsea and me is at featre c-ing Ethan he is well fit innit”), eating rapidly melting chocolate eclairs and shifting so much in their creaky seats that being in the Upper Circle sounded like being on board the Marie Celeste during a hurricane (of note is that quite a few of them were so obviously bored by the whole thing that they didn’t come back after the interval). The rest of the audience peered through the gloom trying to make out what was happening on stage (Lighting by “Desperately Underlit Theatre Productions, Inc”, once again), tried to ignore half the casts’ impenetrable American accents and steeled themselves not to storm the stage and strangle one of Chekov’s most irritating characters.

I’ve seen much better-directed Chekov plays than this (there was a fantastic – and probably definitive - Three Sisters at the National shortly before I started writing this blog) – and, admittedly, much worse (The Seagull, one of my first two or three reviews). This production just seemed to be a bit bland, a bit staid, and a bit lacking in depth, bite and ideas. Him Indoors wittered on about “naturalistic direction” – for which read “uninspired”. When I go to the theatre, I want to see something theatrical. And considerably better lit. For the scenes of the play which took place in the nursery, the stage was divided into alternate strips of darkness and light – presumably to represent the bars on the nursery windows and possibly the psychological prison in which most of the characters feel themselves trapped. Or something poncey like that. In practical terms, it just made the stage dingy and difficult to see.

Part of the problem, I feel, is that the character of Ranevksya is extremely unsympathetic, constantly maundering on about happy times long gone and seemingly unable to agree to an idea which has been handed to her on a plate and which would solve all her problems in one go. I’m sure many of the audience were, like me, wanting to shout “For crissakes, just sell the fucking orchard and have done with it!” while applying both my hands to her throat and banging her head repeatedly on the floor. Presumably it is an indication of Sinead Cusack’ skill as an actress that I felt this so strongly. My feeling wasn’t helped by Simon Russell Beale’s portrayal of Lophakin, which seemed to have no “bite” whatsoever. Instead, we got the standard SRB portrayal of a shambling, avuncular, slightly camp apologist, forever wringing his hands, giggling and aspirating over everyone in the loud bits, nor by Selina Cadell’s bizarrely-accented governess (a seemingly completely irrelevant part, in my opinion). Of course, it might have been something to do with the translation by one T. Stoppard, Esq., who larded the text with phrases such as “Stop being such a noodle” – prove me wrong, but I’m sure no Russian ever said such a thing in 1904 – and smartarse Shakespeare misquotations such as “Get thee to a scullery”.

Apparently, in the first St. Petersburg production, the eponymous orchard was represented on stage, and audiences broke into cheers as the axes rang out. Sadly, this was rather how I felt myself, but contented myself with “accidentally” standing on the foot of a teenage girl who was holding up the exodus at the end by, at the top of the staircase and the top of her voice, telling her friends just how “awesome” Mr. Hawke had been.

New section! Theatre Geekery!
For your delectation and delight, and so that you can bore all your friends with your in-depth knowledge of theatre, I’ll now be including a couple of items of trivia about each show I review.

The Cherry Orchard is the only Chekov play in which a gun appears on stage but is not fired.

The first production opened in Moscow on 17th January 1904, Chekov’s last birthday (he died in June that year). It was directed by Constantin Stanislavski. Chekov hated it, considering it “under-rehearsed” – it was “only” in rehearsal for 6 months. Chekov’s wife played the lead.

What the critics thought:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/the-cherry-orchard-the-winters-tale-old-vic-london-1702083.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jun/10/the-cherry-orchard-winters-tale-review

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/06/01/review-the-cherry-orchard-old-vic

http://www.thelondonpaper.com/going-out/whats-new/theatre-review-of-anton-chekhovs-cherry-orchard-at-the-old-vic

Arcadia - Duke of York's Theatre - Thursday 4th June 2009

2009-06-01T19:56:00.005+01:00

Synopsis:

The action takes place in a room on the garden front of a large country house in Derbyshire, but in two times, the present and the early years of the nineteenth century. Thomasina Coverly, a precocious thirteen year old, receives a lesson from her tutor, Septimus Hodge. The two are discussing Fermat's theorem, Newton and other matters of mathematics and physics when they are interrupted by Ezra Chater, a third-rate poet. Chater accuses Hodge of having been spied in a "carnal embrace" with Mrs. Chater, a charge Hodge makes little effort to deny. Meanwhile, Thomasina's mother, Lady Croom, is wrangling with her landscapearchitect, Richard Noakes, who wants to clutter the immaculately kept grounds with a gloomy hermitage and other gothic paraphernalia.

The second scene moves to the twentieth century. Coverly descendants still reside at the estate: young Chloe, mathematician Valentine and mute, mysterious Gus. They are also hosts to best-selling author Hannah Jarvis, there to research a history of the estate's gardens, and to literary scholar Bernard Nightingale, who intends to prove that Lord Byron, the great Romantic poet, visited Sidley Park and killed Ezra Chater in a duel.

Back in 1809, Thomasina translates a Latin passage about Cleopatra and then expresses her grief at all the knowledge lost during the burning of the Library at Alexandria. Hodge consoles her. Chater and his “second”, Captain Brice, arrive, demanding satisfaction for the stain upon Mrs. Chater's honor. Hodge agrees to meet them that afternoon for a duel with pistols. Hannah discovers one of Thomasina's notebooks, in which the girl describes an iterated algorithm. Thomasina's work in 1809 correlates to Valentine's modern-day study of grouse populations. He has the raw data, in the form of hunting logbooks, but he can't find the algorithm that defines the ebb and flow in the numbers of grouses. The logs, however, do prove that Byron did, in fact, visit the estate in 1809, a discovery that excites Bernard no end

Act Two opens with Nightingale reading his Byron lecture to Valentine, Chloe and Gus. Hannah arrives and is openly derisive, pointing out where Bernard has played fast and loose with his interpretation of history. Chloe goes out of her way to defend Bernard. Valentine also voices his objections to Bernard's unscientific methods, and Bernard rounds on him with a blistering denunciation of scientific progress. He ridicules Valentine's grouse research, causing him, Chloe and Gus to flee the room in anger, frustration and humiliation.

Nor does Hannah escape Bernard's tirade. He hands her a copy of the Byron Society Journal, which contains an article contending that the sketch Hannah used on her last book's dust jacket cannot possibly be Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb, as she assumed it was. After delivering this bombshell, Bernard makes a pass at Hannah, which she declines. He then reveals that he has been sleeping with Chloe. For this, he receives a sharp slap in the face. Unperturbed, he gives Hannah a small book, The Peaks Traveller and Gazetteer, which contains a reference to Sidley Park and the mysterious hermit who lived on the property. He takes his leave. Valentine returns, and he and Hannah read that the hermit was driven insane by "Frenchified mathematick"; Hannah suspects this hermit is none other than Septimus Hodge.

The action returns to 1809 to the morning of Hodge and Chater's duel. As it turns out, no one has been shot. Mrs. Chater, however, was discovered during the night in Lord Byron's room. The poet was sent away, and the Chaters have left for the West Indies with Captain Brice, who is, in fact, Mrs. Chater's lover. Lady Croom is indignant to have found two letters from Septimus Hodge. In one, Hodge professes his love for her. The scene ends with the suggestion that he and Lady Croom will soon consummate his passion.

Valentine and Chloe read the media's sensational reaction to Bernard's lecture about Byron. ('Bonking Byron Shot Poet'). Hannah arrives, and on his laptop computer, Valentine shows her "the Coverly set" (his thesis on grouse populations, which is based on Thomasina's equations). Valentine thinks that Thomasina should be famous, but it is revealed that she died in a fire on her seventeenth birthday. Suddenly, it's simultaneously 1812.

The audience and various characters learn that Ezra Chater died of a monkey bite in the West Indies some years after he was supposed to have been shot by Byron. Bernard will be a laughing stock now that Hannah has sent a letter to that effect to The Times. It is revealed that Thomasina foresaw the implications of the second law of thermodynamics and that on the eve of her seventeenth birthday she finally declared her love for Septimus. . Finally, Gus proves Hannah's hypothesis about the identity of Sidley Park's hermit by silently bringing her Thomasina's sketch of Septimus.

Past and present merge as Septimus and Thomasina, Hannah and Gus whirl around the stage to the strains of a waltz, separated by centuries yet united by the mysteries of chaos and attraction.

Producer: Sonia Friedman Productions/Robert G Bartner/Roger Berlin
Director: David Leveaux

Design: Hildegard Bechtler

Costume: Amy Roberts

Lighting: Paul Anderson

Sound: Simon Baker

Cast:
Samantha Bond (Hannah)

Nancy Carroll (Lady Croom)

Jessie Cave (Thomasina)

Neil Pearson (Bernard)

Dan Stevens (Septimus)

Ed "My Deddi Wrote This Play" Stoppard (Valentine)

Trevor Cooper (Richard Noakes)

Sam Cox (Jellaby)

Lucy Griffiths (Chloe Coverly)

Tom Hodgkins (Captain Brice)

Hugh Mitchell (Augustus/Gus Coverly)

George Potts (Ezra Chater)

Sometimes, a play is better on the page than it is on the stage. On the page you can pause, go back, re-read, sort out any minor tangles in the plot in your head and admire the erudition of the playwright. If there’s a cast list from the first production, you can mentally people the play with those actors. If the play touches on a particular interest of yours, you can sit there and revel in the little bits of interesting trivia and feel smug that you and the writer know the same sort of useless things. Occasionally, you can feel even smugger when the playwright gets the “insider details” completely wrong. You can quote bits of the play and feel erudite.

And then a new production of the play is launched. You rush for your diary and your credit card, spend more than you can really afford on tickets and hug yourself in anticipation. On a steaming summer night, you cram yourself into a seat which isn’t quite big enough for your and jiggle about in your seat with excitement. And then the curtain goes up and within 30 minutes you are thinking “Jesus Christ, this is a dreary play”. And you drag home afterwards feeling depressed and disillusioned.

And so, Dear Readers, all of the above came to pass with the new production of Arcadia – Mr. Stoppard’s foray into the world of garden history. I was sooooo looking forward to this. I quote from the play in a couple of my lectures. I love the period half of it is set in. I’ve got a postcard of Rufus Sewell looking shagable and Byronic in the original production. And I haven’t got any illusions left any more. This is a DREARY play. Very little of it is about what I thought it was about. The story is typically Stoppard – overlong, pretentiously erudite and very, very, very wordy with very little action. I can’t see how any director could make it anything other than very static. Maybe, with the right cast, the dialogue crackles with learned wit as we are drawn deeper into the mystery of what happened that fateful night at Sidley Park (Lord Byron in the Gazebo with a pistol). But this isn’t the right cast, and I’m not altogether sure it’s the right play, - or the right time for a revival. Maybe I shouldn’t have been expecting so much out of it. But I left the theatre feeling robbed – of the cost of the tickets and of my enthusiasm for the play itself. I found myself getting desperately bored with all the waffle about chaos theory and Boyle’s law of thermodynamics, iterated algorithms and academic posturing. It obviously wasn’t just me – throughout the first half, gales of laughter drifted up from the stalls while, up in the circle, there was a stony silence. Him Indoors theorised that it was because the “posh people in the stalls got more of the academic jokes” (as if having the wherewithal for expensive tickets equals educational ability) – I maintain it was because the dialogue was far more audible closer to the stage; there did seem to be an awful lot of muttering going on, or perhaps we were all rather confused by the odd acoustics. Certainly the number of people in the circle dropped by 50% during the interval (which at least made it less cramped, but no less unpleasantly hot, about more of which anon).

The Regency costumes were generally badly researched – the designer went for “the obvious” rather than “the correct”. There wasn’t a single pair of correctly period shoes on the entire stage, and hairstyles were abysmally modern. Correct me if I’m wrong (and I’m sure someone will because I’m sure all my Readers are clever people and know all sorts of stuff) but I don’t think the Alice Band was a staple of Regency hairdressing,. Jessie Cave, as Thomasina, wore one over long hair which was hanging down straight, and this really looked completely wrong. The modern-day costumes were an odd blend of 80s, 90s and Noughties.

There were some OK performances, but none, I think, that came anywhere near what those in the original performances must have been (I didn’t see it, so admit that this is pure supposition). But Sarah Bond just ain’t in the same league as Felicity Kendall, nor does Neil Pearson have the academic weight or dry wit of Bill Nighy. However much I may refute Him Indoors’ scathing dismissal of Mr. Pearson as merely “Women’s Television Totty”, I don’t think he is right for the part of Bernard Nightingale. Dan Stevens made a good job of the role of Septimus but, you know, gazing at my postcard of Rufus Sewell, can’t help but think the latter would have been more Broodingly Byronic. Nancy Carroll seemed to take a good long while to get to grips with the role of Lady Croom and her final scenes were very well done, but I kept imagining Harriet Walter in the original production and thinking……hmmmmm. Ed Stoppard, aside from the obvious charges of nepotism which are undoubtedly going to be levelled at him (and with good reason), did a good job but, you know, Sam West played that part…..OK, OK, I have to stop this business of comparing everyone on stage with those that were in a production I never saw, but I just can’t help thinking that they would have done it better….

On the subject of it being extremely hot in the theatre, those of you who are connoisseurs of the absurdities of modern life will no doubt enjoy this extract from an exchange during the interval with a staff member who opened the fire exit doors to let some fresh air in. Him Indoors showed a surprising turn of speed and managed to nip past and onto the fire escape, prompting the response “You can’t go out on the fire escape because its against Health and Safety Regulations”. The Devil whispered in my ear and I asked whether this would be the case during a fire? I got a sour look in exchange. The Theatre Manager then walked past and went on to the fire escape. Desperately anxious to prevent a staff member breaking their own Health and Safety Regulations and leaving themselves open to possible litigation should there be an accident , I told him “You can’t go onto the Fire Escape, its against Health and Safety……” Two sour looks…… and a “tick” for today. (another arrow in the side of pompous officialdom!).

A disappointing evening, all in all. It went on for far too long, basically and, I think, has failed to catch the mood of the times. 15 years ago, this type of play was all the rage. Now, in these hard-pressed times, I think people are going to the theatre for escapism, a night away from the dreariness of all modern life's problems - which may explain why lightweight stuff like Sister Act and Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, are doing so well. Arcadia, I think, will struggle to find an audience this time round.

What the critics said:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/5505474/Arcadia-at-Duke-of-Yorks-Theatre---review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jun/07/arcadia-theatre-review

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/24613/arcadia

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/first-night-arcadia-duke-of-york-theatre-london-1697419.html

Much Ado About Nothing - Open Air Theatre @ Regents Park, Monday 25th May 2009

2009-05-24T21:16:00.010+01:00

Synopsis:

The war is over. Pedro Prince of Aragon, with his followers Benedick and Claudio,visits Leonato, Duke of Messina, father of Hero and uncle of Beatrice. Claudio falls in love with Hero and their marriage is agreed upon. Beatrice and Benedick despise love and engage in comic banter. The others plot to make them fall in love with each other, by a trick in which Benedick will overhear his friends talking of Beatrice's supposed secret love for him, and vice versa. Meanwhile Don John, the prince's misanthropic illegitimate brother, contrives a more malicious plot with the assistance of his follower Borachio: Claudio is led to believe that he has witnessed Hero in a compromising situation on the night before her wedding day – in fact it is her maid Margaret with Borachio. Claudio denounces Hero during the marriage ceremony. She faints and on the advice of the Friar, who is convinced of her innocence, Leonato announces that she is dead. Beatrice demands that Benedick should kill Claudio. The foolish constable Dogberry and his watchmen overhear Borachio boasting of his exploit and the plot is exposed. Claudio promises to make amends to Leonato: he is required to marry a cousin of Hero's in her place. When unmasked, she is revealed as Hero. Beatrice agrees to marry Benedick.

Cast:
Peter Bramhill : Borachio
Sean Campion : Benedick
Silas Carson : Don Pedro
Eke Chukwu : Watch/Messenger
Nigel Cooke : Leonato
Simon Gregor : Verges
Tim Howar : Balthasar
Sarah Ingram : Ursula
Chris Jared : Conrade
Ben Mansfield : Claudio
Mark McGee : Watch
Harry Myers : Watch/Sexton
Anthony O'Donnell : Dogberry
Anneika Rose : Hero
Annalisa Rossi : Margaret
Samantha Spiro : Beatrice
Tim Steed : Don John
Kate Tydman : Waiting Woman
David Whitworth : Friar Francis

Creative Team:
Director Timothy Sheader
Designer Philip Witcomb
Costume Designer Deidre Clancy
Composer David Shrubsole
Choreographer Ann Yee
Lighting Designer Simon Mills
Sound Designer Fergus O'Hare
Casting Director Ginny Schiller
Voice Coach and Text Consultant Barbara Houseman
Language and Verse Consultant Giles Taylor
Assistant Choreographer David Grewcock
Assistant Director Kate Sagovsky

Ah, the sounds of the English summer. The plop of tennis balls at Wimbledon, the crack of leather on willow followed by the subdued clack-clack-clack of polite applause at Lords, the chink of champagne flutes during the Glyndebourne interval, and the incessant pitterpatter of raindrops falling on umbrellas at the Open Air Theatre, Regent's Park.

I've now lost count of how many times I've seen this play. I've seen brilliant versions, indifferent versions, so-so versions and feckin' awful versions. The opening gambit in this year's OATRP season is perhaps best described as Shakespeare-by-numbers - safe, tidy and gently trimmed back, rather like the exhibits at the Chelsea Flower Show. All the T's crossed and all the I's dotted. Nothing too controversial, nothing that will upset visiting relations from out of town or tourists from other lands. Pretty costumes, a minor "star name" showing us that she can do the Classics, a couple of sets of safe Shakespearian hands in supporting roles. Even a couple of gags about the weather. All very nice. Very Regent's Park. Penny plain and tuppence coloured.

Still, it was nice to see that this was a vaguely period production. I have absolutely no time for modern-dress Shakespeare, as regular readers will no doubt remember. An interesting permanent set, of wiggly wooden paths leading in and out of the shrubbery at the back (which this year includes a viciously pollarded plane tree looking like something from Lear's blasted heath), with an all-purpose "orange tree" planted in the middle - this is Messina, remember. At various points, people sit on the swing hanging from this and, at some point in the season, that tree is going to crack, you mark my words - it bends alarmingly. Quite how the cast are going to incorporate that into the show I have no idea.

Samantha Spiro did an OK job with Beatrice, but it wasn't until after the interval that she really seemed to get the bit between her teeth. She clowns well, but there was little of the light and shade that Zoe Wannamaker achieved with the role back in December 2007 at the National. She was essentially a merry Beatrice rather than one with healed-over wounds, and only occasionally threw any kind of weight into the part. Sean Campion (a devotee of the Simon Russell Beale "spit all over everyone" method of vocal delivery) also seemed to lack something in the oooomph department and his was a rather one-dimensional Benedick as a result. Silas Carson, however, glittered in a slightly dangerous fashion as Don Pedro, playing the role rather sexier and younger than I believe is usual. Ben Mansfield was everything you want in a Shakespeare prince - floppy haired, doe-eyed. lean, hairy and gorgeous ; the kind of man that makes me want to rack up a gram and shout to my obedient flunkies "Have him stripped, washed, handcuffed and sent to my tent. Actually, no - don't strip him; I'll do it myself. With my teeth". Quite honestly I was enjoying watching him too much to actually take much note of his acting (pauses to wipe dribble off the keyboard). Among the minor principals, Annalisa Rossi is notable for two particular reasons. I think the word that Shakespeare would use is buxom. And of course, there was the obligatory Member-of-The-Cast-Known-To-Him-Indoors; this time Sarah Ingram making a good fist of the somewhat thankless role of Ursula.

Particularly of note in this production is the skill with which Anthony O'Donnell paints Dogberry. Perhaps unique among all the Dogberry's I've seen, he actually managed to make his scenes funny. Ably assisted by the rest of the Watch, I think I truly enjoyed these scenes for the first time ever. Perhaps Mr. O'Donnell might pop down to the National and give some "Shakespeare Clown" lessons?

What the critics said:

http://www.whatsonstage.com/index.php?pg=207&story=E8831243939009

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/dominiccavendish/5442435/Much-Ado-About-Nothing-at-the-Open-Air-theatre---review.html

http://www.thelondonpaper.com/going-out/whats-new/review-of-much-ado-about-nothing-open-air-theatre

Carousel (also known as Lesley Garrett is bustin' out all over) - Savoy Theatre - Thursday 21st May 2009

2009-05-18T12:55:00.005+01:00

Synopsis:

Two young millworkers in freshly industrialized 1870s New England visit the town's carousel after work. One of them - demure Julie Jordan - shares a lingering glance and suggestive touch with the carousel's barker, Billy Bigelow. Julie's friend Carrie Pipperidge presses her for information, but Julie is reticent about the encounter. Eventually satisfied, Carrie confides that she has a beau of her own: local fisherman Enoch Snow. A policeman appears and warns the women that Billy has taken money from other women. Carrie goes off, but Julie stays. She and Billy, now alone, can talk freely, but neither can quite confess the growing attraction they feel for each other.

Despite the incommunicative start, Julie and Billy are married shortly thereafter. When we next see them, Julie is confiding to Carrie that Billy, now unemployed, is unstable and occasionally violent. Carrie has news, too - she and Mr. Snow are officially engaged and looking forward to their idealized notion of married life. As they and the town's other young folk prepare to attend a clambake, spitfire Carrie pokes fun at the local boys, cheered on by the local girls. Julie's cousin Nettie Fowler leads them all in a celebration of spring before they leave for the clambake. Meanwhile, Billy has fallen in with the unsavoury sailor Jigger, who tries to recruit him to help with a robbery. Billy is initially uninterested — but then Julie tells him of her pregnancy. Overwhelmed by the news, and determined to provide for his future child, he decides to be Jigger's accomplice after all.

After the clambake the townsfolk head back to town. Carrie's fiancé walks in on some innocent flirting between Carrie and Jigger, and declares, as Jigger jeers, that he is finished with her. Julie, meanwhile, places her self-doubt aside and resolves to accept and love Billy as he is. Jigger and Billy play at cards, with the stakes being shares of the forecasted robbery spoils. Soon Billy has lost his entire stake in the robbery; the robbery is aborted; and Jigger escapes while Billy is caught. Distraught, Billy kills himself — Julie arrives too late to save him. .Nettie and the townsfolk comfort Julie and we follow Billy to heaven. There, a pair of blunt-spoken angels explain that he must attempt to solve the problems he left behind. They send him back down to earth, fifteen years after his suicide.

His and Julie's daughter, Louise, is now an angry and rebellious teen He manages to give her a small gift, and finally confess his love to Julie. Having thus made amends, he wins entry to Heaven.

Cast:

Carrie Pipperidge: Lauren Hood
Julie Jordan: Alexandra Silber
Mrs. Mullins: Diana Kent
Billy Bigelow: Jeremiah James
Nettie Fowler: Lesley Garrotte
Enoch Snow: Alan Vicary
Jigger: Graham McDuff
Starkeeper: David Gollings

Production Credits:
Director: Lindsay Posner
Choreography: Adam Cooper
Sets: William Dudley
Costumes: Deirdre Clancy (fab name!)
Lighting: Peter Mumford
PA to Lesley Garrotte: Ania (no, I don't know why her PA gets a mention in the "Production Team" list in the programme, nor why she only appears to have one name)

I admit that I have major problems with this show. I don’t mind the first act, although it has its longeurs, and the first half of the second is OK, but after that it all gets very, very silly, as if Oscar Hammerstein suddenly paused from his inky scribbling of the libretto and thought “Shit, I’ve run out of plot and there’s still 30 minutes left of Act 2”). Also, I’m not the world’s greatest fan of La Garrotte (‘Ullo love, I’m from Doncaster!!”), her incessant mugging on stage and her fudged top notes. Still, there was now’t on t’telly and the seats were cheap (two for ‘alf a crown and change left over for a barm cake each on the way ‘ome from t’pit). In fact, from the crush in the auditorium, it seemed that there were quite a lot of other people who had somehow managed to get cheap tickets as well (the technical phrase is “heavily papered, dharling”). I think I was probably the youngest person in the place – there seemed to be a lot of coach parties from Hastings in; Rogers and Hammerstein have got a bit of a reputation of being SYCSTYMT (Something You Can Safely Take Your Mum To).

Mind you, in retrospect we were extremely lucky to actually get into the theatre, there having been a slight contretemps with a security guard outside over the placement of a “no smoking” sign. I was actually outside the theatre, but standing under the canopy of the Savoy Hotel having my pre-show cigarette (the show is a whopping 3 hours long, so I needed to top up my nicotine level before going in) when I was ordered to put it out. I queried where the “no smoking under the canopy” sign was – and it turned out to be inside the theatre. Not having yet been inside, I obviously hadn’t seen it. The security guard took my pointing this out as a challenge to his authority, as those with limited intelligence tend to do. So me and Him Indoors were suddenly subject to a “random bag search” by way of reprisal, and an argy-bargy ensued, which then led to threats of being chucked out. I bet the West End Whingers never have to put up with such treatment. The excitement continued inside when Him Indoors, having asked the woman in the seat next to him to stop talking during the overture, got clobbered round the ear with her programme. Another argy-bargy ensued, and I had visions of being dragged from my seat by usherettes wielding tazers disguised as Cornettos and lobbing small grenades cunningly hidden inside Maltesers. Fasten your seatbelts, its going to be a bumpy night!

Anyway, the orchestra were on top form (from what we heard of the overture above intimate details of Carol-next-door’s hysterectomy) – its extremely rare these days that there’s 19 people in the pit. No expense spared there. Where the production did spare expense was in its constant use of back projections – not a single backcloth to be seen. It seems that, recently, ingeniously designed and clever scenery is on its way out. There’s little left of stage magic – everyone’s copping out and using film techniques instead. Sorry chaps, but if I want to see want moving images projected onto a screen I’ll go to the cinema. This cheapskate illusionism even extended here to the carousel itself. OK, it was a full-sized, elaborate, whirling image – but that’s not what I want (particularly as all the horses were empty!) when I’m at the theatre. This technique was used once again during Act 2 for the ascent to Heaven – this was a supremely naff animated “galaxy” tracking shot, during which I half expected to hear Oliver Postgate narrate the opening sequence from The Clangers. This then turned into a syrupy version of the famous “Stairway to Heaven” sections from A Matter of Life and Death. And right at the end, the graduation ceremony was backed by an animation of the Stars and Stripes waving against a cloudless sky. C’mon fellas – this isn’t stagecraft, this is lazy!

What made this laziness harder to countenance was an example of just how effective traditional sets can be if they are lit effectively. The dockyard scene in Act 2 was fabulously realised, with old tarpaulins draped over a series of huge packing cases. Add lighting worthy of Rembrandt himself and you’ve got True Theatre Magic. This scene, so simply done, was stunningly beautiful; very static but supremely effective and a true example of the Lighting Designer’s craft. Well done, Mr. Mumford.

For all my dislike of the show itself (because of the daft “Heaven” section and the supremely pointless 10 minute ballet – which always makes me think that Rogers thought “Sod it, it worked in Oklahoma, I’ll stick a ballet in here”), I have to say that the choreography was excellent, the entire show was very well paced (there is a long, static scene right at the beginning which can be excruciating to sit through but it was very well done here) and there were some wonderful performances. Alexandra Silber was truly amazing as Julie – restrained, completely believable and expertly pitched throughout. She has a singing voice of such incredible purity and charm that it puts La Garrotte to shame. She also outstrips her in acting technique – but then that’s not difficult. Jeremiah James was completely believable as Billy Bigelow. This is a completely unsympathetic role – Bigelow is a drunk a waster and a wife-beater, yet he somehow managed to get the audience to believe that there was a better person somewhere underneath. Again, excellent vocally – although his costume bears more than a passing resemblance to that worn by Marcel Marceau, which is distracting. Graham McDuff gave a performance of genuine villany as Jigger - a combination of The Childcatcher and Bill Sykes. In fact, he actually gets booed at the curtain call – a sure sign of a perfectly pitched performance of nastiness. .Alan Vicary gave a very rounded performance in the somewhat thankless role of Mr. Snow – I’m not sure whether he wears a wig in the show but, if so, it needs attention; when he pulls of his hat he looks like Ralph Wiggum from The Simpsons. Lauren Hood was just slightly too shrill to be perfect as Carrie Pipperidge – her performance is in danger of becoming too broad and needs reining in slightly lest it tip into caricature. And Diana Kent gives a wonderfully warm, restrained performance as Mrs. Mullins.

And La Garrotte? Well, I think I loathe her even more than I loathe Alan Titchmarsh. She’s on for a spit and a whistle in this show, yet seems determined to steal every scene she’s in by mugging, gurning and playing completely to the audience – just like she did in The Sound of Music. She is a most ungenerous performer, relentlessly trying to upstage everyone else on the stage. She goggles and grimaces through June is Bustin’ Out All Over like an over-excited teenager, rather than the matronly, dignified but always ready to let down her hair and kick up her heels, Aunt-Eller-like character that Nettie Fowler should be. And of course, she wouldn’t be Lesley Garrotte if she didn’t milk The Big Number (You’ll Never Walk Alone) for everything its worth. This comes for the first time in the show halfway through Act 2, when Nettie comforts the grieving Julie after Billy’s death. It should be a quiet, dignified hymn which builds to a crescendo with the promise of calm in the middle of a maelstrom of emotions. But no, we could have been on the terraces at Anfield. All it needed was a stripy football scarf and a dodgy meat pie. And her behaviour during the curtain calls was unforgivable – gurning and wiggling her not inconsiderable bosom at the audience and detracting from everyone else on stage. Shame on you, woman. There are finer actresses (with better quality singing voices) on stage, so just get back to Doncaster where you belong. I’ll pay your train fare. This is a classic case of miscasting - transposing a big name draw from one performing genre into one in which they are ill-suited and out of place just in order to sell tickets. Well, I tell you, this show would be that much better without her.

Thankfully we did not get accosted by security guards or attacked by mad women brandishing programmes on the way home.

What the critics said:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2008/dec/03/carousel-savoy-london-theatre-review

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23581509-details/Carousel/showReview.do?reviewId=23596274

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/01/14/review-carousel-without-lesley-garrett-savoy-theatre/

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/lon_carousel_1208.htm

Listen to La Garrotte murdering the phrasing in this!

All's Well That Ends Well - National Theatre

2009-05-18T12:51:00.005+01:00

Synopsis:

The play begins with Bertram assuming the title of Count of Rossillion upon the death of his father. Helena is the orphaned daughter of a great doctor, and for years has lived in the Rossillion household under the care of Bertram's mother, the Countess. Over the years, Helena has developed a secret love for Bertram. The Countess, however, is well aware of Helena's feelings (and indeed approves of them).

Against this backdrop, the King of France has been taken deathly ill. Bertram leaves to attend the King's court. Helena soon follows him to Paris, and cures the King with the medicinal knowledge she learned from her father. The cure earns her the gratitude of the King, who gives her a costly ring in gratitude and also offers her the pick of the bachelors at his court. Helena, of course, picks Bertram, who is quite put off by the prospect. To Bertram, Helena is beneath him and unworthy of his notice. Nevertheless, Bertram is ordered to marry her. He assents to the marriage under protest, then slips off to a war in Tuscany with his cowardly companion, Parolles.
Helena returns to Rossillion and the Countess. Bertram sends word that she may not call him husband until she gets from him a ring (which he always wears) and can bear him a child—not a simple task, especially given that Bertram is in Italy with no intention of ever consummating their marriage. Helena once again takes matters into her own hands and sets out to follow him. She arrives in Florence in the guise of a pilgrim and lodges with a widow whose daughter, Diana, is the newest object of Bertram's affections. With Diana's help, Helena aims to trap Bertram into marriage.

She gets Diana to accept Bertram's advances. Bertram, however, must agree to give Diana his ring before they share a bed. At the crucial moment, Helena takes Diana's place in the dark. She also exchanges the ring given to her by the King for Bertram's, accomplishing both terms of Bertram's challenge. When a rumour is spread of Helena's death, Bertram assumes that he is clear of any responsibility for the wife he never wanted, and returns to France. However, the King easily recognizes the ring he bears as the one he had given to Helena; when Bertram is caught in a series of lies, the King has him arrested on suspicion of having murdered her. Adding to Bertram's misery, Diana and her mother arrive demanding justice, which exposes even more lies. Helena finally appears— wearing Bertram's ring and carrying his child— leaving him no option but to marry her, to his mother's delight.

Cast:
Helena : Michelle Terry
Bertram : George Rainsford
The Countess of Rossillion : Clare Higgins
King of France : Oliver Ford Davies
Diana : Hasina Haque
The Widow : Janet Henfrey
Parolles : Conleth Hill
Violenta : Cassie Atkinson
Gentleman Astringer : Jolyon Coy
Interpreter : Robert Hastie
Lavatch : Brendan O'Hea
Mariana : Sioned Jones
1st Lord Dumaine : Elliot Levey
2nd Lord Dumaine : Tony Jayawardena
Rynaldo : Michael Mears
Lafew : Michael Thomas
Ensemble : Oliver Wilson, Ben Allen, Tom Padley, Rob Delaney, Alex Felton

Production credits:
Director: Marianne Elliott
Designer: Rae Smith
Lighting Designer: Peter Mumford
Music: Adam Cork
Movement Director: Laila Diallo
Projection Designers: Gemma Carrington and Jon Driscoll
Sound Designer: Ian Dickinson

Believe me, there’s nothing so bad as Bad Shakespeare. And gadzooks, is this Bad Shakespeare. Officially it’s one of his “Problem Plays” – because they don’t fit into any of the established categories, because they are ambivalent in material, tone and/or treatment, written when he was feeling old and crotchety, or because he was running out of ideas to steal from other sources. Or all of the above. In layman’s terms, piss poor plays.

All’s Well That Ends Well is, quite simply, a piss poor play. It takes a great production to transcend the material. It needs actors at the height of their game. It needs a “concept” – something to pin onto the play to make it come alive in the minds of the audience and make it work. It needs that indefinable spark. And this production hasn’t got any of them. It’s not only Bad Shakespeare – its Bad Bad Shakespeare.

It took me a while to work out what the “concept” was for this production. Initially I thought it was Gormenghast, but it turned out that its Gormenghast, designed by Arthur Rackham, as retold by The Brothers Grimm, with lighting by The Badly Lit Stage Company and stage effects by Lots Of Dry Ice, Inc. At least in the first half. The Countess of Rousillion presides over an eerie, snowbound realm, huddling under scudding clouds and skies full of ravens. There are servants in knee breeches and powdered wigs, there are blood-red velvet cloaks and sparkling, glassy footwear. Irascible kings with crooked sceptres wear floor length robes and high pointy crowns. There are quests to undertake with rings in reward for potions delivered. There are silhouettes and shadow-plays. Mirrored doors covered with bronze flowers open and flunkys unroll red carpets using brooms. It all looks very, very pretty – at least, what you can see of it through the gloom and the dry ice. But it’s all a coathanger for a very thin garment.

After the interval, the “The Concept” seems to have been completely abandoned and the whole thing becomes Rydell High School 1954. There are strings of fairy lights, leather jackets and frogged uniforms open to the waist, and women in 50’s frocks and “sexy vixen” costumes from Ann Summers. Frankly, its all a bit of a mess. There are back projections of creepy woods – at one point an owl lands in a tree and gets a bigger laugh than the “comedy” going on in front of it. Which is a Bad Sign.

The play isn’t helped by the fact that the early scenes contain an enormous amount of speechifying – earnest, declamatory speeches that go on and on, delivered from someone standing in the centre of the stage and which don’t really add anything to the plot. The kind of speech that Victoria Wood always hoped would be interrupted by the sound of trumpets and the entrance of a messenger: “My Lord, the sofa has arrived!” Quite a lot of the early speechifying is inaudible – either because of bad diction or lack of projection - and some of it is SO AUDIBLE AT THE BACK OF THE CIRCLE that it makes your ears bleed. Some of the speechifying is delivered by a character so unsympathetic that its amazing he isn’t booed on a nightly basis. And then there’s the character that always fills me with dread: The Shakespeare Clown. It can be a horrendous job playing a Shakespeare Clown – busting your gut trying to get a laugh out of “jokes” that weren’t funny in 1604 while biffing people over the head with a pig’s bladder. But oh my days, (and leaving aside the individual performance, which is frankly as piss poor as the play itself) this particular Clown is a rotten example of the species.

Clare Higgins fails to impress as the Countess, mainly because a lot of her dialogue is poorly delivered, rendering her all but inaudible (and thus incomprehensible). As much of her early speechifying sets up the plot for the audience, this is unforgivable. Brendan O’Hea is so dreadful as Lavatch (the “clown” role) it simply beggars belief that such shoddy acting can be countenanced by the National Theatre. I’ve seen better acting by MPs trying desperately to explain their expenses claims. Conleth Hill is wildly miscast as Parolles, seems incapable of extracting any meaningful characterisation from the role and becomes increasingly desperate for laughs, which the audience don’t provide him with. George Rainsford takes on the (admittedly unsympathetic) role of Bertram with no previous Shakespearian acting experience. He sets himself low standards and its obvious by the end of Scene One that he’s not going to reach even them. In fact, he’s so forgettable that his biog has been missed out of the programme and appears on a paper erratum slip tucked into the front. Michelle Terry tries her hardest to inject life into the role of Helena, but its only Michael Thomas and Oliver Ford Davies (Lafew and the King of France respectively) who succeed in bringing their characters fully to life.

Everybody tries hard to overcome the many shortcoming of the play. But its an unenviable task. I’ve had haemorrhoid surgery that I enjoyed more than this production (given that, in the play, the King of France is suffering from a fistula, this is not a gratuitous comparison). The “comedy” scenes are greeted with a stony silence, the dramatic scenes with apathy and the whole evening falls dead in the water. Quite simply, the best epithet for the entire production (described by the NT as “full of fairytale logic”) is “Grimm”.

What the critics said:

http://www.wharf.co.uk/2009/05/review-alls-well-that-ends-wel.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23606465-details/All

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/24550/alls-well-that-ends-well

http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/104177/All

La Cage aux Folles - Playhouse Theatre, Monday 4th May 2008 (re-review, production originally reviewed December 2007)

2009-05-05T21:39:00.002+01:00

For synopsis, see original review December 2007

Cast:
Albin- Roger Allam
Georges - Phillip Quast
Jean-Michelle - Stuart Neal
Jacob - Jason Pennycooke
Anne - Alicia Davies
Cagelles - Ben Bunce, Darren Carnell, Nicholas Cunningham, Nolan Frederick, Gary Murphy, Dane Quixelle, Adrian der Gregorian

Only under very rare circumstances would I advise going to see a show for a second time - lightning never strikes twice, they say (unless you're very unlucky). And on second viewing, I'm afraid that this production of La Cage aux Folles missed quite a lot of marks.

Having moved from the cosy (some would say "cramped") Menier Chocolate Factory, the show has lost quite a lot of the somewhat shabby intimacy that made it so enjoyable. The Playhouse have tried to compensate for the larger space by creating a "stage within a stage" - a second, smaller proscenium set back from the permanent one. Four or five cafe tables are set across the front row of the auditorium (where the orchestra pit would be if there were one) so that unwary patrons can be flirted with and generally embarrassed by the cast, but where at the Menier these tables were more or less on a level with the stage (allowing all sorts of outrageous olive-feeding, hair-ruffling and drink-stealing), they are now so far below stage level that nothing can be acheived by the cast without practically getting down on all fours. This may appeal to those who enjoy doing whatever they do doggy-fashion, but its now so difficult to acheive this naturally that any attempt feels extremely forced and looks even worse. The cast are now divorced from their audience and the intimacy and immediacy has gone.

The change of venue also means that the feeling of entering a small, slightly seedy nightclub has completely gone; at the Menier this was expertly contrived by having the audience come down the stairs from the bar and through a swagged velvet "tunnel" hung with fairy lights - exactly how it would be done if "La Cage aux Folles" was a real place. Here, that feeling of verisimilitude has gone; you're walking into a "proper" theatre and the atmosphere has disappeared completely. To quote Pope, there is no "genius of the place" any more, and the overall feel of the production has changed accordingly. It feels sterile, vacuum packed.

Of the original Menier cast, Philip Quast has recently returned as Georges, and is as louche and wonderful as ever, but has to battle hard to overcome the new sanitised atmosphere. Jason Pennycooke has stayed with the production all the way since it opened at the Menier, and is now coming dangerously close to over-egging the pudding as Jacob, almost parodying the role to the point of incomprehensibility. All the gestures are bigger, the "franglais" more pronounced (several times I couldn't understand a word he was saying) , the facial expressions that bit more tortured. It doesn't work - its merely irritating. The Cagelles have also "upped" their performance, with the result that they now border on the macabre. At times they resemble dancers from the infernal regions. There are few smiles, only rictus grins. They've changed from drag queens to twisted monsters from some members-only freak show. Scary, scary, scary.

Roger Allam, it must be said, made a bit of a fist of the role of Albin. OK, it was his very first performance in the role, but he slipped over quite a few lines, was unsure of a lot of the choreography and practically threw I am what I am away for nothing. I saw little of the personal struggle and triumph that Douglas Hodge brought to this song - no lump in my throat this time round.

I'm so glad I saw this back in December 2007 when it was fresh. The best of times was then - whats left of La Cage is but a faded rose.

Parlour Song - Almeida Theatre - Saturday 1st May 2009

2009-05-04T11:52:00.005+01:00

Synopsis:

Demolition expert Ned lives in a nice new house on a nice new estate on the edge of the English countryside. He loves his job. Barbeques.Car Boot Sales. Outwardly his life is entirely unremarkable. Not unlike his friend and neighbour Dale. So why has he not slept a wink in six months? Why is he so terrified of his attractive wife Joy?And why is it every time he leaves on business, something else goes missing from his home?

Cast:

Amanda Drew - Joy
Toby Jones – Ned
Andrew Lincoln - Dale

Production credits:

Jez Butterworth - Writer
Ian Rickson - Director
Jeremy Herbert - Designer
Peter Mumford - Lighting
Stephen Warbeck – Music
Paul Groothuis - Sound
Steven Williams - Video

Talk about running the gamut. From a classic 50’s play at the National Theatre to a new three-hander in the depths of Islington in two nights. I know which one I enjoyed more though, and it wasn’t the new three-hander. I’d be hard pressed to say why. Although I know where I stand on such deeply polarising issues as Last of the Summer Wine, Peanut Butter and Alan Titchmarsh (i.e. I loathe them all), for some reason I just didn’t feel swayed by this play into “loved it” or “hated it” territory. It was OK, and nothing more. It was reasonably well written, competently acted, adequately directed. I don’t know – has the “darkness behind surburbia’s net curtains” been done before? Yes, and by better playwrights than Jez Butterworth. Has the “My wife’s having an affair with my neighbour” been done before? Yes. The “mid-life crisis” drama? Yes. In fact, to misquote Lady Bracknell, everybody has more or less said what they wanted to say – which for the vast majority of them was not much in the first place. I don’t know what this play was trying to say. It would best be described as a “comedy thriller” – a dreadful catch-all phrase usually used to describe something which is neither a comedy or a thriller but the misbegotten bastard child of both.

Yes, there were some good performances –the scene in which Ned is listening to an oral sex instruction tape and, caught by his wife “doing the moves”, has to pretend that he’s listening to Eric Clapton, would bring a smile to the face of a statue (although heaven only knows what some of the Islingtonites in the audience were thinking: “Fellatio? Isn’t he a character in The Comedy of Errors?”) and the weightlifting scene was worthy of every laugh it got. And yes, Andrew Lincoln was spot on as Dale, the dimwitted, muscle-bound “Wigger”. ButAmanda Drew was incredibly irritating -she seemed to be doing an impersonation of Brenda Blethyn in Secrets and Lies all night. And there were also long, unnecessary tracts of dialogue where I itched to get out my blue pencil – Ned’s tediously long description of the purchase of the birdbath being one of them; it went on and on and on and I became painfully aware of just how uncomfortable those dreadful double tip-up seats at the Almeida are.

There were also many questions left unanswered by the end. Is Ned going slowly mad or are his possessions really disappearing? If you were stealing things to fund your elopement, would you steal things as obvious as a lawnmower? If you had someone as horny as Dale in your bed, would you really waste time playing Scrabble? What's the meaning of the play's title? And what exactly is the point of Alan Titchmarsh?

What the critics thought:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23598380-details/Parlour+Song/showReview.do

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/mar/27/theatre

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/5061618/Parlour-Song-at-the-Almeida-review.html

http://www.hamhigh.co.uk/content/camden/hamhigh/whatson/story.aspx?tCategory=whatson&tBrand=northlondon24&itemid=WeED16%20Apr%202009%2013%3A07%3A37%3A690&category=whatsontheatre

Time and the Conways - National Theatre - Friday 1st May 2009

2009-05-01T10:43:00.013+01:00

Synopsis:

In the first act we meet the Conway family; Mrs Conway, her daughters Kay, Hazel, Madge and Carol, and her sons Alan and Robin. Three other characters appear: Gerald, a solicitor; Joan, a young woman in love with Robin; and Ernest, a young, ambitious entrepreneur of a lower social class. The family celebrates the end of the Great War and look forward to a future of fame, prosperity and fulfilled dreams. In a pensive moment when Kay is left alone on stage she seems to slip into a reverie and has a vision of the future...

Act Two plunges us into the shattered lives of the Conways almost twenty years on. Gathering in the same room where they were celebrating in Act One, we see how their lives have failed in different ways. Robin has become a dissolute travelling salesman, estranged from his wife Joan, Madge has failed to realise her socialist dreams, Carol is dead, Hazel is married to the wealthy but sadistic Ernest. Kay has succeeded to a certain extent as an independent woman but has not realised her dreams of novel writing. Worst of all, Mrs Conway's fortune has been squandered, the family home is to be sold and the children's inheritance is gone. As the act unfolds, resentments and tensions explode and the Conways are split apart by misery and grief. Only Alan, the quietest of the family, seems to possess a quiet calm. In the final scene of the Act, Alan and Kay are left on stage and, as Kay expresses her misery Alan suggests to her that the secret of life is to understand its true reality - that the perception that Time is linear and that we have to grab and take what we can before we die is false. If we can see Time as eternally present, that at any given moment we are seeing only 'a cross section of ourselves', then we can transcend our suffering and find no need to hurt or conflict with other people.

Act Three takes us back to 1919, some seconds after the end of Act One, and we see how the seeds of the downfall of the Conways were being sown even then. Ernest is snubbed by Hazel and Mrs Conway, Gerald's budding love for Madge is destroyed by the snobbery of Mrs Conway in another moment of social arrogance, Alan is rejected by Joan who becomes betrothed to Robin. As the children gather at the end of the play to foretell their future Kay has a moment of memory of the vision of Act Two we have seen unfold. Disturbed, she steps out of the party and the play ends with Alan promising that he will be able to tell her something in the future which will help her.

Cast:

Mrs Conway :Francesca Annis
Carol Conway : Faye Castelow
Robin Conway : Mark Dexter
Joan Helford : Lisa Jackson
Hazel Conway : Lydia Leonard
Kay Conway : Hattie Morahan
Gerald Thornton : Alistair Petrie
Alan Conway : Paul Ready
Ernest Beevers : Adrian Scarborough
Madge Conway : Fenella Woolgar

Production credits:
Director: Rupert Goold
Designer: Laura Hopkins
Lighting Designer: Mark Henderson
Music and Sound: Adam Cork
Video Design: Fifty-Nine Productions Ltd
Movement Director: Scott Ambler

Oooh, I do love a good Priestley! The Good Companions is one of my Desert Island Books, and its good to see that his plays seem to be undergoing rather a renaissance of late (by which I mean the last 15 year or so) - one hopes that this means theatregoers are increasingly demanding good, solidly crafted plays which actually make you think once more, rather than some of the shite around these days. Both Dangerous Corner and An Inspector Calls have both been put back before audiences and received good reviews (I saw both) so I was really looking forward to seeing this. I'd heard good things about it and I'm pleased to say that its tightening up in preview and seems to have picked up quite a lot of pace since the West End Whingers turned their steely gaze upon it.

On the face of it, this play seems a typical Priestley drawing-room-type affair (smug, solidly middle to upper class family all being somewhat self-congratulatory until fate throws a spanner into the clockwork) and doesn't really "go anywhere" until the start of Act 2. But once it does get going, its a real look-through-your-fingers roller coaster ride as everything begins to unravel. The clockwork analogy is very apt as this is, again, one of Priestley's "experiments with time", in the vein of Inspector. But this time, there is no outside individual who comes in and disrupts the status quo; this is left to the family themselves who sow the seeds of their own individual destructions.

The slightly dusty air of the play (amazingly, it was written in 1937, a year before the setting of Act 2, which actually refers to the gathering clouds of WW2 - Priestley must have been remarkably prescient) is given a slightly more contemporary edge with tiny inserts at the end of each act. On the basis that this deserves to be a huge hit once it opens, I won't spoil the surprises - although I might be tempted to add them in the Comments section once the run is over. Act 1 ends with a very clever "freeze frame" - the set then fractures into pieces. Act 2's "easter egg" shouldn't really be a surprise if you study the production credits closely enough, where the inclusion of Scott Ambler (formerly with Adventures in Motion Pictures) and several supernumerary cast members, all female, point towards something vaguely choregraphical going to happen. Act 3's ending did, I feel, rather over-egg the pudding, as it was really rather too clever for its own good and felt completely out of touch with the rest of the production. Neither, it must be said, was it completely successful - although perhaps its success depends on exactly where you are sitting. Scrunched up as usual in the second row (cheap seats!), viewing the state from an acute angle, it all looked a bit fuzzy to me. I think the ending has the potential to alienate quite a lot of people and send them home feeling robbed of a cleaner, more traditional ending; I must check the original text to see what should happen. Ironically, given all the technology that must have been used at this point, the whole production nearly came a cropper when the curtain failed to close properly!

Part of the joy of this production is that there isn't a single duff performance on stage. Hattie Morahan was fantastic as Kay, as was Lydia Leonard as Hazel (who had obviously been studying Francesca Annis, her stage mother, fairly closely as she had caught many of her mannerisms in her portrayal). Paul Ready's quiet despair in Act 3 was so real it was quite painful to watch, and Adrian Scarborough deserves special mention for his "worm that turns". Fenella Woolgar was brilliant (you may have seen her several times on TV with David Tennant, not only in Dr. Who, but in He Knew He Was Right and The Way We Live Now). What makes all the performances doubly special is that, essentially, each was playing two people - their character in 1919 and their character again in 1938). One comment I must make (which caused a slight "domestic" at the time with Him Indoors) is that Francesca Annis does seem a little mature to be playing a woman with twenty-something children in an era when the average age of marriage was itself twenty-something (and quite early twenty-something too). This meant that, in Act 2, she had to be practically decrepit, rather resembling Catherine Tate's "Gran" character. In order to give the impression that she had shrunk in stature in Act 2, she wore incredibly high heels in Act 1. That's all well and good, but a) killer heels weren't period and b) if you are going to use this kind of ruse, don't display your non-period shoes to all and sundry by sitting on a stool and kicking your legs out straight in front of you.

The set was very effective - seemingly 20 years went by in the drawing room during the interval, so we got the same set but in a completely different decorative style (obviously the Conways had had a change round of their living quarters at some point because the drawing room was now the dining room, dominated by a huge, shiny black dining suite looking rather like a hearse drawn up in the middle of the floor). One thing I will say is that both sets seemed incredibly sparse - a 1919 drawing room would have been populated with far more knick-knackery, and there would have been more than one painting hung on the wall. This painting didnt move (or fade) for 20 years seemingly, and it was so prominently positioned and lit that I expect it was somehow significant. Not having recognised the picture, I've been reduced to emailing the NT about it - watch this space.

All in all, a thoroughly good night out. I'm sure that it won't appeal to everyone, but I shall be very interested to see what the pro reviews are like when the show opens - as usual I will add a selection below. So, An Inspector Calls - tick. Dangerous Corner - tick. Time and the Conways - tick. How about a revival of When We Are Married or I Have Been Here Before, London producers? Meanwhile, I shall be dusting down my copy of Angel Pavement in order to feed my Priestley fixation.

What the critics said (most of the pro reviews compare this production to that of An Inspector Calls which, I think, is pointless. They're two different plays with two different directors, produced some 12 years apart - which to my mind is like comparing an apple with a potato. Sure, they belong to the same botanical family, but they're two completely different things, so comparison is facile):

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/5283482/Time-and-the-Conways-National-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/may/06/time-conways-review-priestley

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/24319/time-and-the-conways

http://www.whatsonstage.com/index.php?pg=207&story=E8831241600603

Sylvia - Birmingham Royal Ballet @ London Coliseum, Saturday 18th April 2009

2009-04-17T14:48:00.011+01:00

Synopsis:

Tired of the world and its posturing, and in the belief that true love is a thing of the past, Eros, the Gold of Love, has turned his back on mortals and immortals alike and retired to nature, assuming the disguise of a lowly gardener in the employ of Count Guiccioili. When the marital strife between the Count and his wife threatens to disrupt their anniversary party, and the Count's infidelity endangers the love between Amynta (his valet) and Sylvia (his wife's maid), it is left to Eros to reconcile their differences as he takes them on a fantasy journey to teach them a a lesson about love.

Diana, Goddess of the Hunt, arrives in a moonlit grotto where she and her chaste nymphs stop to refresh themselves. When they discover that a young man, Amynta, is watching them, Dian strikes him blind. One of the nymphs, Sylvia, returns to the grotto to comfort him, but she is abducted by the lecherous Orion, a hunter. Amynta, powerless to help, calls on Eros to help him and sets off in pursuit.

Orion takes Sylvia to his cave and tries to seduce her. Playing along with him, she shows his servants how to make wine and intoxicates them all. The sightless Amynta, helped by Eros, finds the cave but, recalling her vows to Diana and ashamed of her night with Orion, she flees into the night. Unfortunately she is captured the pirates who roam the coast.

In a ruined temple, Diana's nymphs celebrate their leader's divinity. Amynta, believing that Sylvia has returned there, hides in the ruins as a pirate ship selling slaves arrives. The pirates try to sell the women into Diana's service, but the nymphs recognise their errant sister and try to save her. There being only one sentence for the breaking of her vows, Sylvia pleads to stay on the ship. Suddenly, recognising her voice, Amynta stumbles forward and the pair are reunited. His sight is restored by the Pirate Chief, who reveals himself to be Eros in disguise.

Orion, furious at having been tricked, arrives at the temple to take his revenge. Diana appears, overthrows Orion and is about to turn the full fury of her anger on Sylvia and Amynta when Eros intervenes.

The vision conjured by Eros to instruct the lovelorn Sylvia and Amynta, the loveless Countess and the lecherous Count fades, and the household is returned to joy once more.

Production credits:
Choreography: David Bintley
Costumes and sets: Sue Blane
Lighting: Marc Jonathan

Cast:
Eros - Alexander Campbell
Count/Orion: Dominic Antonucci
Countess/Diana: Carol-Anne Miller
Maid/Sylvia: Elisha Willis
Valet/Amynta: Jamie Bond
Gilberto/Orion's attendant: Kit Holder
Giorgio/Orion's attendant: James Barton
Gods: Laetitia Lo Sardo, Angela Paul, Laura Purkiss, Lei Zhao
Pirates: Jonathan Caguioa, Steven Monteith, Valentin Oloyvannikov, Aaron Robison
Slaves: Arancha Baselga, Samara Downs, Victoria Marr, Anniek Soobroy

Those of my readers who follow ballet may well be scratching their heads by this point, wondering why elements of The Marriage of Figaro seem to have forced their way into the plot of this ballet. Well, its been subtly "got at" and "updated" - essentially the story remains the same but its been framed with other elements. Why? Presumably to pad out what is (admittedly) the tissue thin plot of the original and force a suitable moral conclusion upon an unwilling pagan victim. The trouble is, the pagan victim doesn't really need it, and the result feels rather forced and somewhat awkward. The two elements just don't fit together. Personally, I'm quite happy with tissue thin ballet plots as I'm used to hokum, and could well have done without the slightly spurious modern elements. It makes no artistic sense, and just seems to have been tacked on to provide the cast with a bit more to do and an extra costume each. It also looks odd to have a stage full of classically-attired nymphs doing whatever it is nymphs do, only to have a chap dressed as a waiter wander in and start pursuing them, rather as if they've absconded from his bar without paying for their Bacardi Breezers, or whatever it is nymphs drink these days (Ambrosia, perhaps). When the waiter is helped by a chap dressed in a white dinner suit and carrying an umbrella, things get even more visually confusing.
>

Anyway, once the modern bit had been got through, things started to look much better. Everything looked very fresh and pretty, with mainly white costumes against darker sets, all staged on the Coliseum's wonderfully shiny black stage. This being Birmingham Royal Ballet, when I say "darker sets", I really mean "completely and totally underlit to the point of not being able to see any of them" - just like they were for Beauty and The Beast. What is it with this company and lighting? Is it the fact that, artistically they are the Royal Ballet's poor relation, and have to watch their electricity bill like a hawk so that eyebrows aren't raised when the invoices get back to the Accounts Department in Floral Street? "Tsk tsk, BRB, you've been using too many lightbulbs again. No more toilet roll for you next season". Act 1 was just about passable, as the dim blue, green and purple grotto set (rather like something you would get in a snazzy fish bowl) constrasted well with all the pure white nymph costumes, but I'd have liked to have been able to see a bit more of the detail. Act 2 was so dark you could barely see anything - what I initially thought was a huge mushroom turned out to be the head and shoulders of a ruined statue. Put your leading lady in a black costume against this Stygian gloom and she's reduced to a head and limbs gyrating round the set like a disjointed puppet. The costal set for Act 3 was much, much better, but even then there were dark spots all over the place and anyone dancing into them just disappeared briefly.

I've got to stand up and take issue at this point with the "comedy gay characters" - two poofs at the party who doubled as Orion's attendants. Yes, I know the sight of a couple of big guys mincing around the stage can be relied on to get a (cheap) laugh from those in the audience who are happy to have their prejudices about the ballet pandered to, but when choregraphy for these characters deteriorates into them lying on their backs and waving their (well proportioned) bottoms at the audience, even I start to find it a bit distasteful. There was a group of young boys in the row in front of us, obviously dance students (accompanied by an outRAGEously camp "Sir"), and I thought "Well, all the good done by Billy Elliott seems to be going down the pan right here and now in front of me".

There was some very pretty choreography, although most of it seemed much less intricate than the Royal Ballet version; obviously not all the corps were quite up to all of it and much of the harder stuff had been doled out in pas de quatre and pas de six while the rest draped themselves classically over the set (nicely done, admittedly) or jigged along doing the best they could. The pirate choregraphy was very good (very Peter Pan) and full marks to Alexander Campbell (playing Eros disguised as the Pirate Chief) who had a proper Long John Silver peg leg which must have been hell to dance on. Cleverly, the choreography included several pirouettes on this, obviously pastiching the normal ballet pirouettes which, 99.9% of the time are given only to the women. Doubly clever, Campbell's foot poking out through the back of his frock coat was disguised as a parrot. Brilliant touch. Of the other principals, Elisha Willis was appealing as Sylvia, but ain't no Darcy Bussell. Both Carol-Anne Miller and Jamie Bond came obvious croppers on occasion. Everyone on stage somehow seemed not to have that certain undefinable "edge" which great dancers have. Lots of lines had rather woolly finishes and lots of points were missed (listen to me sounding as if I know what I'm talking about! All hail the great dance critic who couldn't do an entrechat if it offered me a plate of hot buttered toast!).

Anyway, I liked the final battle scene which was very dramatic (even though a lot of it was obscured by poor lighting yet again) which made a nice change from the usual ending which is, frankly, a bit of a damp squib, even for a ballet.

I promised myself that I wouldn't comment about the audience, but they were so unruly I nearly lost it completely. Its only just allowable to forget to turn your mobile phone off at the theatre, but this was the first time I've ever been present when someone has actually had a conversation on their phone during the performance. And please put your coat on during the interval if you are cold, rather than 10 minutes into the show, particularly if you have to stand up to do so and doubly particularly if you're standing in my line of vision at the time. And please don't arrive late and hold open the lobby door while you try and spot your seat because you're letting light into the auditorium and its very distracting and I'm liable to get very cross if it happens 8 or 9 times during Act 1 alone. And please leave all sweets in loud, crinkly wrappings at home. And, even if you are bored, sit still and try and refrain from sighing loudly and repeatedly. And, if your seat is in the middle of the row, please arrive in good time so I can read my programme in peace. Thank you for your co-operation.

Studio photoshoot for David Bintley's Sylvia from Rob Lindsay on Vimeo.

What the reviewers thought:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/mar/01/dance-sylvia-birmingham-royal-ballet

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/23615/birmingham-royal-ballet-sylvia-2009-

http://tttcritic.blogspot.com/2009/04/sylvia-birmingham-royal-ballet.html

http://www.ballet.co.uk/magazines/yr_09/apr09/pn_rev_brb_0209.htm

Burnt by the Sun - National Theatre, Friday 17th April 2009

2009-04-17T14:37:00.009+01:00

Synopsis:

Colonel Kotov, decorated hero of the Russian Revolution, is spending an idyllic summer in the country with his beloved young wife and family. But on one glorious sunny morning in 1936, his wife's former lover returns from a long and unexplained absence. Amidst a tangle of sexual jealousy, retribution and remorseless political backstabbing, Kotov feels the full, horrifying reach of Stalin's rule.

Production credits:
Director: Howard Davies
Designer: Vicki Mortimer
Lighting Designer: Mark Henderson
Music: Ilona Sekacz
Choreographer: Scarlett Mackmin
Sound Designer: Christopher Shutt

Cast:
Vsevolod : Duncan Bell
Nadia : Skye Bennett / Holly Gibbs
Little Girl/Pioneer Girl : Anna Burnett/ Floss Hoffmann/ Hattie Webb
Elena : Anna Carteret
Lidia : Rowena Cooper
Aronin : Marcus Cunningham
Maroussia : (understudying Michelle Dockery)
Andrushya/Pioneer Officer : Michael Grady-Hall
Mironov : Colin Haigh
Pioneer Officer : Harry Hepple
Kotov : Ciarán Hinds
Mokhova : Stephanie Jacob
Mitia : Rory Kinnear
Kolya/Pioneer Officer : Stuart Martin
Kirik : Tim McMullan
Olga : Pamela Merrick
Blokhin : Roger Ringrose
The Truck Driver : Tony Turner

Ensemble: Anne Kavanagh, Victoria Lennox, Charlotte Pyke

I do utterly resent going to see something called Burnt by the Sun when we're in the middle of the dreariest spring since....well....this time last year. Skies like grey blotting paper hung over the National shedding stair-rods of rain, and I was cold and tired and shivery and full of snot. And the seat was cramped and I just wanted to be at home in bed. So perhaps thats why I didn't give this my full attention and came away feeling a bit underwhelmed. Truth be known, if Rory Kinnear (who is a member of my "They Who Can Do No Wrong" group of actors) hadn't been in it, I really rather think I might have called in sick and risked the wrath of Him Indoors by not going. But I'm glad I did, because Mr. K. proved every ounce of his worth by showing not only that he can act the pants off anyone else on the stage, but that he can sing, tap-dance and play the piano AND the trumpet (but, fortunately, not at the same time as nobody deserves to be that talented). He can also look great on stage in a linen suit - but I did rather cringe when I saw how hairy his back was (in a sticky-up, fringe-round-the-back-of-the-vest kind of way). Ick.

It was also worth going to be proved right in my assumption that there was an Icarus reference to the title - "Those who fly too high can get burnt by the sun" - although this confirmation came so late in the play that I spent the first 2 hours thinking I might have been wrong. For the entire first half, I sat in a kind of post-Chekovian haze as an extended family dressed in white and beige linen bickered their way through a summer weekend in their dacha, poking good-natured fun at their devoted, plain-Jane servant, smoking cigarettes , listening to opera and stirring jam into their tea while the stranger in their midst proceeded to turn their lives completely upside down for ever. This being Stalinist Russia, they should have realised that the stranger in the midst turns out to be someone they thought they knew, and that someone else they thought they knew has been lying to them all along. The entire evening could quite credibly have been called Trust Nobody. I even managed to work a post-Shavian reference to Heartbreak House's airships into my theory - but admit that this is stretching it a little.

The set was wonderful - an entire, cutaway house, allowing us to follow the characters filmically through the rooms (an interesting device, given that the play is based on a film and not the other way round as you would expect). Walking into the auditorium and seeing it is a real "Whoever built that set knew what they were doing" moment. But, as is so often the case, the designer had thought "Fuck the people in the first two rows [at the National, the cheap seats] - I'm having a railing round my verandah and I don't give a stuff if they can't see the actors through it". This lack of consideration really pisses me off. Usually its the poor proles in the Gods who can't see the set properly, losing the entire top half of anything set on a proscenium stage. But here, anyone who has the misfortune to be crammed into the two front rows might well come away with the impression that the family had all been born with wooden balustrades instead of faces.

In a sense, Ciaran Hinds was perfectly cast as the Stalinist officer Kotov - physically perfect for the part with his big bristly 'tache and jackboots, looking just like he'd modelled for a "Your Party Needs YOU" poster, and not someone you'd want banging on your front door in the wee small hours (although I know quite a few people who would rush to let him in) but there were an awful lot of dodgy Northern Irish vowel sounds doin' the roinds last night. Michelle Dockery was "off" and I can't at the moment recall the name of her understudy but she did extremely well , looking like a beaten whippet cowering before the snarls of Hinds' Borzoi. Anna Carteret appeared to have an awful lot of slap on and seemed to be wondering whether she had somehow wandered into a production of Julietta Bravaski. Stephanie Jacob was excellent as Mokhova, the plain, dumpy maid, particularly in her scenes with Tony Turner (playing the Truck Driver) - in fact, I'm sure that I saw her actually wiggle her ears at him at one point. But it was really Rory's night once again. You can come bang on my door any hour of the night you want, Comrade. Word on the street is that he's doing Hamlet next year -and I might try and overcome my fervent dislike of Shakespeare's most repulsively self-obsessed character and wander along.

An interesting footnote to the evening was the curtain call - given the play's setting, I fully expected there to be what Him Indoors calls "Communist bows" (where the entire cast line up and bow as a single entity and of which he seriously disapproves), but no - there was a proper "walk down" in reverse order of importance. Stalin would have been appalled at such bourgeois affectation and shot the lot of them.

What the critics thought:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/burnt-by-the-sun-national-theatre-london-1637610.html

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/02/27/review-burnt-by-the-sun-national-theatre/

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/lon_burnt_0309.htm

http://www.aworldtowin.net/reviews/burntbysun.html

Madame de Sade - Donmar Theatre @ Wyndhams - Friday 13th March 2009

2009-03-15T10:22:00.007Z

Synopsis:

Against her mother's wishes, Renee remains vehemently devoted to her husband, the Marquis de Sade, the notorious aristocrat imprisoned in the Bastille for his lurid escapades and licentious behaviour.

Cast:
Judi Dench ( Madame Montreuil)
Rosamund Pike (Renee)
Frances Barber (Comtesse de Saint-Fond)
Fiona Button (Anne)
Deborah Findlay (Baronesse de Simiane)
Jenny Galloway (Charlotte)

Well, I suppose even the Dame can be unlucky sometimes in her choice of work. Quite why one of the greatest and shiniest jewels of our stage chose this to appear in I can’t really fathom – unless she thought it would be “different”. And “different” it certainly is. Written by a Japanese chap apparently in homage to Racine, the French playwright, translated into English by a speckky academic and dealing with the life of the infamous Marquis de Sade, this isn’t so much a play as a series of tableux vivants – long, mostly static, detailed, declamatory speeches reporting the action in retrospect. That, I suppose, is why I had such trouble finding a synopsis of the play – nothing happens in it. It merely reports what has happened to the characters – they just stand around discussing it. For an hour and three quarters. With no interval. There was minimal direction – or perhaps micro-direction is a better phrase. I really don’t think it was what the vast majority of the audience were expecting – in fact, there were a couple of walk-outs. From a Judi Dench performance! Off with their heads!

Still, my buttocks were quite in sympathy – it really was a very long hour and three quarters, even for a Judi-Freak like me. The translation (forty years old – why no new translation?) was very turgid, and long sections of it sounded like they had been translated literally from the original and just slapped into the script with a Pritt Stick. It says something about the text when the most fun you get out of the evening is from admiring the costumes for a couple of minutes and then watching the lighting changes. Because otherwise there is really very little to enjoy here except for the Judi Diehards and possibly the Racine Diehards. And even the Judi Diehards would have to admit that, at last night’s performance, The Dame was not on top form. Several times she tripped over words and entire phrases, and at one point, imitated Eric Morecambe in the famous Andrew Preview sketch – she said all the right words but not necessarily in the right order. Maybe she’s like me; when I learn words for a show, I tend to link the text to the direction – and find it incredibly difficult to remember words when I’m anchored to the spot doing nothing for long stretches. But here she seemed to be fumbling for her words and consequently was unable to give the “performance” we were all expecting.

The costumes, it has to be said, were magnificent, and would have done Marie Antoinette proud. Spot on historically, beautiful and sumptuous and, cleverly, all colour-co-ordinated with each other and the lighting. Part of me wants to be of the opinion that they were all co-ordinated with the text as well – warm golds, bronzes and coppers for the first act when the French aristocrats are all bathing in the sunlight of their own self-importance, soft springtime greens and pinks in the second as, unbeknown to them, a new social order is born around them, and cold blues and greys in the third as the chill winds of Revolution blow, touched with the blade of ice that is Madame Guillotine. The only “off” point I would mention is that during the first act, The Dame was wearing an evening gown while her guests were in day dress, which looked a bit odd. And when Frances Barber made her appearance in Act 2, her enormous Marge Simpson wig was completely unadorned, where it should have sported feathers or flowers or pearls or all three. In fact, it wouldn't have been historically inaccurate to have her wig topped off with a bird cage containing finches.

The lighting was very, very effective, giving the kind of effect you get on a sunny day when a brisk wind is hurling scraps of cloud across the sun – from brightness you are plunged into sudden brief spells of darkness. And unless there was something wrong with my hearing, there was an effective sound plot as well – on occasion, speeches seemed to have a metallic echo to them. The set was the sort of thing you see so often these days - angled mirrored walls covered in tarnished and peeling silver - in fact, much like the set from the Meniere's A Little Night Music.

Audience reaction at the end of the evening was very muted, and its not difficult to see why. I think the play alienated a lot of people with its formality and lack of action and, although the pro reviews have yet to appear, predict that they will reflect this disappointment. Still reeling from the fall-out surrounding the reviews of The Taming of the Shrew, I now find myself wondering whether The Dame will be sending me malicious emails. Hope so – I’m used to being abused by old queens, but to be abused by an old Dame will be a completely different experience.

I did have a rather po-faced clip of an interview with the author here, but reading the "West End Whingers" review of Madame De Sade reminded me of the brilliant French and Saunders skit on "Dangerous Liaisons" (which they compared MDS to, so I've replaced it!)

19th March: reviews just in.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/5015667/Madame-de-Sade-at-Wyndhams-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/mar/19/madame-de-sade-grandage

http://www.theatermania.com/london/reviews/03-2009/madame-de-sade_18165.html

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/03/18/review-madame-de-sade-donmar-at-the-wyndhams-theatre/#more-3141

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/first-night-madame-de-sade-wyndhams-theatre-london-1648515.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23358409-details/Madame+De+Sade/showReview.do?reviewId=23664141