By Jingo!

I paid my first visit to the Finborough in a good long while this week. It appears to have gone all gastropub since I was last there, though I didn’t have time to eat anything. I was running a tad late and didn’t even have time to avail myself of a gin, so, in the opening seconds of the play, when a uniformed waiter sailed in with a cocktail on a tray, I did momentarily wonder if it would be bad form to ask him to pop downstairs and sort me out with a drink.

The Finborough are currently reviving Charles Wood’s Jingo, a dark unsettling farce set in Singapore in 1942. The floor of the theatre has been papered over with a world map, the pink of the British Empire prominent. Susannah Harker plays Gwendoline, an army wife, who is more concerned with the reappearance of former lover Ian than with the imminent Japanese invasion. She is a woman who clearly takes care of herself first, and is implausibly wed to weedy, doltish George, a non-military sort who has been made an honorary major in order to deliver lectures to the troops on the habits of the ‘little yellow men’.

Wood’s play is a bitter thing. The British are depicted as naïve and over-confident, charging into a situation and then retreating when things go awry, leaving the native Chinese to their fate. And though his characters speak in an intensely English manner that is now almost comic, with everything ‘spiffing’ and ‘top notch’ and so forth, the contemporary resonance of the play is considerable.

The cast really throw themselves into it. Susannah Harker is a joy as the divinely self-involved Gwendoline, idly toying with the men in her life for her own amusement; sitting adrift in a ball gown as people flee the country, desperately boarding boats. And Peter Sandys-Clarke is also excellent as George, a priggish and yet deeply pathetic figure, plainly not cut out for battle. Though it appropriates elements of farce, it makes for a rather bleak evening. There are however a number of very memorable scenes, most notably the sight of the broken brigadier with trembling hands begging Gwendoline to spank him - which she duly, if reluctantly, does.

Scotland

I am Not At The Theatre again. I have been mostly up in Scotland instead. And though I’m sure they have theatres up there, they must have been buried under all the snow and hail and sleet they laid on for Easter weekend. The last few days have mainly involved sitting by the fire, drinking copious amounts of Sancerre, stroking cats, and wearing two jumpers at the same time. This was far from being a bad thing, though all my plans to go and look at pretty things and take brisk walks up hills and whatnot rather fell to pieces. Ah well, back in London now. Normal service will resume shortly.

Orange Tree Unchained

Last week I also found the time to drift over to Richmond for a preview of the new show at the Orange Tree. It was a weekday matinee and, as a result, I suspect I was the youngest person in the audience by some wide margin. The couple next to me had quite an interval picnic going on with cling-film wrapped sandwiches and bags of crisps and I was even able to notch up my first sighting of a thermos flask in quite some time.

The Orange Tree’s current production is Chains of Dew, part of a season of neglected work by woman writers. It was written in 1922 by American playwright Susan Glaspell (No? Me neither, though apparently she won a Pulitzer in her day) and has gone unperformed since its original production.

Things begin in a New York apartment where Seymore Standish, a poet from the Mid West, is visiting his radical friends, Nora, a birth control campaigner with fashionable bobbed hair, and Leon, a liberal newspaper editor. Seymore bemoans the constraints of his conservative existence back home in Bluff City where his creativity is stifled by a respectable job, a sweet, unworldly wife, and the countless social obligations that come from being a man of standing in a town such as his. The first scene didn’t bode well. It took a good, long while to establish the characters and felt rather static and uneasy. Wavering accents amongst the cast didn’t help matters, and the scene could have been a good deal tauter and shorter if they’d snipped out some lengthy and repetitive business with a mimeograph machine.

The true meat of the comedy only revealed itself when Glaspell shows us Seymore on his home turf and we see that, for all his protests, he is rather content with his straight-laced life, composed as it is of bridge games, church meetings and rounds of golf. So when Nora and Leon show up in Bluff City, Seymore is understandably distraught to see these two separate aspects of his life collide. His sophisticated, self-assured New York set are as out of place in his home town as it is possible to be. They are very keen to liberate Seymore, to free his inner artist from the shackles of respectability, oblivious to the fact that he is quite happy as he is. Instead it is his wife, Diantha – though he insists on calling her Dotty and casually dismissing her every attempt to better herself – who is excited by their arrival, sensing a chance at liberation.

Though these later scenes are very funny, Glaspell’s play is more than just a comedy of two worlds colliding; there is anger at its heart, a bitter undercurrent. She is aware that it will take more than just a few daring hair cuts to execute true social change. And though Seymore’s wife is able to taste the possibility of a new existence, Glaspell recognises that things don’t change as easily as that. A taste of freedom is all Diantha gets and the play ends on something of a downbeat note.

The ensemble cast work well together and David Annen plays Seymore with a good dash of charisma and makes him into something more than just a self-absorbed hypocrite. I was also very taken with Helen Ryan’s performance as Seymore’s wise and wonderful mother.

Fans of heavy-handed symbolism will enjoy the repeated references to a picture of the Sistine Madonna, which is removed from its hook when Diantha first meets Seymore's friends – and then later rehung. But the play was, once it hit its stride, something of a joy: poignant and perceptive, and very entertaining with it.

Emotional Wringer

Last week I was lucky enough to see two plays that packed a real emotional punch. The first of these was random, the new play by Debbie Tucker Green at the Royal Court. This is a beautifully pared down piece of theatre. There is no set, no props, just one woman, actress Nadine Marshall, standing against a black, back wall. She moves from character to character, mother, father, brother, sister, telling the story of an ordinary family, an ordinary day. Arguments over mobile phones and burnt bits in the porridge. And then something bad happens – the random act that changes everything. And the writing suddenly envelops you, tugs you along into awful places. It’s the details that make it so powerful. The sister trying to hold onto the memory of her brother’s odour. The police officers who fail to take their boots off in the family’s living room. The writing has a wonderful grasp of rhythm, finding poetry in people’s everyday voices, and Marshall is superb, hopping from character to character – by the end of the 50 minutes I felt drained, spent.

The other play was Snowbound by Ciaran McConville. Currently on at the smaller of the Trafalgar Studios, this is a play about Tom, a stoic young man who has been caring for his disabled brother since the death of their mother, putting his life on hold. Then he meets Mary and falls in love and starts to put himself first.

It’s a flawed play, yes. It veers close to cliché at times, especially in the way that Tom’s brother Alex is conveniently always able to see to the core of a situation and say something that is both simple, suspiciously poetic and yet wise at the same time. Tom’s girlfriend Mary is also just too damn sweet and good – something awful is bound to happen to her and it does. But where McConville excels is in scenes of unabashed emotion – the final scene between the two brothers is powerful stuff, superbly performed by Sam Hazeldine and Karl Davies. It was a scene of rare rawness. Unsurprisingly there was an awful lot of sniffing and nose-wiping and ‘whoops, I appear to have something in my eye’ type mumbling as people left the theatre.

And, harking back to the Barbican and the less than impressive stage brawling in The Harder They Come, Snowbound also featured one of the most convincing stage punches I’ve seen in ages. You felt it connect; you feared for Davies’s dental work. The Whingers may also be interested to know that a large bowl of pasta, coated in an unappetising sludgy cream sauce, is not only consumed by the valiant cast but is used as an inspired alternative to the familiar glass-of-wine-in-the-lap move as a way of bringing an end to a particularly bitter marital dispute. There even appeared to be some proper Bucks Fizz being drunk at one point, a glass of which I could well have done with myself after that last scene.

The Harder They Fall

The sign on the door of the Barbican theatre warned: ‘This performance contains smoking, guns, a haze machine and intermittent loud music.’ Loud music – at a musical? Is that the theatrical equivalent of ‘Caution, contents may be hot?’ At first this made me laugh when I read it, but after some consideration I think this degree of detail in signage could be a good thing, indeed they could well have continued: ‘This performance contains alarming polyester trousers, some ineptly thrown stage punches and an unnecessary degree of exposition in the second half.’

Actually that’s possibly a tad harsh. I enjoyed the show, The Harder They Come, Theatre Royal Stratford East’s staging of the famous Jamaican film, a great deal.

A big hit at the original theatre in both 2006 and 2007 it has now been picked up by the Barb for this year’s BITE line up. Which is gladdening, as it's one of the most entertaining things I've seen at the Barbican in a good long while. I’ve never seen the film on which it is based but the plot, which unfolds in flashback, is classic rise-and-downfall stuff. Ivan, charismatically played by Rolan Bell, wants to make a go off it in the music business but his efforts in this direction are thwarted by the local Mr Big, who insists on owning the rights of his songs and soaking up any profits. So Ivan turns to the drug trade to fund his dreams. A tussle with the police leads to him becoming an outlaw, something of a celebrated rebel. But, of course, it can’t end well with him and it doesn’t.

The production is split very distinctly. In the first half we get one musical number after another – all superbly performed – but little in the way of plot bar Ivan’s attempts to woo Elsa, the Preacher’s daughter (this mainly involves a comic misunderstanding about an invite to go for ‘a ride’ on his bike). In the second half this ratio of plot to music flips completely, as if someone suddenly remembered that a story was in order and there is a rush to cram everything in before the curtain falls. So suddenly the songs give way to the story of Ivan’s climb to notoriety and subsequent fall. The audience is bombarded with police corruption, shootings and sickly babies to the point where it is slightly disorientating. Fortunately the production’s ramshackle energy and sense of celebration carries it over these rougher moments. The songs help a lot: Many Rivers To Cross, You Can Get It If You Really Want, Higher and Higher and, of course, the title track. As does the fact that both Bell and Joanna Francis, as Elsa, have excellent voices.

There are also plenty of nice touches that go some way to softening the often soulless Barbican space. As the audience file in, the cast are milling about, both onstage and off, in the stairwells and balconies and later, the police chief, orders the house lights up and starts to interrogate the audience. Oh and there was smoking and guns as promised, though the latter sounded like a kid's cap gun when it was fired, quite why we were deemed to need prior warning wasn't clear.

You’d have thought the Barb’s signage efforts could be better employed elsewhere in the building. A confusing place to navigate at the best of time, large sections had been roped off for some event or other, and it took me an age to find the friend I was supposed to meet as our usual rendevous point - the bar - was out of bounds.

A Major Staging

To the National on Wednesday night for Nicholas Hytner’s new production of Shaw’s Major Barbara. Having really enjoyed their staging of Saint Joan last year I was looking forward to this a great deal.

Having missed the recent-ish staging at the Orange Tree, the play was new to me. It begins with Lady Britomart finding herself forced to get in touch with her estranged husband, Andrew Undershaft, in order to secure her children’s financial futures: while one daughter is due to marry money, the other, Barbara, has devoted herself to saving souls at the Salvation Army.

Undershaft is an arms magnate who owns a vast weapons factory – to the zealous Barbara, her father’s money is tainted. So they make a deal, he will visit her shelter and see the work she does there, if she will then visit his factory. Thus the groundwork is set for a particularly meaty battle of ideas.

The play quickly moves away from the genteel and familiar drawing room setting of the opening scenes – where the wonderful Claire Higgins holds court in true Lady Bracknell fashion – to the drab, grey expanse of the Salvation Army shelter in the East End, a place where violence and desperation are part of life and the Salvationists offer the poor a sustaining slice of bread and treacle along with prayer and the promise of God’s love. Naturally many are apt to declare themselves saved as long as they get fed in exchange.

Undershaft argues that poverty is a barrier to true spiritual discourse and that, when the body is starving, it is hard to concentrate on higher matters. At his factory the workers are well provided for on every level and this makes them freer people. Barbara, however, believes that money only corrupts, particularly when it comes from the coffers of men who manufacture whisky or, worse, weapons, for a living. So she is appalled when the shelter accepts money from her father in order to stay afloat, even if it would have had to close without it.

Simon Russell Beale was subtly wonderful as Undershaft. He resisted the urge to make the character overly bombastic and seemed to convey so much without actually doing a lot. In particular, his deep-rooted love for his daughter, his aching admiration for her, was always painfully evident, though he never put it into words. I was les convinced by Hayley Atwell’s Barbara. Yes, she nailed the girl’s conviction and idealistic zeal, but I found her performance otherwise a little flat. My flatmate disagreed on this, and was particularly taken with what she termed Atwell’s ‘feverish, near-consumptive quality.’ This rather passed me by, though it’s hardly Atwell’s fault that Shaw rather sweeps her character aside in the second half to concentrate on the argument between Undershaft and Barbara’s Greek scholar fiancé, who is rather conveniently a foundling (because his parent’s marriage was illegal in England) and is thus eligible to take on the Undershaft business empire.

The set for this final battle of words is quite striking, rows and rows of missiles, filling the Olivier stage – it has a cinematic quality and is one of the best uses of that space I’ve seen in a while. Though the play nudges near the three hour mark, it was only in the last fifteen minutes or so that it loosened its dramatic grip, with the last bout of verbal jousting about ‘making war on war’ not quite packing the punch that it could have. Even so, the play, with its myriad digs at politicians, lawyers and journalists, still feels amazingly pertinent and resonant.

Sadly this time there were to be no Jeffery Archer sightings, however I did spot Jim Broadbent in the Olivier bar – though admittedly that doesn’t have the same ironic impact.

Lucky Man

And so to the Donmar, with a party that included the West End Whingers and Cityslicker, for a preview of The Man Who Had All The Luck - which, we were forewarned by the posters, is a ‘fable by Arthur Miller.’

(Maybe it’s my inner cynic but when I see the words fable or parable used in relation to a play it usually sets alarm bells ringing).

David is a young mechanic with plans to marry childhood sweetheart Hester. He’s not particularly talented or intelligent, but he’s a nice enough guy, and for some reason fortune seems to smile on him. Though he has no formal training his repair business is doing well and his girlfriend’s hostile and controlling dad, a major impediment to their marriage, is conveniently taken out of the picture. Later when David buys a gas station, a motorway is, soon after, built alongside it. So, while his friends and brother contend with the various knocks and disappointments of their lives, everything appears to go right for David, to the point where he starts to feel that fate owes him a catastrophe. Indeed, he becomes completely fixated with this idea of himself as ‘lucky’, to the point where he is unable to derive any pleasure from the good things that life has given him.

The first half is unusually short and, as we gathered at the bar in the interval, we were unsure as to where the play was going (particularly in regards to a mysterious Austrian character who fortuitously shows up at David’s garage at 4am and helps him fix a car; we suspected he may be angelic or somehow supernatural in origin, though this turned out not to be the case). After the play we were still somewhat hazy as to what it all meant but we knew an awful lot more about mink farming and, should we ever encounter black spots in mink feed, we’ll know just what to do. (In the later stages of the play David invests in a mink farm – a high risk venture).

Over the inevitable post-play bottle of red in a nearby pub we decided that the overall message has something to do with the fact that good deeds and good fortune don’t necessarily go hand in hand and that ‘luck’ is arbitrary and flexible concept; if you think of yourself as lucky you can become so. To David his luck becomes his curse, he becomes frozen, waiting for something to give – though in the end, common sense and a cautious character play as much of a part in David’s fortunes as his luck.

Regardless of what the whole thing may have meant, the notion of luck and chance and of some folks unaccountably having an easy ride of it in life, was pleasingly underlined by the fact that Jeffrey Archer was sitting prominently, smugly some might say, in the middle of the front row throughout.

Andrew and I had less luck however when we tried to sneak down from our perch in the circle to snag some empty stalls seats, as some other lucky sods beat us to it.

Free Press

So, having read Lyn Gardner and Andrew Haydon’s enthusiastic recommendations of Pierre Rigal’s Press at the Gate Theatre, I was both very keen to see it for myself, and also slightly apprehensive: what if I end up being that one person, you know, the one who doesn’t get it, the one left feeling bemused while everyone else whoops and applauds. I needn’t have worried. Both Lyn and Andrew were right. It was a superb piece of theatre, visually striking, spatially inventive, both genuinely funny and sinister at the same time, sometimes claustrophobic and intense, sometimes childishly brilliant, with a rare understanding of its own limitations. I don’t want to go over it in too much detail, as much of the pleasure of the show comes from the way it unfolds, the unexpected touches, the various feelings it evokes. I’ll just add my small, timid mumble of approval to their justified cheers.

My enjoyment of the show even overrode the twin irritations of the chap in the front row with the cough of a 90 year old moustachioed major and having some Notting Hill lady’s handbag wedged in my back for fifteen minutes as we waited for the house doors to open in the miniscule Gate Theatre box office/lobby space,

Blood Ties And Broken Vases

Monday night saw me bussing it over to the Bush. Having been granted a recent reprieve by the arts council the small theatre’s stairwells are now peppered, graffiti style, with congratulatory comments from theatre folk. For their current production, Mike Bartlett’s Artefacts, the seating in the, already compact, venue has been arranged in-the-round (or in-the-square, as the Whingers like to pedantically point out), the stage covered with a faded Persian carpet in need of a damn good hoover.

Now I managed to somehow miss Bartlett’s previous play My Child, so I was coming to this empty of expectation. Artefacts is about Kelly, a sixteen year old girl who has never met her father. Her mother had told her that she had no idea of his whereabouts, but this wasn’t strictly true. All these years he has been in Iraq; he is, in fact, Iraqi. Kelly is, understandably, both curious and angry to discover that her absent dad has been living all these years in Baghdad and, on discovering he is visiting the UK, reluctantly agrees to meet him. During their first awkward encounter he presents Kelly with an ancient, priceless vase. (I suppose it is meant to act as a link to him, to his homeland and to the past. It also important later in the plot, you know, a symbol of stuff and things). Perhaps unsurprisingly, Kelly is unimpressed with this gift. She simply wants a father who is a presence in her life, someone to take care of her, to love her, to act like a dad is supposed to.

Bartlett can certainly write. Kelly’s early monologues are both fluid and true, tripping and skipping along, peppered with references to shopping and Charlotte Church’s thighs. He also has some interesting things to say about objects and memory, the way our possessions connect us to our past, the significance of the things we surround ourselves with. But too often the plot feels as if it has been pieced together solely as a backdrop for Big Themes. The characters are very thinly sketched. Kelly excepted they are there to act as conduits for various different points of view, to allow Bartlett to make his points about international involvement in Iraq; they don’t hold together as people.

But, though at times the dramatic scaffolding was all too visible, some of his points did resonate. There’s a line near the end of the play where Kelly and her Iraqi half-sister Raya, discuss the necessity of having something, some cause, someone, that you would die for, both slightly scornful of the other’s attitude. Now my family are Serbian, not Iraqi, but the current situation in Kosovo has made me think about what that means more sharply then usual. Certainly I find the passion and rage it invokes in usually level-headed people quite extraordinary. I rather self-righteously pride myself on remaining balanced and rational in my thinking, trying to see all sides, but sometimes I wonder whether, by not feeling that fire, that primal connection to a place, to a people, I am somehow lacking.

Bathtubs, Bangkok and the Barbican

It's been a while since I entered the eerie interior of the Barbican. On Tuesday night it felt particularly odd: more staff than visitors, the evening's concert already well underway.

I was there to see Tough Time, Nice Time, the latest BITE commission from Ridiculusmus. Before the show I ran into the West End Whingers, who were, perhaps unsurprisingly, in the vicinity of the bar. Well, I say ran into, they were semaphoring at me from the adjacent table for a good five minutes before I noticed them.

We then spent a further five minutes being bewildered by the lifts (not all of them go down to the right level for the Pit theatre because, well, because it's the Barbican), arriving in the right place just in time to see an overzealous usher extracting dawdlers from the men's bathroom.

So: Tough Time, Nice Time. The lights come up on two men sitting together in a bathtub, which we soon establish is in a Bangkok sauna. The two men sip beer and they talk. And they talk. For 70 minutes. That's it. But, strange and static as this show is, it's also quite fascinating, a repellent yet compelling watch.

The two men, played by Jon Haynes and David Woods, are both ex-pats, Germans. One is a lawyer, the other a hack writer of some description. They don't know each other, have little in common, bar a shared nationality (though while the website blurb says both characters are German, Haynes' accent bore little trace of this I thought). Their conversation meanders as conversation tend to do, awash with film references and cynical jokes. Some of what they say is shocking, some of it banal.

The lawyer is keen to tell his story to the writer, to share his past with him. But, if there's a theme at all in this piece, it's that stories, and the telling of them, are subject to all manner of factors. Truth is a loose concept. The writer is in turn fascinated with atrocities and drops references to genocide into the conversation with the same easy flippancy with which he discusses the plot of The Constant Gardner, real horrors and celluloid fictions bleeding together as he speaks.

Haynes and Woods have a real rapport, unsurprising as they've been working together for 15 years, and the show is tautly written, but the sheer unpleasantness of the men they portray, for me overrode the play's ideas about the ownership of stories, about how memories have become commodities, another thing that can be sold.

Naturally, after the show we felt duty bound, compelled to discuss these issues further, something that could only really be done in the pub over the road with a couple of bottles of red as an aid to intellectual clarity.

Arcola, Again

I was back at the Arcola at the end of last week and, once again, I found myself overcompensating for previous lateness incidents at this venue by arriving unnecessarily early. I got there a good hour before the start of the show and entered the bar only to find that the usual scattering of tables had been swept aside and replaced with ladders, lots of ladders. Interesting, I thought, there is clearly some Punchdrunk-style embracive use of the venue’s public spaces afoot here, but, no, it turned out the ladders were being used merely for a spot of (very) last minute light bulb tinkering and, as more people started to arrive, a rather anxious looking chap quickly reinstated the tables as I availed myself of the first of the evening’s glasses of (no doubt, organic, fair trade and carbon neutral) Rioja.

The Living Unknown Soldier, the production currently occupying the Arcola’s main space, is based on a French play, Le Soldat Inconnu Vivant by Jean-Yves Naour. It’s a play concerned with memory and loss. A soldier is found wandering at the end of the First World War. He is suffering from amnesia and has no idea who he is. He doesn’t know his name, the whereabouts of his family or even who he was fighting for. He is a blank, an absence, a man lost. The doctor at the institution that takes him in makes it his mission to discover the man’s identity, to find his family. To do this he gets a journalist to write a piece about the man’s situation. But, after the publication of the story in the newspapers, the doctor is flooded with families, with desperate people, longing to somehow turn this man without a past into their lost son, brother or husband.

The bare bones of the narrative are fascinating and incredibly poignant, and I thought the decision to have each member of the company play the soldier at some point during the production was inspired, emphasising his lack of identity, his role as non-person and, at the same time showing how this same void of personality makes him the ideal vessel for the hopes of these people, these families, whose loved ones are missing – and may forever be missing. But while the story itself was compelling, some of the devised elements that the production used in the telling felt rather forced; there was often too much going on, too much noise, too much ‘theatre.’ There was a strong performance from Tony Guilfoyle at the centre of things, as the doctor who devotes years to searching for the soldier’s relatives, but his naturalistic approach often seemed to conflict with other elements of the play and the piece as a whole felt rather disjointed. However, despite all that, I think this is one I will remember for longer than some of the more polished productions I’ve seen of late.

Beside The Seaside

I’ve never been very good at Valentine’s Day. Even when I have every reason to be happy, I find the whole thing so weighted with expectation, so unnecessary, that it just makes me crabby and I prefer to pretend it’s not happening. In fact I rather take pleasure in using the day in a manner that is as unromantic as possible. So the idea of going to watch Scarborough, a play about a dubious relationship in inevitable decline, rather appealed.

I went to last Thursday’s 5.30pm performance (they squeeze another one in later in the evening) a timing that rather threw my usual theatre routine out of kilter. The first thing that strikes you as you enter the Royal Court’s upstairs space is the set. The entire theatre has been decked out as a somewhat seedy Scarborough hotel room, complete with cigarette burns on the terracotta coloured carpet and peeling floral wallpaper adorned with commemorative plates. There is no conventional seating, instead audience members are forced to either squat on the floor or perch on the furniture, as the actors move around them. This, of course, gives an added intimacy to the production, though at times it feels almost too intrusive. When one of the characters sat sobbing on the stool by the dressing table, it was happening centimeters from my face, and I found myself instinctively looking down, looking away, giving them their privacy.

So yes, as I’ve said, Fiona Evans’ play presents a brief fiery relationship burning itself out. What gives this scenario an edge is the age gap. The boy in question is meant to be just fifteen, the woman is pushing thirty – she is also his teacher. I gather that Evans’ play was incredibly well received at last year’s Edinburgh fringe festival. But the version that she has brought to the Royal Court has been substantially revised. It now has a new second half, absent in Edinburgh, where an identical scenario is played out after the interval, only this time with the genders reversed: with a girl of fifteen and an older male teacher. The dialogue remains the same – line for line – but the dynamics have shifted. It’s an intriguing idea, but it doesn’t quite work, in fact, I thought it ended up undermining the writing in the long run.

In Scarborough’s first half, the tight, powerful performances of Holly Atkins and Jack O’Connell hold the piece together. O’Connell, in particular, is spot on, I thought. He is so cocky and sure of himself, yet when he is given a PSP as a birthday present he bounces on the bed with the undisguised glee of a child. When the genders are switched in the second half, Rebecca Ryan and Daniel Mayes take on the roles. The idea I suppose is that it is somehow more shocking, more unnerving to see an older man and a young girl in this position, and that this in turn makes you reconsider your responses to the earlier half of the production. This is true to an extent, Mayes as Adian, is able to physically dominate Ryan’s Beth in a way that wasn’t possible with the other pairing, but there is more going on here than just a straight gender swap – the particular casting means the whole dynamic of the relationship is altered. He is far more needy, she more mature. The balance of power between them is subtly altered, though the dialogue doesn’t really reflect this. The decision to replicate the first half line for line actually ends up backfiring. What convinced initially, sounds slacker, more flabby, second time round, and Ryan in particular is saddled with dialogue and attitude that just don’t ring true of a girl her age. A number of the lines sounded just plain wrong coming from the mouth of a teenage girl, and this is quite distancing, I found, ultimately diluting the considerable clout of the first half.

The play ends up feeling like an exercise in theory, rather than a piece you can take on its own terms. I can understand the thinking behind the decision to extend it in this way, but what was intended to add an extra layer, actually undermines the piece in the end. Yes, it makes the audience question and ponder what went before, but perhaps not in the way that Evans had hoped.

I was actually beside the seaside this weekend gone, though Brighton rather than Scarborough, catching up with occasional interval drinks companion French Claire. The weather was glorious, so un-February like, the sun glinting off the sea. Quite, quite lovely.

The Horizontal Hour (And A Bit)

It was always going to be an opinion-splitter: Peter Handke’s The Hour We Knew Nothing of Each Other.

If you’re reading this, chances are you probably know the basics: 450 characters, 27 actors, and no dialogue – though there is a fair bit of humming, clicking, yelling, screaming and sobbing, just no talking.

I was surprised by how much I got out of this. Yes, it was frustrating at times, it was tedious at times, but I still found myself engrossed in it, the rhythms, the swings from the familiar to the mythic. A thousand tiny stories. Walking through Waterloo station on the way home had a new frisson, I found myself watching people’s gaits, the striders, the slouchers, it made me smile.

There were parts I had trouble with certainly. The yellow tank-topped figure soon started to grate on me and I thought some of the comic moments were too forced. I certainly found the braying laughter that greeted the sequence when a line of old people shuffled across the stage in various guises rather unsettling. Surely this was more poignant than hilarity-inducing? I don’t know. Anyway there’s a far more intellectually rigorous discussion about the piece going on over here and the West End Whingers’ review is, of course, worth a read, that goes without saying.

I had gone along to the National with my friend Simon, a man who knows much about Handke and was even carrying a copy of the original text so he could assess the new version (apparently Mickey Mouse features in the original, one of many omissions.) Simon’s profile of Handke written in adavance of the production is here, if you’re interested. I’m quite taken with the idea of the companion piece: Journey to the Sonorous Land or The Art of Asking, which, in stark contrast, is all dialogue, most of it nonsensical, a sea of words.

Some Fringe Things

I squeezed a couple of fringe things in at the end of last week. Friday night I swung by the Arcola (and, as if to compensate for previous lateness incidents at this venue, I managed to arrive almost an hour early, and was forced, forced, to spend the intervening minutes milling about in the bar, drinking coffee, reading the paper and generally being indolent – a tough, tough life).

I was there to see The Blind, a staging of Maurice Maeterlinck's 19th century parable in the smaller downstairs studio. The play has a very Beckett-ish quality. A group of inhabitants from a hostel for the blind have been taken out on excursion by the priest who looks after them. But, for unknown reasons, he has abandoned them, and so they sit and wait for his return.

This is a very still production with long, l-o-n-g periods of silence. The six actors, three men and three women, are all either blind are visually impaired. They sit around a u-shaped rock, one by one rising to their feet, saying their piece. Above them hangs a lonely globe light that could easily be either sun or moon, emphasizing their isolation. The characters fret about their situation, but nobody takes any action, they bicker and worry, but remain where they are - sitting and waiting. Despite its literal casting, this is a play less about being blind and more about being lost and without power, forever waiting to be saved.

The night before I'd been over to the Courtyard Theatre in Shoreditch, where I'd met up with Helen Smith and Andrew of the West End Whingers to check out Tom Green's The Death of Margaret Thatcher. It's a provocative title to be sure, and one that probably does the play a disservice in the long run, setting up expectations that were, inevitably, difficult to meet. The resulting play was less explicitly about Thatcher’s legacy and more an entertaining satire on how such events are covered by the media, how deeply complex issues are compacted into easily churned out sound bites, banal and insincere pieces-to-camera, a life reduced to a fixed smile and a somber nod of the head.

Green does make some reference to the level of venom she generated in the British public during her time as PM: throughout the play we hear of a man who is walking down to London with the intention of spitting on her grave, gathering a large band of followers in the process – but, tellingly, this character is never seen, never heard.

I was born in the year that Thatcher came to power and the play did make me think about my memories of the woman, my own memories, not ideas absorbed in later years – perhaps sadly it does boil down to free school milk and the odd snippet of news footage about the Falklands and the miners. Being both a single mother and an immigrant, my mum was unsurprisingly not a fan of the Tories, and inevitably that colours my thinking – but I also remember the faint warmth that came from there being a woman in a position of such power. When my mother and aunts told me I could grow up to be anything I wanted to be, Mrs Thatcher was proof of how true that was – which really meant something especially since I can clearly remember a time at primary school when we my class was asked by our teacher what jobs we would like when we were older and most of the girls were still answering with something along the lines of ‘secretary’ and ‘dancer’. (I think I said ‘writer’, silly child that I was).

Anyway, the Daily Mail has got itself in a right old stink about the show, which while predictable, is also quite funny – they also seem to have forgotten that over at the Apollo Victoria they sing nightly about Thatcher’s death in the Billy Elliot musical.

Green’s play also afforded me the opportunity to see my second naked cock in as many evenings, (following A Prayer For My Daughter at the Young Vic), a sentence I include purely to see what interesting search engine traffic it swings my way.

Cops And Cons

There seems to be some miscommunication at the Young Vic. For their new production, a revival of Thomas Babe’s A Prayer For My Daughter, the stage has been vertically and horizontally divided. By this I mean the auditorium has been split down the middle to form a traverse stage, with the audience steeply aligned on either side, and the set itself has been made into a two level affair, with a flight of stairs leading down from above.

Only nobody seems to have noticed all this spare space. The second – top – level of the set is a dead zone, made up of only of wires holding up the ‘ceiling’ below. Sitting midway up the stalls this just about worked in terms of sightlines, but it seemed like a bizarre choice of layout, especially since the current seating arrangement has taken the downstairs entrance to the auditorium out of play, leading to some major bottle-necking as people filed out at the interval. (The woman standing next to me even exclaimed, with wonderfully elongated vowels: “This will never do, what if there were a fire!”)

And the play, oh yes, the play. Babe’s 1978 New York-set cop shop drama is an intense four-hander. We’re in Sidney Lumet territory here, think Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon, sweat and the city, men’s souls spilling over. So we have two cops, Kelly and Jack, and two criminals, Sean and Jimmy, with clear parallels between them, the thin blue line blurred, you get the picture.

An old lady has been shot dead, half her head blown off. And the two cops are determined to extract a confession. This is the 1970s though, so a punch in the gut is still a valid interrogation technique and shooting up in the office with your junkie suspect barely raises an eyebrow.

The dead old lady quickly gets forgotten, the crime seems like an afterthought thrown in by the playwright to get these men together. Babe’s interests in the changing nature of masculinity in post-Vietnam America, in what makes a man a man, in what makes a good father, bleed off the stage, but the clunky structure of the play works against any real sense of revelation. Kelly, the older and wearier of the two police officers, has a screwed up daughter who keeps phoning up, distraught, threatening to shoot herself. But he seems only minimally perturbed by this disturbance. The audience also struggles to care.

Dominic Hill’s production takes a good while to find its feet, and some of the actors overdo the Nu Yoik shtick, but in the second act things hit their stride, leading to some powerful and moving moments. The best of these occurs between Corey Johnson’s Jack, the younger police officer, and the more grounded of the two, despite his own drug use, and Sean Chapman, as traumatised Vietnam medic Sean. His account of cradling a dying soldier, as he tries to explain his sexuality to Jack, is incredibly powerful. "There's a woman inside me, officer," he tells him, "and she aches for the men she has known."

Colin Morgan, who, last year, played Vernon in the Young Vic’s wonky version of Vernon God Little, here plays the quivering young junkie Jimmy. At one point he was forced to strip to the altogether, ushering some rather sweet gasps from the gaggle of teenage girls a couple of rows behind me. It’s a very physical, very big performance, all ripples and twitches, somewhat undermined, for me, by his insistance on speaking like Ren from Ren and Stimpy throughout. As you can imagine, once my brain had made this connection, it was rather difficult to take him seriously – even during his big monologue about watching his daughter come into the world.

I also noticed that the actors playing the cons were still hand-cuffed when they returned to the stage to take their bows. I hope someone remembered to undo them before the after party.

Night Shots

Words are all well and good. But sometimes, just sometimes, a picture is all you need.

I picked the coldest night possible to go out and take these, but it was still more fun than Happy Now?

Get Happy

If I wanted to watch a gentle comedy drama about middle class marital woe, I’d switch on ITV around 9 of an evening. I wouldn’t head to the National. (Well, obviously, I would, because I did, but I wouldn’t make a habit of it).

Anyway, the play in question was Lucinda Coxon’s Happy Now?, a gentle comedy drama about middle class marital woe which is being staged in the National's Cottesloe Theatre.

It stars Olivia Williams as Kitty, the emotionally overstretched executive of a major cancer research charity, who spends her time trotting between conferences. Her husband has recently chucked in his high-flying legal job to retrain as a teacher and she has two young children at home to cope with as well as an ailing estranged father. She also has to deal with the amorous attentions of a fellow charity big-wig she meets in a hotel after one of her conferences. With her husband oblivious to her unhappiness, the man’s advances start to look all the more appealing.

The set reminded me of a hotel in Antwerp I stayed in the early 1990s, all polished dark wood and beige carpets - no soul. It didn’t seem like the kind of place these characters would actually live, where anyone would actually live, however it did allow for a bit of impressive set acrobatics from actor Dominic Rowan, while pretending to clamber drunkenly into a garden.

I learned a number of things from Coxon’s play. I learned that it is impossible to maintain any degree of grace and poise while having a cushion fight and wearing a wrap dress. I learned that informing parents that their young daughter is definitely not gifted is the best way to terminate a dinner party. I learned that my Eastern European phobia about wasting good food is so hardwired it kicks in even when it’s just bags of pretend Thai takeaway that are being chucked in the bin. Oh, and I learned that a broken Cindy doll representing, I think, broken childhood hopes and dreams makes an excellent impromptu cake decoration.

Other aspects of the play were rather less enlightening. Just as in the superbly tense Swedish portion of the Family Plays at the Royal Court, I found myself waiting for the cuddly and inoffensive ‘Gay Best Friend’ to betray Kitty in some way or turn out to be a bigger twit than the husband and his wanky friend Miles combined, to do something, anything – surely such a bland, one-note character wouldn’t have made it through the first draft – but no, nothing. I also thought it was telling that both Kitty’s two children (not to mention the GBF’s pool attendant boyfriend) remained conveniently invisible throughout; the kids weren’t seen as people but just as another problem on Kitty’s already over-burdened shoulders. And, Christ, it’s a good thing I’d polished off my G&T before the interval or the scene where a character’s (guess which one) emotional growth was depicted via the release of a pink helium balloon, might have resulted in some involuntary gin spittage.

I’m picking a lot of holes in the play, I know, but I did enjoy parts of it, especially those (too short) moments involving Ann Reid as Kitty’s frightful mother. In fact I thought most of the actors did a decent job with underwritten parts, particularly Stanley Townsend as the portly but charming hotel lothario. But while I chuckled quite frequently throughout, the play as whole left me more irritated than anything.

A Rose In Bloom

A whole bunch of years ago (OK, maybe three) I went along to the Rose Theatre in Kingston, when it was still in its unfinished state to see Peter Hall’s As You Like It which was being staged in the raw auditorium, with its exposed concrete and pipes (and Portaloos, as I recall). And this was rather exciting, not so much for the production, which was decidedly Peter Hall-y. But for the space, which felt fresh and full of potential and, also, crucially, local to where I was living at the time, so no long, crawling train from the depths of Surrey to worry about.

Roll on 2008 and, having been dogged with delays, mainly funding related, the theatre is finally open. And the finished space is really quite something. It has a layout modelled on the original Rose Theatre in Southwark and seats around 900. It's most notable feature is a pit area in front of the stage where more limber audience members can come and sit on the floor for around £7 a ticket (the theatre's website recommends bringing your own cushion). It won’t please everyone - there have already been online grumbles about sightlines and whatnot – but I thought it was an attractive and elegant space. It just seems a shame that they’ve chosen to fill it, for this, its debut production, with a stiff, if dependable, production of Uncle Vanya, once again directed by Hall.

Solid. I think that’s the best way to describe it. Solid and sturdy. This is a production that delivers exactly what it was designed to deliver. But, presumably because it is intended to tour and has not been specially created for the Rose, it failed to use the great sweeping stage in an imaginative way. The acting was fine (particularly Loo Brealey's Sonya), the simple set, with its single autumnal tree, was attractive enough, and it did have its moments, its solid, sturdy, dependable moments, but it was too gentle to be truly moving and I just wish they could have christened this space with something a bit more, well, more.

Certain parties will, however, be cheered to know that the bar area is sizeable, spacious and very reasonably priced, if rather lacking in decent seating.

A case of watch this space.

A Lucky Escape

This Thursday gone I took my first trip of the year to Theatre 503. Their current show is a thing called Mad Funny Just, a devised piece being staged as part of the Old Vic, New Voices award scheme.

The story it tells is a not an original one. A girl is dead and her brother, friends and teachers attempt to come to terms with it. Plot-wise that’s about it, but it’s lifted off in unexpected directions by the manner of its staging. The dark and poky studio space above the Latchmere pub has been made over to resemble a rehearsal room, complete with kettle and pack of chocolate biscuits in the corner. Props are kept to a minimum, ditto costumes, and the telling of the tale is left to the performances, all of which are nuanced and well-observed.

Shifting rapidly between characters, the five actors – who along with the director of the piece, Sarah Tipple, are part of a collective called Creased – bring to life the world of Louise, the dead girl in question. The cast are particularly adept at the adolescent mannerisms of her friends and Becci Gemmell in particular is superb as a nervy and quivery voiced old lady who finds herself reinvigorated after a trip to the hairdresser.

More a collection of character sketches than a play proper, not everything it attempts works – there were too many heavy-handed fantasy sequences for my liking – but, despite that, this is an exciting and energetic piece, exuding potential and invention. The story it tells may not be particularly original and the method of its staging leaves little room for the characters to grow. But in terms of performance and sheer creativity, it’s a delight. And did I say there was no set to speak of? Well, that’s not quite true. The production has a sweet little surprise saved for its closing minutes, but to say more would spoil it.

It seems that the theatre gods were really smiling on me last week as, as well as seeing this, I managed to miss out on seeing An Audience With The Mafia at the Apollo when technical difficulties caused the performance I was down to attend to be cancelled. Having since read the reviews, I realise what a lucky escape I had.

Blood And Oranges

Back to the Lyric last night for Gecko’s The Arab And The Jew, a near-wordless two man examination of the Arab Israeli situation. This is part of the London International Mime Festival and the piece is indeed free of dialogue in the conventional sense, if not of speech entirely. Instead, the performers utter odd words here and there, coupled with some unintelligible murmuring and garbled interjections. But, in the main, the physical dominates over the verbal; as the performers dance and tumble and claw at the ground.

It begins with a bang, as the two performers, Al Nedjari and Amit Lahav, friends who grew up on either side of the divide, tumble into the sand. What follows is a galloping collage of inventive scenes, each underscored with the idea of conflict. I particularly enjoyed the sudden segue into music hall skit, where the men play with toy drums and toy guns to the strains of You Always Hurt The One You Love.

As Andrew Haydon also mentioned over on Postcards, a lot of what I’ve seen so far this year has been on the short side, an hour or less, this show included. If I don’t get an interval soon, I may have to rename this blog. The Arab and The Jew ran for around 55 minutes, but even then the concept felt a bit bitty and stretched. However there was so much going on, so many arresting visual images that my attention never wavered. It just felt more like a series of, wildly inventive, but very individual moments rather than a cohesive piece.

I will admit that my appreciation may have been, er, enhanced by the two teenage boys behind me who exuded an air of I Really Would Rather Be Elsewhere from the beginning, with their constant checking of their watches and murmuring of ‘was that supposed to be funny, or what?’ accompanied by a soundtrack of incessant bag rummaging and the repeated fastening and unfastening of Velcro. But, as has happened before, some inner limpness on my part prevented me from turning round and telling them off. I always wish I had my flatmate with me at such moments; she is a secondary school teacher and has perfected an over-the-top-of-her-glasses stare of death that can silence most boys in a second. Most people for that matter. That’s a trick I’d like to learn.