Tag Archives: NT

A Slight Ache – August 2008

6/10

By Harold Pinter

Directed by Iqbal Kahn

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Thursday 7th August 2008

This was effectively a platform performance at the Lyttelton – the set was on a raised platform at the front of the Never So Good set. It held enough furniture to represent several rooms in a big house, plus the garden. Chairs were everywhere, including a few on their side in the garden, with plants trailing all over them.

Plants featured strongly in the dialogue as well, with the usual Pinterish contretemps between husband and wife over what the plants were called and whether or not the husband actually knows which plants are in his garden. The wife is called Flora, though the husband refers to her as Fanny, even though he appears to be talking about another woman; the usual sort of thing for a Pinter play.

The story is simple. A matchseller has positioned himself by their back garden gate, and has been standing there for months, without apparently selling any matches. The husband tries to talk to him, but can’t get him to say anything. The wife has a go, and manages to get the measure of the man, priapically speaking. The husband has another go, but is stricken with some unnamed affliction, and ends up prostrate on the floor with the matchseller’s tray, while the wife gets the matchseller. End of play.

There’s more to it than that, of course. The opening scene over breakfast includes a wasp-killing sequence that was both gruesome and funny, especially when the husband, fresh from the slaughter, feels invigorated and ready to get on with the day. He’d been feeling a slight ache in his eyes, but killing the wasp seems to have worked better than aspirin.

The wife finds him later in the scullery, wanting to be left alone, and clearly obsessing about the matchseller. When she sits in the chair he’s vacated, she gets a perfect view of the man. It’s after this that the husband tells his wife to bring the man in so he can talk with him in the study. She suggests calling the police, or perhaps the vicar, which got a good laugh. He’s determined, though, so she goes out to ask the man to come in, tempting him with an offer to buy all his matches. He shuffles on stage gradually, looking very decrepit. He’s swathed in heavy clothes from head to foot, and as it’s a hot summer’s day, midsummer’s day in fact, he must be sweltering. We can see his leather balaclava and huge coat, and it turns out later he’s also wearing a jumper and a vest. No wonder he’s going so slowly and looking so weak.

The husband welcomes him into his study, and offers him drinks and a seat, but the chap just stands there, saying nothing. The husband does all the talking, and so we get to hear about the local squire as was and his three daughters, all with flaming red hair. He can’t remember what the third daughter was called, and then he gets it – Fanny, “a flower”. He’s disparaging about Fanny, and if you know your Pinter that tells you instantly she’s his wife. Frustrated at his inability to make the man talk, he does finally manage to shoo him into the corner where he’s in shade and can cool down. When he does eventually sit down, it’s on the bigger chair the husband was sitting on at the start of the scene, the first step in swapping places.

At some point the husband is overcome and has to dash out to the garden for some air. He pretends to his wife that he’s doing better with the chap than  he actually is, but she decides to go and talk to the man herself. This is where she starts to uncover more than her husband achieved. She demonstrates the unholy trinity that applies to almost all Pinter’s women characters – mother, wife, whore. She comments on the man’s disgusting smell, but inhales deeply through the chiffon scarf she’s just used to wipe his head and face. She leaves us in no doubt that she’s found a man she intends to keep, and they won’t just be talking about the garden or killing wasps.

Her husband comes along and boots her out, and it’s clear at this point that his eye trouble is getting worse. He seems to be almost blind, and his emotions are in a right state as well. He tears his jacket off, and pulls his shirt out from his trousers. To be honest, I can’t remember what he was talking about at this point, as it didn’t interest me much. He just seemed to be ranting without giving us any more insight into the play, but then he collapsed on the ground, still ranting, and I knew the end was nigh. Sure enough, the wife returns, takes the matchseller by the hand, then takes his tray away, places it on her husband’s tummy, and leaves with her new man, who’s walking with a spring in his step now.

I assume the play is about female infidelity caused by the rampant sexual lust that rages through all womankind, according to Pinter, and the effect it can have on the poor men who get enmeshed in our snares. As such I find it less interesting than some of his other plays, but still an entertaining use of an hour in the theatre. The performances were splendid, as is to be expected from Claire Higgins and Simon Russell Beale, and Jamie Beamish gave them a good blank page to project onto. This play is being continued and partnered with another short Pinter, but as we weren’t so taken with this one, we may not bother with the double bill.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

The Revenger’s Tragedy – August 2008

10/10

By Thomas Middleton, or possibly Anonymous?

Directed by Melly Still

Venue: Olivier Theatre

Date: Wednesday 6th August 2008

This was another production in the style of The Man Of Mode last year, a glorious updating of an old play. There was a great deal to enjoy. The set was in three sections on the revolve, with passageways sandwiched between them. This not only allowed for very quick scene changes, but also gave lots of opportunities for characters to lurk in corners to hear and see what’s going on. One of the three sections showed us the poorly furnished house of Vindice and his family – gaps on the walls showed us where the old masters had hung – while the other two represented rooms in the court, one with red plastic seating and pictures on the walls that left little to the imagination, the other more neutral for an assortment of uses.

The opening scene was a montage of the situation at the start of the play. Vindice sits in his room, raging at fate like a depressed teenager, while all around him the court is partying like mad. The duke and duchess appear to be enjoying themselves, but the duke is soon getting a blow job from one of the athletic dancers (female), while the duchess is trying to seduce a surly young man who turns out to be the duke’s illegitimate son Spurio, and not the only member of the family who merits the title ‘bastard’.

The music is pounding, the stage is spinning, and suddenly we see a woman being set upon by several men. One of them rapes her, his buttocks fully displayed, and when that scene comes round again, the woman has been left to sort herself out, clearly distressed, and trying to cover herself up with the tattered remains of her dress. It’s a disturbing scene, and really lets us know about the depravity and corruption in this court.

Now the party’s almost over, but the duke and the other guests are having a final stroll through the night air, still surrounded by the dancers and other courtiers. The revolve stops, to show us Vindice in his room, with long dank hair, scruffy clothes, and bare feet. As he begins his rant against the “Duke: royal lecher”, the characters are obligingly festooned across the stage in front of us. Well, we need no telling that the duke is lecherous, but it is helpful to have these people introduced to us, and the proximity of their depraved actions and Vindice’s condemnation makes his bitterness readily understood.

Mind you, he’s not bitter about the corruption of the government in general, nor does he know of the rape we’ve just seen being committed. His anger is based on an earlier incident when his fiancée Gloriana was murdered by the duke because she wouldn’t let him get his leg over. Vindice has kept her wedding dress, veil and skull as  mementos, and takes them out while telling us of his pain at losing such a wonderful woman. The skull was a touch macabre, and we have to gloss over questions about time of death, how the flesh was removed, and even how did he get hold of it, because his  brother turns up to offer him a job.

His dream job, in fact. With their father recently dead (Hamlet featured strongly in our list of the plays we were reminded of), the family fell into poverty, so Hippolito, Vindice’s brother, got a job at court and wormed his way into the confidence of the duke’s legitimate, though younger, son and therefore heir (King Lear). This chap, Lussurioso, but I’ll call him Lusty, is a chip off the old block, so naturally he wants a villain to do his dirty work, and he gives Hippolito the task of finding one (Richard III). Of course Hippolito thinks of his brother, and the plot appeals enormously to both of them. It will give Vindice a chance to be at court, in disguise, and find a way to take revenge on the duke.

Meanwhile, the duke’s youngest step-son is being tried for the rape we witnessed earlier. The duke is stern, the wronged noblewoman is present, and her husband speaks eloquently against the criminal. There doesn’t seem to be any reason why the judges won’t pronounce the man guilty and sentence him to death. But then the duchess, mother to the rapist, pleads for his life (Titus Andronicus), his brothers ask for mercy on his behalf, and even the duke’s heir asks his father to reconsider. Despite the guilty party being completely unrepentant, the duke decides to wait a bit before allowing the judges to announce the verdict, and it looks like nepotism has triumphed over justice yet again. Admittedly the culprit is sent to prison to await his fate, but that doesn’t seem like serious punishment in these circumstances.

The play really livens up now with Vindice’s first appearance in disguise, as Piato. Rory Kinnear has taken off his wig, and now appears with shaven head and wearing torn jeans and a shiny bomber jacket. He decides to adopt an accent to hide his identity even more, but don’t ask me which one, I’ve no idea. Lusty sends everyone else packing so he can check out the new boy himself. He likes what he sees, and doesn’t even object to being groped by a commoner, so long as the man will get him what he wants. Turns out that what he wants is Vindice and Hippolito’s virgin sister! This shocks Vindice, naturally, but he plays along with Lusty, and decides to use the opportunity to test his sister and mother’s integrity.

When he turns up at the family home, now togged out in decent gear, his sister doesn’t recognize him. So when he offers her the letter from Lusty, she lets fly with a ferocious punch that floors him completely. She then has a good rant (it’s clearly a family trait), and storms off, leaving her brother to pick himself up, in ecstasy at her reaction. She’s still chaste! Then his mother arrives, and, as agreed with Lusty, Vindice turns his persuasive powers on her, only to find that she is eventually lured by the massive amount of money he can offer her. To his great disappointment, she agrees to work on her daughter, and suggests he tell Lusty that he’ll be very welcome to drop in next time he’s in the neighbourhood. Disaster. Vindice succeeded where he hoped to have failed.

Back at the court, his brother informs him of the scandal of the duchess and Spurio, who have been spotted having illicit nooky. With Lusty about to head off to take advantage of Piato’s good work, Vindice tries to distract him by warning him that Spurio has been seen heading into the duchess’s bedchamber, and Lusty, incensed at this treachery (his conscience is so selective), dashes off to avenge this wrong. Unfortunately, it’s his father in bed with the duchess, not his half-brother, and since his actions look like treason, Lusty himself is sent to prison. Several of the lords come to the king and plead for Lusty’s life, and by now the king has cooled down enough to tell them to have his son set free. However, before this, the two remaining half brothers had been trying their version of mind games on the duke. Someone should have explained to them that in order to play mind games, you have to have a mind. While claiming to want mercy for poor Lusty’s life, they try to emphasize the heinous nature of his crime, and work the old boy into such a lather that he’ll have his son executed immediately. But the duke’s too wily for that. He spots their ploy, and tests them out by declaring that they’ve persuaded him to forget and forgive – his son shall go free. They change course faster than a racing catamaran rounding the marker buoy (the Olympics are on), and urge him to take the seriousness of the offence into account. This he does, and declares that his son will die! He gives them a ring to take to the judges to have them deal with it. So I was a bit concerned when the lords then pleaded for Lusty to be released, that it might be a smidgeon too late.

However, the two ‘clever’ sons are busy scheming to get Lusty bumped off, with the younger of the two planning on promoting himself even further once the first heir is out of the way, by getting rid of the second as well (his brother). They’re so busy with this, in fact, that they get to the prison shortly after Lusty’s been released. When they then tell the officers (they decided to bypass the judges, to avoid the risk of any unnecessary reprieves) that the duke has ordered that their brother be executed straightaway, and with tears in their eyes, it’s perhaps understandable that said officers (none the brightest, maybe, but still), should mistakenly assume that they were to execute the rapist brother. And so they do. Oops. But the brothers have already left, secure in their belief that they’re one step closer to the dukedom.

Meanwhile, Vindice, as Piato, has been hired by the duke himself to find a virgin for him to ravish that night. Vindice meets his brother, and explains the whole plan. They’re in a dark lodge apart from the palace, and here Vindice has arranged for the Duke to come and enjoy himself. However, he has set a trap. He’s made up a woman out of Gloriana’s gown, her skull, and a mask, and plans to work her like a giant puppet to get the duke to kiss her lips, which he smears with poison, the same poison that Gloriana herself was killed with. The duke arrives, and without much ado, starts to fondle the supposed virgin, getting slapped at a couple of times for his trouble. But he soon grabs her face and plants a huge smacker on her lips, only to find he’s been tricked.

The lads now reveal themselves, and taunt him as he’s dying, as well as stabbing him several times just in case. Vindice had also found out that the duchess and Spurio had arranged an assignation in the same lodge, so he intends to torment the duke by showing him his wife’s own infidelity with his bastard son, just to make sure the duke dies unhappy. Such is the nature of the duke’s own villainy, this actually seemed quite reasonable at the time, but do remember children, don’t try this at home. The duchess and Spurio turn up on cue, and start enjoying themselves in various positions – I won’t bore you with all the details – while Vindice and Hippolito hide the duke’s body.

The next scene brings us back to the deceased duke’s stepsons, still happy that they’ve got rid of Lusty, but bickering like mad over whose bright idea it all was. One of the officers brings them the bloody head of their victim, in a bag, and the sight of them pretending sorrow while actually being delighted was a lovely moment. It’s short-lived too, as Lusty strolls past on his way to somewhere else, so they get the first inkling that all has not gone to plan. When they discover their brother’s head in the bag, they’re naturally upset, and one of them carries the head off, stroking it tenderly, a worrying sign.

Lusty has reappeared in the red plastic room, the ‘sex suite’, and is pretty angry with Piato for giving him duff information and getting him into trouble. Actually, he takes it out on Hippolito first, as he was the one who brought Piato to Lusty. When Piato does turn up, Lusty chases him away, and then he orders Hippolito to bring his brother, Vindice, to him, as he wants to get Piato killed, and Vindice is a good prospect to do the murder. This is where things get complicated. (Now they get complicated?) How do they bring Vindice to Lusty without him spotting that Vindice and Piato are one and the same? And how to kill Piato without killing Vindice? It’s a puzzle.

Still, Vindice gives it a go. Dressed more like his former self, with long hair, a cap, and smarter but more sombre clothes, he puts in an appearance as himself, and sulks and scowls his way into Lusty’s favour. Tasked with killing his alter-ego, he hits on the plan of substituting the duke’s body for Piato’s (although the duke has been missed, no one’s found the body yet), and dressing the corpse in Piato’s clothes so that people will think Piato killed the duke and swapped clothes with him to make his escape. But before they do this, the brothers head home to see if they can persuade their mother to be virtuous again.

It’s a funny scene at first, as their mother insists she’s done nothing wrong, only to find herself confronted by the very man who persuaded her to turn bawd in the first place – her own son! There’s eventual repentance and redemption (Hamlet again), and all three are reconciled. After the brothers leave, their sister turns up, with bag packed, ready to surrender her virtue to Lusty’s lasciviousness, as her mother asked. Are we too late? Has the damage already been done? Her mother thinks so, and does her best to persuade her daughter to take the virtuous path again. Fortunately, it’s all a test on the daughter’s part, and she’s always been determined to keep herself chaste. Phew, that’s a relief. Hugs all round for this family.

Back at the palace, the lads drape the dead duke tastefully on a chair, and remove themselves to the background. Lusty soon joins them, and then they pretend to discover Piato, drunk and asleep, and stab him to death, only to discover it’s actually the duke. Naturally Lusty’s keen to distance himself from this killing, so he quickly latches onto the idea that Piato did it, and the whole court is presented with this explanation as a fait accompli.

Now that the duke’s death is known, Lusty becomes the next duke, and with several of the court attendants and nobles becoming unhappy with the depravity and corruption of the court, Vindice and Hippolito have a sizeable team to help them with the final phase of their revenge. For the new duke’s revels, there are to be dancers dressed in masks, and these plotters have all the details of the costumes. The stage is set for a bloody ending.

The new duke is crowned, and then the party begins. A group of dancers come on in strange looking outfits, and in the course of the dance, they draw their swords and kill the new duke and the lords who are with him. When the “real” dancers arrive – these are the other nobles, including the step-brothers – they’re accused of having done the killings, and the actual assassins take the opportunity to kill the rest of the evil bunch there and then. It wasn’t as gory as it might have been, but the body count was higher than an episode of Midsomer Murders. The nobleman whose wife had been raped (she subsequently died) is asked to take over as duke, and then Vindice makes the biggest blunder of all time. He confesses, the silly bugger. Well, he obviously thinks it’s alright now, the bad folk have been killed, and only the good folk are left, but he forgot that the new new duke is an upstanding man, who will have to prosecute murderers regardless of the provocation, or the benefit to himself. And so it turns out. Worse still, Vindice has already named his brother as his accomplice, so both of them are for the chop. Vindice sees the justice in all of this, and goes to his death a contented man; understandably, his brother’s not so happy with this result.

As the bodies are carried back onto the revolve to be tidied away, the stage turns again, and we see the new duke telling Vindice’s mother and sister what’s happened. They’re naturally upset. Meanwhile, as the stage still turns, we see the whores being cleared out of the sex suite, and there’s a general sense of order being restored. It was a lovely way to finish, and we gave the cast a good reception, which they thoroughly deserved.

I added Anonymous as a potential author of this piece as the authorship is in some doubt. Middleton is some people’s choice, but there are other opinions, although the National is content to put Middleton’s name on this production. I couldn’t honestly say from hearing the lines whether Middleton is the man as I don’t know his work very well, but it’s easy to see why it was a popular play in Jacobean England. There’s plenty of talk about sex, lots of references to death, and plenty of killings, which is just what the audiences liked at that time, or so we’re told. It’s noticeable that there’s no actual sex on stage as far as the text is concerned – the rampant activity on show in this production is entirely to get the point across to an audience that’s pretty much seen it all before; a bit like an Andrew Davies adaptation, but much darker. It seemed totally valid to me, and the music fitted in perfectly to this style as well. In fact, I really didn’t notice the music much, that’s how good it was. We had one group to our right doing more traditional music, while on our left were two DJs giving us the loud club sound, which was a brilliant way to represent the depravity of the court. I didn’t actually notice any of the characters snorting a line or dropping a tab, but it wouldn’t have been out of place.

The other thing I noticed early on was that I found it harder to understand these lines. I became aware of how much Shakespeare has influenced our use of language, even today. It just seems to be easier to hear his lines. This dialogue was much harder work.

The many connections we noticed with Shakespeare’s plays were confirmed in the program notes, as Middleton (if indeed the author) was effectively Will’s complementary opposite, writing works such as The Ghost Of Lucrece to echo Shakespeare’s earlier The Rape Of Lucrece. Even the excellent scene where Lusty arranges for Vindice to pimp his own sister has a precursor in The Merry Wives of Windsor, when Ford, disguised as Brook, hires Falstaff to do much the same thing with his own wife. Still, it’s a good scene, and perhaps for once Will found himself wishing he’d written that.

To get back to the production itself, the actors were all excellent, although I must mention Rory Kinnear’s performance. It was superb, and given the close ties between this play and Hamlet, I’m looking forward to seeing his take on that role in a couple of years. (Apparently he’s delaying playing the part as there’s such a glut at the moment, a wise choice.) The whole effect was perfect, and I don’t expect to see a better production of this play ever.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

Afterlife – August 2008

6/10

By Michael Frayn

Directed by Michael Blakemore

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Saturday 2nd August 2008

It was another hot afternoon, I was tired, and we were facing a long journey back to the house after a less enjoyable play than I’d hoped, so at the end of this performance I was ready to give it a 4/10 rating. But, after a good night’s sleep, and remembering the good bits of the play, which did have quite a few laughs after all, I’ve decided 6/10 is fair. But not by much.

The set was epic in scale. Marble steps the full width of the stage swept up from the front of the stage, which was lower than usual, to a brief platform, then continued upwards to the upper level, which at the start was empty. Massive arches were brought forward almost immediately, though, and these seemed to keep coming forever. They moved about a bit, but basically they were in place for most of the play, with windows, doors or just see-through as required. They certainly made the atmosphere very Germanic and imperial.

The play was about Max Reinhardt, a theatre impresario and also a Jew, who stages lavish spectaculars across the world, with casts of hundreds and even thousands, and that’s not counting the musicians! Despite attracting equally huge audiences, he appears to have been a drain on many purses, but still managed to live a life of opulence. He buys a palace in Salzburg, and through his enthusiasm and drive starts a festival there. He himself directs a production of Everyman, a morality play about God asking Death to pick someone, anyone (sounds like a card trick, this does), and bring him to God for judgement. Being a morality play, it’s written in rhyming couplets, and that’s how a lot of this play is written, too. In fact, it starts out in rhyming couplets, as Reinhardt and his friends attempt to persuade the Prince Archbishop of Salzburg to allow Reinhardt to stage the first performance of Everyman in the square in front of the cathedral. To do this, Reinhardt demonstrates the play himself – he knows all the parts – and so we get to see various chunks of the opening scenes.

By magic, the magic of theatre, we’re whisked away to the palace, where Reinhardt has the actors help him perform the banquet scene where Death comes to select Everyman. It seems for a bit as though Reinhardt himself is being chosen by a “real” Death, with his name being called, and no one else being able to hear it, but it finally resolves into part of the play, and they all have a good laugh about it. The Prince Archbishop agrees to the play being staged, and then we’re into rehearsals (Reinhardt takes obsessive-compulsive to new levels) and the performance (the Archbishop is in tears), and then we get to see Reinhardt’s home life, or rather his away-from-home life, as his secretary and mistress exchange comments on his progress across the planet (he sends lots of telegrams).

There’s one entertaining bit when Reinhardt is choreographing his servants to perform perfectly for a party, and they end up all doing a serving dance to music. He’s a total showman, and rather than enjoy his own party, he’s depressed that the guests don’t know how to behave properly. They’re just milling around – rank amateurs! He wants everything in his life to be theatrical, but reality keeps letting him down.

The dance ends the first half, and then we get more of his life and times from the start of the second half. The growth of the Nazi party is shown, and one chap in particular, Friedrich Muller, has taken a complete dislike to Reinhardt. Muller ends up running the local government once the Germans annexe Austria, and decides to live in Reinhardt’s recently re-appropriated palace which now belongs to the German people. He’s a nasty piece of work. Reinhardt manages to get away and spends time in America where he eventually dies, having spent all his money and being almost friendless.

The performances were all excellent, with Roger Allam being in really good form, and getting the maximum out of the lead role. David Burke as the Archbishop was looking frailer than I remember, but still carried his part off well, and I also liked Selina Griffiths as the long-suffering secretary Gusti Adler, and Peter Forbes as Rudolf Kommer, known as Katie, who managed Reinhardt’s financial affairs for many years, but eventually left him to go to New York ahead of the German invasion. He had a lot of the funny lines, as did Selina, and God knows we needed that, especially in the second half.

My main problem with this play was the lack of dramatic structure. Although it seemed to be leaning heavily on the morality play format, that’s not how it really worked out. Reinhardt fell on hard times, yes, but he wasn’t downhearted by them. He wasn’t taken off for judgement by Death – he simply died. Despite setting us up for some parallels between the Everyman story and Reinhardt’s, nothing came of it, at least not to me. Although Michael Frayn is a very intelligent man, he’s also an atheist, and so perhaps the choice of a religious morality play wasn’t the wisest one, as he doesn’t seem to have grasped what it’s about. We need to see the behind-the-scenes judgement or redemption, or there’s no point. It’s no good criticising the equivalent scenes in the Everyman he’s drawing on for inspiration, if he can’t do better himself (see program notes). And since he obviously doesn’t understand what these scenes are about, perhaps it would have been better to have left the whole concept alone.

Having said that, there are a number of good lines in the play, though it’s shorter on ideas than most of Frayn’s work. I liked the desperation of the poor actor who’s trying to get what Reinhardt wants for the opening lines “Draw near, good people all, I pray”. And the comments about Jews being more supportive of the Catholic church than the local Catholics were quite fun. And Reinhardt’s description at the start of how simple the staging of Everyman will be – complete with sound effects cut off at his command – that was good fun too. So there were a number of good bits like these throughout most of the play, but an awful lot of dreary bits as well. Overall, not a success, but not a complete waste of time either.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

Never So Good – July 2008

6/10

By Howard Brenton

Directed by Howard Davies

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Wednesday 30th July 2008

I found this a bit disappointing, given the good reviews it’s had. The queue for returns was certainly long enough. But even so, I did enjoy a lot of this performance. In fact it was the performances that made it for me – the writing seemed lacklustre at times, while the staging had a few high spots and a greater number of low ones. I was finding the heat difficult today, I must admit, but as I found the opening line funny, I don’t think my state of mind was the problem.

There were four acts, covering major periods of MacMillan’s life. The first took us up to his final wounding in WWI, and introduced us to his mother and the chap who was his best friend, until that friend decided to convert to Catholicism. This section may also have been meant to show us how MacMillan related to the sufferings of the working-class soldiers, but the writing was rather clunky in this area, and we get characters making comments about his attitude rather than letting us see it for ourselves. My main impressions from this section are that he’s a homosexual who never comes out of the closet, and who doesn’t really have any ambition for himself, so his incredibly pushy mother can mould him to suit her wishes. She wants a son who’s a big cheese in the political world, hence her insistence that Harold give up any idea of converting to Catholicism himself as it would make it impossible for him to hold high office.

Jeremy Irons is playing the older MacMillan throughout, but there’s a younger version we get to see a lot of, and in this early part, he’s doing most of the action while the older version dodders about the stage commenting on events. The younger version manages to survive the battle, despite lying in a foxhole for eight hours with no medical attention other than a shot of morphine. He’s psychologically damaged, however, and the exchange between the two MacMillans at this point makes it clear that his younger self is like a ghost haunting him, a conscience who keeps reminding him that he once had great ideals and has failed to achieve anything to justify them. Survivor’s guilt was mentioned in the program notes, and that’s clearly what’s being represented here. From this point on, the younger version wanders around, but doesn’t seem to get much dialogue, which made the character seem a bit redundant to me, and a waste of a good actor. (Having checked the playtext, the character seems to have more to say than I remember, so perhaps lines were cut, or perhaps they just didn’t register with me.)

The second act covered the run up to WWII, and a brief part of MacMillan’s wartime career when he was based in North Africa. While out there he met Eisenhower, and the two men got along well, which would be to MacMillan’s benefit in later years. At this point MacMillan gets the chance to save a young pilot’s life after his plane crashes, and there seemed to be some lessening of his survivor’s guilt, though I wasn’t absolutely sure about this. However, it does seem to be his turning point, when he becomes much tougher and determined to succeed.

Before this, the play covers the plotting that went on in the Conservative party after Chamberlain’s triumphant return from Germany with minimalist stationary supplies, and it was very entertaining. The opening scene shows MacMillan visiting his mother, who is constantly telling him off for his political choices, including becoming MP for a constituency north of Watford. It’s an absolutely hilarious scene, with several very funny lines, impeccably delivered. We also learn about his wife’s affair with another Tory MP, and one whom MacMillan will be involved with closely, as they’re both supporting Churchill in his attempts to retake power. He refuses to divorce his wife, though, as it would be another block to him holding high office. When the inevitable happens, Churchill takes over as leader of the country, and MacMillan finds himself in Africa talking to Eisenhower (see above).

There were warnings about pyrotechnic effects in the production as we went in, but nothing could have prepared us for the actual plane crash. I felt a serious blast of heat in my seat, and I don’t know how they stopped the flames from scorching the ceiling, never mind the actors. It was most impressive. Fortunately they now have the interval to clean everything up.

After the interval, we see the back room shenanigans involved in the Suez crisis. It’s quite good fun seeing the plotting and intrigue, the speculation about what will happen and, more importantly, how the intervention will look to everyone else. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s a ludicrous plan, but it does show how the last traces of the Empire attitude lingered after WWII. MacMillan’s also in good form, manoeuvring himself nicely into the top job as Eden nose-dives into oblivion. It’s in this scene that his younger self seems particularly quiet and superfluous.

The final act is a short one, and takes us from MacMillan’s appointment as PM to his retirement. We see him getting to grips with the requirements of the top job, including negotiations with the French and with Eisenhower. MacMillan attempts to get access to America’s nuclear secrets, only to be told fairly bluntly that the Americans think the British have been faking their atomic orgasms. The effect of the new generation of satirists is mentioned, and then the Profumo affair comes along, and it’s Supermac’s turn to leave the political merry-go-round. And with a final reference to Google, he bids us farewell and leaves the stage.

As I’ve already said, I enjoyed the performances more than the writing or staging. The problems with the staging were simple, but first I want to describe the set. It had an angled wall with tall doors to our left. The doors have glass panes, so at first I thought they were windows. To our right, there were three or four rows of storage shelves, filled with official-looking boxes; these were moved about in later scenes to create the setting for the  Cabinet Room. Wooden chairs were placed in front of the pillars on either side. It was too gloomy at the start to see what the back wall was like, but it looked like industrial concrete. There was also a huge panel of windows that dropped down towards the front of the stage a couple of times, complemented with two chandeliers, and this usually represented a posh location – the Ritz ballroom perhaps. For the First World War, there were mounds and wire and suchlike to represent the battlefield – these were moved into place behind the panel of windows. A wall with greenery slid on about halfway back on the right, with a bench, and this was the setting for MacMillan’s country home. The plane crash in North Africa had lots of metal barrels standing around to hold the many flames, and for other scenes there were tables and chairs brought on as required.

Although we weren’t sitting that far to the side (about six seats in), I found I could see right through the shelving on our right, into the wings, and so whenever the stage crew were getting ready to move things around, these people who were clearly nothing to do with the performance on stage would come into my line of sight, distracting me for a moment from the play. It happened enough that it affected my enjoyment of the piece, and shows a sad lack of ability on the part of the designer, creating a set with such an annoying tendency to prevent audience members from enjoying the show! The amount of haulage was also a problem at times, and reminded me of Michael Attenborough’s comments about “theatre of burglary”, where the lights go down and people dressed in black come into your home and rearrange the furniture. The burglars were well active today, and obviously so, as this time the lights didn’t go down.

A number of the changes were covered by dances, usually between the acts. These did have the advantage of letting us know which time period we were in, but they went on for so long that the momentum of the performance was lost. Given that the writing was a bit lacking in interest, that’s not a good idea. Other than that, I liked the set and the flexibility it gave, but I wouldn’t willingly see this production again, despite the good performances.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

De Profundis – June 2008

6/10

By Oscar Wilde

Directed by Ricahrd Nelson

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Monday 16th June 2008

De Profundis is the letter written by Oscar Wilde to Lord Alfred Douglas during the former’s spell in prison for loving ‘not wisely but too well’. Corin Redgrave started his performance alone on stage, dressed in scruffy and plain clothes of a modern type, but representing prison drab effectively. He scribbled furiously on his notepad, finishing the letter, before turning back to the start and reading it to us as if he were addressing the dear boy himself.

It was a moving performance, bringing out a lot of humour as well as Wilde’s own awareness of his genius, and both his love for and unhappiness with Bosie, who hasn’t called, hasn’t written, etc. I did find myself nodding a bit during the reading – Oscar does labour some of the points, and if it weren’t for the excellent delivery, he would sound like a petulant old tart at times. But Corin Redgrave’s skill lifts us out of all that.

I was very aware of the circumstances in which the letter was written, the depressing and debilitating nature of the prison regime, especially for someone like Oscar Wilde, and I also learned a great deal about their relationship which I hadn’t known before, especially the monetary cost. It was good to see that Corin was still up to this level of performance, even if his frailty is limiting what he can do physically. The audience was rightly appreciative, and many were standing at the end. Well deserved, and for a very enjoyable performance.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

Fram – May 2008

5/10

By Tony Harrison

Directed by Tony Harrison and Bob Crowley

Venue: Olivier Theatre

Date: Thursday 1st May 2008

This was an interesting play, at least for the first half. The subject matter was relatively unknown to me, and the choice of characters seemed really weird until they all came together for the final scene before the interval. Perhaps I should mention here that Sian Phillips’s speech as Sybil Thorndike in that scene nearly put me off my ice cream! (I said nearly.)

The play starts in Westminster Cathedral. There’s a pillar with a marble decorated ledge, two large stained glass windows, one suspended at the front of the stage, the other at the back, and lots of echoing darkness. The stained glass windows were actually projections, which made them easy to remove and replace. The floor was covered with black cloth, also easily removed to reveal the arctic ice. Film projection was used quite a bit, both at the back and on a screen lowered towards the front of the stage. There was also a proscenium arch set with two side boxes, a drawing room type scenario (where Sybil gives her stomach-churning speech), and some good interpretations of snowy wastes. The first of these consisted of a central area with some jagged ice blocks sticking up at an angle, and lots of flat floes around it. The temporary hut was set up beside these blocks. Later, when Nansen and Johansen return to the Arctic, their ship, Fram (means “forward” in Norwegian), rises up majestically out of the floor, as the central part rotates. It was reasonably impressive, but I noticed that the ship’s masts were at right angles to the stage, although the ship itself was angled as if it were a submarine rising from the depths, and at speed. Very peculiar.

The play opens with the sounds of locks being turned, doors creaking open, and footsteps echoing along stone floors – slightly reminiscent of Tales of Old Dartmoor, a Goon classic. Eventually we get to see a character, Gilbert Murray, a dead professor who not only translated ancient Greek dramas into English verse, he also speaks the stuff, and at considerable length. He’s a little miffed that his translation of the Oresteia wasn’t used for the National’s production some years ago (funnily enough, they used Tony Harrison’s instead), but exceedingly miffed to find he’s buried only a short distance from T S Eliot, a man he obviously detested (and who didn’t speak highly of him).  Fortunately he gets another character to explain things to, and this is Sybil Thorndike. He tells her he’s writing a play, in verse, about Fridtjof Nansen, a man they both knew, and there’s a part for her in it. Nothing gets an actress’s attention quicker than that, and despite the total lack of a script, set, costumes, rehearsal time etc, she’s persuaded to join in this ‘improv’ piece. She’s none too happy when she finds her dress is the wrong colour and she’s only in one scene, but those come later. And given the amount of time she does spend on stage (and screen) it’s hardly a bit part.

Anyway, they head off to the National, and the screens at the back show us their progress, including their arrival at the entrance to the auditorium. It’s no surprise when they come down the side aisles, Sybil to our right, Gilbert to our left, although from the audience reaction, you’d have thought this was the first time it had ever been done.

I should mention that canned applause was used frequently throughout the production, and it’s a good job too, as this audience seemed reluctant to play the part of the audience within the play. With one notable exception, we restrained ourselves from laughing, clapping, oohing and ahhing as much as possible – I suspect I would have enjoyed the play more if the audience had been a bit more giving. In fact, there were noticeable gaps amongst us for the second half, and I don’t usually see so many folk leave during the applause at the end. From the first scene, I felt there were jokes that didn’t get a suitable response, and Steve and I reckon those who came just weren’t expecting so much humour. Ah well.

Once Gilbert and Sybil were on stage (again), there was some faffing about with a Greek tragedy mask before we get to meet the subject of the play, Fridtjof Nansen. The screen comes down, and we see a slide projected onto it – Nansen is giving a talk about his Arctic experiences. He gives us a reasonably long opening spiel, introduces us to his colleague from the ice, Johansen, then repeats the opening bit twice more, as slides for his talks in Newcastle and Aberdeen appear on either side of the London one. At least the audience was warming up a bit by this time, so we got a chance to laugh at the humour of the repetition.

The screen at the front also covered up the set changes behind, so when Nansen moves from slide show to dramatic reconstruction, all that’s needed is for the screen to lift, and for the black cloth to be surreptitiously whisked off to the wings, like some dead body being dragged away by an alien creature on Doctor Who.

Nansen and Johansen showed us their ‘roomy’ hut (it was tiny), their bear fur sleeping bag which they planned to split in two now they had the luxury of separate sides of the hut, and their complete inability to communicate with each other. They were described as each other’s opposite, with Johansen being the dark side of Nansen’s soul. Personally I wouldn’t have wanted to spend much time with either of them by choice, but I can see how extreme need makes for stranger bedfellows than ordinary necessity. Nansen believed that, as the seas were cooling, the planet would end up covered in ice and snow – everywhere would be like the Arctic. It’s a chilling prospect, though shot through with irony given current concerns about the climate, and it made him a less than comfortable companion. Johansen puts the blame for his own suicide squarely on Nansen’s shoulders; he claims it was the depressing effect of Nansen’s beliefs that led to his drinking and terminal despair. I can see the man’s point. However, being dead means nothing in this play, where ghosts have a remarkably physical presence, so Johansen isn’t gone. Oh no, he becomes Nansen’s conscience and biggest critic, and probably gets more lines in that role than he did when he was (supposedly) alive.

Nansen’s successful trip meant he was welcomed back to Norway as a great hero. His achievement (he reached furthest north) was surpassed a few years later, so he also faced the challenge of despair and discouragement. However, he avoided the bullet, and chose instead to focus his energies on helping the rest of humanity in any way he could. This leads to the scene in a open-plan drawing room, which was using the very slow revolve to subtly change the perspective. It took me some time to spot, and I find that sort of thing helpful in what are otherwise quite static scenes. Various characters were present, all deeply involved in the relief effort for Russian famine victims. There’s some debate about the best way forward – film, radio, newspapers, acting – and the scorn heaped on the influence of the actors is so great that Sybil has to show them what she’s made of. Her moving speech as a starving Russian woman and mother was a little too long, but was also tremendously powerful, and even stomach-churning. The descriptions of eating cooked human flesh have stayed with me longer than I would like, and her wrecking of the buffet was entirely appropriate, if somewhat messy. Delivered as it was by a well-nourished, well-dressed woman, this speech ably demonstrated the power of performance to move people, and Sian Thomas got the loudest round of applause for her superb acting when Sybil made her triumphant exit.

The second half showed us Nansen’s tour to raise awareness and funds to help with the famine relief effort. He was using the slide show again, only this time the pictures were horrific and sadly not unknown today. He left, and Johansen’s ghost harangued us for a while, exhorting us to look at the pictures in case one of the dead bodies moved. He also stomped off, leaving us with the picture of two dead bodies, supposedly a brother and sister. After a very long pause, there was indeed some movement, which was startling, but I have no idea what any of that was supposed to convey to the audience.

From there, Gilbert and Sybil returned to Westminster Abbey, and after reviling T S Eliot some more, they were interrupted by a Kurdish poet with his mouth sewn up (don’t ask me). He struggled to express himself, and that was that. For a final scene, we get to see Nansen and Johansen on the ice again, this time on Fram, as it rose up from the depths. God knows what that bit was about. Nansen meets a couple of African kids, who’ve apparently been frozen to death because they stowed away in the undercarriage recess on a plane, and were taken too high to survive. The idea of these two being explorers of the frozen air appeals to Nansen; didn’t do it for me, though.

There was also a ballet during the first half, an actual ballet, inspired by Nansen’s drawings of the aurora borealis. It went on too long for me, as ballet has never been my thing, although I’m sure the dancer did a great job.

The ooh moment came during Nansen’s second slide show. To soften us up, he commented that when he showed his pictures of the animals on his arctic expeditions, it was only in England that people went… and the audience this time obliged with an “ahh” (a particularly lovely husky was on the screen at that point).

The performances were all fine, given the tedious nature of some of the dialogue, and the confusing jumble of symbolism and realistic, biography and fantasy. The constant use of rhyming couplets can jar after a while, especially when the rhymes are emphasised, as they often were here. There were a lot of in jokes, mainly to do with the Olivier itself, and although we got most of them, it did take the emphasis completely away from the subject matter, assuming the subject matter was something to do with Nansen and his career. The time spent on the ice was less than I’d expected from the pre-publicity, especially as almost all the photos used that part of the set. It was spectacular enough, although not the only good aspect of the set design.

Overall, it was a disappointing play with some good scenes, which could do with some serious editing if it wants a life beyond the Olivier stage.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

Statement Of Regret – February 2008

6/10

By: Kwame Kwei-Armah

Directed by: Jeremy Herrin

Venue: Cottesloe Theatre

Date: Wednesday 6th February 2008

This was an interesting and stimulating experience. It’s the first play I’ve seen by Kwame Kwei-Armah, and I was impressed by how well he intertwined the personal and the social, how the characters weren’t just mouthpieces for the ideas they’re putting forward. On the other hand, while the performances were excellent, and the play informative, I didn’t feel I could relate to the characters as much as I’d hoped. I’ve had no difficulty with other “black” plays, e.g. Big White Fog, so I’m not sure how much of the distance I felt was down to me (very possible), and how much down to what Steve described as a lack of soul (also possible). Steve has seen other plays by this writer, and found the same deficiency in his other work. I certainly didn’t feel there was anything missing while I was watching the piece, although now that I have a little distance from it, I find there was nothing happening which I really cared about. And from their actions sometimes, it seemed the characters didn’t really care either.

The story is of an older man of West Indian parentage, returning from an enforced leave of absence, who has a breakdown right in front of us. As he runs a policy think tank on black affairs, this is bad news for the whole organisation – five men, two women, and no dog. Actually, given that the two women are this guy’s wife and his mistress, it’s clear the female point of view is going to be pretty limited, and so it proved. But that’s not a problem if the rest of the play can deliver, and most of the time it did.

On the personal level, this chap not only has his mistress, but also his son working for him, while another, illegitimate, son joins them as an intern during the play. Lots of scope for personal issues there. There’s also a gay black guy, and a laid back colourful character who delivers the post and does the opening and closing prayers for meetings, and a partner who is thinking of accepting a candidacy as an MP for the Tories. He’s really covered the ground, but it didn’t seem formulaic at the time, so apologies if my description makes it seem that way.

Don Warrington played the lead character, Kwaku, who is imploding before our eyes. His drinking is obvious, his delusional state less so, but it becomes clearer as the play progresses. His refusal to handle the grief he feels over his father’s death a couple of years ago, plus his guilt and other emotions, drive him crazy. He gradually takes on his father’s persona, eventually making some outrageous racist and anti-Semitic remarks in a TV interview which pretty much wipe out the good he’s done with the organisation over the years. It’s a good performance, and came across pretty powerfully in that small space. I did need a little time to adjust to his use of two different accents, but once I did I found it a useful way of showing what the character was going through, not knowing what path to follow.

The central conflict of ideas was whether black people who are descended from slaves are a distinct group with different needs and therefore should campaign separately, or whether there’s greater strength in all black people working together to further their joint aims. The divisions in the “black community” were very apparent here. Those from Africa who had settled here to find better education, jobs, etc, regarded themselves as different from (and better than) those who had come over from the West Indies. The statistics quoted made it clear that young men with an African origin were doing very well, while West Indian derived young men were at the bottom of the heap. The idea of Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome was raised and briefly discussed, but didn’t get a full treatment, as the play was covering a wider range than just one issue, albeit a big issue. (Post-Traumatic Slave Syndrome is an idea put forward by Dr Joy De Gruy Leary, and the program notes contain a discussion between her and the author.) The whole conflict was personalised here, because Kwaku’s legitimate son has an African mother, and so is neither one thing nor the other. His father’s rejection of him as not being properly West Indian is deeply hurtful.

The set is two offices, with doors off to right and left up some stairs. In the foreground is the open-plan office, with Kwaku’s office above and behind. Obviously, when action was taking place there, the front office had to go quiet, and this led to a strange lull the day after the really bad TV interview, when the characters left in the office would have surely been doing more than sitting at their desks looking glum while the other characters were having their row in the upper office. However, there was no other way to stage it, and it didn’t distract me too much – just a passing thought.

I don’t feel I’ve been able to put down the real experience of this play so far. It was fine watching it, but now I just seem to be left with ideas, and nothing much in my gut. So I’ll leave it there, and hope I can get enough out of these descriptions to recall the feelings, such as they were.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

Much Ado About Nothing – January 2008

9/10

By; William Shakespeare

Directed by: Nicholas Hytner

Venue: Olivier Theatre

Date: Wednesday 30th January 2008

We’d seen such a great Much Ado last summer in the Swan, part of the Complete Works, that I was a bit worried that we wouldn’t appreciate this one fully. I didn’t have too much to worry about, though. While it wasn’t as lively as the RSC production, this performance had some of the best interpretations of the lines I’ve heard, and seen. Some of the business was off the text, but still incredibly funny, and the relationship between Beatrice and Benedick was detailed and moving, as well as bringing out the humour brilliantly.

The set used the revolving box from The Alchemist (Oct 2006), with wooden slatted walls on two sides, and pergolas along them. There were flats with upper windows at various angles behind the box. Furniture was brought on as needed, and with the revolve, the next scene could be set up without distracting us from the current scene – very effective. During the marvellous overhearing scenes, there was a pond in the main area, and it’s put to good use – both Beatrice and Benedick fall in it. Although this set up allowed for greater flow between the scenes, I did feel the pace was a bit slow at times.

The costumes were a mixture, part Jacobethan, part Olde Worlde, as far as I could tell; let’s face it, I’m not an expert in these matters, and that’s probably why I don’t get put off productions that have made unusual costuming decisions. Anyway, I liked them. So there.

There were several of the female cast on stage at the start, nibbling away at fruit and the like, and chatting. Leonato arrives with Beatrice, and joins them. I do like this kind of opening –we have to pay attention for longer to see what’s going to happen. Unfortunately, they work best if the audience cooperates, and this time we had a chatty couple behind who weren’t going to give up their talking time just to allow us all to drink in the atmosphere being so carefully set up for us. (B*$^&@#>.)

Along comes the messenger, giving Leonato a letter, and so out of breath he has to sit down for a bit. They get him some food and water to wash in, etc. Beatrice is sprawled on a chair at the end of the table, and joins in with her bitchy questions from there. It’s a good start, giving us the background, the information that Hero fancies Claudio, and the beginning of a understanding of the relationship between Beatrice and Benedick.

When Don Pedro does arrive, attended by various nobles, the bows and curtseys are quite formal, indicating that Don Pedro, a prince of Arragon, is pretty senior in this society, and not to be trifled with. He, on the other hand, has no concerns about trifling with other people. I was very aware in this production that he seems to be determined to get involved in everyone else’s life, and doesn’t seem to have much of a life of his own. The reactions from Claudio later on, when Don Pedro is spelling out how he’ll woo Hero on Claudio’s behalf, make it quite clear that Claudio isn’t keen on the idea, but doesn’t know how to get this point across to the prince. Likewise, when Beatrice has made it clear that she’s been romantically involved with Benedick before, and it didn’t end happily, the prince suddenly announces he’s going to play a trick on both Beatrice and Benedick to get each to fall in love with other, and all for sport! What a great laugh they’ll all have. It’s a really unpleasant side to the prince’s character, and I’ve never seen it brought out so much before (or I just never spotted it before). Admittedly, Beatrice has just made a faux pas – not only does she reject Don Pedro’s suggestion that she and he could become an item, she possibly triggers the offer by getting a bit frisky, and slapping the prince on the bum! It’s possible he feels hurt (emotionally, that is) and wants some revenge, but I didn’t get that from this performance. On the whole, it came across as the prince just being incredibly insensitive to the feelings of those around him, and this may partially explain why Don John, his brother, doesn’t like him.

Back with the prince’s first entrance (I hope you’ve got a cup of tea, this may take some time), Benedick and Beatrice are soon sniping at each other, while the others drift off towards the back of the stage. That was one of the things I liked about this staging – the set design made it easy for characters to drift in and out of the main playing area, whichever one was facing us at the time, and to wend their way around as the set rotated, making this much less static, and much more interesting. I got the impression that Benedick is fending Beatrice off – he’s had enough of her rough tongue, and wants to avoid her as much as possible. Yet, when he’s trying to talk Claudio out of being in love with Hero, he readily refers to Beatrice in superlative terms. She “exceeds her [Hero] as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December”. Pretty clear what he thinks of Beatrice as a woman, then. And this lays the groundwork nicely for the declaration of love in the church.

After the prince’s arrival, Benedick is quick to mention that he’s bursting to tell him everything – blabber mouth. I loved the delivery of these lines. Simon Russell Beale has such an ability to speak Shakespearean lines as though they made sense, which means they often do, and this was no exception. Along with the other members of the cast, I must add, who all contributed to this intelligent and intelligible production.

This was one of those occasions when the stage revolved to allow the characters to move into another part of the premises. As the men are talking, well, actually, as Benedick is railing against marriage with short contributions from the other two, they move round into the prince’s bedchamber, so he can change his shirt. While he does this, and after Benedick has left, the prince and Claudio discuss Hero, and the prince comes up with his plan to do the wooing for Claudio. Claudio keeps trying to get some words out to express his concern about this, but doesn’t quite manage to say anything. Off they go, and the effect of their conversation will be picked up by others shortly.

Leonato has a short conversation with his brother, Antonio, who informs him that the prince is in love with Hero, and intends to woo her at the dance. It’s exciting news, but this time Leonato restrains himself, and decides to wait and see what happens. He’ll warn Hero though, just in case. Next we see Don John, the sulky one, brooding intently round the back of the set. Conrad, one of his servants, tries to advise him to be more sociable, as he’s only recently been reconciled to his brother, but Don John is determined to be himself, and sulk as much as he wants to. This makes him sound like a stubborn teenager, but Andrew Woodall played him with some gravitas, making me wonder if he was just suffering from depression. Borachio arrives, with the news about the wooing, and this time, it’s the correct version, that the prince intends to woo Hero on behalf of Claudio. The prospect of throwing a very large spanner in the works cheers up Don John enormously – he almost smiled – and off they go to cause mischief. It’s always nice to know where you stand with the villains.

The dance scene begins with the ladies, Leonato and Antonio sitting in the seats at the side of the floor; the other men haven’t yet arrived. Beatrice’s comments on the unsuitability of any man to be her husband are entertaining enough, and her comments about men with no beards are funnier because her uncle, Antonio, is clean-shaven. The bickering continues between different couples as the dancing gets underway, and eventually the set rotates us round to where Beatrice had just been told something about herself by a masked man. Who can it be? The nose of his mask is extraordinarily long, yet the form seems familiar. Zounds, it’s Benedick, but did Beatrice spot him? I should think so, despite her obvious delight in knocking back the wine. Benedick comes off second best, again, and his reactions are clear, despite the disguise.

Now Don John does his evil work with Claudio, deliberately mistaking him for Benedick. Frankly, this is absurd, given their respective shapes, but we mustn’t let that get in the way of an enjoyable bit of theatre. And in any case, Claudio’s sulk doesn’t last long, as eventually Don Pedro tells him that Hero is won. Before that, we and the prince get to hear Benedick ranting at great length about how terrible Beatrice is. Honestly, to listen to him go on and on and on, anyone would think he’s besotted by her. Even though he asks the prince to send him away on some impossible mission as soon as she reappears with her relatives. Mind you, he does dash off almost immediately after that, so he’s clearly still upset at his verbal pasting from Beatrice.

She, on the other hand, has brought Claudio along to be given the good news about Hero, and rightly divines what’s upsetting him. It’s noticeable how little Claudio has to say at this point – everyone on stage notices, never mind the audience. With the RSC production last year I was reminded that actually Hero and Claudio have probably not spoken at all; here it was just a reflection of Claudio’s youth and inexperience. He reminded me of Romeo – all passion and flowery romantic words, but no real understanding of relationships, nor any real trust in Hero, as it turns out. It’s often a concern as to why she’s willing to take him back after his treatment of her, but this production handles that very well. Later. (It’s at this time that Beatrice lets her hand stray too far, and ends up having to deflect the proposal from Don Pedro.)

His first attempt at upsetting everyone having lost its momentum, Don John now picks up Borachio’s offer to delude the prince and Claudio and derail the marriage altogether. It’s not altogether clear why Borachio is doing this. I assume it’s because he supports Don John in mischief. The RSC had Borachio being the only man who actually woos Hero, and who wanted to stop this marriage to give himself a chance again, but here it’s not specified. I also realised for the first time that we never actually see this discovery scene. It’s so well described that I feel I must have seen it, yet it’s only in the words. This makes me realise how important some of these apparently trivial scenes can be.

Now for the water feature. The sunken pool on the terrace comes into its own. Benedick sends one of the household maids to fetch his book, rather than a boy. He then has one of the best soliloquies in Shakespeare – I love the way he disdains marriage, then spends ages spelling out his ideal woman. When the prince, Claudio and Leonato arrive, the slatted walls serve for cover, and Benedick nips behind one, taking his chair with him. At one point, the folding chair decides to fold up, and we have one of those lovely moments when the people on stage have to ignore an obvious giveaway, just so they can carry on with their entrapment. They include the music in this production, and it’s quite enjoyable, though I’ve never figured out why Balthazar is going on about what a bad singer he is. Anyway, it’s pleasant enough, and then the three conspirators get down to business.

This is one of the best scenes in Shakespeare’s comedies, and these actors got full measure out of it. Leonato has tremendous difficulty remembering what to say, unlike the two soldiers, who’re obviously used to practical jokes. Benedick’s reactions are marvellously funny; in fact it’s difficult to know which way to look during this scene. They helped out by having Benedick move around a lot, eventually lurking behind the chair he’d draped his jacket over at the start. I did like they way he sidled up to the thin pillar of the pergola and tried to hide behind it – Wile E. Coyote might have managed it, but cuddly Simon…..

They staged this scene so that the prince and his cohorts wend their way to the back of the stage, only to return for their final lines. Benedick, meanwhile, has come onto the main part of the stage, and begins his lines (I think). When they return, he’s trapped, and ends up diving into the pool to hide – massive splash. This was funny enough, but then, after a long pause, while the others are busy trying not to crack up completely, the top of Benedick’s head appears over the side of the pool. The expression in Simon Russell Beale’s eyes was hilarious. And the idea that the others couldn’t see him was farcical (good farcical, that is). After the others leave, Benedick stays in the pool for a bit, thinking through what he’s just heard, and leaning on the side of the pool as if he were at a spa. When Beatrice comes on to call him in for dinner, he’s out of the pool, and stands there, dripping wet. After her tart summons is over, there’s the wonderful line “‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner ,’ there’s a double meaning in that.” Benedick’s euphoria as he grasps this fictitious straw of hope is side-splitting.

And, just so we don’t get bored, the next eavesdropping scene follows on immediately. Will knew when to report a scene, and when to show us it in full. This time it’s Hero and Ursula setting the trap, and sending Margaret off to lure Beatrice into it. This time, the set has been on the turn, and so Beatrice is able to hide better than Benedick. Again, she reacts well to the two women’s chat, even putting her hands through the slats to try and strangle Ursula after some pointed comment. She also thinks about hiding behind a pergola pole at one point, but finds a better opportunity to overhear them. One of the maids is mopping up after the last big splash, and Beatrice borrows her hat, mop and bucket. In their talk, Hero and Ursula have lost sight of Beatrice, and look around for her, eventually spotting the lady herself, despite the amazing disguise. Ursula signals to the “maid” to carry on cleaning up, and when she accidentally knocks her bucket into the pool, indicates she should get it out. This Beatrice attempts to do without giving herself away, and the inevitable happens – another splash! This was even funnier, though we knew it was coming. Hero and Ursula are soon off the stage, and Beatrice heaves herself out pretty quickly – these dresses soak up a lot of water – and heads off to dry herself.

By now, Benedick has not only dried himself, he’s had a shave as well, and the prince, Claudio and Leonato discover him round the other side of the stage. He tries to hide his face, but they soon discover what’s going on and let rip with their jests. Benedick manages to get away with Leonato to discuss a matter of some importance, leaving the coast clear for Don John to plant more evil seeds in men’s minds. And now the interval.

The second half opened with Dogberry and the watch. Dogberry has always been a problem for me. His mangling of the language has rarely come across well, and there’s often a problem with the reactions of the watch members. If they don’t spot that Dogberry’s talking rubbish, it reduces the humour for me. It works much better when Dogberry’s talking to the gentry, although then there’s a risk of patronising attitudes spoiling the fun. All in all, he’s one of the trickier clowns. Here we have Mark Addy taking him on, and he did a respectable job with it. Verges, played by Trevor Peacock, plays an old doddery man, who lines up behind Dogberry whenever they have to bow, leading to an unfortunate alignment of head and bum. Not the worst watch I’ve seen, by any means, and they catch the villains Conrad and Borachio well enough.

Margaret is helping Hero dress for her wedding, and when Beatrice comes on with a stinker of a cold, Margaret ends up being the lively one. Beatrice evidently didn’t get dry quick enough after her swim. Dogberry turns up just as Leonato is putting the finishing touches to his outfit, and so gets sent off to do the interrogation himself. His lines were funny, and his taking of the wine, including a bottle or two for later, was entertaining.

The church scene is a pivotal one, and this staging brought out the ups and downs very well. First, there’s the lovely entrance of the bride, and the groom’s party. It’s all very solemn and full of expectation. Then there’s the shocking accusations against Hero, and everything’s thrown into confusion. Leonato is enraged against his daughter (silly old fool, too keen on the prince, that’s his problem), Hero is amazed, Beatrice is appalled, the prince’s company, except Benedick, are cold, and the friar keeps his cool remarkably well. There are a number of meddling friars in Shakespeare’s works – this one gets away with it. After the prince’s departure, and after Leonato has been calmed down (no easy task), there’s a quieter phase when Beatrice and Benedick get a chance to talk. I was very aware that there’s no time to reflect on the situation during the manic part of the scene, and it’s lovely to have this section when we can really feel the emotions that have been stirred up. I usually relate best to Beatrice’s grief and anger, probably because they’re the main emotions on show, and I feel it’s important to register what a huge disruption this event has caused to everyone. Benedick manages to express his love for Beatrice now she’s no longer sniping at him, and he sounded a bit surprised at saying it, or perhaps he was just surprised how easily it popped out. For all the context and content, it’s lovely to see the two of them talking as human to human, and learning to work together.

Now Dogberry confronts the villains, and confounds them with his incisive wit, his sharp interrogation techniques…. You’re not believing this, are you? OK, it’s the usual scene, with Dogberry most insistent he be “writ down an ass”. His indignation was lovely to see.

Next Leonato and his brother meet up with the prince and Claudio, and nearly come to blows. Antonio even heads off to fetch his massive broadsword, bigger than himself, and waves it around dangerously. The danger is more that he’ll accidentally hit something than that he’ll actually fight with it, and it was nicely humorous. They soon get it off him, and then Benedick arrives with the serious challenge. The change in his manner is noticeable. He delivers the challenge sincerely, and with enough temper to suggest he really does know what he’s doing with a sword. Just when the prince and Claudio thought things couldn’t get any worse, Dogberry and his watch arrive with the prisoners, and all is revealed. Leonato also turns up, with his brother, and after telling Claudio what he has to do to untarnish Hero’s memory (they think she’s died), suggests that Claudio marry his brother’s daughter instead, “almost the copy of my child that’s dead”. Pity he didn’t warn his brother about this – he nearly spoils the plan by his reactions.

As they all leave, and the set rotates, we see Margaret has been listening in, at least to the last part of this scene, and so realises that Borachio has been arrested, and that she’s probably played a part in getting Hero falsely accused. She’s quick to recover her wits, though, as Benedick asks her to fetch Beatrice to him. He ruminates about love, letting us know he’s not very good at poetry, and then when Beatrice comes they have one of their usual sparring matches, though without the bitterness that was present before.

For the tomb scene, Claudio actually lies on the tomb (hints of necrophilia there, I feel), and as he’s singing his hymn, we see Hero being brought on to watch by her father, from behind the partition. She takes a good long look at Claudio, and then nods to her father, indicating she’s willing to marry him. This was a good piece of staging, as it lets us see that she’s made her own choice, very important after what’s happened.

For the final scene, the ladies all enter with veils, and Claudio resigns himself to marrying some young woman, then has all the joy of finding Hero returned (yes, of course I cried). When Benedick asks the friar to add him and Beatrice to the wedding plans, he puts his hands over his face for a moment before coming out with the dreaded words “honourable marriage”. The poems turn up, and she grabs hers and eats it before he can read it, then reads his, giving a really evil cackle at his pathetic attempts at rhyme. It’s a lovely happy ending, and we applauded for a long time. For all its problems, this is a hugely enjoyable play, and this was one of the best productions I’ve seen of it.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

War Horse – January 2008

6/10

By: Michael Morpurgo (novel) adapted by Nick Stafford

Directed by: Marianne Elliot

Venue: Olivier Theatre

Date: Thursday 24th January 2008

Although I enjoyed this production, I probably found it less good than some of the reports we’d heard, mainly because our expectations were higher than usual. The horse puppets were indeed fantastic, and I certainly cried at the end, but our distance from the stage meant we weren’t as involved as we normally like to be. I had hoped that the size of the production would carry that far back, but I did miss seeing the actor’s expressions clearly. Another reminder that we like to get up close and personal with the action, though preferably not within soaking range.

The set was sparse and effective. At first, I thought the strip of white, torn paper across the centre of the stage was actually in front of a curtain of some sort. As the action progressed, I realised the stage was open to the back, and the way this strip was  lit made it seem to be floating in the air. It also allowed for scenes to be projected onto it, giving us information on the time and place of each scene, and showing some shadow puppeteering for the action that couldn’t be fitted onto the stage. The floor had the revolve painted up as streaks and patches of brown and grey. This very effectively suggested furrows, mud, rutted paths, and probably a few other things as well. A bit of this decoration spilled over to the rest of the stage, which was otherwise plain black floorboards running front to back. I noticed what seemed like a forked tree trunk in the shadows to our left – this turned out to be a plough – and to our right were a couple of boxes. Doors, carts, wagons, and even a tank were brought on as needed.

The key to this whole production has to be the marvellous puppet work. Apart from the horses themselves, there was a goose, running around, pecking at the ground and hissing at people, several birds flying across the sky at different times, a young girl in occupied France who makes friends with the horses, and a rather nasty crow who shows an unpleasant interest in the corpses littering the place. But the horses were spectacular. Full sized puppets, with two men inside them working the legs with hand controls, and another chap at the head, giving them life and movement. They were rarely still, always shifting and nosing at things, as horses do, and even though I could see the person working the head, it was easy to forget that and just see the horses.

I did find it a bit more confusing when Joey, the star of the show, was a foal. He was so small that there were three people working him from the outside, and as they were dressed the same as the actors, I did find it hard to tell sometimes whether they were people holding the horse or non-existent puppeteers. This was especially true at the horse market, with lots of folk milling around. However, we soon got past that, and seeing actors actually riding these magnificent puppets was quite amazing. It was particularly sad when we got to the later stages of the war and some of the horses were bags of bone, dying as they tried to pull the guns from place to place. It was heartbreaking to see them die.

It was certainly a sad story, and I fully expected Albert to find Joey just as he was breathing his last – a truly sad ending. I was surprised when this animal actually managed to survive, despite the hard work, the lack of food and all the other hardships, but then the story is aimed at children. The basic plot is that Joey is bought as a foal by a farmer who’s  in competition with his more successful brother-in-law. He spends all the mortgage money on him, and his son, Albert, trains the horse up so they can sell him. Albert and Joey get on really well, and then Albert finds out that his silly father has bet that Joey will plough a strip of land by a particular Sunday – I forget what it was called. As Joey is more suited to riding than ploughing, no one expects him to win, but Albert keeps working with him (he has a whole week, after all!), and sure enough, Joey manages it, just. Thinking Joey’s now safe, and his, Albert lets his guard down, and his father then sells Joey off to the army as a cavalry horse, just in time for him to be shipped off to France for WWI. We then see Joey’s story, as he gets to meet Topthorn, the other horse in the story, and they’re ridden in a cavalry charge, only to have their riders shot off the top of them. The horses then wander round the battlefield, until a German cavalry officer finds them, and recognising their quality does his best to protect them. The opportunity comes when horses are wanted to pull an ambulance cart. At first, it doesn’t look like Topthorn will handle the harness, but Joey remembers it from his ploughing days, and volunteers. Topthorn then joins in, and the cavalry officer takes advantage of this and a later opportunity to take on the identity of a dead ambulance man, to keep the horses safe on a farm over the winter.

By this time, Albert has joined up, thinking he’ll be joining the cavalry regiment and be able to find Joey, only he’s sidetracked into the infantry, and gets caught up in the fighting. Joey and Topthorn are taken back into service pulling the German artillery, and eventually Topthorn dies. Joey survives, and wanders over the battlefield, until he gets caught up in some barbed wire in no-man’s land (OK, I was crying by this time). The German and British soldiers have a temporary truce to try to recover him; the British soldier wins the coin-toss, and takes him back to their lines, but he’s badly injured. Albert has taken a shell-blast and is temporarily blinded, and both he and Joey end up at the same medical station. As the medical staff are declaring that they can’t treat the horse, Albert is talking with his mate, and Joey recognises his voice, and I can’t go on, I can’t see the keys for the tears…..

(Several tissues later…) Well, it all ends happily, as I said before, and if it hadn’t been so sad, I think I would have enjoyed it more. I accept it’s a sad subject, and I don’t expect it to be tarted up, but maybe I just wasn’t in the mood for something so powerful. I’m still glad I saw it, and some of the images will stay with me for a long time.

One other thing to mention was that much of the Germans’ dialogue was in German, without surtitles. A bit confusing, but nicely realistic, especially as one of the German officers was suspicious of his colleagues who spoke in English.

At the end, all the puppeteers came on as themselves to begin with, and after taking the first bows, they dashed off. I was hoping they’d come back on as the horses, and they did, rearing up, and taking their bows beautifully. I still feel like I’ve seen actual horses on stage. This was a masterpiece in many ways, and I hope they can find some other way to use these magnificent puppets again.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me

Present Laughter – January 2008

8/10

By: Noel Coward

Directed by: Howard Davies

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Tuesday 22nd January 2008

Now that I’ve seen this play a number of times, I realise the main interest in seeing it again is the fantastically different performances by the leading man. We’ve seen Simon Callow, Donald Sinden and somebody else (I wasn’t doing these notes then), and each time the lead actor brings a different emphasis, along with accumulated baggage, most of which enriches the performance. Alex Jennings contributed a more youthful Garry Essendine, one close to the age claimed by Garry, which made his character seem more in touch with reality. He still covered the character’s wide emotional range (or tantrums) beautifully, and there was a nice touch for those of us who remember Alex Jennings’ Peer Gynt some years ago, with Garry being so thankful that his friends had saved him from playing that part. All the performances were perfect, and I enjoyed myself immensely.

I did find the set and staging a bit off-putting, though. Having checked the program notes, I accept that the play itself was written in the run-up to WWII, and that it would have been staged in the West End had the war not broken out just before the opening, but I don’t find any references to the war in the play itself. In fact, if they had been in the early stages of WWII, would Liz have blithely suggested that Joanna spend a month in Paris? Maybe she wanted her to fall into the German’s clutches, as that would have solved all their problems. Or would Joanna actually have gone, only to return a week later because she misses Garry, rather than to avoid those terribly non-U Nazi storm troopers? And the references to what food is available for breakfast take on a different connotation: rather than suggesting a haphazard Bohemian lifestyle, they simply imply that rationing had bitten early. And the biggest elephant in the room was the tour to Africa – that would have been completely disrupted by the events being announced on the stage radio, never mind by Garry’s obsessive lovers (and Mr Maule, who may want to be one of these lovers).

The set contributed to this sense of the play not quite fitting the mould made for it. Previous productions have used immaculately designed and decorated sets, against which Garry struts his stuff like a peacock. This set was an exaggerated triangle, thrusting quite far back on the stage, and giving more of the Bohemian effect. The walls were painted in a turquoise blue scumbled effect, the sofas and tables were well-worn and old-fashioned, and with the various throws and rugs, it wasn’t actually easy to see, when Garry posed himself on the sofa, which bits were him and which bits were the throws. For someone who likes to play the peacock, this was beyond understated. It also made it hard to spot the change after the farewell party – the place looked much the same, just a few extra bottles which took time to spot. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the references in the dialogue, I might not have noticed. All the luggage seemed part and parcel of the general studio setting as well, so extra bags arriving didn’t build up that sense of pressure that I normally get with the final scene. Despite this, the acting was superb from everyone – the central part is so dependent on the rest of the cast to pull this one off – and there was one lovely piece of business during the third scene. When Daphne is doing her recital, she loses the words at one point (not specified in the text), and everyone else, including Miss Erikson the housekeeper who pops her head through the kitchen door, prompts her. This adds to Daphne’s embarrassment, as it’s another reminder that she’s not the first and won’t be the last to have a fling with Garry. You can certainly count us in for another go.

© 2008 Sheila Evans at ilovetheatre.me