1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Dec 4, 2017 15:27:41 GMT
I agree with every word of your spot-on review Steve . The title role seems to be a bit of a problem all-round. I felt Christopher Fitzgerald lacked charisma when he did it at Chichester, but compared to Brigstocke he was superb - he could at least sing, dance, act and walk a tightrope unlike Marcus. It must have been painfully obvious he was totally inadequate early on in the rehearsal process so why was he not replaced? Sadly I never got to see Crawford in the role - my car broke down on Hammersmith flyover! There's a recording of Crawford's performance, and a low quality copy of it is on youtube. I think Crawford was wonderful in the role. I saw the last tour, in Wimbledon, and Brian Conley was made for the role. He probably would have been even better if he played it when he was younger, but he completely embodied showmanship (he's a former Royal Variety Host, after all), and had more of a flim flam edge to him than Crawford. Really, he was terrific! I f Daniel Mays could sing, I bet he'd be a good Barnum. And I wonder what Samuel Edwards, who was such an amiable lug in Xanadu at Southwark, would do with the role. He has loveable charisma in spades, but could he put an edge on it!? David Blaine *is* a git wizard!! There’s “showmanship” and then there’s “pointless idiot sitting in a box”. I’m glad the British public just threw rubbish at him while he was up there. Lol. I don't know, we used to love going down to watch Blaine in the box, as well as watch the people watching him in the box. It was something out of the ordinary, slightly disreputable, endlessly fascinating, and felt just a bit magical, just like Barnum's own stunts. Come on, presenting a five year old to Queen Victoria, pretending the kid was eleven, and having him smoke and drink and call himself General Tom Thumb, "the smallest man in the world." That's what Barnum did, and Queen Victoria was famously "amused." I bet people used to speculate how old the kid really was, and how much of a git-wizard Barnum was for making out the kid was much older than he really was, and for having him smoke and drink! Similarly, back in 2003, my friends and I would joke about how the apparently starving Blaine was obviously feeding himself by mixing proteins into his water feed, though when he came out, he looked so sickly awful that I began to doubt my own cynicism. But simply put, Blaine made that section of the Thames absolutely fascinating for the brief period he was in that see through box, and I really wish more Barnums would pull off more stunts to make the world more interesting. The modern day Barnum I would throw rubbish at is the "pointless idiot" in the Presidency, who is so racist and divisive, with his flamboyant flim flam and humbug, that I loathe him, no matter how "entertaining" he is. The man of the year for me is Mueller, for throwing "rubbish" at him with such good aim.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Dec 4, 2017 11:56:51 GMT
Saw this at the Saturday matinee. I adore this show, especially Cy Coleman's music, but Marcus Brigstocke is a black hole of miscasting that is soul crushingly depressing to watch! Some spoilers follow. . . Everything about Marcus Brigstocke told me he was wrong for the part, but I booked anyway, thinking anyone can reinvent themselves: take off the Clark Kent glasses, let Cy Coleman's exuberance lift you, and anyone can become a Superman of filmflam! But there's a sucker born every minute, and I'm one of them. This Clark Kent takes off his glasses, and. . . . . remains Clark Kent. Ironically, this is exactly what Brigstocke's standup comedy character would have predicted, as Brigstocke's stage persona was an earth-bound, lumpen, sarcastic skeptic of humbug, a critic of all flimflam and flights of fancy. Indeed, back in the noughties, when a real modern day Barnum, David Blaine, jumped in a perspex box on the Thames Embankment, and apparently starved himself for 40 days, for the wonderment of passersby (I myself frequently stopped there to spend lingering minutes of sympathetic unbroken eye contact with Blaine's lonely figure), Brigstocke mocked him on the radio, as a "git wizard" performing a "freakdangle." Brigstocke's whole schtick was that showmanship was worthless. I figured Brigstocke's comedy persona was an act, that he was merely pretending to be a lumpen and lifeless critic of humbug. But this show painfully demonstrates the opposite, that there is no humbug in in the man. Yes, there is no humbug, nor the semblance or any trace of humbug in the very man cast as "The Prince of Humbug," Barnum. In my view, humbug, as defined by Barnum, has two qualities, both present on the Menier stage: flimflam and flamboyance. Flimflam is present in Danny Owen's excellently twisted performance as "the Ringmaster," his blagging canny insincerity exuding flimflam to the max. Flamboyance is present in Harry Francis' uplifting and thrilling performance of Tom Thumb, his ecstatic exuberance lifting me every time I caught sight of his swaying happy gait. Of the two qualities that make up humbug, flamboyance is the more important, as flamboyance is loveable, and a rogue like Barnum must be loveable for the show to really spark. Therefore, if I had to cast someone in this troupe as Barnum, it would be Francis. The person I would not cast is Brigstocke. He looks the part, his Clark Kent glasses a distant memory. But he has no spark, no charisma, no fire, no flight, no flamboyance, no flimflam. And his inability to embody ANY quality of Barnum whatsoever destroys the effectiveness of the performers who interact with him. Take Laura Pitt-Pulford, one of my favourite musical theatre actors. As Barnum's wife, Chair-y (yes, the clue to her groundedness is in her name), she is supposed to be the grey one, the lion tamer to Barnum's lion, who the flighty dreamy Barnum must lift, even as she grounds him. But Pitt-Pulford has so much more feeling and zest and nuance in her every expression and gesture, than Brigstocke does in his entire body, that their duet "the Colors of My Life" sinks! Pitt-Pulford is flummoxed, as the more she plays her character's greyness, the more the scene dies as Brigstocke offers no counterbalance, yet the more she attempts to liven up the scene, the less she plays her character. The most telling moment comes when Brigstocke leaves Pulford alone onstage to finish the song by herself, and Pulford suddenly becomes incandescent, Brigstocke's dead weight removed, and we feel the soul of Michael Stewart's lyrics and Cy Coleman's music, and the desperate passion and feeling that can lie behind apparent greyness. Yes, the only time this show works is when Brigstocke is absent. As the show progressed, I realised that the only way to get pleasure from this show was to redirect my focus to the periphery. The great song "Come follow the band" pointed the way, as following the band with my eyes, and directing them anywhere but at Brigstocke was the only way I could get any pleasure at all. The most pleasure comes from watching the sheer joie de vivre of Harry francis, and the tender grace of Laura Pit-Pullford when she is alone. All in all, this show is a travesty. You have a lead character who has certain qualities, and you cast in that role a person who not only does not share those qualities, not only completely lacks those qualities, but who has always hated those qualities, and has made a career of saying so. Very poor show! Barnum himself would have been livid! 2 stars, out of gratitude for Cy Coleman's uplifting music, for Laura Pit-Pullford's soulfulness and for Harry Francis' love of life!
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 28, 2017 0:34:43 GMT
The Goats are gorgeous, simply the sweetest creatures. The play is more educational than entertaining (in the preview stage), with Syria depicted as having a massive case of Big Brother, whereby you must hip hurray the death of your children, or else! Some spoilers follow. . . The production runs at 2 hours, 50 minutes, and needs to be cut before critics see it, as it's repetitive nature drove sizeable chunks of a dispirited audience to make for the exits at the interval. Butterworth and McDonagh et al can sustain long running times dramatically, at this venue, because their plays have been peopled with multiple distinctive characters playing off each other in multiple distinctive ways, but here, despite the fact there are 12 people in the cast, there are really only three characters: the propagandist, the propagandised and the rebel (although too late in the production, nuances are introduced). Too much of the running time is just the propangandised and propagandist parroting propaganda, and the point is made humorously and effectively in about ten minutes, after which, it's yeah yeah, we get it! It is only when the play focuses on the rebel character, Carlos Chahine's Abu Firas, who refuses to glorify the death of his son, that the play becomes gripping. The charming director, Hamish Pirie might consider laser focusing the play on Chahine and cutting some of the fat. . . Still, those goats. So cute. For the first time ever I understood why Albee called his play "The Goat," and not some other random animal, as these affectionate furry creatures loved the actors, were docile yet curious, evincing tiny outbursts of misbehaviour which made them resemble playful toddlers! They seemed to understand the play as well, their actions mirroring the play's action: (1) Where one man refused to buckle to fake news, one goat refused to leave the stage; (2) Where one man slapped a woman in the face, one big goat headbutted a little goat (trying to steal his hay); (3) Where the majority of characters are led like sheep by propagandists, the majority of goats are led like sheep by actors; (4) Where human compliance merited the reward of a goat, goat compliance merited the reward of rice, hay and lettuce; (5) Where one man could no longer stomach fake news, one goat could no longer stomach fake food (ie lettuce, which the goat deliberately ignored, gamboling freely off to fully explore the stage instead, to the great amusement of the audience). As with other Big Brother themed plays, tv screens play fake news from start to finish. Overall, I was impressed by Carlos Chahine's outraged grieving father, by the specifically distinctive portrait of Syrian mind control (in which "martyrdom" is lionised), and by the awesomeness of goats, in general. But this production could really take sheers to the endlessly repetitive verbiage, though not to the goats, who were the least shaggy part of the evening. 3 stars
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 23, 2017 15:49:25 GMT
Dramatic, funny and revealing show about fake news, utilises the Sam Wanamaker Theatre's corpulent darkness and candles to wonderful effect. Some spoilers follow. . . If Brecht were alive today, and wanted to warn his audience about the dangers of "fake news," the story of Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth I's Machiavellian spymaster, is the story he would have told. Walsingham was so state-security minded that if he perceived a threat, he would create that threat himself by false flag operations and by spreading fake news, just so he could set about tackling it before it ever really happened. He eliminated potential threats more ruthlessly than Tom Cruise in "Minority Report!" The scope of Walsingham's operation was so big that everybody was his target and his victim, including monarchs. Aidan McArdle underplays Walsingham, as a non-descript, decent apparatchik, rather than a gloating Moriarty-type genius, which works, since, like Macavity the Mystery Cat or Kaiser Sose, the greatest trick he pulls is convincing everyone else that he's not there. Where Walsingham is played small, Tara Fitzgerald plays Queen Elizabeth large, the way the part is written. Lustgarten refreshingly tosses away the decency playbook, for writing female monarchs, which dictates that a Queen is always running a feminist gauntlet, and is always intrinsically well-meaning. This Queen Elizabeth is a straight up return to Miranda Richardson's Queenie, from the best season of Blackadder (season 2) in which Queen Elisabeth is depicted as a shallow, lustful, capricious, greedy, overreaching, dangerous and murderous monster. Obviously, if you are going to write a character this way, you skirt into comedic territory, but I never found that the drama of the piece was diluted by the comedy of this characterisation. Fitzgerald's white painted face and purposeful greedy gait reminded me not only of Queenie, but also of a bemasked face-painted Star Wars villain, so fierce does she become. Maybe this is where George Lucas got his ideas lol. This play perfectly suits the Sam Wanamaker, resembling the Jacobean plays that have been staged there, with scheming characters, copious candles, bursts of darkness, and the kind of bloodletting (in Act 2) that deserves a full cover-your-eyes-Peggs warning. Supporting performances are top notch, especially Abraham Popoola's terrifying matter-of-fact torturer, and Ian Redford's sneaky and sage guru, who tutored Walsingham in spycraft. I regretted, however, that Edmund Kingsley's spy, Robert Pooley, had so little to do, as the actor had the charisma of a James Bond. If the real secret of this theatre is where to find a comfortable seat, "The Secret Theatre," of Britain's history of fake news, while occasionally a little on the nose, hits home topically, dramatically and comedically, and is thoroughly entertaining and worthwhile. 4 stars. NB: Running Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 23, 2017 14:44:14 GMT
There is a rather lovely tropical fish tank on the stage, sadly no fish though as far as I could see. Nikki Amuka-Bird only seemed to have read the script that morning. I think she'd probably annoyed the wardrobe person at some point too which would explain why she was given such dreadful outfits to wear. On the plus side, Jonny Holden as Lynstrand gives the performance of the show as the pretentious wannabe artist and his scenes with Ellie Bamber as Hilde are a delight. I'd have preferred the show to have been about them to be honest. Tom McKay as Arnholm is also simply lovely. His declaration of love is incredibly sweetly played and he has a touch of the young Aden Gillett about him methinks. Agree with the above. The fish tank annoyed me particularly, as it seemed to want to be a metaphor for the freedom of the sea, and the mysteriousness and turbulence of identity, with people getting freer when they jumped in, and less free when they jumped out, but which, literally being a FISH TANK, represents the opposite of freedom! Even the idea of such a rigid quotidian object, as a fish tank, standing in for Ibsen's unclassifiable unknowable roiling turbulence of the self and sea, seemed ridiculous full stop. There was one good thing about that fish tank, which was the shadows of rippling water it cast on the walls, the suggestive mystery of shimmering colours transforming the patchy white paint of the set into something wonderful. That was one redeeming feature. Nikki Amuka Bird's performance is like that fish tank. She has always been good at playing the rigid boxiness of modern civilisation, a cold fish affecting warmth. But asked to project a wild dynamic inner core, as Ibsen asks, she can't get close. Like the fish tank, she's too self-contained. I agree with Ryan that Jonny Holden and Tom McKay nailed their parts. I also loved Finbar Lynch's solid warm decency, trying to be tether Amuka Bird's would-be wild bird, an [Amuka] Bird unfortunately already too tame. Ellie Bamber, by contrast, was wild. Her flighty Hilde Wangel could easily slide straight into Ibsen's sequel, for her character, "The Masterbuilder," and really soar! I'd see that! For me, this was a restrained and contained: 3 stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 22, 2017 11:34:24 GMT
Madeleines were free on specified Sundays, lonlad - I asked the same question and as I went on a Saturday, I'm still none the wiser re how these taste.. They were free on the Sunday I went. You got two for production of a ticket. They tasted like a melt-in-your-mouth sweet sponge cake, with accompanied slightly oily pleasant sugary lingering on your taste buds after each bite, and were substantial and small enough that you could indulgently dip them in your tea or coffee, like a biscuit, if you weren't embarrassed about it. They came in batches of six for £4 or £4.50, if you had to buy them. I thought they were super tasty and could eat a ton of them! As for the play, it was mid-ranking Richard Bean, a sitcom about young Marx, where we were given three episodes: a shaky pilot, which I call "Who stole the silver?" a stonking episode, firing on all comic cylinders, which I call "Who's Your Father?" (free pun included), and the weird episode where everybody acts seriously (which usually comes much later than episode 3 in a real sitcom, as it's designed to deepen our affection for the characters, which I call "Sad Days"). I enjoyed episode 2 very much, but episodes 1 and 3 were middling. More than anything, this expanded my appreciation for Rory Kinnear. I had him down as a "character actor", as his Hamlet, while well-spoken, lacked charisma. By the same token, his Iago was riveting because of his non-descriptness, his oh-so-average London-boy-out-on-the-town type utterly sinister through his recognisability and ordinariness. His Creature in the tv show "Penny Dreadful" showed him to be this character actor extraordinaire, as he bled pathos through his monster make-up, and stole all his scenes. But he really carries this so so sitcom. In comedy, he has, in himself, not as a character, all the charisma needed to carry a show. In the second episode (see above), very funny! 3 and a half stars for the show 4 stars for the Madeleines 4 and a half stars for the theatre
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 22, 2017 11:06:07 GMT
I'm terribly bored of A Christmas Carol but I do like a good theatrical ghost, are these fairly impressively done? If you mean, are they scary, then, not one bit. I remember attending a highly enjoyable "Christmas Carol" show where Patrick Stewart just sat in a chair in front of a fire and read the whole thing, and his "scary ghost voice" was scarier than anything in this lol. When I looked at the website to see if the cast warranted booking this, I saw there was no cast member for "Ghost of Christmas Future," so I thought, whoa, maybe it's animatronic, or maybe a projection of Vincent Price, or maybe Rhys Ifans doubles. . . The truth about this ghost is a massive spoiler, so look here: Melissa Allan, in the squeakiest sweetest high-pitched voice, playing Scrooge's sister, Little Fan, is the Ghost of Christmas Future. This chimes with Jack Thorne's bent of always making everything about family. It makes things more emotional, but it's not scary in the slightest, nor is it meant to be.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 22, 2017 8:58:59 GMT
Brilliant version of "A Christmas Carol:" dramatic, moving, musical and magical. There won't be a better Christmas show this year! Some spoilers follow. . . More Scrooge-like than Ryan, it never crossed my mind to eat mince pies in November. But the show rectified that as I took my onstage seat (there had been no "front-facing" seats left when my ginormous PWC queue-it booking bingo number was FINALLY called 6 weeks ago), by having a beaming tall gent in a top hat graciously offer me a tray of warm mince pies. A bribe, I thought, to mollify my fury, when the actors on stage form that unnatural stage posture, where they all turn their backs to me, having a conversation where noone looks at each other because they are all facing the principal audience. Never happened. Matthew Warchus' gift to the onstage audience, as well as to the side-facing audiences, is to stage conversations as they happen, with characters facing each other, so you either see two profiles, or you see one of the character's faces. You might say this is staged as if in the round, which it effectively is. The stage is vast, extended by a ramp across the entire stalls, although the principal performance area is demarked by four empty door frames. Set and costume designer, Rob Howell, scores a massive win by using these frames to delimit metaphorically the cruel compartmentalisation of Scrooge's mind, that allows him to justify his behaviour, as well as using the ramp to suggest generous expanses beyond. And the outfit Howell puts Rhys Ifans' Scrooge in is equally effective, a warm red coat covered in endless layers of dust, suggesting a warm core, literally and metaphorically smothered by the passage of time, a Father Christmas trapped in amber. The melding of actor and part are seamless, as Ifans' dishevelled persona (defined for me years ago by his scally in "Notting Hill") has always seemed averse to acknowledging time. Jack Thorne's adaptation of Dickens is perfectly judged. Faithful to Dickens to a large extent, but also bringing in his own bugaboos about the way parents shape children, and his thoughts about how we fulfil the social responsibility of being alive, he judges perfectly the moments that actors should be story narrators, and the moments actors should play characters in scenes. This balance is so often done wrong, as it was in the Broadbent version not long ago, where there was too much narrating, and where the tone was twee. Here the tone is truthful and dark, yet, like the Santa suit that Ifans' Scrooge is secretly wearing, the show is choc full of magic, magic, magic! The core of the magic, for a Christmas show like this, lies in the title. Matthew Warchus and Jack Thorne understand that it is the "Carol" part of the title that is most precious. It is music that speaks to the soul most eloquently, and carols pour from this production, which has almost wall-to-wall music, whereby carols fill spaces between scenes, but even during scenes a piano eloquently underscores emotions. If this was another show, you'd say it was too much, but at Christmas, nothing feels more right than to embed the show in this warm glow of music. The different pitches of bells, that the cast periodically handle, like town cryers of the spirit, actively demonstrate how magical musical creation is, in a way that recreates childish wonder even for a cynical adult. And if actual children demand magic beyond music, to hold their attention, it is there: "Real" snow (cold soap suds?) falls on the audience, and a hilarious gathering of (prop) food for the poor involves a very exciting way of getting it from the dress circle to the stage. The supporting cast are all wonderful, with Erin Doherty as Scrooge's compassionate, but truthful, lost love Belle, and Alex Gaumond as Scrooge's father and as Marley, exceptional. But it is Rhys Ifans who is the true gem here. I liked him as the fool in Lear. I was frightened of him as the audience assailing homeless man in "Protest Song." But this role bottles his frightening and likeable qualities so perfectly that I can say I absolutely loved him in this! Overall, this is an unmissable Christmas treat, and if like me, you think mince pies are only for December, this show might change your mind! 5 stars
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 21, 2017 22:20:10 GMT
I feel for the Young Vic, caught between a rock and a hard place.
They protected their cast, and issued a statement that wouldn't risk a defamation lawsuit, as well as one that wouldn't prejudice any criminal case, if any.
Unlike the US, here the party printing the historic allegations has to prove they are true, rather than the party refuting them. And also, in this country, historic allegations may result in criminal prosecution.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 18, 2017 23:08:14 GMT
Agree with Foxa. While it's classic Greek chorus, which conjures up the feeling of attending some kind of new wave hippie religious ceremony, might put off seekers of conventional entertainment or drama, this is just the most topical, moving, heartfelt, involving, mesmerisingly beautiful sounding, community-grounded, passionate, compassionate, feminist show! Fantastic! Some spoilers follow. . . If there's one thing we've learned from the news lately, it's the power of a polyphonic chorus, that echoes from voice to voice, and magnifies in it's thrust until it's message is utterly overwhelming. One accusatory voice Harvey Weinstein could have squashed, but two, three, four echoing voices, working in chorus and concert, not only overwhelmed him, but has changed the world for women (and other victims) overnight. It is this polyphonic superpower that the 27 young women of Southwark and Lambeth, reflecting the beautiful diversity of our capital city even as they form one perfect whole, wield, as part of the most sonorous, passionate and on-point Greek choruses I've ever seen. Alone, any one of these women would seem helplessly young and vulnerable, but together they are like a tidal wave of song and endless movement. Everything else about the show pales in comparison. The male performers, as soldiers, citizens, Egyptians, even Oscar Batterham's smooth effective besuited King, all vanish in significance compared to this magnificent unstoppable chorus. Even Aeschylus' brilliance succumbs to the combined force of this Chorus, as his story points, which cast them as "suppliant" and which present Omar Ibrahim's Danaos as a kind of guide and guru for the women, seem laughable in this current moment. Suppliant is the past, these women demand their due. This is the future. While I would happily praise every member of the chorus, I, perhaps fittingly, don't know their names. It's the combine that counts. As their figurehead, and chorus leader, Gemma May is flat out fantastic, commanding in verse, in movement, and in song. Yet even she alone, paled in her individual impact, compared to the force of the whole. Sometimes, a show meets a moment, even if it was created before that moment. Today's moment finds perfect expression in this show! This cast needs a longer run! 5 stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 11, 2017 0:00:23 GMT
Initially disappointed to find that Van Hove has not updated the material (huge chunks of dialogue and structure are verbatim from the film), ultimately I realised that the material is SO MUCH MORE EXCITING as an in-the-moment happening multimedia live show, than as a film, with such a thrilling central turn from Bryan Cranston, that I absolutely LOVED it! Spoilers follow. . . Two decades ago, I studied the film for a week, and concluded that Paddy Chayefsky, who wrote it, was a genius and a seer, as the rising tides of news-as-entertainment and globalisation-as-destiny were so brilliantly intertwined, contextualised and dramatised! Twenty years on, the film feels dated. No tv station can command a 60 percent share of the American population. People don't even watch tv, they troll the internet, shouting and screaming at each other in well-defined tribes, who primarily consume "news" that tells them what they already think. The backlash to globalisation is as virulent now as globalisation itself used to be. In many ways, Shakespeare's Coriolanus is more topical than the movie "Network," as it depicts Tribunes feeding a partisan public "fake news," about Coriolanus, ruining his reputation, as another tribe is fed opposite news. In that respect, Van Hove's "Roman Tragedies" (which incorporated Coriolanus) had more to say about NOW than "Network," the film. So when Van Hove turned out to be almost entirely faithful to Chayefsky's 1976 script, my heart sunk. I had wanted him to engage with NOW, to do one of his post-modern rewrites, like he did with "Hedda Gabler," or even more with "Obsession." (Instead, this is a more faithful work, more akin to his treatment of "A view from the Bridge," and it is this redundant aspect of the play that I think Parsley may have been averse to). . . . . . But then I realised that what Chayefsky chronicles here is sort of a ground zero in the decay of our modern illusion of "real" news (similar to the Cardinal Pirelli's insistent crumbling of the illusion of "objective criticism lol), as well as a ground zero in the march of globalisation's leveling of societies and nations, and that engaging with this material is like taking Marty McFly's DeLorean back to that moment anything seemed possible, as we teeter once again on that precipice of what is or isn't possible in establishing common truths, and what is or isn't destiny for the future of world unity. It's really such an exciting moment to think about. And what Van Hove does is make that moment ELECTRIC, literally with his flashing lights, and cameras, and metaphorically by his dynamic staging of scenes and actors, and audience interactivity. And what Bryan Cranston does is take that ELECTRIC FROZEN MOMENT that Van Hove conjures, where a news anchor on stage just might say anything, as you lean on the edge of your seat, and make the moment that he does speak crushingly human and fallible and VULNERABLE. When this happens, the historical document of Chayefsky's oh-so-literate script thunders with both humanity and theatricality, and, for me, it was absolutely unforgettable! Also, Michelle Dockery, superb in Pygmalion a while back, Pygmalion-like morphs here so perfectly into her role as a psycho-producer, that psychopathy seem thoroughly understandable. It's a superb supporting performance to Cranston's tour-de-force. And when Van Hove does change Chayefsky's ingenious script, thankfully it is merely to cut out the now-hackneyed tv-as-gladiatorial-combat terrorist subplot. What is left is pure electricity! 5 stars!
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 10, 2017 23:05:27 GMT
Well, I saw the Broadway version and I don't recognize it from what you've written here, Steve. This must be one of the most comprehensive rewrites in MT history. I guess I have to see it now. Nobody’s opinion is of worth to anyone else other than in how it reveals things about the person holding the opinion. A poor review of something I liked (or vice versa) makes me realise how little I have in common with the reviewer, it doesn't change any opinion I hold. I haven't had time to read the reviews yet, but Cardinal Pirelli's point is well taken. We are all reviewing ourselves, as well as a show, when we write a review, exposing our values. I'm a cryer, and even if I know a show's sentimental, if I cry, I'll rate that show highly. Same goes for other emotions, as I want to FEEL something at a show. When a show makes me feel nothing, I usually don't bother writing about it at all. I remember that tedious show about climate change at the Royal Court, which said nothing a million tv documentaries haven't already said, but less concisely. Billington gave it 5 stars because it told the truth and said something important, even though it said nothing new, and said it in an unoriginal way. Billington's core review value was not related to how entertaining or engaging the show was, but how important it's message. And that's completely valid for him. For me, the show was 2 stars, because even though I thought the message true and important, I was bored (the cardinal sin, for me), and felt like I'd heard the message already from more engaging sources. For me that was 2 stars. But there was nothing "intrinsically 2 stars" or "intrinsically 5 stars" about that show. Those ratings are just a comment on the person giving them. This show moved me so much more than the film, which left me colder than a dry dead fish. For me, this show is a warm vibrant living fish, soppy but great company from start to finish. I never stopped smiling. As for reviews, whether I agree with him or not, the one I want to read is Mallardo's, because one of his core values is understanding storytelling, and I learn a LOT from what he has to say. Bring it on, Mallardo! Please.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Nov 4, 2017 13:21:44 GMT
Loved this. A funny, warm musical about storytelling, family, and the meaning of life, and at a guess, the best version of this show yet! Spoilers follow. . . In the film, Bloom is played by two actors, one in his twilight years and one in his prime. I understand the original musical version used one actor. Really! I couldn't help thinking what "Follies" would lose if it ditched it's young and old actors, and had one set of middle aged actors play their young and old selves? How much more literal and obvious would it be? How much less wistful, poetic, romantic and thought-provoking if young and old could no longer co-exist and observe themselves? In a show about the reckoning of a life, having different timelines co-exist is everything! The film, however, in my opinion, was lousy. Tim Burton's garish colourful carnival sensibility mitigated against poetry and contemplation, and emphasised instead the grotesque and the absurd. Burton's version also mischaracterised Bloom. In hindsight, I'd say that Albert Finney's Bloom was "Trumpian," a narcissistic self-glorifying pathological liar, and his son's aversion to him, played with an enmity bordering on hatred by Billy Crudup, seemed eminently reasonable. Crucial plot points and imagery, in the movie, actively worked against it's theme, that storytelling can be a glorious way to lift our lives from the mundane, a gift, and an expression of love that transcends generations. This new show gets everything right. Kelsey Grammer is warm, where Finney was cold. Aided by Grammer's honed avuncular sitcom bumbler persona (which I fell in love with when I saw an episode of Frasier recorded decades ago), it is clear from the start that Grammer's Bloom means well, even if he irritates. Where Bloom's son William, in the movie, oozed disgust with his father's pathological lying, here Matthew Seadon-Young's Clark-Kentalike of a warm loving son, is frustrated with his Walter Mitty of a father only because he fears he will never know him. Simply put, motivations emanate from good places here, making this a universal family story, that, while a little sentimental, resonates powerfully, and reduced me to tears. When Edward Bloom tells his fantastical stories, this show contextualises them ingeniously, by having Grammer tell the stories to a child actor, as the stories play out in front of them. Although literally the boy could be seen either as Grammer's own son in the past, when he first heard these stories, or alternately, as Grammer's Bloom's future grandson, in fact, the boy is an avatar for the childhood selves of the audience, evoking our own entree into the magical world of storytelling. I found myself thrown back into the stories my own father told me about how he fought lions with his bare hands, back when he used to jump around pretending to be Tarzan, before he put his back out. Through this construct, Bloom's stories become magical, rather than Trumpian, and through the magic of theatre, Grammer's Bloom gets to timetravel poetically, as he wistfully observes the vigour and passion of his younger self (Jamie Muscato), playing out his adventures onstage. While I never saw the Broadway show, I just cannot imagine that it could have been anything but quotidian, compared to the magic of this! New songs have been added, about real relationships and the circle of human life, moving us further from the empty wacky roadshow of the movie, towards an appreciation of the wonder of the real, expressly, family. Appropriately, one song, called "Wonder" is about childbirth, and the other, called "The Road that Leads to You," is about couples. The new songs, like the new frame for the musical, serve the same purpose, to ground the show in the real everyday experiences of all of us, so that what the show has to say about storytelling's function, to enhance our mundane lives, really resonates. All in all, I admit there is a streak of sentimentality, and I admit Grammer is not the best singer, but this is a truly beautiful show! Grounded by fantastic central turns by Grammer (as the out-of-control family member you love to bits) and Matthew Seadon-Young (Urinetown never gave him the opportunity to show such heart), enhanced by lovely supporting turns by Forbes Masson (wickedly funny), Jamie Muscato (tuneful and bold), Laura Baldwin (enchanting), and many others too, this show is simply lovely. 4 and a half stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Oct 31, 2017 13:29:17 GMT
Superficial depiction of shyness mitigates against the well-structured plot and delightful songs making the emotional impact they should. . . Some spoilers follow. . . This is based on a film. A film is blessed with a trump card that a stage musical lacks: the close-up. On film, the manufactured tweeness of the plot can be counterbalanced by closeups of faces exhibiting acute and "real" social anxiety, that roots the plot in a common pain nearly all of us have experienced. On stage, where the closeup is impossible, what we see is a supremely poised musical theatre actress command her diaphragm to produce exquisitely beautiful musical phrases, as she looks us directly in our eyes. No amount of gurning anxious overlarge facial expressions will ever convince me that Carly Bawden's Angelique is so timid that she faints at the sight of another human being! And this is not Bawden's fault, an actress so good that her spot-on Squeaky Fromme in Assassins stole the show (for me) even from Aaron Tveit! What is wrong is the slavish fealty to the movie script, which was bolstered by the secret weapon of the close-up. What Emma Rice and her fellow creators needed to do was show less sympathy, and more empathy. They needed a moment at the beginning, before Bawden ever sings, where her character suffers horribly from shyness. They needed to dramatise that moment so acutely that our hearts broke for her. Only then should she be allowed to sing. Anyway, the songs are good, and by the time we get to the interval, the plot is moving at a delicious clip, and the songs hit rate is improving (I did love the song "Savoir Faire" in the first half though.) Yes, in the second half, there is a tremendous run of lovely songs (I'm guessing their titles lol):- After Joanna's Riding sets the scene with a welcoming and wistful "Quelle Surprise," the Bawden-Marsh romantic duet, "Some Things" really moved me, then the best song of the evening is teasingly and energetically performed by the enemble at our main duo "Don't Think About Love!" It's always delicious to be asked NOT to think about something lol! Then we get a touching "Don't Let Her Go" and an even more tender "If you Loved Me. . ." And I couldn't help thinking, as the musical took flight, how much higher we'd be soaring if the emotional take-off had been effectively handled at the beginning! Heck, we might even have another "She Loves Me" (though to be honest, Bock and Harnick are peerless)! Anyway, I loved the second half. And as a bonus, I also lived the comic turns of Lauren Samuels as the sarky Ozzie self-help tape and Gareth Snook as the Mumbler, a man so shy we can't make out a word he says. All in all, good fun. But it could have been great! 3 and a half stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Oct 31, 2017 12:24:07 GMT
Exquisite portrayal of social isolation, succeeds also as an analysis of the roots of prejudice, but is capped by a melodramatic conclusion that fritters away some of it's sharpness. Some spoilers follow. . . I liked this very much. Seeing this immediately after "Romantics Anonymous," I thought this was infinitely better at dramatising social isolation. My heart ached so much for Fenella Woolgar's character that if, like "Romantics," this had been a musical, and she had burst into song, my stiff upper tear ducts would have sprung leaks. The setting is (mostly) a gossipy Agatha Christie style tea room, outside London, in 1943, where everybody talks about everybody else. Fenella Woolgar's compassionate, but reserved, Miss Roach is there because the Blitz has driven her out of her London home, and she's struggling to make connections. The bane of Miss Roach's life is verbose, racist, sexist old Mr. Thwaites, played with vim and vitriol by a superb Clive Francis (his vicious bigoted curmudgeons are always a highlight of shows: eg The Gathering Leaves, Les Blancs), who makes sure to prod every exposed nerve she has, whenever she makes an appearance. And he's got plenty to say when Miss Roach deigns to dine with an African American soldier, Daon Broni's Lieutenant Pike. What is especially clever about this play (and probably the book, which I haven't read), and also quite subtle, is the way negative feelings and expressions of both Miss Roach and Mr Thwaites (and others) are shown to be rooted in their common loneliness and feelings of inadequacy. Miss Roach's feelings of inadequacy are particularly triggered by the exuberant witterings of spritely German born social butterfly, Vicki, played by Lucy Cohu. . . Anyway, see the play to find out what happens. Woolgar and Francis are sensational! 4 and a half stars for the first moody 90 minutes, 3 stars for the melodramatic final half hour: 4 stars overall. Well worth it.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Oct 21, 2017 13:28:53 GMT
Average, but worthwhile. The sort of cold clever effective procedural you expect from Agatha Christie, lacking the overblown camp that keeps her watchable on the telly, but with a hugely impressive "set" that feels just like the Old Bailey, and a warm inviting central performance from David Yelland. Some spoilers follow. . . Don't be fooled by the 1957 movie or the 2016 Boxing Day BBC adaptation. Those are far superior works, which, while embracing Christie's genius for plotting, are vastly enhanced by the work of other brilliant writers:- (1) The 1957 movie is a comedy, by Billy Wilder, who molds Christie's decent, but vacant, underwritten barrister, Sir Wilfrid Robarts (played by Charles Laughton), into an irascible self-destructive fury, constantly trying to kill himself with booze and smokes, while he tries to evade the watchful eye of his ever-present nursemaid (played hilariously by Laughton's own wife, Elsa Lanchester). Everything good about the movie comes from Wilder; (2) The 2016 BBC two-parter is an all-encompassing drama about the dark side of capitalism and the hopeless romanticism that allows us to survive it, which I consider to be the best work of the superb tv writer (And Then there were None, Oliver Twist, Great Expectations, the Death of Dirty Den in Eastenders) and sometime playwright, Sarah Phelps. This adaptation, based not on Christie's play, but on an earlier short story by Christie, retains that story's less-sanitised plot elements, and adds to them a frame all of Phelp's own creation, that sees Toby Jones's solicitor as a Winston Smith type romantic, dreaming his way through a hellish capitalist cityscape. This is an immense work, brilliantly conceived, acted, involving and desperately meaningful and moving. Strip Wilder and Phelps out of these works, and the humanity evaporates away. Christie's play, as is, is cold compelling plotting, and that's all. Luckily, the play has a magnificent setting in London County Hall, which feels just like the Old Bailey, and it also has two notable performances, one of enigmatic charm by Jack McMullen as the Accused, and one that exudes an endearing goodness and decency, by David Yelland. For the set and for Yelland, I enjoyed myself, but I prefer my Christie laced with the humanity of other better writers. 3 stars for the play. 4 stars for the Wilder movie. 5 stars for the Phelps tv adapation. Nb: Other than Christie's plotting, another commonality between all versions of this story (and Brexit) is that many English people are depicted as having enormous prejudice against "foreigners."
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Sept 14, 2017 11:15:05 GMT
A two hander in which Art battles Reality, in an amusing, unpredictable, inventive and thoroughly enjoyable two-hander. Some spoilers follow. . . So Trevor White, the Canadian actor who I saw play Hotspur opposite Alex Hassell recently, announces himself as Trevor White, the Canadian actor who played Hotspur for a year recently, lol. I'm amused. He says he wanted to stage "Network" before Ivo Van Hove got Bryan Cranston and got in there ahead of him at the National. I'm more amused. He then tells us he's making a play about patricide, starring a guy who really killed his father. It's played in a cage, because the guy's dangerous. I'm more amused than ever. I'll spoil no more, but this one thing: Trevor tells us that "Art is better than Reality," and everytime he decides to artistically augment reality to make the play "better," the play changes a little bit. This is just so fun to watch, that whether or not you are Team Art or Team Reality, you are likely to enjoy the interactions, of Trevor, so wry and amusing, compared to his off-the-wall wild and crazy Hotspur, and Alex Austin, in the cage, brilliantly utilising different accents, as the patricide-committing object of Trevor's musings. This is like a less crazy "An Octaroon" or any Tim Crouch play, but more accessible. Fun. 4 stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Sept 14, 2017 10:55:35 GMT
Not had much time to comment lately, but I take the time to do so, as I ran into Parsley at this, which proved to be, along with Ben Whishaw's performance, one of the only things I liked about this. Some spoilers follow. . . This lost me from the start, when a chap, who, supposedly visited by God, barely registers the experience as unusual, reacting in an unbelievably plodding and sluggish way. Of course, this is not about God, but how wretched and sad humans are, but this author did better with the same themes in both the previous plays I've seen by him, at Royal Court and the Donmar. In fact, each play this author writes is less interesting than the last, as he assumes Orson Welles' mantle of living his life backwards. The good thing about hating the play, was getting to hate on it with Parsley, the master of hating on plays, who caned it with me in the interval. Parsley never got past the look of the guy with the huge muscles in the tight T-shirt, who I said I thought looked like a member of the crew of the Starship Enterprise, his t-shirt nike-symbol looking like a Starfleet insignia, which of course meant that his character was marked for slaughter. After all, only James T Kirk, or Ben Whishaw gets to dress like that and survive. Comparing this play to Ben Whishaw's previous Almeida show, Bakkhai, which I loved, I think what this show really lacked was a good antagonist to embody humanity's ennui. The Ben Whishaw/Bertie Carvel faceoff of Bakkhai was electrifying for me, especially as both characters had so much ying and yang in them you barely knew who to root for. Here, you not only knew who to root for, you knew there was no point doing it anyway, as the play was entirely lacking in thrust. 2 and a half stars, for Ben Whishaw (and Parsley too, who's powerful and expressive id this show lacked, to it's detriment, much like this board. Please come back Parsley!).
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Sept 14, 2017 10:30:58 GMT
And from me lol. The most visceral, violent primal rush I've had at the Globe in ages, using Emma Rice's speakers to drum, drum DRUM that war beat, and rock loudly for two exciting Forbes Masson performed rock-war-song-dances, with a little thematic anti-war addendum layered on top through the story of Boudica's daughters. Some spoilers follow. . . Basically, it's The Magnificent 7/Seven Samurai type structure, with Boudica training her daughters for battle, as she rounds up disparate Britannic tribes to team up to take on the Romans in a revenge quest. Probably not very historically accurate, as Boudica was dead by 31, and so her daughters probably wouldn't have been old enough for the depicted storyline, and she herself never reached Gina McKee's age. That said, Gina McKee is fantastic, looking preternaturally young in her Boudica-of-Britannia blue headdress and robes, and overcoming the obvious miscasting of such a considered thoughtful whispery actress as this bloodthirsty, battling beast of a Boudica. There's some rollicking comedy too, as the Romans initially consist of some petty, preening Frankie Howard and affected Kenneth Williams types, to contrast with the fierce Britons, before the Romans' roll on the excellent Clifford Samuel, as military leader, Suetonius, to give their side some fearsome discipline and gravitas. The sheer Emma Rice speaker noise, mostly drums, but also two great stomping, song-dances led by a wonderful Forbes Masson, who otherwise plays the most reasonable and sensible Briton on the battlefield, couples with some superb in-the-round staging to create a real thrill for the senses. The best thing about the blood-stirring frenzy of it all is how thoroughly the show rouses the audience in the pit to join in the partisan bloodthirsty rowdiness, before slapping down all the stirred-up aggression with the play's anti-war all-people-have-their-reasons coda. It worked. This is not a complex play, commendably clear, if a little simplistic, in it's anti-war message, but it's not so much what is told, but how it's told, that makes this such a kick-ass piece of storytelling. From the pit, I felt surrounded by, and involved by, the action, and the staging, and also, Emma Rice's lighting rigs were used judicially to accentuate the sometimes haunting atmosphere, and spotlight key characters in the murk. (I suspect this play will work better and be more exciting at night, as what scares one in the night is often commonplace and silly in the stark light of day). In respect of the lighting, and loud speakers, and use of pop music to stir up the audience, I see this as a kind of swan song to Emma Rice's short reign, which, like Boudica's, was all sound and fury, signifying something. Of course, in one critical respect, this show is the antithesis of Rice, lacking her spirit of "love," which word is currently streaked in neon lettering down the side of the Globe. Instead, this show is an analysis of aggression and hatred, with the seductiveness of the former used to comment on the prevalance of the latter. Boudica's two daughters, Natalie Simpson's Blodwynn and Joan Iyiola's Alonna, who carry the ultimate meaning of this piece, are thankfully excellently acted, especially by Iyiola, who works sensitive wonders with her facial expressions, amongst the carnage of the show, to accentuate the play's thematic resonance. Overall, rousing fun, which makes me really really wish I could afford to hire Forbes Masson to preside over the revelries of my next birthday party lol 4 stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 29, 2017 23:03:22 GMT
Saw this tonight, and (eventually) loved it. After oodles of poetic telling in the first half, the play pays off with some transcendent showing in the second half. Some spoilers follow. . . Back in Thatcher's eighties, while Adrian Mole was making his comically ambitious life plans, the less deluded working class folks in "Road," in Lancashire, were making plans as far ahead as seemed possible: for the night. The immediacy of the concept, involving characters, living for the moment, looking for a buzz, is at first stunted by poetic speeches by these characters, who all live on the same Road, about their lives. There is so much telling, and so little showing, that it's difficult to engage, despite the production design directly connecting us to the stage by a flight of stairs, and despite Lemn Sissay's narrator speaking directly to us. Two Alan Bennett style monologues did hit home in the first half: one by Mark Hadfield's old soldier, remembering better days, and an even better one by June Watson's old dear, putting her face on. The moment she remembered the curve of her mother's white hair, now echoed by her own hair, was so well performed by Watson that I welled up. But by and large, the first half, while poetic, doesn't really connect with the audience. It does however set up a terrific second half, in which two vital set pieces prove so unforgettably, electrically alive, that the magic of theatre gathered myself and my companion up, and left us tingling with that feeling of discovery and excitement you get when a show really pays off. One such magical moment involves a phenomenal Michelle Fairley, on a drunk date with Mike Noble; and the other involves Noble again, on a double date with a dreamy Dan Parr, a fierce Liz White, and her hilariously obliging and clueless sidekick, played by Faye Marsay. These scenes were so involving, and so thematically resonant, that even the obligatory (and utterly apt) playing of the music of Elbow felt earned and just right, rather than some mere storytelling shortcut. Whatever you do, do not leave this show at the interval. The second half pays off brilliantly. 4 stars
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 19, 2017 22:59:44 GMT
Saw this tonight, and loved it. Propulsive in it's staging, if not in it's narrative, faithful to the source material, this is a delightful, loveable, eccentric, joy from start to finish!
Some spoilers follow. . .
All the threads from the novel are there, as I recall, in this tale of an eventful year in the life of a teenage boy: the acne, the unfaithful mum, the rotter she falls for, the moping dad, the bully at school, the competition with his friend Nigel for the attention of new girl, Pandora. In fact, the only story thread that is short-changed is the acne, which was definitely far more significant and traumatic in the novel, and indeed, in most teenage lives.
And because there are so many story threads, the narrative is necessarily somewhat meandering.
But in every other way imaginable, I thought this was a gorgeous entertainment, full of love for people and period, graced with memorable songs, marvellous performances, and wonderfully eccentric, comedic moments.
Twice, all these elements came together to achieve the kind of magical and delirious set-pieces that make a musical unmissable and unforgettable: in the songs, "If You'd Lived" and "The Nativity," the former a wacky teenage version of "It's a wonderful Life," the latter the most bizarre and funny Nativity play you ever saw! It's worth attending just to see these set-pieces.
But all through there are delights. John Hopkins, no stranger to being very very silly, most memorably in "Ben Hur," is hilarious again, as the principal antagonist, a moustachioed, thrusting baritone, named Lucas, with more deep throbbing sex in his voice than Barry White. In the song "Begging You for More," he gets all Escamillo the bullfighter, in his passion for Adrian's mum, Pauline, and it's a laugh riot. Pauline is played beautifully by Kelly Price, sympathetic yet horrifically self-absorbed.
As Pauline's cuckolded husband, George, Dean Chisnall is as likeable and moving as his love rival is unlikeable and funny, the musical a triumphant blend of sentiment and comedy. Chisnall has the loveliest voice in the ensemble, duetting beautifully with Kelly Price on the songs, "I Miss Our Life" and "My Lost Love."
As for the kids, three share each role, but the central duo we got tonight, of Harry Potter lookalike Connor Davies, as Adrian Mole, and Hermione lookalike, Georgia Pemberton, as Pandora, were absolutely perfect: Davies channeling Adrian Mole's clueless resilience, while Pemberton channeled Pandora's poise and grace.
Overall, while meandering story threads do slow down the narrative, every single element of this show put a perma-smile on my face, which I can't seem to shift. Don't miss.
4 stars 😊
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 16, 2017 17:09:11 GMT
By the little guys, about a little guy, a little gem of a musical, staged in the Little. Some spoilers follow. . . If I have a reservation about this one-man musical, it's that it's littleness tends towards cutesiness. It's subject is a fathers-for-justice type campaigner, who stunt climbs, in a superhero costume, the kind of building that risks getting him shot as a terrorist. The take of this musical is entirely sympathetic, and portrays him as a gentle character driven to extremes by injustice. If Martin Scorsese made a movie of this, by contrast, one can imagine the character's stated motivations would remain the same, but the character himself would be revealed as delusional, a Travis Bickle or Rupert Pupkin, with psychological issues in play beyond the simple story he tells himself. But these first time musical makers (Michael Conley, Joseph Finlay and Richy Hughes) are themselves "little" guys, and empathise so completely with their flawed, placid, loving, little guy lead character that this feels like a Disney portrait of the truth. And that's a plus, in a way, as Disney could do way worse than hire this team to adapt one of their stories. Everything about show is loveable. The lead character, Colin, is loveable, his mildness, his chirpiness, his humour, his loving nature, even his mistakes, emolliated by modesty, are loveable. The book is loveable, the lyrics are loveable, the music is loveable, even quoting "If I loved you" from "Carousel" at one point. In fact, my mind was so thoroughly disneyed by this "superhero," that instead of questioning his insanity, I shed a tear or two, against my better judgement. Michael Rouse is absolutely fantastic, his mild-mannered Colin goes from soft-voiced defeatism to self-mocking wit to soaring emotional triumphalism. It's a terrific performance. This show teams with love, and is a superb calling card for the team involved. Other than "the Clockmaker's Daughter," I can't recall a British musical, emerging on the Fringe, that I enjoyed this much. If you go to the Southwark, Little is better than Large. 4 stars
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 16, 2017 16:26:01 GMT
Saw this last night, and was underwhelmed. It's like Yasmina Reza's "Art," crossed with Marx's "Das Kapital," but unfortunately, more the latter than the former.
Some spoilers follow. . .
I'll refrain from saying what actually happens, at dessert time, at a dinner party for very wealthy people. Suffice to say, there is a plot, twists occur at about the rate you'd expect in a well-plotted play, and the value of art is discussed.
Between twists, we get the kind of super long speeches that anyone who saw the same writer's "Daytona" will be familiar with. Except, in "Daytona", the speech Oliver Cotton gave himself was filled with mystery and intrigue, and the one he gave Maureen Lipman was elegiac and moving, whereas the endless enormous speech in this play felt to me a LOT like "Das Kapital," a tediously lengthy and lengthily tedious rendition of a dull one-sided tome that killed my enjoyment of the passable plotting and cutting characterisations.
The two most enjoyable characters, for me, were in support: Teresa Banham plays the American philistine wife, of a posturing master-of-the-universe, with such blase honesty that I couldn't help laughing at her every utterance; and similarly, Graham Turner's blundering stuttering hesitancy as an old-soldier-turned-servant, of yet another master-of-the-universe, had me equally amused and charmed.
The two masters-of-the-universe, at the centre of the plot, are themselves well-realised by Michael Simkins and Stuart Milligan, the former all poise and fake modesty, the latter all charm and honest arrogance.
But these worthwhile performances struggle to stay above the surface of a mahoosive, blunt, capitalism-bashing club of a speech, that not only outstayed it's welcome, but was propagandist and inaccurate.
There are entertaining elements here, but this play's attack on First World Capitalism makes "Bodies" at the Royal Court seem subtle.
2 and a half stars.
PS: For perspective, I rank this at the bottom of this year's theatrical excursions, along with the unfunny "The Miser," but above the execrable "Mudsummer Night's Dream."
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 16, 2017 15:39:39 GMT
I wanted Phoebe Waller Bridge the most. She makes me laugh so much. But Jodie Whitaker will be great.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 15, 2017 10:17:39 GMT
Finally saw this Thursday night. I laughed, I cried, I loved it. It's a compassionate joy, a sitcom whose situations and characters feel utterly real. Some spoilers follow. . . The premise felt like a sitcom: a lesbian, who doesn't fancy men, has a partner transitioning to a man. God alone knows what exactly Ray Cooney would have done with that, but this play does the opposite, committing fully to the situation, truth and feelings of the characters before anything else. The comedy that flows is a product of these unique and beautiful situations and characters. Once upon a time, this sitcom would have starred Tamsin Greig, as the nervy, diffident, neurotic, hesitant lead character, Alice. One of the joys of this production is watching Alice McCarthy slither perfectly into Greig's mantle, fully inhabiting the trademarked, boggle-eyed, confused, frozen existential angst that Greig so perfectly brought to every sitcom she ever did. As the woman Alice fell for, and the man that Alice feels a whole lot less for, Anna Martine Freeman's transgender character, Fiona/Adrian is beautifully realised, her excitement at becoming a man blinding her to the lack of excitement in her partner. In support, Ed Eales-White is the soul of supportive cis decency, and Ellie Morris is outstanding as Lelani, the impulsive exuberant young Dutch girl who takes a fancy to Alice. To digress, I give particular credit to Morris, as her shy stuttering Lucy, in "Peter Pan Goes Wrong" underwhelmed me. What I now realise is that her Lucy was the victim of Mischief Theatre's relentless writing and re-writing of their plays, identified so usefully for us on this board by Dawnstar. When I saw Daisy Waterstone originate the role at the Pleasance Theatre, Lucy's shyness was SO exaggerated, her stuttering SO pervasive, her meekness SUCH a plot point, that she was one of the greatest drivers of laughs in the whole show. By the time "Peter Pan Goes Wrong" played the Apollo, the part was less shy, less stuttering, with vastly less stage time, while the Mischief principals had vastly increased the stage time of their own roles, by comparison. So I was disappointed with the decrease in laughs I got from the character of Lucy. But in this show, Morris is a force of nature, offering an effervescent performance of a wild and crazy dutch girl, embodying a role that functions the way Italy used to, in period dramas, a catalyst for repressed English people to emerge from their shells. Everything about Morris' ecstatic Lelani delightfully sparks the fires beneath McCarthy's Tamsin-Grieg-esque frozenness. Morris' eyes widen and widen and widen still further, as if on cocaine-fuelled stalks, her body bounces, and a febrile energy fills the room whenever she is onstage, meaning that every scene she is in is playful and exciting to watch. A splendid buoyant supporting performance, that lifts the whole production. The sensitivity with which the plot is worked out is spot on. Only the faintly scented lingering whiff of sitcom and setup prevents me from giving this the full five stars. 4 and a half stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 15, 2017 9:11:19 GMT
An issues play that tries hard to balance it's agenda with compassion for the characters, and fails, because the fix is so obviously in. I do love Vivienne Franzmann, but of the four plays I've seen by her, I liked this the least. "Mogadishu," I loved. Perhaps because she herself was a teacher, and lived and breathed the milieu, Franzmann constructed a "Children's Hour" type narrative, about a false accusation by a pupil against a teacher, that was not only dramatically enthralling, but also compassionately discovered the complex and confusing humanity behind the motivations of every character. "Pests" I liked almost as much, but for a different reason. Franzmann constructed a unique language for her characters that perfectly reflected their isolated and marginalised world, an experimental choice that worked so well, the Royal Court production left an indelible imprint on me. Some spoilers follow. . . Franzmann's willingness to be experimental results in the most rewarding plot point in "Bodies," that one of the characters is not real, but the fantasy projection of another character. This fantasy character, established as such in the first ten minutes, becomes a conduit and a focus, a prism reflecting all the hope, love, need, despair of all the other characters. A brilliant idea that works brilliantly. Also intriguing are the different ways Franzmann looks at "bodies," how they fail, and how those-whose-bodies-work can aid those-whose-bodies-fail. Justine Mitchell and Philip Goldacre are both terrific as characters whose bodies fail them, Mitchell's Clem unable to conceive, and Goldacre's David (Clem's father) unable even to feed himself. The mirroring of the father's and daughter's plights offers much useful food for thought. Unfortunately, like a hungry shark, Franzmann then allows the issues of her issues-play to devour the complexity of her characters, till there's nothing left but the bloody entrails of liberal guilt. . . Everything about third-world surrogate, Salma Hoque's Lakshmi, is botched in Franzmann's desire to get to the moment she spits at the Royal Court audience. The concept of her spitting on us is great, in and of itself, but to get there, Franzmann must contort the plot. She invents circumstances where terrible things must happen to the surrogate's own children in order for her to be a surrogate at all. This is ridiculous, and a sign that the fix is in. Further, as Samuelwhiskers points out, by not characterising Lakshmi herself at all, Franzmann neglects her character even more than Clem does. And then, to compound the problem, Franzmann is faithless to Clem herself, having her make statements entirely out of character to make her seem more feckless and more deserving of being a human spittoon. Justine Mitchell is typically great as the Yerma-desperate Clem, Jonathan McGuinness endearing as her supportive husband (he seems to have the role fulltime now, on the Royal Court site). So too does Hannah Rae make a wonderful stage debut as Clem's daughter, empathetic and mercurial, and Lorna Brown offer gravitas and humour as Clem's father's carer. But it is Philip Goldacre, as Clem's father, David, whose performance I will most treasure, his juddering movements and slurred speech suggesting bodily degeneration, while his playful humour and eagle eyes suggest a diamond sharp mind. All in all, this is an issues play that eats itself, and it's a shame, as Franzmann's ability to think round issues, as well as her experimental and innovative ways of presenting them, are generally terrific. 3 stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 11, 2017 13:03:24 GMT
I saw this last week, but had nothing much to add to Oxford Simon's excellent account, with which I completely agreed. Looking back, here are some things that strike me: (1) Thank goodness the endless tiresome references to other shows have been largely excised. Those were so unfunny that the low strike rate of the humour became overly annoying in the show's original iteration; (2) The 4 monks choir is terrific, and if one of them is the theatreboard member I believe him to be, congratulations! (3) Neil Moors does indeed have such a full deep rousing throaty voice that he's every inch the jaunty King Richard; and (4) James Thackeray as Prince John is EVERYTHING. Oxford Simon saw Alan Cumming in him, and I agree, he has all the charismatic, prancing jollity of Mateo Oxley in "Shock Treatment," or to quote a reference more people will be familiar with, all the snide, camp fun of a young Alan Rickman. I fully enjoyed the show, despite it's low grade humour, but there's not enough King John, not enough at all. If he could have been in every scene, and also lent a bit of his spunk to the Assassin, things would have been more fun. As there is simply not enough King John, 3 and a half stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 11, 2017 12:38:13 GMT
Anyone seen this? I have heard no buzz about it at all, and they're papering like mad. Yes, I very much enjoyed it. Passes the Bechdel test one billion times over, as Queen Anne emerges from pre-throne hibernation to struggle for agency against her uber-influential childhood friend, Sarah Churchill, in a play written, directed and designed by women. I only really knew that the acts of union were passed in Queen Anne's reign, so this was super-informative for me, as well as entertaining. I'm glad I saw Romola Garai as Sarah Churchill, because much as I adore the Stratford originator of the role, Natascha McElhone, it always takes me half an hour to stop hissing her when she's onstage, as that wry sly half-smile instinctively preps me that I'm in the presence of a terrible villain. And the last thing a somewhat one-dimensional, Anne-favourable play like this needs is for the principal antagonist to be simplistically caricatured by the audience, as the text itself tilts to Anne over Churchill. As it is, Garai's straightforward stumblingly blunt directness, seen in such roles as Cordelia in Lear, or Becky in The Village Bike, but epitomised by her blundering Emma, in the BBC miniseries, lends the fierce Sarah Churchill a credence that balances the plot beautifully. Garai's Churchill instantly had me conceiving that Emma Cunniffe's lumbering droning whining Queen Anne may indeed be a useless "lump," who needs to be harried and hectored along every step of the way. This makes Cunniffe's achingly moving search for agency tremendously stirring and touching, in reaction to such a conception. Plot machinations are beautifully worked out, and are so effective that I wished the play to keep going after it ended, which is always a good sign. Cunniffe is tremendous in her role as Anne, and deserves award consideration, for her ability to draw such a fine line between heroic and irritating, between vulnerable and impossible, that she somehow makes join the dots historical plot threads edge-of-the-seat intriguing. . . Support for the two leading ladies is strong from a typically witty and cunning James Garnon, as the power hungry speaker of the House, and an especially enigmatic Beth Park, simultaneously sly and straightforward as the ever-threatening Eve to Garai's Margo Channing of a Sarah Churchill. For the history, for the drama, for the intrigue, and for Garai's and Cunniffe's performances, I thoroughly enjoyed this. 4 stars.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 9, 2017 11:40:08 GMT
A lovely portrait of a thirty-something woman spinning her romantic wheels in London. Some spoilers follow. . . This is from DryWrite, the company that Vicky Jones and Phoebe Waller Bridge create theatre for, written and directed by Vicky Jones. Except unlike the other ones they've done, this doesn't star Phoebe Waller Bridge being mean to people, something I've always found incredibly funny. Instead, this features Amy Morgan, as Dee, a messy experimental thirty-something from Swansea, relocated to London where she drinks shedloads, and maintains relationships with 5 other people, some of whom know about each other. If there is one thing that will turn people off about this play, it's the lack of narrative thrust. This play is far more interested in character, than plot progression, yet perhaps lack of plot progression is the whole point, since beneath Dee's cheery, open, experimental, funny facade is endless ennui. The lack of a propulsive plot will be a deal-breaker for some, but if you're willing to look past that, the portrait it paints of a woman of a certain generation, out of sorts with the generations above and below her, hits bullseye for humour and truthfulness. Designer Ultz takes the listless Dee's metaphorical spinning of wheels, and makes them literal, placing her messy apartment on a revolve, which keeps her literally spinning, in fits and starts, all evening. To appreciate the design, avoid the first three rows, as Dee is hemmed in by appliances of all sorts that restrict a good view of her apartment unless sufficiently elevated. As Dee, Amy Morgan is believably natural, a feisty and funny fish-out-of-water Welsh-girl-in-London. (In Gavin and Stacey terms, she is a perfect blend of Stacey's innocence and sweetness, with Nessa's toughness and cynicism, making her complex, more real and recognisable than either). Of the 5 people Dee has relationships with, it's Edward Bluemel who makes the most indelible impression, as Dee's nineteen year old hurricane of an intern, south Kensington posh yet youthfully uninhibited, so eager to please he will happily wear Dee's dresses if it turns her on. Also memorable is James Clyde's Brexiter, whose topical anti-immigration politics and stern sexuality Dee finds challenging and stimulating, and who she refreshingly refuses to judge. So too is Matthew Aubrey loads of fun as Dee's ex from Swansea, hopeful to get back with her, trudging up to London to fix her toilet. Overall, this play may have a minimal plot, but it has the feel of lived experience, and it's got loads of laughs, the biggest of which feature Edward Bluemel and Amy Morgan playing off each other beautifully. 4 stars PS: The title of the play is "Touch," and Pride Day is certainly an appropriate day to attend a theatre in Dean Street to see a play called "Touch," as I must have (inadvertently, I swear) touched about 500 people getting in and out of that venue lol.
|
|
1,240 posts
|
Post by Steve on Jul 8, 2017 10:13:27 GMT
And NEAPTIDE Ronke Adekoluejo (Val), Adjoa Andoh (Beatrice), Simon Armstrong (Sid & Cyril), Thomas Arnold (Colin & Roger), Maureen Beattie (Joyce), Morfydd Clark (Poppy & Terri), Karla Crome (Diane), Helena Lymbery (Anette & Marion), Sarah Niles (Linda) and Jessica Raine (Claire). I went to the Neaptide reading on Thursday night, and loved it! Vivid performances rendered vital the humour in the play, but the substance had massively dated, though critically, not in one way! A word about the format of these readings. The playwright and directors are under instructions to get the plays to run ninety minutes without an interval. This is so that, after a five minute break, a 40 minute discussion can take place in the Lyttelton Lounge, where the writer (together with the director of the reading) gets to discuss revisiting the work, after which everyone can go home at about 10:15pm. For "Neaptide", the playwright, Sarah Daniels, gave Sarah Frankcomm, the director, carte blanche to cut her play down to ninety minutes. This involved excising one character, Jean, the roommate of the lead character, entirely out of the play. When I watched the reading, I had no idea that this had been done, and not knowing the play, had no sense it was incomplete in any way. Thus, I conclude the character of Jean was pretty much superfluous. The play, which involves a closeted teacher, Claire (Jessica Raine) instructed by her headmistress to punish a brave girl, Diane (Karla Crome) for being an out Lesbian, is severely dated, thank goodness! In the play, we are told that in the early eighties, the consequence of Claire stepping up, and coming out herself, would be that she would inevitably both lose her job as a teacher AND lose her custody bid for her child, for whom she was the primary carer. Today, these consequences seem not only ludicrous, but illegally discriminatory, so we've clearly come a LONG way, and the play is rendered, to a degree, a relic unlikely ever to see a large scale production again, and more the type of fare that the Orange Tree or the Finborough might nostalgically revive, with major doubling of cast members. In two key ways though, the play still breathed: (1) The humour: Daniels, a writer who went on to create the first gay teacher on "Grange Hill," is an absolute pro at comedy, creating believably comic situations and hilarious naturalistic dialogue. Strength in the ensemble brought this out to perfection: Ronke Adekolueojo's spaced out Val, playing off the manic denial of her mother, Maureen Beattie's Joyce, who, in turn relentlessly bulldozed the ever patient decency of her other daughter, Jessica Raine's Claire (nobody does intelligent world-weary frustration as compassionately and convincingly as Jessica Raine), who, in turn was threatened by the bold, heroic toughness of out student, Karla Crome's Diane, herself resisting the brazen prejudice enforced by overbearing yet brittle headmistress, Adjoa Andoh's Beatrice. The dialogue is so natural, the characters so distinct, that we got all the comic milking of a sitcom, without the typically wretched phoniness of that format. Of all the actors, Adjoa Andoh was the funniest, able to embody the strict fierceness of the headmistress, as well as simultaneously illustrate the slippery comedy and brittle tragedy of a character, herself a gay woman, enforcing heterosexuality as the compulsory norm, desperately trying to stop the "endemic" of homosexuality (the character meant "epidemic," of course, as pointed out by Jessica Raine's sighing Claire) overtaking the school; (2) Teachers today: In the chit chat that followed the play, gay teachers in the audience identified themselves by raising their hands. They were asked to keep their hands raised if they were out about their sexual orientation, and all hands came down. Anecdotally at least, it seemed, changes in the law and in attitudes have not come so far that gay teachers are free of the fear of persecution by uneducated parents, who conflate sexual orientation with a proclivity to abusiveness, a conflation that perniciously persists, particularly in the tabloids. So the play still speaks to the plight of closeted teachers. Sarah Daniels herself was delightful, in the chit chat, as funny as her play. She joked about how dated she feared the play was, grateful to discover it's still topical in Chechnya. But if many of the issues in her issues play are as stiff as Monty Python's parrot, in her hilariously modest and quick witted turns of phrase, both she and her play remain very much alive.
|
|