All posts tagged theatre

‘A Human Being Died That Night’ at Hampstead Theatre

2013-05-17 17.00.23The play begins in the lobby outside the small Hampstead Theatre downstairs.  It is here that Noma Dumezweni, as Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela, is giving a presentation on the human capacity for evil and the possibility of forgiveness based on her experience of interviews in Pretoria Central Prison with Eugene de Klock.

As she talks, she leads the audience into theatre, and in near darkness we file past floor to ceiling bars, inside which sat a man, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, shackled by the ankles to the floor, before taking our seats.  It is a very dramatic beginning, and creates a feeling of intense claustrophobia in the small space.

As part of her work with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Goboda-Madikizela interviewed de Kock, who was then serving a sentence of two life sentences plus 212 years for crimes against humanity, for his role as one of the main assassins of the South African Apartheid regime.

As a psychologist she wanted to understand why, after a hearing into the death of two black police officers, de Kock had asked to speak directly to the widows, to ask for their forgiveness.  It seemed entirely contrary to the terrible acts he had committed in the past; was there still a human underneath all that brutality, and could she overcome her distaste for the man, to find out?

The question that hangs over the whole play is whether is his apparent remorse is genuine, or a game he is playing in an attempt to have his sentence reduced.  The paradox is that he gives the appearance of being a fundamentally moral person, albeit one who believed in the apartheid regime.  He wrong foots his interviewer from their first meeting, by standing to greet her when she enters his cell, and treating her throughout with an old fashioned politeness.

Through all the terrible admissions what clearly angers him is that officials higher up in the regime, from whom he took his orders had avoided imprisonment by pointing the finger of blame solely at him.  While acknowledging his responsibility for his own wrongdoing, he believed he was part of a bigger machine, and that there were others as responsible as him, who refused to acknowledge it.

‘I was a veteran fighter.  That’s how I saw myself.  But at the end of the day Pumla, all that I am is a veteran of lost ideologies.  Once you realise that, you lose your innocence.’

It was a mesmerising evening.  Matthew Marsh, as de Kock, was tremendous, accent perfect,  suggesting both the power and strength that allowed him to be so deadly, but also the twisted convictions that drive him, which, once they were gone, left him powerless but with a clear eye to the consequences.

It’s not something I knew anything about before watching the play, but found it a compelling examination of the idea of what can possibly constitute real remorse and forgiveness; and where a belief in a twisted morality and imperative can lead.

The play is on until 15 June.

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by rowena on May 18, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on May 18, 2013

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‘The Hothouse’ at Trafalgar Studios

When I bought the tickets for ‘The Hothouse’, and then asked friends if they would like to join me, I told them, ‘on the downside, it’s Pinter, but on the upside, it’s Simon Russell Beale and John Simm’.  And now having seen it, I would repeat the same assessment.

Although it is very early Pinter, written originally in 1958, but kept in a drawer until the 1980s, it still bears many of his recognisable trademarks of mannered and repetitive, slightly oblique speech, a mixture of threat and dark humour, and lots left unexplained, with the feeling of something nasty hanging over the whole proceedings.

Set in an institution, variously referred to as a rest home or hospital, but whose nature is not entirely clear, in which the patients are referred to not by name but by number, dark events are unfolding.  Roote (Simon Russell Beale), the head of the institution, is confused and troubled by reports from his punctilious, but ambitious deputy Gibbs (John Simm), of the death of one patient and the news that another has given birth.  He demands that Gibbs find the rapist, father of the newborn, by whatever means necessary.  Not surprisingly, these means prove to be rather unpleasant.

It is Christmas Day, so although the necessary administration carries on, with reports being read from clipboards against the backdrop of occasional screams from somewhere distant, alcohol consumption and the receipt of the gift of a Christmas cake, add a comedic and occasionally slapstick element.  And Roote becomes increasingly paranoid and incoherent, fearful of the staff, the under-staff and the patients, and under pressure to make a seasonal address of good cheer.

It’s a satire on bureaucracy, where the head of the institution is probably the maddest in the mad house, or the most wicked in a prison, where rules are followed because they always have been, and each group is suspicious of the others, and where sycophancy is the way to prosper, and where the ‘patients’ are deprived of their names and their humanity.  And where, even when turmoil turns the place upside down, the only thing that really changes is the identity of the person who is enforcing the rules.

The echoes of George Orwell and Franz Kafka are highlighted in the set design, a crumbling government building where the paint is peeling, the floor is covered in chequered lino, and some of the audience sit on mismatched wooden chairs.  And the 1960s of The Prisoner are hinted at through the neat hair, sharp suits and John Simm’s spectacles.

It has the virtue of being quite a short play, although there was a (somewhat unnecessary) interval, and leaves you with the feeling that you might have missed something.  They real interest of the evening lies in the performances, in the timing of the dafter bits of dialogue, and the rapid delivery of the long, usually exasperated, speeches, and in the acting of each performer when it was not their turn to speak; it was then that the hypocrisy and the undercurrents of what was not being said revealed themselves.

Have you seen it?  What did you think?

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by rowena on May 8, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on May 8, 2013

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‘Doktor Glas’ at Wyndhams Theatre

It says a lot about the impact of the recent influx of quality Scandinavian television imports in the UK, that the producers of Doktor Glas had the confidence to bring it to the West End.

Performed in Swedish, it is an adaptation of a 1905  novel by Soderberg.  A one man show, the weight of the production hangs on the back of Krister Henriksson, best known to me, and many others, I presume, as ‘the actor who was the original Swedish Wallander’.

It is a darkly comic tale of a Doctor’s obsession with one of his patients, a beautiful young woman married to a repellent clergy man.  When the woman asks for the doctor’s help in persuading her husband to forgo his ‘rights’, a chain of events is set in play which results in the Doctor taking drastic action.

Henriksson tells us the story of the Doctor’s torment, sometimes playing the other characters in the tale, sometimes simply recounting events.  It was a compelling performance, making me smile at the droll mimicking of the unpleasant clergyman and the imaginings of how he might be killed, and then bringing me down with the anguish of the Doctor’s loneliness.

Set entirely within the square box of his office, a plain room with a huge space in the middle, the change in emotional tone was echoed by changes in the lighting, when the grey walls turned luminous red during a nightmare, or when shadows of the branches of the trees outside the window cast themselves in awkward angles when a terrible plan was executed.

While I did enjoy it, there was something quite odd about sitting near the front row of a  theatre, watching an actor very close by, but having to raise my eyes to read surtitles at the same time to understand what he was saying.  That feeling of disassociation was enhanced by the sound design, as it was, to my ear, rather over amplified.  It was a strange decision for Henriksson to be miked, especially as few of the people in the audience would actually understand what he was saying (!).  I had thought it might be because he was a television actor, but I’ve since read that he is one of Sweden’s foremost stage performers, so it might have been because it enabled him to whisper.  I’m not sure it was worth it, especially as the headmic was all to visible from my close vantage point.

But for all that, I did spend the whole performance (90 minutes, no interval, my favourite!) transfixed, which is a very good thing.

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by rowena on May 1, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on May 1, 2013

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‘Third Finger Left Hand’ at Trafalgar Studios

Written by Dermot Canavan, Third Finger Left Hand, is a warm hearted two hander, a recollection of growing up in Britain in the 1970s with an unpredictably violent father.  It is evidently closely based on the author’s own family, and shows two sisters, Grace (Amanda Daniels) and Niamh (Imogen Stubbs), reminiscing about their lives, and how their shared experiences of their family both brings them together and drives them apart.  The scenes unfold against a backdrop of the burgeoning Northern Soul scene, and with the sisters’ love of dancing, especially to the eponymous Martha Reeves and the Vandellas track.

The 1970s is conjured through immediately recognisable references which still manage to be different from the more usual nostalgic topics of curly-wurlies and space hoppers: instead there is the aroma of Smitty and Charley blended with Vosene and the absolute necessity of watching Top of the Pops on a Thursday night if you were to be able to talk about anything at school on Friday.

The focus of the piece is on the two sisters, repeatedly sifting through a box of old photographs of them together over the decades; there are laughter and tears and finishing each other’s sentences and singing the songs they remember, and it all has the feeling of watching a genuine conversation.  There is little distance, and not much other plot than that of shared experiences, a series of cleverly fit together vignettes; the rule abiding sibling may have come to the realisation that being ‘good’ had done her no favours, while the more glamorous and adventurous one reaps an even more tragic end.

What made it a truly engaging experience were the performances.  In the tiny Studio 2, where the performers are no more than an arm’s length away from the audience, with only a sofa, a hat stand, a couple of cushions and a spare cardigan, they transformed themselves from arguing adults to children riding imaginary horses to the theme tune of White Horses, and to teenagers doing synchronised dancing to Motown hits; and they showed the traumatic physical violence which had marked their home life.  And at the end, I don’t think I  was the only one wiping a tear away.

It’s probably suboptimal to be in the reviewing world to be writing about a play that had its final performance yesterday, but then again, it may return in this or another guise…

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by rowena on April 28, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on April 28, 2013

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‘Othello’ at the National Theatre

2013-04-23 08.38.12I booked the tickets for the new production of Othello at the Olivier Theatre on the strength of the two lead actors, both of whom I’ve seen in other stage productions, and, even though I had recently decided, after sitting through some interminably dull Shakespeare in the last year or so, not to bother with any more of it.

And I’m very pleased that I did because I found the experience enthralling.  It hadn’t occurred to me before going, but I’ve never actually seen the play all the way through before; I’ve seen bits of the Olivier film, but never been engaged enough to stay the course, I’ve seen the opera on stage, and spent most of the time worrying that the blacked up lead singer had pink ears.  So as an Othello novice I cannot compare this to any other production.  What I can say though is that the time passed so quickly that I was astonished to see at the interval that it was already 9pm.

Set in modern dress, the production highlights the army context for the play, in a ‘Cyprus’ of concrete bunkers and prefabricated washrooms, where everyone apart from Desdemona and Rodrigo are decked out in desert camouflage and boots, and the imminent arrival of a character on stage is announced by the thud and thrum of helicopter blades.  It is a world where the primary relationships are between men; where the bond between battle mates is one of absolute trust, and where women are made of different stuff.  It is perhaps the only way to make sense of the way Othello behaves for a contemporary audience.

The relationship between Othello and Iago is the central fascination, Othello so trusting, and believing his lieutenant absolutely, and Iago so eaten by anger at being passed over for promotion that he will stoop to any betrayal.  I found the marriage between Othello and Desdemona less compelling: they are so manifestly ill matched and this is highlighted by Desdemona’s smallness beside all the men (in fact all the actresses in this production look oddly diminutive).  In her first appearance during a council of war in a corporate looking meeting room, she looks like a child, beside the be-suited men.  And later, when she travels to Cyprus to be with the army, she is dressed in light cotton pedal pushers and bright t-shirts, an easy target when surrounded by troups in camouflage.  She has no real understanding of the man she has married or the world he occupies.

In an essay extract in the programme written by Nicholas Hynter, the director, he makes the observation that Shakespeare’s plays only makes sense once they have been interpreted and inhabited by actors, and the actors in this production definitely made this for me.  Rory Kinnear is charismatic and brilliant as Iago, confiding in us, the audience, how is plan at revenge is formulating, and then celebrating when only we are watching as each development goes his way.  Adrian Lester, conveys the pride of the outsider with low beginnings who has risen so far to the top that he is in an environment that he doesn’t understand, and in love with the idea of a woman, rather than the woman herself.

It was thrilling to be in a packed theatre when the audience, rapt and silent at the tragic final scenes, burst into whooping and applause for the curtain call.  It was the best evening I’ve had the theatre for ages…… so I may have to refine my rules on Shakespeare, maybe it’s only the comedies that make me want to cut my own throat……

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by rowena on April 23, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on April 23, 2013

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‘The Thrill of Love’ at St James Theatre

Faye Costelow as Ruth Ellis, photo by Donald Cooper

As soon as you walk into the auditorium at the St James theatre you are plunged into a dark, red ruched velvet world filled with cigarette smoke, lubricated with whisky from the drinks trolley.

It is against this backdrop of a seedy night club, frequented by wealthy but rackety men to be entertained by women who dreamed of Hollywood and silver Rolls Royces and to be Diana Dors, or at least the possibility of an invitation to a party at Clivedon, that the play unfolds.

Ruth Ellis, notorious as the last woman to be hanged in Britain (in 1955) for the murder of her lover, David Blakely, is portrayed as a sad victim both of her own wayward passion and of the society that condemned her.  She never denied that she had shot Blakely at close range outside a pub in Hampstead, instead, through the device of a fictional police Inspector, the tension of the play is about why she did it.

The victim never appears on stage, instead the focus is on four women, each trying to make a way for themselves.  There is a contrast between the bad girl as personified by Ruth, and the good girl, the young cleaning woman befriended by her.  There’s the cynical experience of the club manager who’s seen girls come and go, with none of them achieving the wealth or stability that they craves, and the rapid loss of innocence of the girl newly arrived in London, hoping for furs and a rich boyfriend.

The play invites us into a world in which violence against women is commonplace; where abortions are illegal but performed nonetheless, where alcohol and cigarettes are life’s essentials and where a murder trial could end with a noose.  By implication we are asked to think about whether there might be mitigating circumstances for the killing; the history of violence in Ellis’s relationship with Blakely, the earlier abuse she had suffered at the hands of her husband, and the emotional upset of a recent miscarriage.  But also there is no avoiding thinking about the harshness of a society which can exact such a final penalty on one of its citizens, something which was not entirely absent at the time as it was the controversy around this case that did in part lead to the abolition of capital punishement.

All of the performances were terrific, with Faye Costelow particularly affecting as the self destructive Ruth, showing both a tremendous vulnerability and brashness.

Seeing the show did make me want to go back and watch Dance with a Stranger, the 1985 film with Miranda Richardson as Ruth Ellis, and Rupert Everett as Blakely which I remember seeing at the cinema when it was first released and which shocked me at the time.

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by rowena on April 17, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on April 17, 2013

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‘Children of The Sun’ at the National Theatre

2013-04-09 17.32.44Following in their recent tradition of revisiting works from late 19th and early 20th century Russia, the National Theatre are currently performing a new production of Maxim Gorky’s ‘Children of the Sun’, adding to the repertoire which has already included ’The White Guard’, ‘Philistines’ and ’The Cherry Orchard’.

The play, written in 1905 while Gorky was briefly imprisoned following his involvement in the failed revolution in that year, foreshadows the unrest still to come.  The ‘Children’ of the title are the turn of the 20th century leisured middle class, focussed on their own concerns of art and science, seeking ways to perfect the world, while entirely ignoring the poverty and building tension on the other side of the garden wall.

Protasov wants to spend his days immersed in his chemical experiments, convinced that he is on the verge of a great discovery that will improve mankind.  This focus lets him ignore everything else going on around him: the cholera epidemic in the village, his wife’s flirtation with a painter and the obsessive amorous attentions of a crazed widow.  They argue over culture and the universe, but it is Protasov’s sister Liza who feels the tension of the times, worrying  over the plight of the peasants and villagers, and who is prescribed drops for her nerves, so sure is she that something terrible is about to happen.

Blackly comedic in the first half, in the second the troubles of the village begin to encroach on the family and their surrounding coterie, when they learn of mob violence against the doctors in the town and fear that Protasov’s experiments have been poisoning the water supply.

The production at the Lyttleton makes a feature of the wall that divides the privileged family from the village outside; the stage is hidden behind a brick façade  daubed with illiterate slogans at the beginning, and as the play begins, it descends to reveal a house interior and courtyard beyond, in which all the action will take place.  Something about the aesthetic of set reminded me of the other recent productions of Russian plays, almost as if they have an established style, of interior with dining table and chairs, where all the light comes from outside.

I found it hard to relax and engage with the first half of the performance; in some scenes I even felt a little anxious over whether the actors were confident with their lines.  I find it hard to believe that they weren’t, so it must be a stylistic decision which it took me a while to stop worrying about.  After the interval it all worked better for me, perhaps because of all the set up in the first act, I did feel the drama and tragedy of the events that engulf the family and strip them of their delusions.

Although my response to the production was mixed, there are some highlights that I will remember: the best on stage explosion I’ve ever seen, and one which stunned the audience into complete silence, and the maddest response to being lent a book ‘I didn’t read your books, I licked them, I rubbed them all over my naked body and I licked them.’

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by rowena on April 11, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on April 11, 2013

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‘Potted Potter’ at the Garrick Theatre

If I tell you that. although I did read the first two Harry Potter books, I stopped when I saw how fat volume three was, and have subsequently fallen asleep near the beginning of at least two of the films (possibly three, as I’m not sure if one was a repeat), then you’d be reasonable in assuming that I’m not really the target audience for Potted Potter.

You’re right, but I know a girl who is.

Which is why we were at the Garrick Theatre just after four on a Wednesday afternoon, along with hundreds of small children and their accompanying adults, and more curiously, and perhaps a little disturbingly, some adults who had come without an accompanying child.

The show is a two handed romp through all seven books of the Harry Potter series, although if, like me, you’re broadly ignorant of the plots, you’ll emerge none the wiser.  Instead, the books are used as a wonky framework for some comedic silliness, dressing up in cheap wigs and slapstick humour for the children and the childlike, with some clever back-chat, cinematic and literary references for the adults, and audience participation for everyone.

I am generally immune to comedy; that slick ‘look how funny I am, I’ve analysed it, deconstructed  and rehearsed this to within an inch of its life and it’s therefore funny so you’d better laugh’ stuff, does nothing for me other than irritate.  And there are some aspects of that in this show, when Dan and Jeff, the performers, look like nothing so much as over eager puppies bouncing around on the stage.

But what I did like was their willingness to take the risk that their gags involving audience participation wouldn’t go exactly as they had planned; that they were confident and sharp witted enough to deal with whatever happened and make it funny.  It was those unscripted moments which were genuinely amusing.

In a game of Quidditch, involving a couple of cardboard hoops lowered from the Circle balcony, a Globe beachball, two volunteers from the audience, and Jeff dressed in shiny nylon yellow as the snitch, there is quite a lot of risk, but during the performance I saw, a great comedy payoff.  Seeing Jeff flattened by a proper rugby tackle around the knees by a little girl in glasses was funny for its spontaneity and surprise, as well as for the subsequent improvisation and ad libbing that came from it.

The Garrick is also currently home of  ’Rock of Ages‘, with evening performances and matinees on Thursday and Saturday, and Potted Potter fits in a couple of early afternoon shows most other days.  It made me wonder why more West End theatres don’t open up in the day time, in holiday periods to put on small shows?  The packed house for Potted Potter demonstrates that the right show can draw the crowds, which must generate a reasonable contribution to the fixed costs of maintaining the venue……

It’s fun and I left the theatre smiling.  Give it a go (but take a kid along or risk looking a bit odd….)

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by rowena on April 4, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on April 4, 2013

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‘Quatermaine’s Term’ at Wyndhams Theatre

Simon Gray’s 1981 play is set in the shabby staff room of a small language school in Cambridge, some time in the 1960s, or at least in an era when the casual national stereotyping of the Japanese and German students by their teachers was an integral part of break time chat.

Each of the characters is disappointed, and nearly going over the edge as a result of the various travails of their lives, a troublesome teenage daughter, a severely ill mother, an unfaithful husband, being prone to a tiresome number of minor accidents.  We hear about the lives off stage without ever seeing any of the other characters; indeed the joint headmaster, the maker of difficult decisions is also never seen, even if much of the dialogue is about what his reaction to this or that might be.

And at the centre of the play sits Quatermaine, by everyone’s acknowledgement not a very good teacher, forgetful and absent minded, a fixture, but also a void.  Apparently liked by all his colleagues, given his extreme passivity one can only assume they are projecting virtues on to his personality to make up for the amiable blankness they see there.

It’s an interesting structure around which to build a play, lives of quiet desperation recounted either purposefully or obliquely through the conversations in the staff room, with a central protagonist who does virtually nothing but sit in a scruffy leather arm-chair and agree with everything that is said.

Richard Eyre’s production plays it straight: a traditional set of sofas, wooden lockers and French windows, on which the curtain falls at the end of each Act.  He has cast Rowan Atkinson as Quatermaine, a decision which has drawn in the crowds, and some fairly generous reviews in the newspapers.

But, unfortunately,  none of these features meant that the play engaged me on any level at all.  Instead, it felt interminable; each time the curtain fell at the end of a scene, my heart sank, as it meant there had to be yet another one to come.  You already know that I’m a notoriously bad judge of comedy, so it may not be helpful if I say that one line did make me smile. (The rest of the audience appeared to find additional things to laugh at.)  But equally I felt little sympathy with the bathos of the ending.

The perception of the success of the casting of Atkinson, known for his rubber face and body physicality in such a static role, will depend on your liking or not of the actor, as to my eye he played the same character of ticks, pursed lips and wild eyebrow movements that he always does, just this time sitting down.  Given the indulgent applause he received at the curtain call, I think mine may be a minority opinion.

Have you seen it?  What did you think?

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by rowena on March 30, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on March 30, 2013

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‘Above Us the Wide Blue Sky’ at The Young Vic

I bought the tickets for this show after a conversation with a friend about the impact of the use of multi media in live stage performances.

As the publicity for the show promised a multi screen installation, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to test out our respective responses to it.  The description of the show had led me to expect that it was something both about and using technology.  Instead, what I saw was a meditation on the natural world and how what we see around us in our outdoors environment makes us feel at home.  It had a nice resonance with the same idea of generations of stories in a landscape and what it might feel like to lose them that Jim Crace expressed during his talk a couple of weeks ago.

The show was in the small studio at the Young Vic, essentially a large box.  High above us on the four walls eight large screens were showing images of a blue sky and scudding clouds, the ambient noise was of a gentle breeze blowing and the clatter of a couple of small reel to reel projectors.  In the middle of the space a square area was laid out with white stone blocks, illuminated by a collection of standard lamps at various heights and at different angles, on which stood a single stool and a dog’s bed.

The cast is, literally, one woman and a dog, and the dog lays on its bed and dozes throughout. The young woman, Laura Cubitt, speaks for 45 minutes, and her words create pictures of an imagined landscape.  Starting with snippets, the wide blue sky, sheep, cows’ breath, gradually the descriptions amplify to more complex images of people walking on the horizon, or women running into the sea, and to a story of the fields that used to exist at home, before returning to the images we’d heard before but now they used to be, rather than are.  It’s a clever full circle of words, finishing where it began, but filling us with a sense of something lost, echoed by a darkening sky around us.

I found the experience mesmerising, listening to her words and conjuring the images in my own mind’s eye, rather as one might when listening to the radio, but with the added effect of the changing sky and clouds.  When it started I was anticipating action, that the dog would do a trick or two, that the lamps would move, that something startling would be projected on the screens, and then as the words cast there spell and drew the pictures, I relaxed and listened and watched the sky.

Afterwards, discussing it with my friend we both expressed surprise at how, despite its apparent simplicity, and the fact that nothing really happens apart from one woman speaking a series of phrases and descriptions, how engaged we had each been, proving, I suppose, the idea behind the piece, as conceived by Fevered Sleep, that we all do feel a connection with our environment, and that it is a fundamental element in our concept of home.

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by rowena on March 10, 2013  •  Permalink
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Posted by rowena on March 10, 2013

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