Category Archives: Four Mice

PYGMALION – Theatre Royal, Bath & TOURING

NO SQUASHED CABBAGE LEAVES:  A FAIR TRIUMPH

 

Rarely have I seen George Bernard Shaw’s tumbling torrent of ideas and indignations delivered with such joyful, entertaining panache, or been happier to forget its artificially-sweetened version, My Fair Lady. David Grindley’s production is a firecracker. Even the wordier passages about class and culture spin exhilaratingly along, and it is good to be reminded that one of the funniest scenes in theatre is the tea-party moment, where Eliza’s painfully posh accent utters sentences of Cockney vigour (“It’s my belief they done the old woman in” ). The Lerner & Loewe musical makes too little of that: in the original it’s a riot.

 

Much of the credit must go to Alistair McGowan as Professor Higgins. I had not known what a fine stage actor he was, such is the ubiquity of his TV comedy and impressionism. His Henry Higgins is tremendous: funny, but also catching and making real all the vanity, breezy professional self-confidence and alpha-male callousness of Shaw’s creation. He rattles, explodes, commands, insults Eliza’s “depressing and disgusting sounds…kerbstone English that will keep her forever in the gutter!” He says appalling things, but his reckless unselfawareness makes even that oddly endearing: when the newly elegant, angry Eliza finally turns on him he expostulates “I created – this – out of the squashed cabbage-leaves of Covent Garden!”. He is the ultimate unforgiveable. But when his mother upbraids him and he sprawls and hunches like a schoolboy, you forgive.

 

The other brilliant surprise is Rula Lenska, not seen often enough onstage. She is no mean comedienne (have a look at http://tinyurl.com/owhhfyz) and here makes the most of her capacity for sharp timing and queenly, statuesque stillness. But she also radiates a lovely exasperated matriarchal warmth: for Mrs Higgins is the first character apart from the housekeeper (Charlotte Page) to see that Eliza is a human being and that giving her the appearance of a counterfeit “lady” will cause her painful alienation. And as Eliza herself, Rachel Barry is endearing, but equally importantly manages the technical accent-switches required: from Cockney “neeeoooooow I’m a good girl I am”, to terrible zombie over-carefulness at tea, and finally to natural RP. That’s never an easy gig, and she handles it well.
The class politics are fascinating too; prescient for 1914, Shaw has little patience with his upper-class characters, the Eynsford-Hills, and worries away amusingly at the character of Alfred (Jamie Foreman) who prefers to stay among “the undeserving poor”, prefers a fiver to a tenner because “£10 makes a man prudent”. HIs horror of being elevated, “intimidated, bought up!” into the boring anxieties of middle-class morality is a direct ancestor of our TV series SHAMELESS.
So for two and a half hours you think, you laugh, you feel, you admire. Shaw can be a struggle for modern audiences, but this is a corker.

RATING:  four   4 Meece Rating
box office 01225 448844 to 29 March
touring to 21 June http://www.pygmalionuktour.co.uk/  Touring Mouse wide

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I CAN’T SING – Palladium, W1

HOWL, HOWL, HOWL! IT’S COWELL MOST FOUL…

 

Only gossip-writers should review the audience, but seeing this was the gala premiere of Harry Hill’s X-factor musical , and that most of the national critics wussily sneaked into previews to write it up nice and early, I may as well supplement the critical consensus. So know that on this real opening night Simon Cowell himself preeened through a curtain call next to Nigel Harman who plays him, that the audience was chock-full of showbizzy figures being spoofed onstage, from Sinitta to Louis Walsh; and that my companion had the interval pleasure of seeing half of the boy-band Union J confusedly blundering into the Ladies’.

 

And so to the show. Its eccentric brio owes more than a little to Jerry Springer The Opera, and demonstrates also, alas, how much better that other TV-talent musical -Viva Forever – would have been if with some proper work and wit in it. It is built round auditions and backstage manoeuvres on The X Factor, so if you know nothing of ITV’s monolithic, hideously successful, exploitative and terminally naff rhinestone-in-the-crown, don’t bother. Equally, if the football-related backstory of Cheryl Cole and the lovelife and health regimes of Cowell himself are beyond your range of interests, do some homework. But if you are a fan or the parent of one, or one of the viewers neatly guyed in a chorus sung on flying sofas (“It’s all a con, I don’t really watch it , there’s nothing else on..”) then Sean Foley’s production is the spectacular, larking, hoofing, happily silly springtime panto for you. Especially if you love the knowingly parastic mockery of TV which is Harry Hill’s trademark.

 
I love Hill, and my notebook is peppered with “HH” symbols to identify jokes which reminded me of him. Like the aria about the importance of loving yourself if you’re in showbiz, or the hopeful trio with T shirts of their name SOUL STAR who stand in the wrong order and read ARS OUL ST. Or the compere Liam O’Dearie (plainly Dermot O’Leary) who sings that how he never feels secure unless he is hugging someone he doesn’t know. Ouch. Another lovely Harry-Hillism is having the wind which blows away vital entry forms played by an ensemble member flapping his rags and snarling “three years at RADA!”.

 

There are some proper musical-theatre treats. Cynthia Erivo, last seen taking the roof off the Menier in The Color Purple, is the heroine Chenice, who thinks she can’t sing but brilliantly can: she has an ideal X-factor harrowing backstory which Hill treats with cheerful callousness. Grandad’s iron lung has to be unplugged to watch telly in their caravan, and he gets electrocuted by an incompetent plumber who is himself a contestant (“I’m going to change the world with my ukelele, and I’m doing it for my little brother!”). There’s a cynical puppet dog snarling “I know it’s not exactly War Horse but I’m doing my best”, a Dickensian undertaker, a hunchback rapper with breakdancing monks, leprechauns, Brunnhildes, and Harman a superbly horrible Cowell.

 

That’s it, really. There is potential savagery in a few lyrics, like Cowell’s “I will search the land for every buffoon / mentally ill people who murder a tune..”. The Cole character (a glorious Victoria Elliott) is mercilessly made a clumsy exhibitionist colluding in the cynical manipulation of innocents, and the conclusion is a song made entirely of clichés “Dream of a journey, journey to the dream..”. But hell, Cowell himself is the show’s backer, for Syco. And like Have I Got News or American comedy “roastings” it is all basically self-congratulatory – a sort of triumphalist “if you’re ghastly and you know it, clap your hands!” But God help me, I enjoyed it a lot.
box office 0844 412 4655 http://www.icantsingthemusical.com
Rating: four. Oh dear.  4 Meece Rating

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OTHER DESERT CITIES – Old Vic, SE1

PALM TREES ,POLITICS, LITERATURE , LOYALTIES..

 

With a fine dramatic flourish the Old Vic is again a theatre-in-the-round, as it was six years ago for the Norman Conquests. The refit (they kept the kit in storage) works astonishingly well, perhaps best for seats in the northern arc, and suits the breathless, concentrated living-room intimacy of Jon Robin Baitz‘ clever play. It’s set (great palm-trees) in an affluent Republican home in Palm Springs, California. And there’s too grand a twist, too melodramatic a reveal, for spoilers to be forgivable.

 

But I can mention that in a brief flash-forward coda, Martha Plimpton as the daughter Brooke (a performance of marvellous intensity, alternately pitful and loathsome) stands at a lectern reading at some literary festival. Describing her father’s deathbed she makes ironic observations about his dementia and the “ochre and umber” sunset outside. Ah yes: we’ve all read these overwritten, hypersensitive ich-bin-zo memoirs. And that final moment underlines the important theme running all through Baitz’ depiction of a combative family Christmas Eve. Sharp and witty himself, he understands the temptations of authorly self-regard and the creeping novelization of memory. When her family plead with her not to publish a memoir, Brooke utters lines like “You’re asking me to shut down something that makes me possible…the only obligation I have is to myself”.

 

We meet them all first in tennis kit: Peter Egan and Sinéad Cusack as well-groomed parents in shining whites, the lounging son Trip (Daniel Lapaine) laughing about the ironic mock-trial TV show he produces. Brooke, in scruffy T-shirt and leggings, is full of East Coast political correctness and horrified at her mother’s breezy recommendation of the “Chinky” food they do at the Country Club. It is all beautifully drawn, Lindsay Posner’s cast immaculate: loose-limbed Trip keeping the peace, Egan affably senatorial as a former Hollywood gunslinger who became a George Bush Snr ambassador, and above all Sinéad Cusak superlatively watchful, poised, suggesting depths of difficult self-control beneath a facade brittle and often hilarious as a wife who learned “order, precision and discipline” from Nancy Reagan. No fool she, but a Vassar girl who used to write for Hollywood: though “once it became all about drugs and lefties whining, I was out”.

 

They are joined by the alcoholic aunt Silda – Clare Higgins in assorted knock-off garish prints – who unlike her sister has not smoothed over her roots. “You’re not a Texan, you’re a Jew. This Pucci is more real than your Barbara Bush shtick”. Brooke is the catalyst for chaos: veteran of one literary novel, a nervous breakdown, and divorce from what her brother calls “a sad wet Brit, like Lord Byron’s faggy cousin”. The author’s note calls her “an artist in despair, a dangerous creature”, but wisely lets Trip burst that bubble with “Depression doesn’t make you special, it makes you banal”. The disputed memoir concerns her elder brother who joined an anti-war hippie cult, was complicit in a murderous firebombing and drowned himself. In Brooke’s world view her parents are right-wing sociopaths who destroyed him. But hey, maybe even Republicans love their children, and truth is elusive and writers can be dishonest too. As Trip says in a marvellous, Salingeresque inter-sibling scene, “You turn Henry into a saint of the ‘70s, all patchouli and innocent questioning. But…”

 

That’s the setup. It’s too good a thriller, too subtle and shifting in its sympathies, to tell you more.

 

box office 0844 871 7628 to 24 may Sponsor: Bank of America Merrill Lynch

Rating Four4 Meece Rating

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Rating Four
4 Meece Rating

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EMILY Ruskin College and Touring

THE MAKING OF A MILITANT SUFFRAGETTE
Emily Wilding Davison died 101 years ago at the Derby, under the thundering hooves of the King’s horse.  Nobody knows for sure whether she intended martyrdom: she has a return ticket and may simply have meant to disrupt the race in a typically  risky stunt.  Fearless inventiveness had  for years marked her increasing frustration with the Liberal government’s refusal to enfranchise women.

It is her death which makes her famous and which ends this 70-minute solo show, but that is not its main focus.   Written by Ros Connelly of Cambridge Devised Theatre, directed by  Kath Burlinson and performed with engaging energy by Elizabeth Crarer,  rather it traces the development and desperation of the militant condition itself.  Davison was an educated university woman,  determined and energetic,   who worked her way to a first class degree after her father died and left the family poorer.  We see her as a lover of Walt Whitman’s poems,  a dreamer of independence, a sea-bathing romp of a girl.

Crarer gives her a fearless tomboyish physicality and a clear-eyed  rather head-prefectish persona:  after a brief sour desperate prison moment we meet her in flashback as she sees  Mrs Pankhurst in Hyde Park,  reads newspapers and the famous Almroth Wright tract  about “A world rendered unwholesome by feminism” where “individual man showers upon individual woman…every good thing which, suffrage or no suffrage, she never could have procured for herself.”

She was, in short, radicalized.  And thus became a victim of that age’s scandal:  repeated arrest and hideous force-feeding which knocks out teeth and makes the subject retch in pain.  Light and sound on the bare stage elegantly meet Crarer’s violent fall to the ground each time she is jailed.  First for obstruction, then breaking windows, arson and at finally for accosting a Baptist MInister she mistook for David Lloyd George (she did apologize).    We see her in prison,  angry and intense,  praying  and muttering “righteousness is not shame”  and “rebellion against tyrants is obedience to God!”.  Between prison sentences she strides around  addressing her invisible confreres or (more tenderly) her mother,  chucking bricks through windows with satisfying crashes,  and rather splendidly hiding in a heating duct and a cupboard inside the Palace of Westminster in the hope of accosting  Prime Minister Asquith.  Piquantly, she managed to stay hidden till after midnight on Census night so she could declare Parliament as her place of residence.

But what is most striking is that all this does gradually turn Emily a little mad.  Her very murmur “I am not mad!” and her pacing of her cell with a bitter cry of “We cannot stop now!”  indicates how long disillusion and official cruelty  breeds nihilistic despair.    We cannot quite know how true this was: but dramatically it convinces.

I saw it at Ruskin College Oxford,   home of labour history serving adults from hard backgrounds with a thirst for learning: a place so inspiring that Gandhi made a point of visiting it.  It fitted well.  The tour of 18 theatres is a whistle-stop affair, but worth catching.

touring to 9th april:  details, http://www.theproductionexchange.com    Touring Mouse wide

rating:  four   4 Meece Rating

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URINETOWN St James’ Theatre, SW1

MAKING A SPLASH:  URINE SHOWBIZ NOW!

Are they taking the piss?  This extraordinary 2001 American musical by Mark Hollman  and Greg Kotis ran three years  on Broadway after a fringe debut,  landing three Tonys despite the studiedly unpromising title,  downbeat ending and a plot which, baldly described, sounds as jejune as a rag-week demo.

But by God, it works!   It took a while to convince me, but halfway through the first half of Jamie Lloyd’s storming, crowding, rackety production I  forgave a certain incomprehensibity in the chorus lyrics (it was the last preview, it’ll settle) and rolled along with the oddball smash hit of the season.  Even stood up for the gore-spattere curtain-call:   filthily clad revolutionaries, bad cops, revolutionaries and a corrupt politician in a bloodstained bra.

Soutra Gilmour’s atmospheric set has two levels,  around a revolving urinal block and giant sewerpipes:  Blade Runnerish with  retro-future detail.   It represents a city so blighted by drought that private lavatories are banned: the suffering populace queues to pay at squalid public ones,  controlled by brutal cops  under a giant corporation run by Cladwell (Simon Paisley Day in a villainous moustache).  The penalty for peeinng in the street is exile to “Urinetown” . Which, it becomes clear, is  a euphemism for execution.  “Urinetown’s a tool / To enforce my iron rule…” sings Cladwell happily.  He is paying off a greedy senator  –  topical utility-jokes about how the money is supposed to solve the eco-problem,  but is really spent on fun in Rio .  The satire, which is heavy,  targets the corporate and tyrannical desire to exploit and police basic human needs –  food and love, so why not bladder and bowels?    Bog attendant Bobby (Richard Fleeshman) starts a revolution by letting the poor in (“Free the Pee-ple”) but falls in  love with Cladwell’s naive daughter Hope (Rosanna Hyland).  They flee to the sewers , she is made hostage and tied up but not too tightly to prevent her reprising a mock-schlock “Follow your heart” number.  O she’s untied she rocks a great gospel-blues “I see a River”. Jenna Russell is a stunner as Penelope Pennywise, a ginger virago  undergoing a Nancy-style remorse

Lloyd, who lately froze our blood with his McAvoy Macbeth,  makes much of the brutalities, riot-shields banged to Hollmann’s rorty score;  enough to make us uneasy at times if it wasn’t distanced by a knowing meta-theatre device in which the chief policeman , an unusually sinister-looking Jonathan Slinger,  discusses and mocks  the progress of the show with Li’l Sal (a terrific Karis Jak).   There are great numbers like Cladwell’s “Don’t be the bunny, don’t be the stew!” with a chorus of rabbit-headed victims on the revolve and a barmy glove-puppet,   and we cheered as the revolutionaries were led in gospel chorus conducted by a fiercely ludicrous Bobby.

That sums up the strength and weakness of the piece: a laddish desire to make its points while sliding – as lads will – embarrassedly away from emotion: everything’s a parody.  It made me nostalgic for the way another transgressive musical, Jerry Springer the Opera, had the courage to offer moments of poignancy.   But never mind: this one is spot-on for the Hunger-Games-And-Zombie generation:   its studied cynicism very student-friendly.  But my inner student joined in,  seduced  by its exuberant absurdity.   And aficionados of musical parody may spot hommages to Les Mis, Chicago, Guys and Dolls, Sondheim and a hint of Phantom in the sewers.

And never have I seen such a lemming rush for the lavatories in the interval…

box office 0844 264 2140  to 3 May

rating:  four  4 Meece Rating

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VERSAILLES Donmar WC2

1919: A GENERATION CAST ADRIFT BY WAR

After the Armistice, in spring 1919 the Treaty of Versailles drew lines on the map and enforced reparations.  Its decisions cast long shadows even today,  and its peace lasted only twenty years,.  Peter Gill’s ambitious, chewy,  eloquent play is built around that conference. But with fascinating obliquity it observes it in the first and third acts from an affluent drawing-room in Kent,  and between them from a civil service anteroom in Paris.  It often feels more like a wordy novel – perhaps by E.M.Forster – yet its very seriousness finally captures the heart.  Gill shows us people adrift in a newly incomprehensible world:  stunned by grief or confused by change, needing to  understand that as the hero Leonard says despairingly  “The war  was greater than our capacity to deal with the results.”

The Kentish drawing-room is home to Edith  (Francesca Annis) her daughter Mabel (Tamla Kari)  and son Leonard (Gwilym Lee) , a young civil servant off to help at Versailles.  They have houseguests:  soldier Hugh,  home on leave and loosely affianced to Mabel, and Constance (Helen Bradbury)  who works in a leftish bookshop and knew Leonard at University.  He is an authority on the Saar Valley coalmines,  which belong to Germany but which Versailles may cede to France.  His anxiety about impoverishing Germany too greatly is met with contempt by Mrs Chater (a sharp performance by Barbara Flynn) a neighbour who is mourning both her soldier son and the new world of Jews and foreigners and class fluidity (“My niece is married to an Irishman, but that’s as far as it goes”.)

Another neighbour contemptuous of  Leonard’s qualms is Geoffrey,  a wonderfully sinister creation whose two sides are conveyed perfectly by Adrian Lukis. There’s the kindly prosperous village neighbour  “I’m an old country Tory – will it work, and what’s best for me?”  he says joshingly,  but as the evening goes on his self-satisfied pragmatism reveals a heart of granite:  democracy is a figleaf,  all we need is  “a robust market and a wise élite”.    Tellingly, he likes the opera because its emotion and idealism are “confined by art and open to interpretation” –  ouch!  He is organizing a war memorial but cares little that the tormented Hugh can’t even look at the drawings;  he has a mistress in London but an eye for Constance.

Gill cannot resist sly moments of prediction:  Geoffrey observes that  “the greengrocer class” has no class loyalties and hence makes harsh decisions (work that  out!).   Simon Williams, perfect as the senior diplomat at Versailles, harrumphs about the new need for  “clever middle class boys, neurotic though they may be”   who read novels, don’t hunt, and make preposterous suggestions like nationalizing coal –  “As if that would ever happen!”.  But the play’s heart is Leonard, struggling with  the moral ambiguity of all parties in war  and the danger of crippling Germany  (he was right:  Hitler owed much to its years of panic and poverty).  He deplores “the hurried nation-making, partitioning up Africa as if we owned it” , looks towards the East and fears a future “Mohammedan Cromwell” will exploit the resentments of arrogant border-making.    His emotional life is torment too:  the dead Chater son was his friend and lover, who in a less successful device appears as a recurrent ghost, arguing and reproaching.

Ideas are sometimes piled too high, but when Gill (who also directs) remembers that this is theatre he scores moments of shaking emotion:  The Chaters, for instance, are each ambushed out of their civilized chattiness into sudden sobs for their dead son.  As in life, it’s moments kindness that do it:  Mrs Chater breaks suddenly at the gift of a piece of cake, and in the last act her husband (a brief but powerful Christopher Godwin) defies the general disapproval of Leonard’s resigning to work in the East End.  The old man walks up and shakes his hand saying “You are a pilgrim!”,  and weeps.

In that moment,  the pity and the puzzle of war come very close.

Box Office 0844 871 7624  to 5 April        Supported by: Barclays  / American Airlines

rating:  four     4 Meece Rating
A series of talks accompanies VERSAILLES to mark the centenary of WW1: details and booking:  donmarwarehouse.com

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AFTERPLAY – Crucible, Sheffield

SONYA AND ANDREY:  A BRIEF ENCOUNTER BY FRIEL

Two lonely middle-aged people meet in a cheap Moscow café in 1920:  she frowning over accounts and mortgages,  he in frayed evening clothes toting a walnut violin case.  It is the second night they have coincided,  strangers in town, and with awkward bourgeois politeness they share a table and resume their chat.  He is a violinist at the Opera (“Do you always rehearse in evening dress?” “German conductor! Stickler for formality!”).  She is puzzling over how to keep a distant estate afloat after the death of her male relatives, not that they were ever much use with an account-book.   These are Chekhov characters twenty years on:   Brian Friel, a fine translator of the master,  revives them and imagines their futures.  In fifty minutes he makes it an  exquisite, touching miniature.

We last saw Sonya consoling Uncle Vanya with that marvellous affirmation of justice in an afterlife:  “We shall hear the angels…we shall see how all earthly sufferings are drowned in mercy, and life will grow peaceful, tender…we shall rest”.  As for Andrey, he is the brother in Three Sisters, last recorded as ineffective, mocked as a failure and cuckolded by his wife.  But life goes on,  and there is comfort to be found by confiding in strangers in an empty café.  Even if, at first,  you fib a lot.

Niamh Cusack is Sonya, Sean Gallagher Andrey: their interplay  over cabbage soup and surreptitious nips of vodka from her handbag  is drawn with delicate precision. Roisin McBrinn’s direction is unobtrusive,  Friel’s truthful humorous sadness caught absolutely.  Cusack gives Sonya a spirited , stubborn dignity and flashes of wit;  Gallagher deploys a slightly clownish amiability.  We learn  how three weeks watching over the dying, demented Vanya with Dr Astrov at her side was the most “serene and fulfilled” moment of Sonya’s life,  how the estate’s agriculture faded and the bank (lunatically) wants it forested over.  Andrey speaks admiringly of his two surviving sisters,  still at forty waiting for life to begin. He reveals Masha’s end and his own wife’s defection.  He is a champion fibber, and only gradually admits his self-aggrandizing legends.   Sonya,  on the other hand,  tells only one central lie but is herself trapped in a fictional narrative of her connection with Astrov, “A man of vision, close to saintliness and not always sober.”   Both of these gentle disappointed people face an “endless tundra of aloneness”.   Sonya embraces it in the name of virtuous fortitude,   Andrey has a healthy if incompetent impetus to escape it,  and behind his fictions eventually reveals a simple, loving nobility of life.

It is very beautiful,  often painfully funny: a tiny jewel adorning the Crucible’s fine Friel season, definitely one to catch.  Possibly before going out in the Sheffield drizzle to sit in a café  hoping for a mournful new friendship.  I’m off out.

box office 0114 249 6000   to 1 March

rating:  four    4 Meece Rating

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A TASTE OF HONEY Lyttelton, SE1

A BLAST OF FRESH AIR FROM THE FIFTIES 

“Cinema is as bad as the theatre these days”  says  Jo’s mother Helen disdainfully. “All mauling and muttering”.   Written in 1958 by the teenage  Shelagh Delaney,  it’s one of many great lines in this gritty, exuberant shout of a play.   The story is told  of how the 18-year-old author saw  Rattigan’s Variation on a Theme  (piquantly, it’s on next week at the Finborough, first outing in 50 years).   Exasperated by its limp-wristed Riviera setting,  Delaney wrote this,  set in the backstreets of Salford and concerning  a teenager deserted by her slattern of a mother in a slum room, pregnant by a black sailor and cared for by a gay art student.    Joan Littlewood –  equally piquantly, her centenary is this year – relished its vigour and put it on.   The homosexual implication meant that it only narrowly avoided a ban from the Lord Chamberlain (censorship was to limp on for ten years more).

The famous film is better known than the play now, and Bijan Sheibani’s lively new production demonstrates what a pity that is.  Films telescope dialogue, simplify and glamourize:  what we get here is leaping, vivid, complicated,  full-blooded life.  It centres on the dancing optimism of youth which rejects pathos and the clichés of romance,  and the brilliant ambiguity of a neglectful mother who cannot be entirely monstrous.  It is  funny, affectionate and shocking , and for a play which dived headfirst into dangerous waters – teenage pregnancy, inter-racial sex, homosexuality –  it is utterly free from that poker-faced tone of modern issue-plays.    Indeed it makes the Angry Young Men of Delaney’s own time seem dogmatic, whiney and misogynist.   With the clear eyes of youth she takes people as she finds them,  warts and all.   The detail is a delight: in the brief courtship of Jo and sailor Jimmie (Eric Kofi Abrefa)  the toy car in his pocket is a grace-note few playwrights would  add. Her characters are too real to represent anything but themselves.  So kitchen-sink all right, but an ancestor of Coronation Street rather than the dour EastEnders.   As the tarty old fox Helen  (Lesley Sharp)  observes “We’re all at the steering wheel of our own destiny, careering like drunk drivers”.

When pain fizzes through it is deeply real,  but the quality of larky realism  is brilliantly enhanced by brief jazzy brass entr’actes when the cast spin and dance in the bricky, sooty street for a few moments:  Jo with her lover Jimmie,  or  later coming back from a fair  pregnant but unbowed with a handful of balloons and her gay pal Geoffrey;  later Geoffrey himself dances with his mop, tidying the squalid room.  Kate O’Flynn is a superb Josephine,  stroppy and combative with an edge of desperate need for the love Helen can’t be bothered to offer her:  her sudden cry “I don’t want to be a mother, I don’t want to be a woman” comes like an electric shock.    Lesley Sharp  (“Look at my face, every line tells a dirty story)  is alternately hilarious,  horrible and needy:  stunning in her unwonted desperate quietness when her drunken new husband kicks off.     Harry Hepple gives a perfect, restrained dignity to Geoffrey.   And the end is as ambiguously open to wishful thinking  as life itself.

Box office  020 7452 3000  to  11 May

rating:   four  4 Meece Rating

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ARTHUR SMITH SINGS LEONARD COHEN vol 2 Soho Theatre, W1

SINGING ALL THE WAY DOWNHILL

“Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
and I ache in the places where I used to play..”

Ah, Leonard Cohen! Nothing like it when you need it.   Which isn’t always.   But Arthur Smith,  his unlikely doppelganger and lifelong fan,  has built a  reflective, funny, wise hour out of that necessary mood.  “Part One”, a few years ago,  majored on Cohen’s attitude to excess and addiction, something Arthur himself knows a good deal about.  This one is focused more on  “Depression, decline, diminishment, darkness and death”.   And by the strange alchemy of music and art,  the moment our battered host pronounces these words, everyone feels better.  Happier.  Cheerfully committed to “that little touch of madness that makes stability perfect”,  the acceptance of human chaos from which wisdom springs.

It is partly a tribute show – and Smith has the musicality and the growl and the soul to perform the great songs like Tower of Song and Take This Waltz –  partly an account of his own fandom , of Cohen’s despair  (a lovely grumpy rendering of Alleluia)   and subsequent revival of fortunes.  There’s a brief exchange of letters too  (Cohen concludes “Stay alive Arthur, and I’ll find you”).  But it veers off in other directions:  he annexes Christopher Reid’s marvellous poem about elephants throwing bones around in a strange ritual of grief,  and Philip Larkin’s dead hedgehog;  he speaks of his mother Hazel , her growing dementia and her unconquerable heart (clearly, in temperament, this splendid woman is the opposite of Cohen, except for the drinking).

He amuses himself reading out (with assistance from his backing-group girls)  some terrible poems by Leonard Nimoy, to contrast with the gloomy majesty of Cohen’s lyrics.  A couple of times he decides to behave like other standup comedians, attempting “enthusiasm” and giving up in disgust,  then trying the pointless ranting style, and shrugging that off too.

Because he can.  Because Arthur Smith,  never willingly enrolled in the vile monkey-vain ranks of comedy celebriteees, never buys into any legend, including his own.  It’s a uniquely consoling voice,  expressing the wreckage we must all cling to.   If Cohen’s songs are,  “a manual for living with defeat”,  this show sprung from them is a way to learn to love it.
box office 020 7478 0100   to 2 March

Rating:  four  4 Meece Rating

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HMS PINAFORE – Hackney Empire & touring

O  RAPTURE UNFORESEEN.   A G & S REFUSENIK RECANTS

Right.  Shoot your cuffs, hammer that piano,  rum-ti-tum and off we go:

When I was young I must confess
I’d run a mile from seeing any G & S:
The rumti-tumty racket and the style so ham
Seemed to bring out every horror of the worst am-dram.
(Chorus:  It was all about the horrors of her first am-dram)

Tom Lehrer said of the Savoy operas  “Full of words and music, signifying nothing”,  and I associated Gilbert and Sullivan with over-decorated, safe fat-bottomed smugness.  I forgot  (or didn’t notice, in banal productions)  that in their Victorian day they were pretty satirical.   A particularly painful Mikado (“Mikado About Nothing”,  snarled my companion, leaving at the interval)  and a desperate “singalong” at Snape put the lid on it.

So despite the rhymes that riddle and the tunes that dance,
And the keenness of the critics (and their cousins and their aunts)
I kept away and shuddered saying “Not for me!
No, not even if the tickets in the stalls came free!”

But then I saw the Regan de Wynter all-male Iolanthe:  rollickingly silly,  beautifully sung and casually framed as if a group of teenage boys had crept into an attic, found an old score and extemporized props and costumes from junk.  Adding this extra layer of absurdity somehow neutralized the weak plots and psychological improbability, to reveal the real merriment and neo-music-hall quality of the best bits.

So here I am again, happy as Larry, cheering for their even more imaginatively reframed HMS Pinafore:  Sasha Regan discards stagey galleon romance and sets it below decks in a WW2 warship,  with men amusing themselves in the naval tradition of a “Sod’s Opera”.  The set is their metal-framed bunks: as the pianist in the pit strums the overture they lounge, bored, reading letters from home.  Then one man takes out a tin whistle and gives the opening bars of  “We sail the ocean blue…”  and they’re off.   Athletic, laddish,  leaping and singing.  As the Captain (Neil Moors) joins them they all manage a fast chorus while he leads an equally fast PE lesson, singing through press-ups and somersaults, fake medals flapping.

Aidan Crowley stuffs a hunchback pillow in his vest as evil Dick Deadye. The stout ship’s cook becomes Little Buttercup (Alex Weatherhill),  deploying a fierce falsetto.   Josephine arrives (more of a true counter-tenor, I’d say, and immense on the high notes).  But she – and the “female relatives” chorus accompanying Sir Joseph Porter  – are not in elaborate drag.   To indicate laydeez attire they just customize cork lifejackets, trailing straps, canvas headbands, socks hauled to stocking height.   So you never forget that this is a lark, a release from manliness:  that in itself is oddly touching.  Especially as sounds of the sea beyond the hull are often just audible behind the romantic farrago,  the gaily-tripping-lightly-skipping parody of womanhood and the exaggerated machismo of manhood.

But mainly it’s funny, a distillation of high spirits:  the nocturne “carefully on tiptoe stealing”  is lit with  mischievously dramatic effect by hand-held torches.  And the bureaucratic monster Sir Joseph Porter KCB  (David McKechnie)  makes the most of bowler-hat, pompous pipesucking and excellent comedy legs. So in conclusion –

I went tripping through the foyer very cheerfull-ee
Saying:  “Book your ticket quickly for this Queens’ navee!”

box office  0208 985 2424   to 23 Feb

tour to 5 May   http://www.hmspinaforetour.com     Touring Mouse wide

rating:  four   4 Meece Rating

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DONKEYS’ YEARS Rose, Kingston

GAUDEAMUS IGITUR!  A FAVE FRAYN FARCE RETURNS

Those who love a good farce – lost trousers, sock-suspenders,  nifty door-work, ridiculous fights and punctured dignity –  sometimes feel a bit sheepish, guiltily lowbrow. The answer is Michael Frayn:  philosopher, scholar,  intellectually dazzling yet by a great mercy of fate able to bring his gifts, and a certain devastating insider knowledge,   to pure mischief.  In Noises Off  he skewered the world of theatre;  here it is the rareified golden stone world of  an Cambridge college.  Thus the wildest moments of trouserless chaos can be dignified with lines like “I can’t just hand out Mature Studentships, on Sunday, in my pyjamas!”.   And drunken slurrings can include superbly cod-philosophical pronouncements like “We ought to be free of that kind of freedom”.  Discuss, on one side of the paper only.

Nicely realized by Polly Sullivan’s elegant inside-outside design,  this college is hosting a reunion of undergraduates from 25 years earlier.   Director Lisa Spirling plays ‘70s pop hits beforehand to remind us that it is a 1976 play, and justify a flare in the trousers and – critically – a confusedly excitable attitude to women.  There is just one: Jemma Redgrave as  the Master’s wife, hostess of the weekend and former party girl back when there were ten male students to every girl.  She deploys a lovely middle-aged yearning keenness, hoping her old flame Roddy will be among the returning men.

He isn’t.  Instead there is a  pompous junior minister (Jamie Glover),  a sour civil servant (Jason Durr),  John Hodgkinson in a clerical collar  whinnying “I’m a late vocation. I baptise babies, I church women”,  Simon Coates as a buttery-blond gossip writer  and Nicholas Rowe a willowy doctor.  After some uneasy middle-aged joviality  they disperse to dinner (cleverly staged in sound-effects  from the foyer as they ramble through the audience pretending to hail old friends).  They reassemble, flown with insolence and wine,  in a room they suppose to be that of the missing Roddy.  Whose analyst has banned him from attending;  so the room is occupied by Snell.

Shell is the unexpected star:  a shy, runty Welsh intestine expert with a ginger beard and a low-key mental crisis:“Am I going to spend the rest of my life between the duodenum and the ileum?”  he asks plaintively,   and realizes that he wasted his student years.  “I never wore a fancy waistcoat! I never wrote blasphemous poem!…I wasn’t old enough to be young!” .  That cry is the heart of Frayn’s play, and the evidence that it does, in the other sense, have a real heart.  Dammit, a lot of us feel like that sometimes, as youth recedes and shrinks away from our mundane middle-age.

As the plot intensifies, so does Snell’s crazed determination to live at last :   Ian Hughes, given this wonderful role,  takes it and runs with it.  Up over the top and down the other side, with all his RSC timing and an irresistible edge of mania. It’s cathartic.  And so, obviously, is the humiliation of the education minister.  Some things never date.

box office 08444 821 556 to  22 Feb     Supported by: Russell-Cooke

Rating:   four  4 Meece Rating

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O WHAT A LOVELY WAR Theatre Royal Stratford East

A THEATRE LEGEND RECREATED:  AND RIPE FOR RE-EVALUATION

Sometime in the first hour,   while far from unhappy,  I realized that there are two things to keep in mind about Terry Johnson’s reprise of Joan Littlewood’s most famous production.  One is that here in her theatre it is as much an act of reverence for Littlewood’s own centenary as for the Great War.   The other is that it tells us as much about 1963 as about 1914-1918.

Its origins are well-known:  at a time when World War II was fresh in memory and the Holocaust made it hard to criticize that fight,  the radio producer Charles Chilton, whose father died at Arras the year he was born, made a documentary using half-forgotten soldiers’ songs interspersed with the history of the “pushes” and desperate strategies which left ten million dead and far more maimed.   Littlewood, who hated officer-class  accounts like RC Sheriff’s Journey’s End,  adopted the material to tell the story,  agitprop style, of working-class heroes sent to slaughter by posh callous generals, notably Haig.   That class-war influence rolls on down the decades,  in everything from Blackadder to the Michael Gove hissy-fit decrying it.

Littlewood framed it satirically as a Pierrot show, a beach entertainment with the cast doing sketches and songs, some with shocking flippancy, while guns and bombs thundered and newslines detailed the dreadful statistics of trench warfare,  tens of thousands sacrificed for a few yards’ advance.  Johnson reproduces it faithfully, with a slick and often superb cast of twelve as soldiers, citizens, nurses,  officers, or war profiteers.  Michael Simkins is notably good (he does a mean grizzled-officer these days,  and sharp lightning changes of character).  Caroline Quentin is tremendous as the music-hall singer urging men to the front (“On Friday night I’m willing / if you’ll only take the shilling / to make a man of any man of you!”),  and leads the audience in Sister Susie sewing shirts for soldiers;  she is stirring too as a Hyde Park peace campaigner in 1915.

And despite a rather annoying giant screen bobbing up and down too often,  all the cast flow nimbly through the scenes from early triumphalism to repeated disasters.   They stir some unforced emotion:  the Christmas Truce is beautifully handled, and whenever there are rare snatches of diaries (“we hear the wounded crying from the woods..” ) or when the soldiers’ weary or cheeky songs rise, the sense of  connection with a lost generation is overwhelming.

And that’s the problem, really.   Our hunger now is for subtler understanding of the disaster:  the strategic errors need, and are getting,  a less simplistic perspective.   What we need to remember is not one stroppy 1960’s death-of-deference point of view but simple facts and feelings.  From The Wipers Times and War Horse,  to contemporary diaries and poems and small significant discoveries like Southwark’s What the Women Did,  we need to turn to the basic history, to work out our own beliefs and feel our own pity or rage.  Not Littlewood’s, not even Chilton’s.  It is worth seeing if only to come to that understanding.

box office  020 8534 0310    http://www.stratfordeast.com    to  15 March

Rating: four     4 Meece Rating

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A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM Barbican, EC2

A DREAM OF PLANKS AND PUPPETS,  AND  AN UPTURNED ASS

“Gentles, perhaps you wonder at this show.  But wonder on…”  says Peter Quince, lanky and earnest in a fairisle sweater.  We might well boggle at this production,  created at the Bristol Old Vic by Tom Morris in collaboration again with the Handspring puppeteers.  Last spring it packed the house there, introducing a shape-shifting Puck as a collection of excitable hand-tools, a balletic ensemble of planks manoeuvred by the whole cast to represent  forest, sea, starbursts and love itself, and Oberon and Titania holding great pale carved masks above their heads.   As for the fairies, they became things of weird and terrifying otherness:   broken dolls, a nightmare puppet,  a skeletal giant moth.

I liked it,  with reservations.  Mostly concerned with the first scene, in which the four young people manipulated small puppets of themselves,  distractingly and pointlessly.  After that,  as they became more human and vigorous and the inanimate objects more alive,  I admitted feeling “a direct line to the folkloric, pagan, animist roots of rural Shakespeare”.    Forgive the critical retrospection.  But it is a  treat to see a production as innovative as this growing, shedding the weaker bits , and becoming one of the 21st century’s first real landmark interpretations.

The changes serve  pace and coherence: the opening, without puppetry,  frees the lovers to be themselves.  Alex Felton is an eager public-school blond Lysander (as the show goes on he becomes weepingly funny). The contrast of Akiya Henry’s Hermia and  Naomi Cranston as a skinny disappointed Helena is lovely, and their brawl in the wood fabulously  pure teenage rage.   Ms Henry gets a personal round of applause for her ferocity.   David Ricardo Pierce is a  commanding Oberon/Theseus, and his queen – Saskia Portway – an androgynous striding figure,  vibrant with female anger and mesmeric in that all-too topical speech about the dangerous dislocation of weather,  the “drowned fields”  caused by faery discord.

It is a play which should always make us a little uneasy, unsettled as well as captivated, so Morris’ use of puppetry, not naturalistic but nightmarish and fey, is useful.  Shapes change, objects move, nothing is steady until the towering wood-gods step gently forward at the end, in harmony again over the stolen child.   But it is also the most rousing of comedies and this too he fully exploits.  The Rude Mechanicals even attack the Barbican’s bland atmosphere by invading the auditorium before the start.  I could not work out whether Saikat Ahamed, clambering over the seats and talking gibberish,  was a confused exchange-student or a cast member, and tried to be polite in French.  He is Snug the Joiner, and in this cheerfully free-form interpretation gets portrayed as not speaking much English.   Fair enough, in a modern nation of immigrant manual labourers.  Bottom, of course is Greek: Miltos Yerolemou,  sublime both in his dignified overacting and in the courageous translation into  an upside-down, back-to-front, bare-bum upwards mutant donkey-legged bicycle…Oh, all right, you had to be there.   If you want a different,  beguiling unique Dream,   you should be.

box office 0845 120 7500  to  15 Feb

Rating:  four      4 Meece Rating

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ETERNAL LOVE English Touring Theatre

SEX,  STRIFE, AND  HOT THEOLOGY: ABELARD AND HELOISE RISE AGAIN 

“Theology in Paris these days”  says tubby, jocose King Louis VI of France,  “is more interesting than wrestling matches or dancing bears”.   It’s 1115 AD, and  Peter Abelard’s Aristotelian rationalism and rock-star following is enraging fundamentalist  Bible-bashers like Bernard of Clairvaux.  Down south they’re burning heretics, and Abelard’s love affair with his 17-year-old pupil adds a dash of scandal and still more risk.  No dancing bear could possibly compete.

It may seem rareified to offer a slanging-match about Platonic Essentialism and the Trinity to a modern audience, even laced with sex,  persecution and castration.  But few playwrights are more vigorously engaging than Howard Brenton when he gets his teeth into moments in history when ideas drove change.    Only lately he gave us modern Chinese politics in The Arrest of Ai Weiwei,  risky Reformation zeal in  Anne Boleyn, and Charles II versus Parliament in 55 Days.    And it is a good move by English Touring Theatre – in its 21st year –  to revive this 2006 Globe production under John Dove’s direction.  Not least because across the world today we have our own fundamentalists:   Christian, Muslim, atheist.

The story of Abelard and Heloise –  love, scandal , separation and old age as an Abbot and Abbess exchanging letters about love and God  – is vividly played out.  It’s a  spare set with an early-music band overhead, a curtained door and bare birch-trees whose silver branches leap and divide like springing thought itself.   Brenton has no fear of the occasional almost Pythonesque moment as  theologians, chancers and grandees bicker over the Trinity,  with some wonderful exchanges.   Abelard refers to a “stupid Bishop” and  the King asks menacingly “Could there be such a thing?”.  Abelard, deadpan, replies “There are many wonders in this world”.  Gotcha!

Alongside theology and politics runs the personal – as it must, since the core of Abelard’s new thinking was that human love and the body are not ungodly.  Bernard thinks them so,  and leads starveling, self-flagellating monks driven into visionary frenzy by mouldy ergot bread.  David Sturzaker makes a commanding passionate Abelard,   Jo Herbert his thoughtful, intellectual and physically joyful lover. Rejecting the chains of marriage, defying her possessive uncle (Edward Peel), she seems a 21st century feminist trapped in the 12th.  Motherhood does not tame her:   “We are not a family, we are warriors in a war of ideas”.    But the most compellingly odd performance is Sam Crane as the monk Bernard,  his voice vibrating with staccato celibate tension,  averring that “There is nothing to teach or learn, all has been Revealed!” .  His only pleasure is in priestly patriarchal authority, forever calling people “Little one” .

In bright moments and dark,  the play balances comedy, sincerity and brutality (the horrid castrators purr “We’re farmers, come to do farmer’s work..”) .  And after the final catharsis and the ultimate excellent joke,  its Globe origins are honoured in a dancing curtain call.  As if,  indoors on a chilly Cambridge evening,  we were in a summer night in the great wooden O,  happy groundlings enjoying its generosity and glee.   I am glad I caught it on the wing.   It flies on.   Tour dates below

English touring theatre:  www.ett.org.uk      On tour till 12 April      Touring Mouse wide

rating    Four   4 Meece Rating

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MY JUDY GARLAND LIFE Nottingham Playhouse

THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD TO THE WISDOM OF FANDOM

“Sometimes”  says the author-heroine of this extraordinary piece,   “things can be richer if they don’t add up”.   Take that on board  and it helps.  It also helps to know that this is Amanda Whittington’s imaginative adaptation of a memoir by the novelist  Susie Boyt.  Who – full disclosure – is a friend I love. However, so strange is this  enterprise that I can in honesty lay that aside.  If I had hated the show, I would pretend  the computer crashed tonight.  I didn’t.

Like the book, it  chronicles Boyt’s  lifelong obsession with Judy Garland,  and how it fed her own ability to deal with life.  Not a simple life: as one of Lucien Freud’s many children her father was a starry, though beloved , public figure living for his art (“7.3 miles away” says a child’s proud accuracy).   Her mother ran an antique clothes shop, and the young Susie was a sensitive creature, weeping at lonely-looking groceries in a trolley, forever told to ‘toughen up”.  She worked at her ballet and dreamed of the musical stage, but a teacher said  “You’ll have to shift a heck of a lot of weight before THAT’s   a possibility”.  At Oxford, a close friend died suddenly,  torpedoing the already unhappy student.

Through all this  her consolation was Judy Garland. At first just the voice,  soaring with joyful simplicity through the wildest lyrical joys and griefs.  Later,  as she learned about the exploitation, addiction and decline behind the glitter,  Judy was another kind of inspiration, especially in grief.   “Courage is the moral arm of glamour..when you’re here, all the longing is cut on the bias, and sparkles!”  The adult Susie sought out her idol’s history, memorabilia and children:  there is a marvellously funny staging of her real attempt to interview Liza Minnelli without succumbing to the enemy of all journalism, a slavish desire to be her friend (or failing that, the guard and carrier of her spare eyelashes.)

Through the show, directed with panache and plenty of spectacle by Kath Rogers,  Boyt is played with a sweet straightforwardness by Faye Elvin,  at first an eager and lumpen teen, gradually growing to sparklier maturity.  Judy (and Liza) sing, dance, argue, and fling temperamentally around in an uncanny performance by Sally Ann Triplett.  A three-piece band becomes a chorus of Tin Man, Lion and Scarecrow;  or at one point, touchingly, the ‘60s  London cabbies whose shelter the sleepless Judy invaded in her restless drugged nocturnal misery.

Gradually,  Boyt’s themes  unfold.   Like a shaft of wisdom about girlhood, in an early conversation between the macaroon-eating teenager who shyly dreams of showbiz and the one who was forced into it and  fed amphetamines to keep her slim.   “When you spend your teenage years on diets, your desires become contorted”.   The core message, though – an unusual one, and therefore worth hearing  – is that fandom is a good thing, not a delusion:  “hero-worship is an emotional Olympics”,  energizing, inspiring, making you examine your own desires and qualities.   Boyt’s sensitive caution about not giving herself away or being a nuisance is countered by the Judy who called stagefright “a lovely tension!”  and lived on the edge.   In imaginary conversations the fan sometimes longs to emulate,  but equally often to console:  “I wasnt there for your greatest triumphs or your greatest despairs, but you were there for mine”.

It is an oddity:  a tripod precariously balancing selfconscious memoir, tribute show and philosophical lecture.  But there is a warmth, an eccentricity, and a sorrow at the eternal paradox of how a star who feels herself to be a void can fill the emptiness in her listeners, offering comfort she never finds.   And a final explosion of showmanship asks us, with all humility,  to consider allowing the strings of our own hearts to go zing.  So yes, mine did.

Box Office: 0115 941 9419      to 15 Feb

rating:   four     4 Meece Rating

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HAPPY DAYS Young Vic SE1

BURIED BUT BRILLIANT:  JULIET STEVENSON BRAVES  BECKETT

“One does not appear to be asking a great deal”  says Winnie of her husband Willie, who is mostly invisible behind a rock, grunting monosyllables.  Indeed she is not demanding.  Buried to the waist beneath a great ragged rock under hot  sun,  she has only arms,voice, and a black shopping-bag with toothbrush, mirror, a crushed blue hat, and a gun just in case.   “Can’t complain…another happy day”.

Samuel Beckett’s nightmare vision was encapsulated in his remark about “the most dreadful thing that could happen to anybody…sinking into the ground alive..no shade, nothing…all you’ve got is a little parcel of things to see you through life. And I thought who would cope with that and go down singing? Only a woman”.

We saw Beckett’s proclivity for trapping females and testing their resilience in the Royal Court’s trilogy last week,  where Lisa Dwan gave an extraordinary rendering of his shattered, jerky poetic prose.   Now an even more remarkable feat is Juliet Stevenson’s two-hour ordeal as the buried Winnie,  at first able to move her arms but later reduced to a tiny head hyperventilating as more gravel slides from overhead but able to dominate the vast auditorium,  an uncomplaining she-Lear surfing the waves of Beckettian despair with  laughter, screams and dry asides. Even the prone, crawling Willie (David Beames) emerges from his rock, but can  do nothing for her.

The legend has it that the playwright, newly married, was urged to write something happy for once.  Maybe this was the nearest he could get: a surreal vision (which Tynan thought an overstretched metaphor)  of a woman trapped, a man unresponsive and  the sands of time stifling both.   The first half  does have moments of humour exploited to the full by Stevenson – whose gift for emotional intensity has meant that her twinkling comic ability is too rarely demanded by producers. She is touching and straightforward in Winnie’s cheerful patting of her hair and appreciation of the day, her stoicism (“What I find so wonderful  is that never a day passes without some addition to one’s knowledge…”) , fragments of Catholic prayer and occasional spurts of frustration :  a cry of “Was I lovable once, Willy?”.   But there are sparks of comic marital naturalism which could come straight out of  the sitcom George and Mildred,  though pious Beckettians will not like me saying so.  And there’s a feminist frisson in the notion of wifehood as a state trapped by what lies below the waist (biology is destiny!) .  For in every gesture Stevenson’s Winnie is a  most profoundly, maternally, conciliatingly feminine creature.

So Natalie Abrahami’s  production is not as depressing as it might be, despite the terrifying second act and the fearful rumbling crashes devised by Tom Gibbons (is it an earthquake, a bomb, an avalanche, a King Kong roar?).  It is a nightmare diluted with absurdity, a fever’s inexpressible dread.  Beckett is brilliantly served by the Young Vic:  whether he entirely deserves it must be argued out between those who love him and those who never will.

box office  www.youngvic.org / 020 7922 2922   to 8 March

Rating:   four    4 Meece Rating

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WHAT THE WOMEN DID Southwark Playhouse, SE1

SMALL LIVES IN THE GREAT WAR:   FORGOTTEN VOICES HEARD AND HONOURED

Get seated ten minutes early.    In Alex Marker’s humbly clever set, a bricky terraced house,  the cast sing casually round a piano and the long, long trail of the century winds backward:   Pack up your Troubles, a soldiers’ jokey “If you were the only Boche in the trench..” and the  sinister jollity of  “We don’t want to lose you but we think you ought to go..”.  So before any theatre has even taken place,  tears spring for the dead boys of long ago.  Director Tricia Thorne has craftily primed us.

This triple bill from Two’s Company – first played in 2004 – is of plays from 1917 and 1918 about women in the Great War.   So it breathes contemporary raw feeling,  not the retrospective anger of Oh What a Lovely War or James Dacre’s  recent marvellous revival of the 1981The Accrington Pals.    The first,  by Gwen John – not the artist –  shows a war widow (Victoria Gee,  whose strong narrow face and spare frame make her immediately convincing in period).  She has remarried a shy local (Matthew Cottle) after the erroneous report of her husband’s death. He,  a powerful Simon Darwen,  reappears crippled and angry.  With two small children, beautifully played supping milk at the tea-table and eyeing their unfamiliar father, the couple negotiate emotion and embarrassment.  In a wonderfully truthful  line about remarrying rapidly in the shock of widowhood the wife  explains  “Thinking o’thee, I were softened towards th’whole world”.

The second play by Maude Deuchar shows a gaggle of “canary girls” – munitions workers whose skin turned yellow with TNT poison.   On a lunch-break they josh about the fact “husbands are rationed”:   they will become that inter-war generation dismissed as “superfluous women”.   Some laugh at the frivolous idea of putting signed notes in the shells,  as a macabre “present” to Fritz.   At which point I thought it was just an interesting slice-of-life piece about the banality and boredom and compromise and loneliness of their lot.   I misjudged it.

For the terrifying second scene takes place on the same doorstep in near-darkness, as the girls giggle and flirt with soldiers seen only as shadows and glowing cigarettes.  Unease grows: we work out before they do what strange thing is going on,  but the fear does not lessen,  and there is a real flesh-tingling moment of shock. Significantly, this play was not performed until the war was over. It is ahead of its time in sentiment.
And so to the third, by J.M.Barrie.  His typically playful-sentimental notion is of an unmarried Scottish charwoman who feels left out amid her Cockney gossips.  They all have sons in uniform and scoff at women with none – “It’s not their war”. So ‘Mrs’ Dowey (Susan Wooldridge) invents a son, taking a real name from  news of the Black Watch regiment, and fakes his letters.

I admit to a certain hostility at the start – Barrie does caricature middle-aged women  woefully,  as competitive and shallow.  But the awkward arrival of Darwen as the ‘son’ , an orphan on leave who is initially furious at the deception,  heralds a completely delightful and artfully credible two-hander.  What Barrie clearly does know is how mothers secretly rather enjoy being barracked and teased by great strapping sons.  Wooldridge gives the old lady a wonderful mischievousness, Darwen blossoms from sullenness to affection.  And against my will, and across a century, the tears rose again.
box office 020 7407 0234  to 15 Feb

Rating: four4 Meece Rating

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Red Velvet – a note! Tricycle, NW6

Just a note to say that I reviewed this when it first aired at the Tricycle in 2012,  and was pleased to be one of those who voted its awards at the Critics’ Circle.  My review  (Times property still, so paywall I fear)  can be read in full on

http://tinyurl.com/nbfj6dl

But I can say here that it is a gripping treatment of the story of Ira Aldridge, an African-American actor who briefly  played Othello in the West End in 1833,  – the year of the final Abolition of Slavery Act in the UK.
And that Adrian Lester does it perfectly: finding a way to express the over-emphatic (pre-electric lighting) stage manner of the age,  and giving Aldridge a great dignity and humour, in the face of terrible panicky racialism and that weird sexual dread which accompanied it (there’s a white Desdemona who – gasp! – he has to manhandle.
Lolita Chakrabarti’s script is great. And there is a terrible moment at the end, when the actor – successful across Europe – is preparing for a role by slowly, carefully,  whitening his handsome face to be more acceptable.
Tremendously topical, given this week’s concerns about the poor ethnic mix in modern British stage and TV.

box office  020 7328 1000

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BLURRED LINES NT SHED SE1

FEMINISM?  NOW THIS IS MORE LIKE IT!

Eight women,  on a great flight of pale stairs which light and flash, introduce themselves politely.  “Single Mum, White”  “Brittle First Wife”  “Broken Down Alcoholic”   “Prostitute, black” “Northern blonde, bubbly” “Middle Class Mum, forty but fuckable”  “Admiral’s wife, jolly”.  “Older Mum, character face”…

The house is  joyful, as if suddenly released from the airless stuffiness of a hundred TV casting clichés.   There are few better sounds in a theatre than gurgles of delighted recognition,  and anyone with an understandable fear of any show promising “a blistering journey through contemporary gender politics”  should be assured that in this  impressionistic 70-minute piece there are many moments of pure glee.  Not least when one of the cast opportunistically leaps down to the front and says that if there’s anyone important in, she looking for work: an MTV girl maybe,  or “the black best friend who gets murdered in the opening moments of all American thrillers” . She offers to produce at will a General African Accent, put on weight or relax her hair.  Whatever!

There are also several deeply touching passages:  distilled tiny playlets whcih feel real despite the neon stairs, with laments and narratives woven by Nick Payne into something close to antiphonal poetry.   He (the only man involved)  co-created it with director Carrie Cracknell and improvisations with the players: eight brave, clever, funny women bringing their own indignations  and hilarities to the process.

It was inspired by Kat Banyard’s book The Equality Illusion with its damning statistics on employment, domestic violence and the unstoppable online tide of pornographic objectification of the female body.  The title refers to the strutting popinjay Robin Thicke and his loathsome video where naked women –  in tiny flesh-coloured thongs so their genitalia look like Barbie dolls’ – twine around him (and a dog and a bike) as he barks  “I’ll give you something big enough to tear your ass in two”.   The cast were refused permission to sing it,  but do sing fragments of the Crystals‘ “He hit me but it felt like a kiss” and Tammy Wynette’s preposterous “Don‘ liberate me, jus‘ love me”.  High culture gets a swipe too, as a fragile blonde starts sobbingly to sing the Willow Song from Othello.    The playlets use the cast’s diverse ages and appearance – some dropping into male roles – to express attitudes to relationships, prostitution, and work.  Wrenhing is a teenager date-raped after sessions with a boyfriend grew increasingly into “something that he did rather than something they did together”.  And there’s a  darkly funny workplace interview with Bryony Hannah as a female boss patronizing Claire Skinner as a new mother.

In  a surprise coda the show seems finished and three become interviewer, male director and star of a play doing a “Platform”.   A spread-thighed,  artily tousled “Martin” preens and interrupts while his tiny blonde star burbles nervously of the “trust” and “safety” she felt doing a violent bedroom scene in lingerie and bare bum.  A staged question from the floor is met with such accurate patronage that some yelped with glee.  Another little jewel in the fine red Shed.

Box office  020 7452 3000      to 22 feb

Rating:  four   4 Meece Rating

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NOT I, FOOTFALLS, ROCKABY Royal Court, SW1

A  VIRTUOSO  BECKETT  TRIO

It’s a weird hour, this,  even for late Samuel Beckett.  Three short solos,  performed by Lisa Dwan in an impressive feat of memory and mood,  meditate on the life, decay and trapped unhappiness of the female condition.   Walter Asmus’ production is staged in tenebrous gloom (wonderful chiaroscuro lighting by James Farncombe) and the plays are separated by minutes of sinister rumbling, and darkness so deep that you can’t see your hand in front of your face.   So it’s an experience: that disintegrated, unnerving Beckett thing which works once you relinquish intellectual curiosity and let words and rhythms  lap around you like a troubling dream.

The first piece,  Not I, is the best known: first performed here forty years ago by Billie Whitelaw. Eight feet above the stage the speaker is a disembodied mouth: bright-lit as a single point in deep blackness,  a static twinkling star with lips and teeth delivering – at the speed of thought – a tumbling monologue.  Sometimes it is a comical gabble,  an Irish sparkle of busyness and explanation; sometimes a shout of pain, as if life and sense were dissolving under  the torture that is life.

The second, Footfalls,  sees the darkness broken by a vision of Dwan in white tatters, pallid as a candle,  patrolling and pacing near a mother’s deathbed and answered at intervals by the sepulchral ancient voice of the dying one.  It resolves into a sort of fragment of a lost novel, hinting at half-forgotten things, senseless but focused by the hypnotic dualism of Dwan’s marvellous voice.   The third piece is Rockaby:  again a woman, maybe the bereaved daughter, prematurely old in beaded black on a rocking chair which moves on its own, her face falling in and out of the light.  She speaks a poetic, repetitive, beautifully soporific monotone of  decline, “At the end of the day,  quiet at the window, famished eyes..” etc..  Until the rocking stops with “fuck life,  stop her eyes, rock her off…”

All brilliantly done.  And yet at this point my ancestral Irishness – which recognized the authentic sparkle and mischief behind the pain in the first piece  – suddenly detected that other and more acccursed Hibernian tone:  maudlin and mawkish.  Up rose in memory all those poems about moribund mothers gripping trapped sons and daughters in permanent sorrowful helplessness.  I thought of all those songs which drone out of RTE’s obscurer corners with lines like  “O Lord let the winter go quickly, that the flowers may bloom where she lies”.  Or, in a wicked parody from disrespectful modern Ireland,   “I am digging up me mother from her lonely Leitrim grave…”.    And the mood of acceptance broke, and I felt that Sam B was on the edge conning me. Or himself.
But it has been an hour too consummately well done to regret or forget.

Sponsors: Coutts / American Airlines.
This week sold out at the Court (some day tickets)
But it transfers to   Duchess, WC2, 3-15 Feb   0844 482 9672
then touring Cambridge, Birmingham, Lowry
Rating:  four    4 Meece Rating

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THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS – DUCHESS, WC2

A TOE-TAPPING TOAD AND SLINKY STOATING

With a caper and a thump and a hippety-hop, a flapping of laundry and a riverbank romp,  the Royal Opera House has dipped a first (elegantly pointed) toe in the commercial waters of the West End.  On and off over ten years, this sweet production by Will Tuckett  has been in the Linbury Studio, beloved by the children of the cognoscenti ballet-savvy.   It has a dreamy score by Martin Ward  based on the composer George Butterworth – a friend of Vaughan Williams.  The narration based on Kenneth Grahame’s book  is by the former poet laureate Andrew Motion.

Classy stuff:  and now  the diminutive but dignified Duchess fits it like a glove.  Sir Tony Robinson, taking time off from arguing with Michael Gove about Blackadder,  is an avuncular narrator,  sharing a ramshackle attic set (old wardrobes, a rocking-horse, packing-cases) with the wild creatures the book brings to life:  Mole’s first appearance is from a rolled up carpet,  blinking in specs and a miner’s lamp;  Ratty wears his rowing-boat as a bustle  and springy rabbits, ducks and butterflies join the summery dance.  A particular delight is the  first pas-de-deux between Clemmie Sveaas as a bumbling, gradually enlivening Mole and Will Kemp’s spry Ratty  (not for nothing was he Matthew Bourne’s chief Swan).

The animal characters never speak, though three times, gloriously, they sing Grahame’s verses;  the story is carried by Robinson.  At first I felt Motion’s text a bit  over-lush (indeed, the final coda about friendship and memory proves him to be, if possible, an even more soppy Edwardian moralist than Grahame himself).  But  Cris Penfold’s Toad – a green-haired bounder as hyper as a five-year-old on a sugar rush – cuts through the schmaltz  and  by the time the paternal Badger (Christopher Akrill) anxiously puts a rabbit’s ears over its eyes to prevent it seeing Toad’s crash,  I was hooked.   There are slow dreamy passages which are – in the best possible sense – soporific: children need that concentrated gentleness as much as panto larks. Well, by this time of year we all do.
It is also Badger who brings out Motion’s best poetry, evoking his devotion to dark quiet tunnels and “rage against the rush and gaudiness of things”.  But it is Grahame’s own carol, sung by fieldmice with lanterns coming down the aisle in snowfall,  which brought the first sentimental tear to the eye.

Tuckett’s choreography is terrific, gleefully mashing up ballet, tap, mime and the odd dash of capoeira.  Stoats, weasels and an enormous Judge (with paper spills for a wig) are designed by master-puppeteer Toby Olié.  The interval is enlivened by a chase through the auditorium and foyer with Toad in his car and policemen with helmets and whistles.  And then Ewan Wardrop (formerly otter and weasel) becomes a dragged-up gaoler’s daughter in print dress and loud boots, and goes admirably nuts in a frock-swap with the equally frenzied Toad.
My inner six-year-old loved that.

Box office:   http://www.roh.org.uk    020 7304 4000 (no booking fee)
 0844 482 9672 (booking fee)     To   1 Feb

Rating:  four 4 Meece Rating   and a spare balletomouse for luck     Musicals Mouse width fixed

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WOLF HALL – Swan, Stratford upon Avon

THOMAS CROMWELL WALKS AGAIN.   A NON-READER IS ENTRANCED.

“Between Christmas Day and Epiphany God permits the dead to walk”.  So says Henry VIII, sleepless in the dawn, summoning his watchful  fixer Cromwell  to steer him through a political and religious quagmire.  So, fittingly in this Epiphany week,  the long-dead Tudor court too must walk again.   Hilary Mantel’s two intensively researched, hugely praised novels reimagined the English Reformation around the figure of the lawyer and adviser Thomas Cromwell; now they are brought to the stage in an adaptation by Mike Poulton, under Jeremy Herrin’s direction.

They will have  two audiences: those who loved the books,  and those who stalled at Mantel’s stylistic density, gave up,   and hope to be sent back to them.  I am one such,  and can speak only for those coming to it fresh,  armed only with bare bones of history.     And I was enraptured,  from the first moments of bantering impatience between Paul Jesson’s flamboyant Cardinal Wolsey and Ben Miles as his devoted Cromwell.  Danger fizzes in the air, evoking a world where an incautious word meant death;  Cromwell reads Luther and Tyndale but must hide the books when Thomas More’s men come searching  (memories arise of the marvellous Written On The Heart , here two years ago).  This play takes us from the decline of Wolsey’s influence and the danger to his follower, through the intricacies of the King’s divorce and defiance of the Pope,  to Boleyn’s first  – but female – child, her  miscarriage and Henry’s convenient doubts of her chastity.  It ends with the defiance of Thomas More,  previously caricatured as a  fanatic but  finally an honest stubborn martyr. Which  underlines  the subtle dramatic strength of this narrative: there are no out-and-out villains.

Snobs and fools,   cynical hedonists, an impatient King,  but no villains.   Ben Miles is superb as Mantel’s rehabilitated vision of Cromwell:  no scheming self-seeker but a modern politician stranded in an age of absolute monarchy and superstition,  a self-made man of formidable intelligence, beaten child, adventurer across Europe.  Poulton’s text is vigorous without anachronism and never archaic;  fragments of Cromwell’s back-story which the novel’s readers may  regret are filled in with casual skill in conversational asides.  Herrin’s stagings, with never a sense of rush, makes pictures speak thousand words:  the death of Cromwell’s wife, the downfall of Wolsey, brief simpering appearances of Jane Seymour prefiguring the King’s later marital disasters.  Court dances are metaphors for shifting influence; religious moments are balanced between angry politics and thoughtful lines like Cromwell’s shrugging protestation that the Bible makes no mention of “Monks. Or nuns – or purgatory, or fasting – or relics or priests..I’ve never found where it says pope..”

Altogether, it crackles with political, emotional and psychological force. Lydia Leonard’s Boleyn is flirtatious and ferocious, shriller as her danger increases; Lucy Briers’ Katherine chillingly intense, Nathaniel Parker’s Henry bluff, arrogant, persuadable;   John Ramm sullenly righeous as More.   Mantel’s notes in the playscript are detailed and fascinating, but what is created before us onstage is something fresh:  theatre’s miracle of collaboration.

And I would hate you to think there are no jokes.  There’s an Ipswich joke, a dead rat joke,  a chamberpot, and many dry lines.  My favourite is Cromwell’s exasperated private desire to say to the half-separated King “Oh, sort it out, Harry, you’re the scandal of the parish!”
I write this after the first play.   Later I will report on the sequel.   So far, I am thrilled.
box office 0844 800 1110     http://www.rsc.org.uk

rating:   four    4 Meece Rating

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BLOODSHOT – St JAMES’ THEATRE, SW1

LOWLIFE ,  HIGH DRAMA AND DRINK 

The candles on our tables gutter in their glass shades,  hands tighten round drinks, spurts of relieved laughter meet dry jokes, stillness respects  moments of poignant humanity.  Moody monochrome views of a battered 1957  London never distract from the man onstage.  It’s good to be transported, and have a world built for you in words.

Douglas Post’s play suits the current theatrical zeitgeist,  which seems to be in love with the lowlife glamour of sixty years ago.   We have had Butterworth’s rock ‘n roll gangsters in the Mojo revival,  Keeler  and Stephen Ward chronicling the Profumo scandal,  King Lear reimagined as a Kray brother down in Bath.   Now,  in the St James’  cosy downstairs cabaret space, comes this gorgeous little thriller.   It is  performed alone by  the remarkable Simon Slater (how did this subtle actor get buried in Mamma Mia for four years? Even if he was also busy composing scores like the Olivier-nominated Constellations music?).  Patrick Sandford , who first put this on at the Nuffield, directs.

The hero Derek is an emotional casualty of those unsettled postwar years: an ex-police photographer who spent the Blitz recording terrible mutilations,  veiled the horrors with drink, blew his promotion, and ended up in peacetime photographing victims of more personal violence, and drinking even more.  This is economically and unselfpityingly related, with just enough raw edges of emotion to prevent machismo or prurience.  Jobless and broke in a bedsit,  he receives a commission to follow and covertly photograph a young black woman, one of the Windrush immigrant generation crowding Notting Hill.  From a mere meal-ticket she becomes his muse: when she is killed he plunges with naive indignation into a fetid nightclub underworld to find her persecutors.

In any virtuoso solo show – from  Fiona Shaw to Dame Edna –   there is double pleasure.  You can be happily lost in the narrative itself,  but on another level  admire –  as if in an Olympic arena –  the lone performer’s emotional, physical and vocal stamina.  Slater  not only deploys a likeable,  damaged Graham-Greeneish charm as the narrator,  but  evokes the others:   he plays the saxophone with jazzy defiance as the American bandleader Bryant,  swallows razor-blades as a Russian conjurer,   and delivers a rattling Irish song-and-gag routine as McKinley the comic.   In between, faultlessly,  he is Derek:  wrestling not only with a whodunnit but with his own lonely, bruised longing for beauty.

There are lovely grace-notes: references to Sputnik, the Coronation, the buzzing social and cultural changes.  Once the jazzman, bitterly sneers “You wanna know about the future?”  and plays a few raucous bars of Rock Around the Clock before spitting ‘My thing is dying!”.

As for the resolution,   it is as realistically squalid as any Mickey Spillane fan could wish;  yet then it twists, extraordinarily and almost redemptively. A good yarn, superbly told.

box office 0844 264 2140  http://www.stjamestheatre.co.uk   to  25 Jan      Sponsor:  Nourish

Rating:  four  4 Meece Rating

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STEPHEN WARD – Aldwych, WC1

SLEAZE AND SCANDAL IN THE SIXTIES 

There is a painfully beautiful song in the second Act of Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s new musical about the 1963 Profumo affair, a potential classic.  “Hopeless when it comes to you” is sung by Joanna Riding as Valerie Hobson,  the war minister’s loyal wife, when he has admitted the affair with Christine Keeler and his lie to Parliament.  It feels inevitable that she should have the best number, because in this fascinating but squalid tale Hobson is the only untainted character.

Everyone else,  from the Home Secretary to the press pack and the police,  is either lecherous, naive,  mendacious, prurient, malicious or vengefully corrupt.  The teenage girls at the heart of it, Keeler and her friend Mandy Rice-Davies, are merely naive good-time teens;   Yevgeny Ivanov,  the fleeting lover who added a Cold-war frisson to the scandal,  is just an honest-to-god Russian spy with a taste for champagne.

But the rest are a terrible shower. And Stephen Ward,  the high-society osteopath and portrait painter who liked introducing teenage beauties to middle-aged married men and hearing reports of the sex,  is frankly a sleazebag.  Not a villain, not a pimp , but dislikeable.  Which is a problem tougher than most musical-theatre creators ever take on:   Lord Lloyd-Webber deserved his emotional press night bow among his cast for having a go.   If you believe, as I do, that there is nothing the form  should not attempt,  you must salute him.

His driving force is the belief – substantiated often , most cogently in a new book by Geoffrey Robertson QC – that Ward was stitched up by the establishment.  Not only because the affair toppled the Minister for War and the Macmillan government,  but because the exposure of his louche lifestyle –  cabaret girls, shag-happy aristocrats, Krays and Rachman and drug dealers –  forced Britain to look itself in the eye and admit that a certain looseness had taken hold, right at the top. Middle Britain  became one vast, horrified twitching curtain. I am just old enough to remember it.

The problem faced by Christopher Hampton’s book (extra lyrics by Don Black)  is acknowledging the miscarriage of justice without making Ward an improbable innocent.   He is the narrator – emerging piquantly from a Blackpool waxwork chamber-of-horrors between Hitler and Genghis Khan – with a lyric about how he only tried “to be kind”.   Alexander Hanson is a beautiful singer and a winning presence,  but the character can never be likeable. We see him befriending the vulnerable Keeler without sex –  a proxy seducer, a Pandarus promoting her  affairs with others.  We get lovely‘60s  pastiche numbers and interesting musical subtlety (all the orchestrations are Lloyd-Webber’s own);  in a character-development I would like to see more,  of we see Keeler becoming coarser, more dissonant and cynical (Charlotte Spencer carries that well). There is a good duet with the minxier Mandy (the real one, still glamorous at pensionable age, was in the front rows last night).

Tellingly we see Ward the only clothed one in a funny rum-ti-tum orgy scene,  and glimpse his fantasy of himself as a back-channel diplomatic fixer.  As the net closes, and with sinister aggressive crashing chords the awful press and worse police make a corrupt case against him,   he sits like a reverse image of the Phantom, at the receiving end of the angry music instead of singing it.  That works.

Over a year  ago the composer told me he was working on this, and I asked how he would handle Ward’s despairing suicide after the hostile summing-up.   In the event  he does it with a roaringly defiant man still clutching his final fantasy,  of himself as a human sacrifice.   That works.  I can’t predict immortality for this show, but am not sorry to have been there.

box office   0844 847 2379     to March

Rating:  four  4 Meece Rating

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CORIOLANUS – Donmar, WC2

PLEBS AND POLITICS, SAVAGE AND STARK 
The plebs are angry,  scrawling demands for grain on the bare back wall,  modern in hoodies and jeans.  They reckon the senators get all the good stuff.   Smooth-talking Menenius (Mark Gatiss) elegantly expounds the metaphor of the belly which seems to steal the food but actually supports the limbs and brain.  Unimpressed, the Roman mob insist on two of their own as Tribunes, a fledgling democracy.

But there’s a war on with the Volscii,  and Caius Martius Coriolanus has come home a bloodstained hero, to be acclaimed Consul.  Tom Hiddleston takes centre stage: lean , hawkish, leathered, arrogant:   accustomed to urge his troops by taunting them, he promptly demonstrates that soldierly command does not necessarily make a peacetme leader.  He insults the “beastly plebeians…crows that peck the eagles..rotten breath of fetid marsh” (many a minister must envy this refreshing frankness) . The people’s tribunes  (Helen Schlesinger and Elliot Levey, beautifully smug)  banish him.

Retorting “I banish YOU!” he heads to Antium to offer his services or his bared throat to his former enemy Aufidius (Hadley Fraser).  Who, in a remarkable homoerotic moment diluted by “Know thou first, I love the maid I married”  lavishly embraces and recruits him to sack Rome. Fellow Volscii (who conveniently all talk Yorkshire) look on stunned: for  there are merciful moments in Josie Rourke’s thrilling, headlong, tragedy-driven production where she allows us a gust of laughter.

After Phyllida Lloyd’s fine all-woman Julius Caesar, the Donmar once again offers raw, political Shakespeare proving that an intimate space can contain epic savagery and the fate of empires.  The staging is simple, fast-moving, the main props chairs,  but has dramatically clever moments.   Hiddleston in the first act stands beneath a shower of water wincing as his many wounds are struck,  an evocation of the reality of pain often missing in gung-ho warrior depictions.  Great moments too for Mark Gatiss’ Menenius,  watching helpless as his friend and protegé ruins himself,  murmuring “He is grown from man to dragon”.

But the tremendous thing about this play, not performed as often as other Shakespeariana,  is the powerful role of Coriolanus’ mother, Volumnia: ferocious, devoted, proud of every scar but warning “submit you to the people’s voices!”.   Deborah Findlay beautifully plays it, allowing absurdities in her martial enthusiasm but stripping her heart bare in desperation at the final cathartic scene when, with his wife and son,   she must beg him not to destroy the city.

The hero, famously enigmatic with barely any soliloquy,  sometimes seems just a ruthless  hard-bodied column of offended pride and nihilism,  snarling “Wife, mother, child, I know not”.     Only at last does he move towards a suicidal redemption. Hiddleston carries this strange stark part with a frozen  damaged dignity,  thawing only with his mother :  he and Findlay create thrilling moments of mutuality, the invisible bond crackling between them.

Another triumph, then.  But I must murmur that ever since Sam Mendes hung Kevin Spacey’s Richard III up by the ankles at the Old Vic, we are getting tired of up-endings: this season alone chaps dangled head-down in Mojo, Let The Right One In, and now this. Don’t want to go back to the monotony of the classic “RSC Armpit Death” sword thrust,  but it is time to suspend suspensions.

box office   0844 871 7624   to 8 feb.
Production sponsors: Radisson Blu Edwardian / C and S Sherling.   Ongoing partner: Barclays.

rating:  four    4 Meece Rating
box office   0844 871 7624   to 8 feb.
Production sponsors: Radisson Blu Edwardian / C and S Sherling.   Ongoing partner: Barclays.

Production will be on 300 screens nationwide on 30 January    http://www.ntlive.com

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THE ELEPHANTOM – National Theatre Shed SE1

TWERKING INFLATABLE ELEPHANTS!  THAT’S MORE LIKE IT!

For all my pleading I was unable to borrow a child for this 4+ production (school hours, bah humbug!) . But I sat next to one who was, his mother admitted, only just three.  So the first appearance of the life-size, inflatable-bodied sky-blue ghost elephant produced a nervous murmur and a retreat to the maternal bosom.

To be fair,  it appears first by night when the heroine (Audrey Brisson, tiny and indomitable) is tucked up in bed with the lights out.  It would unsettle anyone to find the bedclothes suddenly inflating,  pushed away by a luminous ballooning interloper who rejoins his solid head (creeping in with two puppetteers in view)  and galumphs around chuckling basso-profundo.   But by the time she  accepts a sucky kiss from the trunk and a cuddle of his crepey, bouncy tummy,  the school parties round the stage were firmly on the Elephantom’s side, reaching out to touch his airy backside.    And even my smaller companion was staring,  uncertain but excited.  It is no bad thing to be a bit scared in a theatre and get over it.

I hadn’t known  Ross Collins’ book,  but in Ben Power’s adaptation  the story of the troublesome visitor is told without words,  clearly and wittily in physical moves and mutters.   A humdrum day with parents, breakfast, school and TV is established,  Laura Cubitt and Tim Lewis semi-stylized as the busy unseeing parents,   Avye Leventis  hilarious as a teacher scuttling about with box-files and a hairdo full of pencils and spare specs.  The silent-movie jerkiness of the adults makes the elephant’s bulging, floating absurdity all the more natural.

At first he just pinches food, plays tricks and commandeers the remote control whenever she is alone;  but next night he gets above himself and invites friends.  Whereon,  with whoops and cheers,  we see how much havoc a gang of disco-dancing baby elephantoms can wreak in a living room.  They twerk the front rows and lead a conga line: my tiny neighbour was humming  along enchantedly by now  (there’s a live band  overhead, alongside a frieze of lighted houses which provide the final unexpected joke).

At last Grandma, who being more mature can see the creature, takes the girl  to consult a ghost-removal company.   David Emmings (and assorted body parts of others) do vaudeville trick-hands puppetry behind a desk,  and there is an exhilarating battle through a warehouse of animated boxes to find a way to de-elephant the home.     All this,  as I say, is evoked without dialogue but with perfect clarity: direction is split between master-puppetteers Toby Olie and Finn Caldwell , with input from Marianne Elliott and design by Samuel Wyer.

The puppetry is superb, as you’d expect,  and full of heart.  Older children will love a beautiful short essay in the programme on how to make objects come alive.  Younger ones – well, they’ll talk for weeks about big blue flying naughty elephants.  So will I.

box office   020 7452 3000   to 11 Jan     Shed partner:  Neptune

rating:  four   4 Meece Rating

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LET THE RIGHT ONE IN – Royal Court Jerwood Downstairs

DRIFTING SEETHING POETRY AND HORROR:  A VAMPIRE AT THE COURT

Unless you have spent recent years  hiding (perhaps wisely) from teenage girls, you know that they have had their white little teeth firmly fixed in assorted novels about the emotional problems of vampires.  Some theorists suggest that it feeds a need for forbidden calf-love now that liberal society beams tolerantly on inter-class, inter-racial and same-sex passion.  Maybe. But few vampire romances reach the intensity and art of a 2008 Swedish film, and  the novel by John Ajvide Lindqvist on which it was based.

This stage interpretation of it by Jack Thorne,  from the National Theatre of Scotland and Dundee Rep,  is directed by John Tiffany and Steven Hoggett who gave us the powerful, balletic Black Watch.  Here too movement is used surreally to set the mood or express the more extreme moments of shock; there is an extraordinary soundtrack by Ólafur Arnalds, veering from plangent gentleness to shrieking horror.  The magic and terror of the snowy Northern forest towers in silver-birch trunks;  the urban starkness of the young hero’s tenement life in a steel climbing-frame or fire-escape.  Otherwise, only a bank of changing-room lockers and odd furniture roll by,  and a huge ancient wooden chest rises in which – well, I won’t spoil horrible surprises.   Take it minute by minute,  on its own terms.

Because for all the gory moments  it is a love story.  Oskar (an impressive debut from Martin Quinn) is a lumpen, bullied boy with a drunken mother.  He encounters the pallid and  haltingly spoken girl next door, Eli.  Her ‘father’ – protector or older lover, we do not quite know, and very nasty that is too  – kills hikers in the woods, suspending them like pigs  to drain their blood for her so she need not go looking for throats (though she does, terrifyingly).    Eli is played with extraordinary power by Rebecca Benson: speaking with the halting questioning strangeness of autism,  moving with catlike agility, perching, pouncing, shivering.

Each of them needs something.  The boy is trapped by (very nasty and explicit) bullying and by his estranged parents’ uselessness. The “girl”  is trapped by her awful destiny and her cold desperate hunger.  She does not want to be a vampire.  “I am not that. I live on blood but I am not…that. I choose not to be that!”.   The play’s power and worth is in using this superstitious, borderline ridiculous metaphor to express and intensify real emotion:  huge yearnings,  seething hysterias,  teenage  sorrow at the world’s cruelty and inadequacy.  At its best it conveys a drifting poetic sense of nightmare.

I could have done with fewer vicious bullying scenes done with overmuch relish,  and the conclusion left me oddly unconvinced.   Which is a strange thing to say after a vampire-horror show:   but it proves how moved, and convinced,  I was earlier.

box office http://www.royalcourttheatre.com    0207 565 5000   to 21 Dec.

rating  :  four    4 Meece Rating

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EMIL AND THE DETECTIVES – Olivier, SE1

CHILDREN STORM THE STAGE IN AN EMIL FOR EVERYONE

Is there no limit to the depravity of the National Theatre?  Forging 20-Reichsmark banknotes, a discredited currency,  to flood an auditorium with them! Disrespecting bankers!  Encouraging grubby children to defy adults, and underage girls to ride bicycles recklessly around the stage with bespectacled urchins balanced on their handlebars!  Not to mention disturbing the serenity of the stalls with harum-scarum chases.  Whatever happened to those fey little  folksy posh-pantos in the old Cottesloe?

Good riddance, I say.  This enormously cast adaptation (by Carl Miller) of Erich Kastner’s tale of a smalltown boy’s adventure in 1929 Berlin zings with child-energy.   Sixty kids a night chase  after the wicked bowler-hatted villain from the train carriage, who stole the money Emil’s widowed Mum was sending to Grandma.  Emil enlists Berlin children:  his girl cousin Pony,  street kids, Hilde the newspaper-seller, Tuesday the posh little boy in a sailor-suit, and others from every corner of a fragile, vibrant urban society at the heart of inter-war Europe.

It reunites director  Bijan Sheibani with movement director Aline David, and as in their marvellous The Kitchen it mixes naturalistic and semi-stylized movement, whirling free and thrilling across the big stage.   Bunny Christie designs, and brief interiors slide on and retreat, but mainly the city’s people whirl and scuttle, bearing lamp-posts and kiosks to express the baffling streets.  Night comes with glimpses of a cabaret chanteuse and a man in suspenders; maps and buildings shine black-and-white on a slanting screen around a great vortex eye  which becomes – with ladders, Oliver-magic machinery and gurgling echoes – a chase through the sewers.    Echoes of Weimar poverty and prefigurings of Nazi authoritarianism hover in the air, understated but atmospheric:  they’ve invented 1930’s  film-noir theatre for kids.

The children, whether in respectable shorts-and-braces or rags, are natural and gleeful.  In the night-time vigil round a brazier they are briefly poignant, too,  as Emil (Ethan Hammer on opening night) speaks of his love and anxiety for his hardworking mother,  and from the less cared-for children comes a bat-squeak of sadness.   Of his confreres the most hilarious is Toots (Georgie Farmer on press night),  a skinny, specky, hyperactive artful-dodger astonished that Emile is still worried about his ‘crime‘ back home, drawing a moustache on Duke Augustus‘ statue.  Others fall into character with ease, clarity, good jokes and rousing defiance (“Grownups beat us, threaten us, bribe us – treat us like beasts!”).

And Stuart McQuarrie is the villain of every child’s dream:  a black-suited “bigshot” scoffing dumplings, monocle gleaming, evilly moustached,  with flick-knife and  bowler hat.  He even tempts Emil to the dark side:  “It’s rare that I find someone who impresses me as much as I do myself…it can be lonely in the Financial Sector”.   We boo him at the curtain call, and he beams back.  Oh, for heaven’s sake, grab a kid  as an excuse to go.  Two happy hours await you and your inner (and outer) child.

box office  020 7452 3000  to  18 March

rating    four    4 Meece Rating

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LIZZIE SIDDAL Arcola, E8

ART AND LOVE AMONG THE PRE-RAPHAELITES 

1850,  and in William Holman Hunt’s studio a new model poses:  head gently inclined and body in corsetless flowing robes,  the distressed-maiden look beloved of pre-Raphaelite painters.  In bursts a tousled Dante Gabriel Rossetti (Tom Bateman):  smitten, he  invites her to  drop her millinery day-job to be Beatrice for his Dante picture.  But no sooner has he booked her than the elfin figure of John Everett Millais (James Northcote, an elegant weasel)  poaches her in turn to pose in a bath as Ophelia once the bonnet-trimming season is over. “I am the best painter in England. This will be my masterpiece.  I will make you immortal”.

And so he does, though in January, which gives her pneumonia.  But it is Gabriel whose muse and lover she remains.  Meanwhile the testy Holman Hunt (Simon Darwen) disastrously attempts a romantic rescue of a cheerfully pragmatic whore (Jayne Wisener), because “reclaiming a woman would be a heroic act”.  That ends as badly as you’d hope, and indeed from time to time there is a touch of Monty Python in his depiction of the artists.  Why not?  comedy is a quick way to expose absurdity, and its comic counterpoint is one of the pleasures of Jeremy Green’s vigorous, entertaining and ultimately haunting play. It’s good: appropriate to have its first outing in this former paint factory, but I’d put money on it going further.

The balance is beautifully kept under Lotte Wakeham’s sharp direction, and the picture darkens towards the end. For the central story, given all its dignity,  is tribute to the South London seamstress who could read, loved poetry, and longed to paint and express her faltering visions of transcendence.  She had some talent, spotted by John Ruskin (a peerlessly creepy yet sincere portrayal by Daniel Crossley).    Emma West is perfect: she has a remarkable resemblance to the redhead of the pictures and a still ethereality in her small, pale, unusual face.  Which makes it all the more beguiling when Siddal reveals a sharp wit, and tragic in her final desperate decline.

For while it was healthy artistically for the Pre-Raphaelites to challenge  Victorian stiffness,  it was still mid-century.  Defying convention in real life brought collateral damage.  Siddall lived with Rosseti and expected marriage;   he demurred as she became weary, weakened by her Ophelia immersion. Prescribed laudanum she became addicted;  he married her out of pity, she being at 29 “used goods”.  Two unhappy years and a stillbirth saw her dead from an overdose.  In grief and guilt Rossetti  buried all his poems in her grave.

Oh, and seven years later he had them dug up and published.  This ghoulish fact dramatically book-ends the play, graveyard lanterns opening it and a wicked final scene showing the artist persuaded by his chirpy agent to retrieve the manuscript and have it disinfected for two guineas.   Nobody will blame him,  because “talent vindicates all behaviour”. The eternal cry of the artist…
box office  0207 503 1646 to 21 Dec http://www.arcolatheatre.com

RATING:  four      4 Meece Rating

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STICK MAN Leicester Square Theatre, WC1

STICK  MAN     Leicester Square Theatre,  WC2

“I wanna watch a movie”  grumped a small voice behind me.  Firm came the reply “We’re not going to watch a movie.  This is a theatre. It’s exciting. It’s your first time”.   Nursery teachers, grannies, mums and the occasional daddy dragooned their charges onto booster cushions in a sussurration of anxious excitement.   It is two years since I was charmed by Scamp Theatre’s rendering of Julia Donaldson’s book,  and it’s fresh in from a long tour for Christmas. So I dropped into an early matinee off Leicester Square –  unaccustomedly louche for the church-hall playgroup set, but thrilling as a first West End experience.

Of all the early-childhood (3+)  theatre around, Sally Cookson’s production  remains one of the most satisfying and layered. Deceptive simplicity, repetitive rhymes and Playschool larks relate a thrilling story.  The current performers  are Richard Kiess, Alex Tosh and Cassie Vallance (who does a virtuoso dog, swan, and river).  Benji Bower’s music keeps small hearts beating and Kiess, satisfyingly twiggy in his tan jeans,  carries the small model of Stick Man ,faithful to the Axel Scheffler illustration .  It keeps being hijacked, and he winces convincingly when it  is bitten, thrown, soaked,  or used as a bat.   The story is that he leaves his ladylove and children in the Family Tree and goes for a run, but a dog gets him, then a girl throws him in the river, a swan builds a nest with him, and he nearly ends up on the fire at Christmas until,  by rescuing Santa with a well-judged prod,  he earns a sleighride home.

You feel utter identification growing around you as he endlessly protests “I”m not a bat! I’m not a Pooh-stick! I’m Stick-Man, that’s me!”  Small children understand. They are endlessly scooped up, carried, taken to places they resent and called by wrong nicknames.  Stick-man expresses that healthy indignation.  And he’s lost, and they know about that too – “Stick man is lonely, stick man is lost,  stick man is frozen and covered in frost”.   His children are missing him, and worried Daddy won’t be home for Christmas.   So involvement rises,  the little movie-buff behind me joining in the cries of “Wake up!” when our hero falls asleep in the grate, in imminent danger of conflagration.  Like all the best children’s theatre, it will send them home to make their own shows under the table and behind the sofa.  All they need is a stick.

Box Office: 08448 733433 | http://www.leicestersquaretheatre.com
wed-sat 1030 am,  plus Sat-sun 2 pm.

Rating :  Four very young mice    4 Meece Rating

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IN THE NEXT ROOM – THE VIBRATOR PLAY – St James’ Theatre, SW1

GASPS,  SHRIEKS,  ELECTRICITY AND SADNESS

Coincidentally (and after a week when loveless porn and sex education were splattered all over the news)  the Twitterati gasped at Darla and Jon of Topeka,  who are still keeping up abstinence a year after their  wedding,  to be “double holy”.  They say that when Bedroom Thoughts occur,  she spritzes cold waterand he “eats a whole raw potato to take him out of the mood”.

That Ruskin-like sexual taboo took us nicely into Sarah Ruhl’s remarkable play, born on Broadway and first seen here at the Theatre Royal Bath.  It is set in the home of an 1880’s American doctor,  beautifully built on two levels with swags, ruffles, piano, curly wallpaper downstairs and stern panelling in the consulting-room above.   Dr Givings‘ speciality is female hysteria:  weepiness caused by “pressure in the womb” and treated by causing “paroxysm”.   Until lately he  – or his nurse assistant Annie, who has a touching emotional subplot –  brought it on manually;  thanks to Mr Edison he  now has a vibrating appliance.   Paroxysm is, of course,  orgasm.   Ruhl , fascinated by this quirk of medical history,  with director Laurence Boswell  and some very brave actors achieves both a great many laughs of the Harry-met-Sally variety,  and some sad and profound insights into human unhappiness.

At first we are drawn into mere absurdity,  as the doctor (Jason Hughes, stiffly earnest) treats a patient (Flora Montgomery)  who has become so depressed she sees ghosts in the curtains.   She has never experienced such abandonment (“If I felt such things  in the presence of my husband I would be so embarrassed I would leave the room”).   In medical surroundings however her shrieks contrast with the prim detachment of the doctor.  At least until he turns the machine up and the lights fuse.

Meanwhile downstairs his wife,  a chirpy, bright young woman played with enchanting eccentricity by Natalie Casey,   is sorrowing because she has no milk to feed her baby.   She hires a wet-nurse, herself grieving for a dead infant.   The theme is being divided from your biological nature –  whether feeding your child or experiencing a climax with your lover.   And while I suspect some men will just laugh,  I found that evocation of womanly dislocations very moving. Not least in Madeline Appiah’s fine performance as the dignified “darkie” wet-nurse,  trying neither to love the baby or to hate it for not being her dead son.

A male hysteric – an artist played with gorgeous yellow-book silliness by Edward Bennett – tips the second act into rudery (he gets the machine, too) and offers the doctor’s wife romantic visions. Some all-girls electrical experimentation also leads to a revealing conversation with the wet-nurse,  who – being free of all this white-madam refinement – knows perfectly well what orgasms are for.  Conclusions arrive, albeit a bit slowly.

Ruhl’s writing is beautiful and adventurous: I love her reflections on the electrical age ending the old “solemnity” of candle-flames.  Equally often it is snortingly funny.  Take the doctor’s outrage after his wife has been fraternizing with the artist:  “How do you know about biscotti!?”    Ugh, Italian ways!   Biscotti can lead to all manner of smut. A chap must keep tight hold of his raw potato.

 

box office  0844 264 2140  to  4 Jan.  Producers: Peter Huntley and Just for Laughs Theatricals, in association with Theatre Royal Bath

rating:  four     4 Meece Rating

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STRANGERS ON A TRAIN – Gielgud, W1

DARKER THAN HITCHCOCK,  FOX AND HUSTON TAKE A TRAIN TO HELL

Here’s dark brilliance, a glimpse of the void.   The set itself is noir,  a tangled ever-changing revolving nightmare of city, fairground, mansion and and treescape.  The very costumes are monochrome: against a hundred shades of grey  there flickers a shine of 1940‘s platinum-blonde or a bride-white  negligée.    Tim Goodchild’s design, with remarkable lighting and projection by Tim Lutkin and Peter Wilms,  perfectly frame an unexpected and  heart-hammeringly tense evening.

Unexpected, because Hitchcock’s  famous 1951 film based on Patricia Highsmith’s novel went only halfway to hell.  Here Craig Warner has gone all the way, back to the book.   It begins like the film with two men meeting on a train – thoughtful quiet Guy and pushy, manic, overfriendly Charles Bruno.  The latter posits a fantasy in which they could baffle detection by doing one another’s murders.  He assumes that Guy would like to be rid of his unfaithful separated wife,  while he wants his father dead.   Guy thinks it is a bad taste joke.  It isn’t.  His wife is strangled at a fairground and Bruno nags him to fulfil his side.

Hollywood, anxious for virtue to triumph,  departed from Highsmith at this point.  But theatre seems tougher:  the whole of Act 2 is unfamiliar, and I will not rob you of one single gasp by spoiling it.    So let us talk instead of quality: something which Robert Allan Ackerman gets from his starry cast in plenty.

Laurence Fox is the architect Guy, at first so quiet one worries for his audibility in the train scene: but that  geeky pianissimo makes all the more dramatic his  flowering, or descent,  into panic and beyond.  I have never seen Fox operate at quite this level, and it pins you to your seat.    Still more alarming is Jack Huston’s Bruno: not the chill smiling psychopath of Hitchcock’s version but a manically unbalanced walking Oedipus-complex,  fixated (shades of Highsmith’s other antihero, Ripley)  on getting close to Guy himelf.  Huston disintegrates before our eyes.  The strangling scene  is mild compared to his recounting of it,   and when his parricidal fantasy unreels, high on a vertiginous staircase,  the tangled projections overhead seem to be a map of his very brain.

In the rising hysteria the women strike contrasting notes: Myanna Buring flame-haired and vampy as the victim wife, Miranda Raison cool, pure, and innocent until too late.  But wildest of all is Imogen Stubbs as Bruno’s mother: a glamorously fading, plaintive smother-mother played with an intensity worthy of a Tennessee Williams creation.  When the horrid truth overwhelms her in turn, the stage itself shivers.

It’s a classy bit of work,  not least because actual violence occurs only once before the end.  Poker, axe, flamethrower and gun seem to threaten,  but as Guy says  hell is all inside the skin.  A man can be hollowed out by evil: and that’s when  a mere thriller becomes an epic.

box office  0844 482 5130     to  22 feb
Rating:  four 4 Meece Rating

PS:  With the superb clarity of youth, my occasional companion Jennifer-Jane Benjamin has taken to delivering reviews with one-word-per-star.   Midsummer Night’s Dream was “Shouty, Mirthful, Gay”.    Strangers on a Train is “Bonkers, Incestuous, Clever, Creepy”.   Heaven knows what’ll happen when she hits five stars..

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TORY BOYZ – Ambassadors’ Theatre, WC1

A LATE BUT BRACING BOUQUET FOR THE NYT

Next to the Mousetrap and opposite the Ivy,  in the grubby splendours of this pocket playhouse the National Youth Theatre’s rep company is  packing its last few matinee-only houses.  So it should: it was a smart move to revive (with the author’s skilful updates)  James Graham’s 2008 play about the Conservative Party and gay rights.

Or,  given that the said party has just endorsed same-sex marriage,   the more difficult matter of gay acceptance in its own ranks.   Graham, of course, lately wrote the NT hit THIS HOUSE about the 1970’s hung parliament,  and this earlier work shows how he got to that remarkakble level while still under thirty.   Hes grasp of the ambiguities, glories and absurdities of Parliamentary government has been refining over years.

Our hero  Sam – subtly and touchingly played by Simon Lennon – is a young working-class northerner, a Tory research assistant with a passion for improving the world and particularly schools,  which are his minister’s brief .  Scenes where he explains civil government to lairy schoolchildren are terrific: you can almost smell the sweat and swagger of them as they role-play and bicker.   “Sir, is the Chancellor really allowed to tell the Prime Minister to fuck off?”.    But just as the kids have an ineradicable habit of using “gay” as a synonym for “rubbish”,  so it is clear to Sam that as his arrogant chief of staff says, Europe and homosexuality are the party traditionalists’ two biggest emotional problems.  If you want to freak one out, “offer him a copy of Attitude in one hand and a croissant in the other”.

Ambitious, idealistic,  and shakily unable to get it on with a cheerful young suitor who keeps trying to date him,  Sam becomes haunted, with a series of fifty-year flashbacks ,  by the young Ted Heath,  beautifully evoked in all his forceful grumpy  reticence by Niall McNamee.  In a lovely touch, he does up the buckle of his raincoat with care before stepping out with his only female friend. Better safe than sorry.   The  historical imagined moments  are neatly and clearly staged,  and as Sam struggles towards clarity and self-acceptance through an obviously  vain attempt to find out whether Prime Minister Heath was actually gay or not,    the plot thickens nicely.  And there are two very touching moments:  Sam’s final encounter with the mouthy schoolboy Ray (Aaron Gordon) and a supernatural, but satisfying, colloquy with poor old Heath.  The play will last; and some at least of its young cast will go a long way.

box office 084 4811 2334    to 29 Nov

Rating    Four    4 Meece Rating

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TWELVE ANGRY MEN – Garrick, WC2

TWELVE ANGRY MEN       –   Garrick, WC2

Storming out of 1950‘s America with a fresh, stunning ensemble,   Reginald Rose’s jury-room play hits modern London with the bitter topicality of a knife-blow.  Written for TV in 1954  it came to the stage, then the famous Lumet film in 1957.  But although its characters are a faithful cross-section of ‘50s white American manhood,  it speaks with  vigour to any age about anger, prejudice,  the power of reason,  empathy and honour.

The outline plot (lovingly parodied since in everything from Hancock to Rugrats) is familiar:  a jury split eleven to one ,  a dissenter turning them round to a Not Guilty verdict.  The charge is murder: a slum boy of sixteen  (clearly, though not explicitly, of an ethnic minority)  stabbing his violent father.   The judge’s voiceover tells us that the sentence is death if guilty.  Bias, lazy conclusions, circumstantial evidence and  jurors’ shrugging faith in weak witnesses get gradually dismantled.  Attitudes are stripped bare in the pressure-cooker of a sweltering room in thunder season.   Individuals,  known only by numbers, erupt from enervated silence to voice their real thoughts: notably Miles Richardson’s No.10, with a roaring, violent outbreak which is pure BNP: “These people – born to lie, born to kill, you know what they’re like, breed like animals -!”

Psychologically the play between the men is thrilling enough,  and written with marvellous tightness, even  humour. but Rose is canny enough to create detective-style cruxes around evidence: the knife, the passing train,  the witnesses’ errors.    It could risk stasis, despite the outbreaks of near-violence as it heats up,  but Christopher Haydon directs with rapid fluidity,  assisted by an understated but artful revolving table (Michael Pavelka’s design)  as if we were ourselves pacing round to see things from a new angle.

And his cast are beyond praise.  Martin Shaw is the dissenter,  almost an angel (the final lighting shot on his pale suit suggests it),  and plays initially with a gentle steely stillness,  letting his tempo rise under perfect control.   The American Jeff Fahey as his most bitter opponent plays superbly against him,  patrician poise disintegrating into private vengefulness.  Robert Vaughn is the wise, calmly thoughtful elder;  Ed Franklin touching and troubled as the only one who knows about  chaotic lives and knifings from his own background.

But all twelve are tremendous:   trapped onstage throughout, each of them – in body-language and expression  – immaculately serving the ebb and flow of anger and argument.   And – this doesn’t often get said – all credit to commercial theatre,  unfairly sneered at for catchpenny values and leg-shows.  Producer Bill Kenwright for the second year running (remember last year’s brilliant Three Days In May?)  has the bottle to put on a straight play involving nothing but middle-aged blokes sitting at a table on a single set discussing principles.  No pretty girls or love interest, just superb drama. Respect!

box office  0844 412 4662   to  1 March

Rating:  four      4 Meece Rating

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HMP MACBETH Intermission, St Saviour’s SW3

MURDER , MURK  AND MISSION 
In a church tucked decorously behind Harrods, three voodoo-punk bitch-witches in ragged prison sweatsuits shriek and cackle in an ecstasy of malice;  cell doors bang in vicious sympathy,  and a sensual, tousled Lady Macbeth calls on spirits to unsex her,  interrupted by shouts from the next cell “I’m trying to sleep, you flipping psychopath!”.  Two languages meld seamlessly:  when her illicit prison-officer lover  Macbeth quails at the thought of bumping off the Governor,  averring that he dares do all that may become a man, he who dares do more is none,   his inmate mistress slaps him robustly round the head with “You pussy!”.    As for her scornful “We fail?” –   a line which echoes down four centuries of Lady Macbeths –  he meets that with a dive back into modernity and the prison setting,   muttering resentfully “Well, there’s a possibility –  given that you didn’t get away with your last crime”.

Thus we’re allowed to laugh from time to time.   For this is another of Intermission’s rousing, but not irreverent,  Shakespeare adaptations.,  written by the extraordinary Darren Raymond and directed by Fabian Spencer.  Both men, many years ago as real prison inmates,  had the luck to encounter Bruce Wall’s London Shakespeare Workout and fall in love with the power of it.   Now Raymond is artistic director of Intermission Youth Theatre,  creating productions with young people deemed – or already – at risk of running off the tracks.   It was founded by actors-cum-missioners (Into-Mission, geddit?)  the Rev Rob Gillion and his wife Janine (she, with an air of Teresa May bout her,  beautifully  plays the assasinated prison governor Ms Duncan).   Without government support,  this incogruous outfit probably does more for disaffected youth than many conventional ones.  It has sent kids on to RADA, the Brit school, university,  teaching and TV.
Leading a number of fine performances,  Kwame Reed as Officer Macbeth makes a thoughtful journey from dutiful ambitious officer promoted after quelling a riot caused by Deputy Governor Cawdor,  to panicking psychopath.   The Three Bitches are tremendous,  and Esther Odejimi (astonishingly, it’s her first ever performance)  is memorable:  a sexy, furious, utterly confident Lady Macbeth right through to her final dissolution, crying “Hell is murky”, to cries of “slut” from behind the cell walls.
A lot of credit goes to Raymond himself, whose years of workshopping and “sampling” Shakespere texts enable the young cast to take confident ownership, shifting from modern vernacular with ease and conviction.  Important soliloquies like “She should have died hereafter” are intact,  high emotion often leading with beautiful logic straight from prison jargon to the old pentameter.  As for the plot, it hangs artfully between dystopian fantasy (a women’s prison as a self-contained kingdom), gritty realism and the original.   I wondered how he would handle the murder of the Macduffs  and the curse of Dunsinane, but he does it elegantly, and even gets round the Birnam Wood problem.

box office   http://www.iyt.org.uk       Thur-Sat till    23 Nov

rating :  four        4 Meece Rating

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RAVING – Hampstead Theatre NW3

A WILD AND WICKED SWIPE AT MIDDLE-CLASS MORES

Goodness, this is funny!  Uncontrollably so in the first scenes,  before the tightly coiled spring of middle-class angst is released into anarchy and minor injuries.    I suspect that after the first-night hysterics,  director Ed Hall will be instructing his cast to leave more space for the laughs lest some of Simon Paisley Day’s lines are lost.  Especially the snarled ones.

We are in a Welsh weekend cottage, booked by the briskly well-organized Ross and Rosy (Robert Webb a self-satisfied PR,  Sarah Hadland of Miranda fame as his bossy pocket-dynamo of a wife).   They are late because of an au-pair issue which will explode later.  Their leftish friends Keith and Briony are there first,  Barnaby Kay hapless, bearded and frustrated,  Tamzin Outhwaite delivering a bravura monologue of stressed-out social paranoia.   They left their son with Granny:  Briony is still suckling him (another unexploded bomb in the plot), struggling with her breast pump and “not ready” to resume sex.  The child, we learn, is three!  She seethes with resentment at her hostess’ brisk batch-baking competence, and has forgotten her antidepressants.

As if this wasn’t enough, the hosts have invited a couple even less to Briony’s taste,  the cheerfully posh Charles and Serena:  he an ex-army dimbo  (Nicholas Rowe)  whose shotgun – yet another clue to the coming mayhem  –    drives Briony into hysterical disapproval.  Not that Serena is inconsiderate:  Issy van Randwyck, blithely authoritative,  sees her horror and barks “Chas! Shooter! Car!” as if to a disobedient pointer.   Van Randwyck indeed, a bright-eyed breezy touslehead,   is one of the constant joys of the play,  capturing exactly the  competent and sexually cheerful upper-class matronliness which made Britain both great,  and potentially very annoying.  Cunningly, Paisley Day reveals that she is no airhead but a GP.  “A hobby, reallah!”.   Into the cottage erupt in turn a religiously devout Welsh farmer and Serena’s wild-child niece Tabby (Bel Powley, last seen in Jumpy, is making a nice corner in mouthy Jafaican teens with a subtle edge of pathos).

They interact,  discussing among other things childrearing (“like dogs, stick to a training programme”  says Charles, who has “four or five”  while Briony agonizes over her one.)   I did wonder, between giggles of  recognition,  whether it would move beyond sketch-comedy brilliance into a denser play.   It does, though not in the Ayckbournian way I expected:  more Joe Orton, indeed,  in its robust rejection of pathos.  Narrate the bare bones of Tabby’s situation, or the farmer’s, and you could find depths of pain.  Paisley Day, wisely I think, doesn’t do any such thing.

He lets  suspicion, booze,  breast-milk, a druggy rave in the next field and two startlingly inappropriate sexual events culminate only in an armed hostage scene of edgy absurdity.  If you insist on finding a moral in it,  it is that even an enraged gun-wielding God-bothering Welsh farmer can be out-loonied  any day by six middle-class London weekenders.   As one observes,  “We don’t need you.  We can destroy ourselves”.

BOX OFFICE  020 7722 9301   to  23 November
Rating:  four4 Meece Rating

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FROM HERE TO ETERNITY – Shaftesbury Theatre WC2

HURTLING HUNKS AND DEATH BY BLUES

God, I hate star ratings!  Even when, as here, rebelliously expressed as mice.  For nearly three hours the fourth one hovered uncertainly, annoyingly,   over Tim Rice’s bravely enormous new show and Stuart Brayson’s music,  as it veered between grand moments and some pretty standard “song-that-goes-like-this” numbers.  Can’t pretend that a classic was born,  but neither is it dismissable.  Big money and big courage sometimes pay off.

Rice’s admirable aim was to forget the 1953 movie with Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolling in the surf ,  and exhume the even bleaker bones of James Jones’ angry novel about the bored brutalities of the US military garrison on Hawaii  just  before the 1941 raid on Pearl Harbour.  He pulls no punches,  restoring Jones’ account – too shocking for Hollywood – of soldiers “rolling the queers” in the gay club to raise money for their own brothel-crawling.    Its title is bitterly drawn from Kipling’s poem about disillusioned NCOs:  “done with hope and honour, lost to love and truth” .

There are two love affairs:  Sgt Warden (Darius Campbell, aka Danesh) falls for Karen, the commander’s wife while the damaged, cynical  Prewitt  (Robert Lonsdale) finds a deep connection with a local whore,  after being mercilessly beasted for refusing  to box for the honour of G company.   His friendship with the irrepressible tragic Latino Angelo (Ryan Sampson, engaging in the extreme) is the third emotional sinew of the story.

But the energy of it comes from the military:  a  tsunami of testosterone, a male ensemble drilled (it is rumoured) by a real sergeant-major until not a twitch of camp can remain in their manner.   Javier de Frutos shapes them into a masterpiece of dramatic choreography which  I have rarely seen equalled.  The stage is full of hurtling hunks:  pushups and star jumps, hula-moves and brawls, larking or lovemaking, the khaki whirlwind dominate the action.  Whether in stand-by-your-beds or beat-up-a-brothel routines they are breathtaking.  So are the girls they whirl and hurl around a restrainedly evocative  set by Soutra Gilmour.  Bruno Poet does the lights, and Brayson’s music gets rich orchestrations under David White. Nothing has been spared.

But it’s a musical,  and must justify itself by songs.  Some are fine (the fourth star-mouse finally landed during the finale, with “slaughter from the sky, fire in the sea” and a hymn to The Boys of ’41).  Campbell’s grainy, savagely virile voice is well used in “More than America” and less well in love duets (though Rebecca Thornhill’s gorgeously sexy Karen more than makes up for that).  Prewitt has one magnificent anthem “Fight the Fight”, and does it full justice; the two men doing the “Ain’t where I wanna be blues” are perfect.     But Tim Rice’s fatal fondness for over-jangly rhymes too often weakens the lyrics:   some are plain banal.  “She’s untouchable, a princess, and a whore / But I just see a beauty at my door” Please!

On the other hand the tarts‘ song “You got the money, we got the ass”  is splendid.  I went home singing it. Got some odd looks on the train.

box office  0207 492 1532    to 26 April
Rating :  four   4 Meece Rating

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The Djinns of Eidgah – Royal Court

A TAPESTRY OF TERROR AND BEAUTY 
Dim behind a soft mosquito-net, a father tells his children a tale of Djinns:    creatures of scorching smokeless fire, pure passion without reason who battle with magicians in wars which are only illusion.  The tale resolves in gentleness as the soft eyes of great Hamza’s daughter look down as stars,  and ends “May the queen of sleep bless you with pleasant and beautiful dreams. Shabba-khair”.  The Urdu goodnight is shattered:   through the misty veiling stride helmeted soldiers, ripping aside peace and taking us six years on.  We are in a football changing-room where  Bilal,  the star Kashmiri teenage striker,  is preparing in his broken old boots  for a trial which might take him to the Brazil, to freedom and doctors for his sister Ashrafi.  For at thirteen she has regressedto the terrified ten-year-old she was when her father fell dead in her lap, shot at a wedding-party.

 
Bilal holds aloof – for now – from the parades and demonstrations against the Indian occupation.  He tolerates curfews and body-searches in the heightened emotion as Eid approaches and the latest shot child awaits burial by an angry community.  Between patriotism and family duty,  he is torn between betrayals.

 
Kashmir is the world’s most intensively occupied nation – or would-be nation – and like a rifle-shot from its deadly heart comes a play of sweltering intensity by Abhishek Majumdar from Bangalore.   It crackles with pain and mystery,    a subcontinent’s echo of Aeschylean tragedy:  with extraordinary emotional power it tangles its human dilemmas with Muslim spirituality and mountain legend.  In Tom Scutt’s stark design we are  inside a great loom,   an unfinished rich carpet below, the  bare threads above and at either end becoming becoming prison bars or a half-seen afterworld.   Danny Ashok and Aysha Kala are the orphan siblings,  radiantly youthful (Richard Twyman directs Kala’s moments of traumatic recall with great power).   But equally central is old Dr Baig,   a psychiatrist struggling with an overborne hospital and the memory of his own son’s progress from stone-throwing dissent to Mujahideen training and a horrible death.  Vincent Ebrahim is magnificent,  the eternal figure of the good man struggling for reconciliation in a volatile, angry world.  He resists the aggressive Jihad spiritualities  but in final moments,  between life and afterlife,   affirms a universal humanity.  And Ashrafi finds a strange final eloquence to comfort her tortured brother.  “Death is the dream at the end of life”.

 
Prose and poetry weave as intricately as the carpet.  Between intense and ghostly moments we are suddenly with boys talking football and politics,  or with two squabbling Indian soldiers trapped in a guard-post.  Their fears, nerves,  and reluctant tales of atrocities committed in trauma are horribly reminiscent both of our own Northern Ireland years  and of Iraq.   For all its nightmare Djinns and spiritual strangeness,  it becomes a play for  any conflict.

0207 565 5000     http://www.royalcourttheatre.com    to 9 November    Sponsored: Genesis Foundation/ British Council

Rating    Four   4 Meece Rating

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Oedipussy – Rose, Kingston

GREEK, GOOFY,  GORGEOUS
I had remembered the unicycle and  Queen Merope’s mad wig,  Petra Massey’s disco-sphinx and the innocently manic Spaniard Aitor Basauri leading us in an operatic chorus while disguised as three ragged singing lepers.  I vaguely remembered the morris-dancing,  the struggles of the cast to get between the Grecian pillars in too-wide hats, and the arresting, surprisingly poignant moments of Jocasta’s death and Oedipus’ blinding,  blood-red ribbons falling from high overhead.
Other things had faded, though, since I saw this Spymonkey show under Emma Rice’s direction begin its intermittent tour in Northampton last year.  I had forgotten how fine the music is:  Toby Park’s saxophone solos,  Hollywood-epic blasts and anthemic, ludicrously heartfelt numbers in Bond, Bowie, Bassey and  X-factor style.  I had blanked out the disembowelling of Tiresias in pasa-doble rhythm,  the way the furious German Stefan Kreiss kicks holes in the scenery,   and that Massey ends up, for important dramatic  reasons, doing the curtain-call with dummy arms.
My companion, never having seen this quartet before,  simply spent two hours in helpless, shocked, liberated laughter, leaving the critical brooding to me.  I love Spymonkey  for the brilliance and precision of their clowning  and the ripple of pure intelligence beneath the anarchic surface.   Not everyone gets it,  and this retelling of the Oedipus story  (with surprising accuracy beneath the spoofing) opens with the four of them reading the Joyce McMillan review of their last show: “a band of middle aged actors making a two-hour show out of a one line joke”.  The bespectacled Park gravely says it is “the greatest gift a critic can bestow, a kick up the arse” and pledges that they will become grownup classical interpreters.   “We will not romp”.   Whereon down come his trousers,  and we’re  into loincloths, laurel wreaths, and a James Bond operning number –  “Whadda man! Whadda myth! Whadda King!”.
McMillan sighed that their performance was like a student jape.  But no student japes are this perfect, and in any art extreme high quality can overcome distaste for a genre.  You can think you hate jazz but appreciate Charlie Parker,  be impatient of opera but moved by Gheorgiu.  The comparison is not absurd: these four have studied and practised physical comedy for years, and here collaborate with Emma Rice and Carl Grose.  Even the moments when each steps out of character to grumble are finely tuned.    Basauri says he wants to do standup,  Park wails “I could have done something with my life! My sister’s a consultant psychiatrist! My grandfather designed the Morrison Shelter!” and the nimbly lunatic Petra Massey persistently interrupts the story to overshare about  her “obliterated womb”.  Kreiss, the oldest at 51, claims to be on painkillers and when Massey offers massage after a dramatic lift shouts “Just lose some weight!”.
No.  None of them must leave. Ever.  Their appearances are quite rare, quite wonderful, and not to be missed.

08444 821 556  to 19th October
Rating: four     4 Meece Rating

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The Act – Ovalhouse SE11

“I fully understand” says Kenneth Robinson MP, “that this subject is distasteful, even repulsive to some people”. He is introducing the Commons debate on the Wolfenden Report, the decriminalizing of male homosexual acts in private. As Matthew Baldwin – calm, smartly pinstriped, measured – delivers fragments of the speech, you feel across half a century the fraught Parliamentary silence. It is, he says, a misconception that these men are “effete, depraved and exhibitionist…the majority are useful citizens, unnoticed and unsuspected”. Some of his listeners in that Chamber will have recognized Robinson’s definition of their own “Involuntary deviation..[which] leads so often to loneliness, unhappiness and frustration”.
This age of laissez-faire and equal marriage, with its troubling counter-current of fundamentalist repression, seems to fuel a dramatic need to look back at that period when sexual rebellion boiled and seethed, cracking the skin of postwar respectability. We await two treatments of the Profumo Scandal – Keeler the play, Stephen Ward the musical. The Universal Machine musical dealt movingly with Alan Turing, and Alexi Kaye Campbell’s The Pride painfully expresses both the misery and of the criminalized years and the “hypersexual” fallout now gradually fading.
This sensitive, truthful 70-minute solo created by Baldwin and Thomas Hescott (who directs) weaves together Robinson’s speech and the story of a young civil servant whose nervous search for love and intimacy leads him to the flamboyant underworld of the ‘Dilly and to picking up a boy in the Leicester Square Gents. Baldwin gives poignant dignity to the lonely civil servant, from childhood memories of love to the indignity of a courtroom. Sometimes he becomes “Edna” the waspish Jules-and-Sandy type in the club talking Polari to the shrieking Gladyses and Mabels.
Then he is the lover again, pleading with a shrugging, venal, beloved boy; then we are back in the Commons chamber as Robinson questions the right of the State to interfere in the acts of private individuals, and reveals that the Lord Chief Justice finds 90 per cent of blackmail cases involve homosexuality. Public opinion? “It is the duty of governments to lead, and to do what they know to be right”.  A faint modern echo of David Cameron’s nervous courage over gay marriage.
Baldwin’s performance is strong, charming and honest, the play cunningly constructed. The 70-minute span begins and ends with him as a modern man, texting about a dinner party he and his civil partner (“we’re thinking of upgrading to marriage”) are having for the even smarter Seb and Ian, all Ottolenghi brunches and opera and mentoring. It is from that moment that we whirl back to the 1960’s, the Parliamentary plea for the “distasteful” deviation, and the cosy, dangerous, necessary underworld of Gladyses and Ednas. For which, it is teasingly made clear, some still atavistically hanker.

020 7582 7689    http://www.ovalhouse.com       to 26 October

Rating: four 4 Meece Rating

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