Review: Gypsy, Savoy Theatre
Sometimes, ignorance is the precursor to bliss. Admittedly,
this is a somewhat ironic statement with which to start a review, and to which
I shall add just this: go buy your tickets now for Gypsy, enjoy the show, then come back to read the rest of this.…
So, how was the show?
Knowing the musical only by name and completely oblivious as to the content or songs, I went with only one expectation: Imelda Staunton. She delivered last year’s stand-out stage performance in Good People and so I bought my ticket knowing at the very least that I would learn a lot about stagecraft from her. I had no idea that she could be even better than she was last year. Tender, ruthless, ambitious, and so funny, her interpretation of Rose is one for the ages.
It’s not all about Rose, though. There is great support from Lara Pulver and Peter Davison playing Louise and Herbie respectively. Pulver in particular does a fine job living the transition from gauche, tomboy-ish Louise to the scantily elegant Queen of Burlesque Gypsy Rose Lee.
The care that has gone into this production and the level of
dedication to even the smaller details of the piece, such as Tulsa’s one dance
number, is evident. There is no moment that has been overlooked nor does any
actor on stage let you get away with dropping your attention. It is no surprise
that the show was granted a West End transfer after playing first in Chichester
and has since gone on to being given an extended run at the Savoy theatre.
This show truly demonstrates the secret to great West End
musicals: get a crew that cares and a cast made up not of great singers who act,
but of great actors who can sing.
Rating *****
Gypsy is running
at the Savoy Theatre until 28th November this year. Book your
tickets here.Review: Punchdrunk: The Drowned Man, Temple Studios
This is not for the faint-hearted; if you want comfy chairs,
an unbreachable fourth wall, and to hang your hat up at the door (sorry,
Brecht) well … stay well clear. This production spans an entire building;
floors, stairwells, and all become a caravan lot, a film studio, a
Western-looking set, with more than a hint of hysteria and the asylum. The
level of detail is astonishing as you submerse yourself in the lives of implied
characters, sitting in their caravans and reading their love letters, watching physicals,
and chasing madly twirling couples in a frenzy of lust, betrayal, and obsession
up across multiple worlds. The inspiration is Georg Büchner’s play, Woyzeck, which can be found in that
nineteenth-century clash of science and religion, but a literary degree is not
required to follow the story. Masked and subject to the vagaries of your own
curiosity, you as an audience member are both background and a fly on the wall,
and never privy to everything that happens throughout this multi-levelled
three-hour phantasmagoria. The scale is, however, ultimately both the advantage
and downfall of the production. On the one hand, it spawns fandoms – and its
own guaranteed perpetuity – as audience members piece together the entirety of
the tale online by contributing what they say; on the other hand, the sheer
scale of the experience diluted the visceral impact that smaller, immersive
productions deliver with such effect.
Punchdrunk, nevertheless, remains a pioneer of theatre, and
it’s one night out that is guaranteed to keep you talking.****
Review: Sweet Bird of
Youth, Old Vic
Tennessee Williams’ plays have a certain violence of feeling
and expression – even in the throwaway lines – that makes them difficult to
stage well and in harmony with that tricky thing, the British sense of reserve,
which is not yet quite the old wives’ tale it now sometimes appears to be. This
violence manifests itself quite overtly in Sweet
Bird of Youth, with an actual tempest blowing up a gale as the tension reaches
boiling point in the second half. No-one can accuse Williams of being too
subtle – though he may have to concede defeat to Baz Luhrmann in the most
obvious theatrical signage round – as his gale and closing speech around clocks
and the passing of time make sure that we don’t go home without a clear
understanding of passion and the horrid realisations of encroaching old age.
In this lies the challenge for the actor. How to communicate
this level of passion without either indulging in schizophrenic mannerisms or
one-note hysteria? Kim Cattrell delivers a confident performance as Alexandra
Del Lago, a fading movie star who has resorted to drink, drugs, and toyboy
lovers (nicely defined, against expectation, given the similar character
traits, from Samantha in Sex and the City),
but it is not without flaws. Her husky, morning after bark dominates much of
her speech, coming across rather mannered and overused, despite being the
perfect intonation for certain comic deliveries, which rightly had the audience
shouting with laughter, and the hysteria became a little too shrill and
one-note. That said, there were utterly lovely moments, and her comic timing is
impeccable. The stand-out star, however, is Seth Numrich, a fresh young
American face, who has succeeding in endowing a louche, distinctly unlikeable
character with a certain empathy, and who gives as honest, fluid, and watchable
a performance as any actor on the West End stage at the moment. This is a young
actor worth keeping an eye on, and one who
is responsible for much of the personality of the production.
Contrary to what some critics have asserted, Tennessee
Williams’ work is funny. It does not, however, limit itself to comedy, but
outlines pathetic qualities of character with great understanding, even if
subtlety is not always his modus operandi.
A decent production with a star performance from Seth
Numrich, Sweet Bird of Youth was a
solid instalment in the Old Vic’s repertoire this season.
This show has now finished, and currently playing at the Old Vic is Mark Rylance’s Much Ado About Nothing, with James Earl
Jones and Vanessa Redgrave.
***
Review: Cabaret, On Tour
Breaking news: Cabaret the stage musical is not
absolutely the same as Cabaret the
Liza Minelli film. Good, just thought that needed clearing up, as many of those
sat around us in the Circle at Wimbledon the night of the show had their hopes
and dreams dashed, perplexed, and irrevocably compromised by this revelation.
Having established that it is different, it is also a
thoroughly good show and more explicit about the Nazi threat than the film,
which plays to its advantage; we have a musical ending on a warning note, a
tonal drop at the end of the singing-dancing sentence, and putting up two
fingers to an escapist heaven-glancing, foot-stamping finale. It would have
been a betrayal of the content to have ended thusly, and this is what makes the
productions greatest impression – it is truly unafraid to explore the dark
associations of the narrative and context.
The show bases a lot of its box-office attraction on having
Will Young play the emcee. The singer – who has to be considered one of the few
genuinely good things to have come out of the Pop Idol/X-Factor phenomenon –
had made an appealing, gentle film debut in Mrs
Henderson Presents, and here demonstrates that faith in him has not been
misplaced. He shows great physicality, good comic timing, and an ability to
play the pathos, menace, and entertaining quality that the emcee requires. Sally
Bowles was played with less conviction, and the most impressive support in the
shape of Siân Phillips, delivering the most memorable and sympathetic Fraulein
Schneider I have seen.
As is necessary with touring productions, an overly
complicated set was eschewed in favour of a more mobile component-based set up
which served more as a backdrop to the characters, rather than being a
character in and of itself. The focus, then, was on the performance, and that
was more than enough.
***1/2Review: The Winslow Boy, The Old Vic
I left The Old Vic after a performance of The Winslow Boy feeling for some reason as if I had just watched a particularly fantastic episode of As Time Goes By. Admittedly, this is a strange comparison but it is by no means an insult; it is, indeed, the opposite. To settle any doubts right from the start, I loved The Winslow Boy (as indeed do I love As Time Goes By) and would not only advise you to buy tickets but also happily endorse it as the best play without songs that I have seen this year*. The TV series does not of course encompass expostulations of the magnitude we expect from Rattigan or the violence of his sentiment but what we find in both is a family portrayed without cynicism and demonstrating – indeed, thanks to the strength of the acting in both, living – the willing binds of caring, of faith, and of support, highlighted and thrown into happy relief by beautifully underplayed British wit. There is a gentleness in both which is endearing and refreshing in an age where the prerequisites of a family-centric drama seem to be divisive tension, secrets, and physical or substance abuse.
That is not to deny, however, the presence of disruptive forces. Rattigan has not written a navel-gazing familial drama, but rather one that relocates the impact and exploration of universal themes – namely, justice of the individual against the state and faith – from the courtroom and front-line to the sitting room. Ronnie Winslow – the youngest of three children and apple of his father’s eye – returns home furtively and ashamedly from his prestigious school, having been sent down on the accusation of stealing a £5 postal order from another boy. His father, establishing the truth of the boy’s account from his certainty that he could tell a lie, is enraged over the lack of a fair and public trial and takes on his son’s case, even against the constant denials by politicians and press. What is brilliant about Rattigan’s play is that we empathise entirely with the family but cannot help but understand the reaction of those frustrated newspaper readers, whose diatribes are read aloud by Arthur Winslow from his armchair. Do we think that the boy should suffer punishment if he is innocent? Of course not. However, do we perhaps not also think that there may be some truth in those who claim that there are more pressing matters for the House of Commons, namely the war? Reluctantly – the search for justice always being a noble one – this is perhaps also the case. Truth and justice are not easy, especially when the individual is a simple schoolboy, accused of theft.
The virtue most effectively communicated by the play and by this production is not the practice and execution of justice, but rather the strength and faith of the family throughout the trial; Arthur Winslow nigh bankrupts his family and ruins the education and marriage prospects of his other children but we cannot help but feel that this is a marvellous affirmation of faith. Henry Goodman plays the part of Arthur Winslow to perfection, charting the decline of his health and the strengthening of his obstinacy with touching, nuanced resolve. Indeed, the play is perfectly cast, with Charlie Rowe pitch perfect as the young Winslow, whose interest in his own case wanes as quickly as you might imagine a fifteen-year old’s attention to do. The most poignant moment, however, comes from Naomi Frederick as his sister, Catherine; when asked how she evaluates the risk of continuing with the trial to her marriage, her reply of ‘negligable’ resonates across the room. It was the single best delivered line in a production of wonderfully and faithfully delivered lines.
From the simple set funnelling all the drama to essentially one room with sounds implying the extradiegetic world to the casting and the humour, this production is marvellously done and one of which the director, Lindsay Posner, can be justifiably proud. As can Rattigan, sure of his recent revival in the spotlight.
Buy your tickets here.
Review: Peter and Alice, Noel Coward Theatre
When I left the Noel Coward theatre following a performance of Peter and Alice I overheard a fellow audience member say “I think I need to see it a second time in order to understand it”. I thought I needed to see it a second time, too; the plot and conceits hadn’t baffled me but I genuinely had no idea whether or not I had liked what I had seen. Did I like the performances? Ridiculous question – it’s Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw pushing each other to ever higher tragic reminisces, introspection, and revelation in a touching and never overplayed way, which epitomises why they are both stand-out actors of their respective generations. Did I like the design? Certainly, it provides a beautiful visual transition from bookshop reality to a battlefield of happiness and grief, past and present, truth and fantasy. Did I like the direction? Michael Grandage has a light and subtle touch, knowing how to straddle the fine line between reality and fantastical nostalgia and knowing how and where to guide the audience and bring out certain reactions. Perhaps, then, what had me in a quagmire of confusion was the foundation of the play – the script.
Peter and Alice recreates the 1932 meeting between Alice Liddell Hargreaves and Peter Llewlyn Davies – respectively the inspirations for Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan – at the opening of the Lewis Carroll exhibition in a London bookshop. Their interaction shifts from secretive, with Alice’s identity and inherited fame clearly on display and Peter’s deliberately hidden, until pried out of him by Alice. Speaking as a publisher and acting like a journalist, he wishes to capitalise on Alice’s position and from it seek some guidance without being obliged to lay his own experiences out for examination and, indeed, excoriation. John Logan’s play is a mixed offering, with any number of beautifully sharp witticisms afforded to Dench’s character. There was a wonderful meta-humour moment when Alice comments about her dislike of famous people always being diminutive, when they ought to be tall as you imagine them – a reference perhaps to a child’s deceived perspective of idols whom they meet when grown up, but here gently reflecting the audience’s views of Dench herself. Along with the witticisms, quick rapport, and the arguments which give way to saddened doubt and revelation there is, however, a written use of words which aims at an intellectually entracing Stoppardian level of heightened language but falls short into slight cliché and predictable conceit. Logan didn’t quite pull off what he was trying to do, but it was nonetheless a solid attempt at re-working old ground, which in both content matter and philosophical query has been thoroughly and beautifully laid out before in a variety of mediums.
The play does feel quite timely for our generation of fame-seekers; it provides some perspective – what if you didn’t ask for it but are burdened with it because of relationships you didn’t understand? What does that do to a child and what does it do the adult, whom that child must grow up to be? Because for all the nostalgia and the iconisation of two people as representations of perpetual childish ‘golden afternoons’ they must grow up, and in this case suffer such terrible tragedies in the past and future of the moment of their meeting, which you cannot conceive happening to Alice in Wonderland or to Peter Pan.
The bittersweet delight of an Alice rejuvenated by memories and the aggressive vitriol of a Peter excusing his personal decline mark out the parameters for the characters’ conflict in this play. This is the central focus and as an audience you cannot ask for two better actors to play these parts and to convey in feeling what perhaps has not been captured in the words.
Tickets are difficult to get hold of and if you decide to get day tickets – especially on the weekend – beware! You will need to arrive a couple of hours early … so bring a thermos.
Review: Privates on Parade, Noel Coward Theatre
The last time I saw Simon Russell Beale on stage he was playing Timon in Timon of Athens. This time he has taken on a more royal inclination, but one stamped with the conical bras of drag-dom in Peter Nichols' farce Privates on Parade. Queen of his realm as Captain Terri Denis, he oversees the on-stage activities of SADUSEA, the Song and Dance Unit South East Asia, a military light entertainment regiment stationed in Malaysia and Singapore.
There is singing. And dancing. And drag. Oh my. And whilst Simon Russell Beale during rehearsals worried that the first two at least highlighted weak points in his repertoire of skills, he excels in the role, bringing pathos, humour, and a depth of feeling as deep as the sea in which he lost his sailor-boy love. It would have been so easy to see this role become grotesque and caricatured but here, and in the camaraderie of the supporting cast, it is in the safest, deftest hands possible. But it is not a one -man show. All the actors are in fine voice and form (as certain scenes will attest – but no spoiling the surprise) and a blindly patriotic old-school Major Giles Flack, played by Angus Wright, provides a staid and nostalgic counterpoint to the flamboyant Denis, and the understated sincerity of the relationship between two of the sergeants, is as sweetly moving as any other on stage at the moment.
It is a brilliant play. Although blatantly not politically correct – you could hear the stifled gasps from a few members of audience at some of the references to homosexual practice by the ignorant and trying-so-hard-now-to-be-an-adult-and-jack-the-lad Steven Flowers - it achieves that balance which top comedy lives and dies by, moving easily and naturally between absurdity and tragedy, it is an observation of human behaviour and submission to an ideal, such as Flack's determination to seek out military glory for his troops and the personal changes that occur Flowers in his pursuit of further promotion.
Michael Grandage has produced an absolute winner with this new staging of an old farce. I look forward to seeing the results of the other plays in his season – next up, Peter and Alice with Dame Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw (last seen together in the record-breaking entry to the Bond franchise, Skyfall). Privates on Parade will be showing for another four weeks at the Noel Coward Theatre on St Martin's Lane and with tickets available for as little as £10, it's a must-see for new and old theatregoers alike.
In the meantime, I challenge you not to hum on your way out.
Review: A Chorus of Disapproval, Harold Pinter Theatre
A quintessentially British setting, a mean ginger wine-based mulled wine at the interval, and a fine rendition of Ar Hyd y Nos – there are many positives in many guises to Sir Trevor Nunn's production of Alan Ayckbourn's A Chorus of Disapproval. The Beggar's Opera is the latest production to be put on by Pendon Amateur Light Operatic Society but it is hit by a series of crises, local gossip, and both business and romantic scheming. Shy widower Guy (Nigel Harman) appears on the scene and joins the company as Crook-Fingered Jack but progresses to be the solution to the problems suffered by the director – Daffydd Llewellyn, played by Rob Brydon – the answer to the prayers of the various women of the company, and an enabler to the business intrigues of the men alike.
Bookended by song and dance and filled in between by the unmistakeably British setting of small-town AmDram, it makes for an evening of good, solid entertainment, and one which is consistently amusing, a task not to be under-estimated. This is made possible by the balance in writing and acting between broader stereotypes (the bolshy barmaid, the Jack-the-lad lead, and the amateur 'luvvie' come to mind) and more nuanced characterisation. Nigel Harman gives a particularly pleasing turn as Guy, convincing both as someone who is shy but keen to become part of a group socially and as a plausible cause for marital erring. What rang most true, and in an effectively understated way, was his transition from a more restrained off-stage person to a charismatic and uninhibited creature of the limelight – a sweetly on-the-money reflection of many actors, professional and amateur. Building on recent successes, Harman is definitely one to keep watching in the West End. He is ably supported by a touching lovelorn and forsaken Ashley Jensen in the role of Hannah and counterbalanced by a forceful and achingly funny Rob Brydon, who fits seemlessly into Dafydd's skin. Brydon's comic timing is superb and he delivers the wit and ingenuity of Ayckbourn's observations with great panache. Furthermore, he upheld the very best of Welsh stereotypes by revealing himself to be in possession of an unexpectedly fine singing voice! The support from the rest of the cast was generally strong and the enthusiasm for the piece palpable.
Perhaps (wisely) avoiding a meta crisis between an AmDram theme and West End razzle-dazzle, the design was inoffensively predictable. A little more inventiveness in the set and what could be done around it may have really given the piece the edge visually, but ultimately, the show was easy-watching, very funny throughout, engaging, and, most vitally, demonstrably capable of striking that all-important balance between humour and pathos, which was concentrated on the triangle of Dafydd, Hannah, and Guy. We felt for poor Hannah, seemingly cast aside by both men and yet we felt for Guy, who against conscious design let down the business aspirations of the men and the romantic dreams of the women concurrently. Fun, intelligent, and touching, this is a show you ought to see before the close on January 5th.
Review: The Snow Spider, Ovalhouse
I love the fearlessness of fringe theatre productions; they are not afraid to mix together music, dance, physical theatre, and straight acting and appeal simultaneously to the intellectual and visceral responses in their audiences. In their production of Jenny Nimmo's The Snow Spider Io Theatre Company do this wonderfully, reaping the rewards of hours and months of workshopping. The play is light, humorous, energetic,and moving beyond expectation.
On his ninth birthday a boy, Gwyn, is given a selection of items in a basket by his grandmother and told to 'give them to the wind' to see if he is a magician, just like in the Welsh tales of old and like his famous ancestor Gwydion. Upon doing so, he receives Arianwyn, his snow spider and a tale involving the tragic disappearance of his sister four years previously, a broken family, the boundaries of childish friendship, and magic unfolds.
My first congratulations must go to the set designer Florence Hazard. With open sides it feels slightly Brechtian, allowing the audience to keep the actors in sight at all, watching them transition from one character to another or rest in between. It is a simple set, with white tape stretching from back to side posts and a semi- octagonal floor, mirroring perfectly a spider's web. It does not feel forced as a design but works in conjunction with the theme and the actors, allowing them sufficient space in which to play out the story.
The acting was first-rate, with not a weak link from anybody. The Welsh accents were strong all around and the ability of the actors to slip between roles, adopting fresh characteristics, stances, and voices (whilst retaining the accents) impresses. Particularly of note was Anne-Marie Piazza, whose main roles included Nain and Alun's mam. She switches seamlessly between those and her other roles, engages the audience from the off, and has a fine singing voice to boot. Joey Hickman also deserves a mention for his wonderful portrayal of the young boy Gwyn.
I had my doubts at first about the magic – how are we as an audience going to buy into 'spells' and 'magic'? The answer is: represent it through music – are there no ends to what this particular selection of actors can do, with harps, violin, and other instruments making up an active part of the work? – song, and, movement. The effect is achieved and at times is quite alarming, such as when an storm is conjured up.
I applaud the inventiveness of the whole crew – director, lighting, set, and all. Representing whole houses and the bustle therein, building implied sets within sets just by using a plank and a curtain on a rail is an excellent display of creativity and one that works incredibly well. Using song to help build up the engaging, magical air of the piece is necessary. My only complaint – and it's not really that – is that the first half is perhaps slightly too long.
Fringe theatre is not a step-down from mainstream West End theatre. It is no less capable in terms of talent but, with a smaller budget, it is necessarily more creative and requires more bravery in its execution if it wants to stand out. The Snow Spider delivers.
To catch the last performance today at 3pm at the Ovalhouse, Oval, click here to buy tickets
Review: Damned by Despair, Olivier at the National Theatre
Thank God for Travelex because I cannot begrudge £12 for a night at the theatre. Had I paid more I might have had a slightly less tranquil response to the National's production of Damned by Despair than “it happens to the best of us, even the National”. Paulo, a hermit ten years in the wilderness, is tempted by the devil who informs him that he will share the same fate as Enrico of Naples, a character who, as we much suspect, turns out to be a nefarious murderer and general evil-doer. The premise may now feel unoriginal but it is a morality tale shared across religions and centuries, and one which can continue to affect people when conveyed and performed effectively. The source material, written by Tirso de Molina in 1625, is a finely constructed study of the eternal philosophical and theological themes of determinism, salvation, and free will. That is not, however, enough to save it from the strange linguistic acrobatics of Frank McGuinness' version, with his predilection for excessive plosive alliteration and the unhappy marriage of more classical language with that of the gangster-ridden street of modern Naples.
The decision to set it in a modern Italy, revealed only once we get to Naples, is not necessarily a bad one but the co-existence of the implied seventeenth-century world of the beginning and the modern setting is awkward. Furthermore, by associating religious faith and pious sentiment with the past through the use of historical garb, it has the rather unfortunate side-effect of making it incongruous and less immediately irrelevant. This is a petty worry, however. More pressing is the inconsistency in set design with well deployed screens – strikingly used when the Devil puts on the guise of an angel – and an incredibly amateur rockface, liable to blow down at the slightest gust of wind. The main issue at hand is the direction. I never got the sense that the director, Bijan Sheibani, understood fully what he wanted to put across; if, he did, it was a vision which he trialled through his mind's eye and not with the thought of the audience in mind. Listless, unengaging, and sadly one-note, the only moments of note were the appearance of the choir-boy shepherd – sweet but still over-long – and the efforts of the leads, who continued to invest as much passion into their performances as feasible.
The cast, for the most part were strong; Bertie Carvel delivered a nuanced interpretation of evil-doer Enrico, and showed on a couple of occasions flashes of inspiration. He is a very competent actor indeed and I wouldn't measure him by the worth of this production. Rory Keenan also provided able support in the role of Paolo's servant, engaging the audience with well measured wit.
All in all, it was a production unworthy of the source material. How are you supposed to sell religious morality tales – challenging in any circumstances – to an essentially secular audience? I don't know but I would suggest not like this.
Just a note to the actors who looked so forlorn when taking their the bow: don't beat yourself up, we know you at least tried your damnedest.
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