an escape to the thatch-roofed theatre...

I am currently in the middle of my A levels (ugh) and so it was a delight to be allowed to escape the insanity-inducing monotony of revision for an afternoon with my Dad, and get back to that wonderful place (it's been too long) Shakespeare's Globe!
Two Shakespeare's in one week. Love it.
This time it was to go and see 'The Tempest', a play which I have reviewed before. Last time I was left more than a little unimpressed... this time I was on the edge of my seat.
Literally. We were up in a 'gentleman's box' (incidentally the same one I saw my first Shakespeare ever in!) and so the entire time I was leaning over the balcony rails, looking down on the players. Chilly, but lovely.

Colin Morgan as Ariel
(via www.fyeahcolinmorgan.tumblr.com!)

Roger Allam's Prospero was a marvel; he brought some pathos and likability (both present in his other Globe performance, Falstaff) to a usual cold fish of a character; suddenly I found myself liking Prospero - not easy to do. His worry and care for his daughter was evident in every line and even Prospero's speeches were spoken with heart (a lovely moment when, after telling his already attentive daughter to listen to him for the fourth time, she says 'Your tale, sir, would cure deafness!'). Allam has a voice built for the Globe, and the planes (PLEASE can we change the flight paths) that zoom overhead are about as much trouble to him as a fly. In fact, he almost used them to his advantage; during his spell casting, they served quite well as a sort of thunder. Unfortunately, being at the side of the Globe I think we missed the point of the effect of Prospero elevated and in the centre of the stage, casting his spells, but, as ever, the musical effects using Renaissance style instruments were highly evocative; deservedly the band got a loud cheer at the end!
Jessie Buckley was a strong if quite same-y Miranda, but Joshua James was a splendidly foppish, gangly Ferdinand, struck by love at first sight. Colin Morgan (of Merlin fame) was a wonderful Ariel; not in the least bit camp or pantomime, but graceful, strong and childish; I particularly liked his onstage monkey bars! Where he and Prospero are usually presented very much as master and slave, here Propero's gentle exasperation at Ariel's innocent forgetfulness of his past life spoke of a far closer relationship.
The show, though, belongs to James Garnon as a simply spectacular Caliban. As usual at the Globe the set and costumes were beautiful - and also had to be swiftly reset for A Midsummer Night's Dream that evening, kudos, guys! - but Caliban took your breath away. With pale, iris-less eyes, horned hair, and skin that matched the marbled rocks and pillars of the stage, he was genuinely frightening. His physicality throughout the show was hunched, crouched, and ever subservient. His journey through hate, anger, shame, fear and humiliation was the one you were watching most. I could not drag my eyes from him.
'The Tempest' is a long 'un, and is undoubtedly weak in places - you have the usual Shakespeare clowning that can grate a bit, an unfortunate tableaux of Roman deities e.t.c, but this, literally, is what the Globe was built for. The relationship that the cast create with the audience is simply magical, and like nothing else; the very shape of the building promotes inclusiveness. This was a light, lyrical telling of this usually darker tale, and some wonderful comedy was brought out of not necessarily funny moments. And, with its wonderful picture of a father/daughter relationship, it was lovely to see it with my Dad! A great success, and a magical relief from studies.

 James Garnon as Caliban - c.Marilyn Kingwill, The Times

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The Green-Eyed Monster

I have just completed a 3000 word essay on 'Othello', so I was hoping that the National Theatre's five-star production might lift me up out of the academic quagmire and once more into that higher realm that Shakespeare seems to occupy. They delivered, my friends.
Adrian Lester and Rory Kinnear as Othello and Iago are breathtaking. In their scenes together (all too few) the stage is electric; people are on the edge of their seats, holding their breath. Lester captures Othello's mounting confusion - we see the seed of doubt growing in his mind, and his unstable ricocheting from anger to weeping increases the further we speed towards the tragic ending. Othello's apparently nonsensical curses - 'Goats and monkeys!' - have new tones in Lester's mouth. Othello is not mad - he is so, so angry. So confused. There was no second on stage, not even Shakespeare's addition of a melodramatic fainting fit, when you did not believe in every word, every look.
Kinnear turned Iago into a South London gangster type - setting up a nice disparity between the rather 'rah', chino-wearing officer class (see Cassio and, to a lesser extent, Othello) and the squaddies. During the generals' meeting at the very beginning of the play, Iago stands obediently in the corner, silent and still, only really present when called. He was not your typical villain... but then, Iago never is. There is that bizarrely comfortable camaraderie with and confidence in the audience; a relationship which here provoked a knowing laugh every time someone called him 'Honest Iago' or he swore 'as honest as I am'. But there were no looks out to the audience from Kinnear, once he was immersed in the play; this Iago was entirely separate from his monologues, with no hint of his ulterior motive showing, not even for a second. The monologues themselves were, as you might expect, beautifully crafted. Kinnear's Iago gave a little more credibility than normal to Iago's assertion that he believes his wife to have cheated on him with Othello. Kinnear showed Iago's deep insecurity there, which highlighted (helped by the mainly-male, male-oriented army base setting) his malicious and hateful attitude towards women; Emilia, Bianca, Desdemona... they are all reviled by him, and he wreaks havoc for them all.

Property of the National Theatre

The women in the play shine brightly - they have to, there are only three - and all of them, I have to say, were TINY! Not that this made any difference at all to pretty strong performances; Olivia Vinall as the unlucky Desdemona has been hailed as a star... I wasn't entirely convinced, but then I have real problems with Desdemona... I just want her to get angry. Just one line. Just shout! But, alas, that's not the stuff she's made of; she's in awe of Othello, and is beyond confused and unhappy when things start to go wrong, and with this Vinall was very good. Lyndsey Marshal as Emilia was splendid up until the end when things got a bit too shouty; there was a beautiful moment between the two when Emilia joins in with Desdemona's 'Willow' song.
There is a splendid supporting cast to carry them all along, with understudy Sandy Batchelor a pleasingly ebullient Cassio and Tom Robertson a nicely wimpy Roderigo. They are all working within a fantastic set; Vicki Mortimer's design allowed for rooms to come and go, all bare lighting and barrack-style minimalism, Ikea furniture and make-do storage. There was an utterly inspired moment that took place in the splendidly run-down Gents, with Othello overhearing Cassio's apparent boast of Desdemona's infidelity from within a cubicle, with the dodgy lighting flickering and sputtering during Othello's subsequent rage.
This production is filled with brilliant moments, but my favourite was so subtle it could easily be missed. During his initial two monologues, Kinnear's Iago twists and fiddles with his wedding ring, hinting at his insecurity... later, in Othello's own impassioned monologue about Desdemona's disloyalty he does exactly the same, picking at the scab that was so lately a jewel. And so we know -
Iago's work is as good as done.

Tickets are selling fast so if you can't make it, at least give the trailer a look. This is another classic from the National, I walked out exhausted!

What did I just watch?

Very occasionally, you can look up and down your row at the end of a play, and everyone will have exactly the same expression. Exactly the same reaction. And so it was on Friday after ‘Pastoral’ at the Soho Theatre. The lights came up and I swear that every single one of my companions had a great big ‘WTF’ written all over their faces.

The single problem with this extraordinary new piece of theatre is that it doesn’t know what it’s trying to be; is it funny? Is it bleak? Is it a dark reflection of the consumerist society we live in, or a message to tell us to embrace the natural world? I genuinely have no idea, because it had elements of all these things. Moll (by far and away the star of the show, Anna Calder-Marshall) had a wonderful 5 minute monologue to the audience, (lamenting the rise of ‘the fat’, seen on her long days people-watching) but as soon as other characters come into play, this lovely relationship with the audience is squashed, as is Moll’s own brilliantly quirky character.

Other characters, periphery next to Moll and Arthur (played very well by a woman, Polly Frame, but an odd choice of casting) were somewhat two-dimensional, and the script became soft in places, leaving you dreaming of another Moll-ologue (would two Northern city boys really know an array of obscure plant names? And can they really see them all through a pretty pathetic pair of binoculars?)

Aside from the character of Moll, the point of true genius in this production was Michael Vale’s set. All controlled by magnets, a forest blossomed out of the flat before our eyes – flowers, pointed like darts, dropped down from the ceiling to stick in the ground.

The idea of having the Ocado man (beset by wild beasts and jungle on his trip) deliver an epic tale of danger and bravery, backed up by a full string ensemble through the speakers, was a good one, but writer Thomas Eccleshare egged it out just that little bit too long – and so it was with the whole thing. Where are you going to go with this plot? How does an essentially apocalyptic storyline keep up the humour seen in the first section? You can't have man (once again) reclaim the world from the plants, because surely that isn’t the point... so where's the end point?

EDIT:
This evening was immeasurably improved by bumping into Anna Calder-Marshall herself on the stairs. Totally unprovoked, she had this to say:
'It is odd, isn't it?'

Our Country's Bloody Fantastic

Quick post to say hi again! Slightly back-dated but they are now on tour... follow them. It's worth it:

The St James’s Theatre is a shiny new performance space in London, so it is suitable that its opening night was the first performance of ‘Our Country’s Good’, a play that is still vibrant and relevant even though it’s original run was in 1991. Directed by Max Stafford-Clark, the play, an unconventional love-letter to the unbeatable ability of theatre to bring people together, takes place in 1780s Australia; a handful of unfortunate conflicts find escape and a new lease of life in Second Lieutenant Ralph Clark’s determined rehearsal of ‘The Recruiting Officer’. The set used by the Out of Joint theatre company was beautifully evocative. Stark, simple, but nevertheless filled with the warm colours of hot, earthy Australia, and with foldable cloths falling   from the ceiling to act in turn as a ship’s sails, stage curtains and tents, the small stage did exactly what it was there for; framing the action. And what action it was; with a minimal cast, most taking on both a role of a convict (the oppressed) and of a military figure (the oppressors), this tightly compact drama never stopped going, and never stopped surprising. Fuelled by an incredible cast, alive to every nuance of Timberlake Wertenbaker’s text – notably Lisa Kerr as Duckling, Kathryn O’Reilly as Liz Morden, and Ciaran Owens in the two completely polarised roles of harmless hangman and brutish Captain (although it hardly seems fair to pick names from such a pile) – the play pulled the audience from moment to moment, one minute presenting us with devastating tragedy and cruelty, the next with the beauty of simple human connection and strength. With not a heart unmoved in the entire house, this wonderful revival got a highly deserved standing ovation. They didn’t put a foot wrong.

Tristram Kenton for the Guardian

Lots of Personifying Capitals in This Post

Hello Blogworld,

In case you haven't noticed, there has been a somewhat longer than usual gap in communications. This is mainly due to something someone invented a while ago called 'A Levels'.
I hate that someone. I really do.

The truth is, some students just don't suit this education system. I'm not one of them (blagging my way through exams since 2004), but I can undoubtedly recognise the 'symptoms', if you will, in some of my friends. Exams don't float their boats; they under-perform, they stress out, they panic. Give them a project, on the other hand, and they fly. This is something that the International Baccalaureate seems to have nailed - interspersing creative and self-driven projects with traditional exams. I wish the A Level system had more flexibility in this area... it then might be enjoyable rather than simply something to get through in order to get to University. With a capital U.

That's the other blockage at the moment - University. UCAS forms, Personal Statements, References - all these are words that if I hear again in this lifetime, I may just break down, then and there.
CRUMPLE.
I am currently involved in what my school charmingly calls 'The Oxbridge Game'. That means I have decided to pursue a seemingly futile and foolish hope that one of the two greatest universities in the UK might actually want to teach me. As each week passes the odds seem to be stacked ever less in my favour.
And it is indeed a game. People try to second guess the admissions tutors; they try and balance out their Statement in favour of certain things; the References are all glowing. So y'know. May the best human win.

Hence my prolonged absence from a) the blogging world and b) the actual theatre world. Sad times.
BE NOT AFEAR'D! It all looks like it's kicking off again.
But then so's school.
So that's my excuse. Take it or leave it.

I will blog only when I have time and inclination, and as much as I love it, I also accept that this year is a ridiculously important year. I will look back at it and laugh during my finals, but at the mo, it's all anyone is talking about. So to stop it doing my head in, I just have to get on with it with my head down, barrelling through Life.

Cheery!
Keep projecting,

WEG x

Ssh. Tell No one.

Oh no. Oh dear. I am falling into staying up-until-ridiculous-time habits. Like now for instance.

It's 2.29. AM.

But no, no, no, do not mistake me, friends. It is not the internet keeping me up to unholy hours. No. Although it really doesn't help. It is my cretin of a brain, which clearly just doesn't want me to sleep well.

I think it is all down to being on holiday (YAY). I am therefore doing essentially nothing with my brain all day - so it then wishes to carry on working at a low (but never-the-less disruptive) level ALL NIGHT LONG. 'ARGH' I think is the word.

Moving on from my body clock.

Do you like the title of this post? I like the title of this post. It is mysterious. As is the 'society' I am about to tell you of - so can you keep a secret? Can you keep a secret really well?

If someone ever asks you 'Have you heard of Secret Cinema?' be assured, you are about to enter a world which hitherto you probably thought didn't exist. Secret Cinema are an off-shoot company of Future Cinema, and you may have heard whisperings about them.

But only whisperings.

Every three months, they put on a film. And they do 'put it on', just like a production. If you have signed up for tickets you are told nothing. Nada. Zilch. All you get are little snippets of information via email, Facebook, Twitter - little clues that you can interpret in any way you wish. You get this and, of course, you get instructions for what to wear. Oh yes. Costume.

Audience participation doesn't cover half of it. Also, anyone who has been to the show must keep the details entirely secret for the length of the run... word must not get out!

So you arrive in your getup at a meeting point (most recently, this was Euston Station). There you are greeted by actors who are already inhabiting their roles; everyone, including you, has to be in character.

And then the location.

Oh the location.

Secret Cinema transform deserted buildings and areas across London to become the set of whichever film you are watching... the effect is phenomenal. My favourite so far has been their screening of the Graham Greene film 'The Third Man', starring Orson Welles. The picture below is of myself and my darling Belle (whom you may remember from this post) in our costume.

<--  And then the incredible, atmospheric location.

We felt like film extras! We thought we were in heaven!

I was lucky enough last year to be selected to join Great Britain's National Youth Theatre (another heaven moment) and it was through them this year that I spotted an opportunity to be a 'supporting artist' with Secret Cinema. Having been to a couple of events previously I thought I had a pretty good guess as to what that title meant... I was right.

So that's how, for a week, I became the luckiest person I knew. I hopped on the tube in leafy Essex (skipping the last lesson of school - oh, bite me, why don't you) and hopped off it, backpack on, in not so leafy Euston. Off I went (and I knew a short cut by the end of it, so how smug did I feel) and soon arrived at my arcane destination.

Cue Instagram photo.↓ 

So you see a sign like that and know you've arrived at work. This is my kind of life.

This time (and I can reveal this to you without being afeard for my life, the 'run' ended two weeks ago) Secret Cinema screened 'Prometheus' the new Ridley Scott film, which is a prequel to 'Alien' - this is unusual for them, as they usually screen classics (p.s see if you can spot me in SC's short film!). The interior of the deserted, ex-NHS building was transformed into a spaceship - a spaceship which I had to learn to find my way around. Pretty fast.
My job as a 'supporting artist' was to basically do what the (paid) actors did, but I didn't have a specific role in the whole thing. Each night us supporters would get assigned to different places; Embarkation (bringing people from Euston), Decontamination (spraying them with water, FUN), or numerous places inside the ship like 'Mother' the core computer system (and light display). We were there to enhance mood, essentially, and boost numbers.

The complete control audience members surrender to you is startling, and quite a power kick. At no point can you lose character, so any real-world-speak has to be met with bafflement;

'So, can you tell me, what is this space used for normally?'

'Well this is the Mess Hall, recruit, so this is were we crew take time to relax and enjoy ourselves.'

'Oh, no, no, I mean in real life. Reality.'

'Pardon, recruit?'

'When we're not here. What is this place used for?'

'Well, this is the ship's maiden voyage, if that's what you mean. It usually stands empty.'

'Oh... ok. Thanks...'

And that went on with one of the real actors standing right by me. I was quite proud of myself.

Another great one was a member of the public (no ticket) at Euston Station. She'd clearly gleaned quite a lot of info from my colleagues and was gripping one of our flyers;

'So you aren't really going into space, are you?'

'Oh... sorry, madam? We are, our base is just around the corner...'

'Someone told me you're actors. That this isn't real.'

'Is this your way of telling me you don't believe is space travel, madam. Because I can assure you it is real, and a lot of time, money and effort has gone into the mission going up today. It is very real for us. We will be living it shortly.'

Teehee!

In the same way people take the initiative, and come up to you and play the game. On my last evening I was placed in the Infirmary, and had just finished doing some post-hypersleep checks on people - which they took very seriously, despite the fact I had made them up on the spot - and this occurred;

'Hello, doctor?'

'Good morning, recruit. How was hyper-sleep?'

'Ok thanks, but I'm a bit sore.'

'That's quite normal, recruit. Two years is a long time to be prone and completely still.'

'Doctor... I'm a bit worried.'

'Oh?'

'Well, I woke up from hyper-sleep, and I was dusting myself down - you know, usual checks - when I came across... a rash.'

'A rash, recruit?'

'Yep.'

'Where is it?'

'Well it's... down there.'

'Ah. Nothing to worry about, recruit, it's probably simply lack of movement, lack of... usage.'

'Something to do with the air circulation too, maybe?'

'Oh, undoubtedly.'

'So should I give the area some air?'

'Yes, recruit, that's an idea. Perhaps retire to your bunk first. Here I'll give you something for it too... take this with water, and come back to me if your... unfortunate eruption... persists. Got that, recruit?'

'Absolutely, Doctor. Thank you.'

And of she went with her date, grinning from ear to cheeky ear.

Best. Moment. Ever.

I had an amazing time, and really want to write a proper post on how Secret Cinema do things - but at a later date, when it's not the early hours of the morning. The people there were so welcoming, so friendly and so scarily, awe-inspiringly creative and involved. Their project seemed everything to them.

I shall never, ever forget my week there.

Or that woman's rash.

And so I leave you with a cheesy picture of me in my attractive boiler suit/space suit uniform!

WEG x

p.s from now on you have to call me Esther Heeley, data scientist.

An Ode to London's Flight Paths

The Globe, I'm not sure if you knew it,

is open, all up in the roof bit,

So for helis and planes

that circle, sans aim...

some fucking torpedoes would do it.

X

This limerick is dedicated to everyone who has ever tried to speak, or listen, over any ZSCSHOOOOOOOMING over Shakespeare's Globe on the South Bank. Heaven knows, that's a lot of people.

Seize the Day

How in hell does one review a play like this?

This will test my mettle.
I shall make it easy for myself by stating NOW that this shall be a short review.
Because a) I saw it a while ago.
b) I need to just write the damn thing.
and c) I really think you should go and see it, and make up your own minds.

Well, for a start, when you walk up to a play and see this picture, it's a pretty good start:

'Ten of the best young actors we've seen on stage since The History Boys' - Time Out

High praise indeed. But, having walked into Posh by Laura Wade thinking 'Oh really. That's a big statement, that is, 'coz I've SEEN The History Boys and they was BLOODY GOOD', I can confirm that every single young man on that stage was also BLOODY GOOD.
Quick summary: story of boys at an Oxford gentleman's club, supposedly based on the Bullingdon club, old haunt of Cameron et al, called here 'The Riot Club', they cause lots and lots of trouble, and are essentially a dying, upper class breed, with no real place in the world, or so it seems.
My mother walked out of the theatre at half time for some air, and I could tell something was up. She and my uncle were both quite quiet, which, if you knew them, would be enough to tell you something was indeed very much up.
Friends were gathered. Drinks collected. My uncle lit up an obligatory half-time ciggie. Quietness. Mum, what's the matter?

'Well... I think I'm... I think I'm... shocked.'

The very same emotion then rocketed around our circle of friends.
My mother is a hard woman to shock. I know. I've tried. Laura Wade, congratulations. You shocked my Mum. You have triumphed where so much has failed.
I would like to shake you firmly by the hand.
'Posh' is one of those rare and sad things that can widen any generation gap. It can age a 30 year old in minutes. The older generation of our party just did. Not. Get. It.
This is mainly if not entirely down to the humour. It's bawdy - no, bawdy is wrong, 'bawdy' is Shakespearean, archaic - fine, it's FILTHY. Full of 'your mum'-esque humour, except it all sounds so much more detestable when coming from the mouths of ten titled young men, off their posh tits on champers.
What was so shocking for me wasn't the actual humour - I, regrettably, hear it every day, often all day, from male peers ('such a lad' etc ). Whether or not I should hear it is a whole different topic, and a can of worms I shall not deign to pry open on this particular occasion... but no, it was not the content that outraged. Everything took on a very different hue; maybe it's because that type of 'joke' is so close to me in every day life, but I found myself genuinely disgusted by these men - you could practically hear them thinking of 'make me a sandwich' jokes whenever the young, naive waitress entered the scene.
I still found them very beguiling. Perhaps that was because I was rather taken with one (ahem). Perhaps it was because they were Oxford boys, and that's where I hope to be headed in a year. I don't know. For me, a teenager, they were infinitely watchable, and even in some cases, I could get past the apparent snobbishness and misogyny, and actually find quite a harmless human being. Infinitely watchable, but not infinitely likeable; Leo Bill as the most hideous of the bunch was occasionally terrifying, and consistently repulsive. The rest only mildly better.

Oh but the music. Playlist please:
- I'm Sexy and I Know It
- Moves Like Jagger
- Pass Out
- and I've forgotten the fourth...

ALL SUNG - no word of a lie - A CAPPELLA. BY ALL THE CHAPS.
GENIUS. PURE GENIUS.
They need to make a CD.

I am deeply ashamed to say that I am far too ignorant and sheltered to comment on the political impact or message the play renders. It is clearly coming at a tender time; it clearly spells out a message that I'm sure members of our current parliament would like not to hear; but how far it strays from reality into satire, I don't know. Go and see for yourselves - I think you get what you look for out of this play. But be warned; in the words of The Observer, 'it packs the nastiest punch.'
Oh dear, this wasn't a short review, was it...
Some stand out moments were; a newbie's defence of an heirloom teddy bear from his fellow club members, the English student's rendition and Riot re-working of Henry V's 'One more unto the breach, dear friends' which I wish for the life of me I could remember, and finally, a phrase which, I'm ashamed to say, both I and my step-brother have adopted.

'LET'S CARPE SOME FUCKING DIEM!!!!'

And on that lovely note...

WEG x

DARLING!

Unbelievably for a girl so obsessed with the 20s and 30s, Noel Coward's Hay Fever (suitably playing at the Noel Coward Theatre!) was the first of his plays I have seen. And what an introduction.
The Bliss family are gorgons. Simon and Sorel, two late-teen siblings, bicker and chat whilst their mother, Judith, an ageing actress, wafts around the house with tragedy trailing from her poised wrists, and a mischievous glint in her eye. Their father you don't see until 20 minutes into the play, an irritable, rich novelist, whose works, by his own admission, are 'very bad'.
Oh, the wonderful, heady chaos this family operate in. The walls are strewn with Simon's paintings, cigarettes are available from every cranny of the house, and when Judith comes in from learning the names of all the flowers in the garden she artfully dumps a large clump of them into a bucket. This is fantastic, I thought. This is wonderful. This is... my family.
Well, not really. That would be unfair on my family. We do not have a disorderly house (just my room), nor do we burst into melodramatic flourishes at the slightest push, NOR, I hasten to add, do we torment guests. But the buzz and the lightness of touch and the occasional KA-BOOM is very much us. The only thing I would like to steal from the Bliss family is that everyone calls everyone else, regardless of relationship, 'Darling' *insert appropriate drawl*. I've attempted to introduce this. So far, no-one's really behind me.
I'll keep working on them, promise.
The costume and set designer, Bunny Christie (great name, Bunny), winner of two Olivier awards (one last year) is clearly a genius; the set soared up, creating the illusion of wonderful space and air in what is quite a small theatre, and the mottled grey of the walls yelled 'UPPER MIDDLE CLASS BOHEMIANS' at you, in the absolutely best way possible. Chairs were supported by books, shawls were draped glitzily over every single item of furniture, and the stairs had no banisters. Perfect. Plus, I want every single item of costume that was worn on that stage, most ESPECIALLY the one seen above. It suited Judith down to a proverbial 't' - billowing, breezy, and deeply dramatic, it complimented every single line.
Lindsay Duncan also suited Judith down to a 't'. I was actually sent to watch 'Hay Fever' because of her. An English teacher at my school - who also doubles up as my director in Polly Stenham's 'That Face' - urged me to go, as my character in 'That Face', Martha, is similar to Judith in many ways... though she's not as good a person... Martha was also played by Lindsay Duncan at the Royal Court when it opened. TA-DA. Research AND an afternoon out.
Needless to say, she was born for the role.
Hay Fever seems to be one of those ensemble plays where you cannot have a weak link - you just can't afford to. Everyone in this production flew with it - and clearly enjoyed themselves. Jeremy Northam, in a break from his usual suave, sexy roles, played a bumbling, proper 'diplomatist', and Olivia Colman's turn as Ms Arundel, the only one of the unfortunate guests to actually accuse the Bliss family of being horrific, was highly enjoyable.
The kids were great. Phoebe Waller-Bridge as Sorel Bliss tapped into that hurrah-jolly-hockey-sticks-and-pudding area of her vocal chords, and her stature - tall, slightly awkward, full of wild gestures with long arms - lent her that air of girl-woman that I'm sure Coward would have wanted to play on. She added humour to lines which, having bought and read the script, are not necessarily inherently funny. Freddie Fox (yes, a new one!) was as camp as a camp thing as Simon... his fabulously floppy hair was engrossing. So was he, but I enjoyed his hair too.
One of my favourite moments - alongside Sorel's bark of 'I AM FEMININE' - was a moment between husband and wife, with David played by Kevin R McNally. David clings to Ms Arundel as she tries desperately to escape, and presses her face into his chest, leaving her helpless aside from a wiggling bottom. In an echo of two earlier scenes between Sorel and Simon and their respective guests, Judith takes full control of the situation and affects wistfulness and vulnerability and, with the air of a wounded deer, 'gives' Ms Arundel to David, much to the astonishment and panic of the former. With Arundel's face pressed into the husband's chest, David and Judith exchange a silent but hearty laugh. As Sorel explains to her guest, Sandy:

'One always plays up to mother in this house; it's a sort of unwritten law.'

And so we see how the Bliss's work. Everyone plays up to mother, everyone plays up to each other. Other people will have to work it out for themselves. Lovely, lovely us.

On second thoughts, I'm really glad that's not my family.

Hello, Goodbye...

Well. There it is. My year of AS level drama has drawn to a close.
I'm trying not to think about it too hard.
Because I might cry.
I've really, really enjoyed it. There have been some very infuriating moments - a Theatre Studies essay is not at all structured like an English one, apparently - but mostly very, very fun moments.
Our first text was 'Dancing at Lughnasa' by Brian Friel. I had not heard of the play or the playwright, and after finally reading it at the start of term, I found myself entranced. It is a powerful portrait of 30s Ireland and a family of women struggling through the obstacles life puts in their way. I was lucky enough to play Kate, the eldest of the sisters; she is highly religious, strait-laced, and feels everything very powerfully. She was an absolute joy to get under the skin of, and my heart broke along with hers. I still feel my best and most powerful performance of the year was her pivotal point in the story.

I think this picture from the Second Age Theatre Company's
production captures the sisters almost perfectly...

Next was 'Death of a Salesman' by Arthur Miller, a play that is seen far more often than our first. We ran into a slight problem; in a class of two girls and one boy, we had to produce a convincing couple of scenes from a male-dominated play. Both I and my female compatriot played chaps at one point or another - I played Happy, the younger brother and delusional son. I also, to my dismay, was told to play The Woman, with whom Willy Loman, the protagonist, has an affair. Despite our early hang-ups and our drama teacher's disappointment, we eventually got over ourselves and did the bloody scene.

Philip Seymour-Hoffman as Willy Loman in the current
Broadway production

I feel I need to mention a particularly strong performance from my best friend (who doubles as my Sondheim buddy). She played Linda, Willy's long-suffering and mousy wife, in a scene near the end of the play, where she confronts her two thoughtless boys. We had been practising the scene for a few weeks and each time she got better and better; Linda finally snaps, and the build and release of tension in the scene was hard to capture.
The lesson came where we had to film our work (to send off to the exam board... one hour each of our work on our two texts). We started the scene - me adopting my 'masculine' stature! - and as soon as she walked on set I knew she'd got it. Tears spilled, words were shouted, doors slammed. Everyone was very quiet after we finished. She nailed it. Much love to you doll xx
This term, having finished all the time-consuming coursework, we focused on our practical work that would be examined at the end of the year; a monologue each, and a final performance.
It was hard work, but we got there. I've never done a three-hander before, and even though this one was only 35 minutes long, DAMN you noticed there were only three of you on stage. 'Wanted' by Michelene Wandor is a very strange play - it focuses on the issues that IVF raises, and does so by placing the ideas in a Biblical setting. Sarah, Abraham's apparently barren wife, is visited by an Angel, who attempts to persuade her to try various methods to get pregnant. Sarah is unaware of Someone, an unborn soul, who haunts the Angel throughout the play, and who emphatically does NOT want to be born.
Yep. It's weird.
But rather fun.
As Sarah, I got to swear and shout and hobble about like an old hag.
Yes, very fun indeed.
Our performances to the examiner and a small audience were on the 9th of May.
Now all we have to do is wait for the results.
Aaargh.
I'm very sad to wave goodbye to this year in the Performing Arts Centre. But I have plans for next year. Oh, I have plans.

Hehehe.

WEG x

I'm Just A Broadway Baby

Time for a little backstory; a long time ago I was a little girl with a pudding-basin haircut, and I was living in the leafy suburb-state of Connecticut, in the USA. Though I was born in Britannia (in the equally leafy suburb of Essex) we were transplanted across the pond when I was just two due to my father's work. We often took the train to New York, New York (so good they named it twice), as it was only an hour away. So it came to pass that, even after we relocated back to the UK when I was 5, I find myself inexorably drawn back to that wonderful city, as strange, loud and crazy as it may be.

This year, we went back, and I had the opportunity to bring a friend. I whooped and cheered, and then phoned the wonderful girl whom we shall call Belle, who also whooped and cheered and said yes please, take me with you.

HURRAH.

We had a crazy, wonderful time. We saw some amazing, unique people: we met a lonely pig called Clarence: we wandered New York by night and by day: we climbed the Empire State Building... and in between, and sometimes during these activites, we ATE. Oh, how we ate (you can see us in the picture above... about to eat).

It just so happens that both of us have the same dream - despite the fact that we bonded over woodlice when we were 6, not the arts, we have both grown to love the theatre. A lot. Often, it's all we talk about. Which is fine by us. And so treading the boards of a Broadway or West End stage is, you know, The Big Thing for us. So when we got to Times Square... we were very excited.

There is a picture of us looking very excited.

Before I go on to tell you about what we saw, I first MUST let you know about a certain diner in Times Square. It is IMPERATIVE that I tell you about Ellen's Stardust Diner. It serves your typical American food - burgers, chicken, chips, you name it. I'm going to be honest, the food isn't really why you go (though it is good... and there's lots of it...). You go because of the staff.

I know, unthinkable in England, right?

The waiters and waitresses are in fact aspiring actors and actresses and Ellen's, through what I imagine is quite a severe audition process, is a surefire way to start to tread those boards. Because throughout your evening, instead of the manager sticking on a CD and letting it replay until your ears want to bleed, your WAITER will SING to you. EVERY waiter will sing to you.

They just get up, grab the mic, and serenade the whole diner with a chart-topping hit or tear-jerking number from one of Broadway's finest musicals. It's fantastic. Our waiter was fab, and even gave Mum the mic for some ABBA (note to Ellen's: you will lose custom if you do that too much.) I'd never seen anything like it.

GO.

We saw two, rather spectacular pieces of Broadway theatre. First was 'Seminar', a new play by Theresa Rebeck about a literary composition class and their debauched, licentious 'teacher', played by the one and only Jeff Goldblum. He essentially spends an hour and a half (no interval) ripping their lives, emotions, and writings apart. It was surprisingly good viewing.

One small hiccup; Belle and I had previously been assured that 'Leonard', the chap in question, was to be played by Alan Rickman, Professor Severus Snape himself... cue slightly choked, teary assurances that we'd still like to go, even though his run had ended.

But we did actually want to go.

We just enjoy the drama.

Especially memorable was Zoe Lister-Jones as Kate, a feisty, budding writer who thinks she sees through Leonard's crap, and doesn't want to take it any more. Her numerous rants and acerbic put-downs were hilarious, while her eventual sheathing of her feminist sword and acceptance of the way the world really works was ever-so-gently heartbreaking. Everyone in our party thoroughly enjoyed it despite being greeted with this sign as we walked in late:

Cue my panic. I have NEVER been late to a performance. HUMILIATING. But hilarious if you're with the crowd I was... at the end a gentlemen behind us loudly exclaimed 'Well, I reckon the first 5 minutes were the best.' Whether he genuinely hadn't enjoyed it or just wanted to niggle at the people who had disturbed his view for 30 seconds we will never know. I like to think the best of him.

Our second Broadway treat was the production of 'Anything Goes' at the Stephen Sondheim theatre (yes... I got even more excited when his name came up). The story is complete fluff, of course, but it was rather spectacular - I saw Anything Goes in London a while ago, so I thought I knew what to expect... didn't really see the numerous tap and ballroom dances coming.

Those Broadway directors do things differently.

It was the last night of the run, and the cast were clearly having a whale of a time. Here is proof in a video that was made by them, behind the scenes. Brilliant.

So overall a total ball was had by everyone.

If anyone has a flat (or apartment) in NY that they are willing to rent out, please contact me. ASAP. Ta.

WEG x

If a little pocket calculator can do it... why shouldn't I?

Backdated from January, after my Christmas Carol post...
From one great master of words to another, completely different one.
Happy New Year!
On Sunday, I (along with my whole, large, family) was lucky enough to go to the rather awkwardly situated Cambridge Theatre to see the show of the moment 'Matilda, the Musical.'
With words by Dennis Kelly and lyrics by Tim Minchin, (yes HIM, the ginger one) and a spectacular cast it's not like you're walking in with any doubts. You are, however, walking in with 4 ankle-biters in tow, and are carefully picking your way around other people's small people. Not that the crowd was made up of just kids; not even close. It seemed that anyone who knew a small child took the opportunity and scooped them up as an excuse to buy a ticket... I suggest you do the same. Even if you don't have a munchkin. Take your gran. Take your partner, your sister, your small dog, whatever, just GO.
And we got our tickets in May. So get on Ebay.
When Tim Minchin said in interview that the audience would laugh and cry, and if you liked 'feeling stuff' you should go, I dismissed it as a bit of a cliche, but I was very, very wrong. To go from laughing to crying and back to laughing again in such a short time is bloody tiring, but my God, it's worth it.
Bertie Carvel as the terrifying Agatha Trunchbull, bane of my childhood, was an absolute revelation. A girl really did (very cleverly) get swung by her pigtails. Instead of the butch beast we see in the film, and possibly in our brains, he was a prissy, boarding school gal, clearly jolly-hockey-sticks and all that, and though the seemingly 'delicate' exterior was there, IT WAS STILL TRUNCHBULL. The menace Carvel portrayed in a single look at a squit (read: child) was truly paralyzing. And also, you know, hilarious at the same time. I admit that was often nervous laughter, yes.
Sophia Kiely was our Matilda, and she was just perfect. Tiny but determined, she pounded those stage boards like a total, total pro. The rest of the kids are hilarious, and you completely just want to get up and join them and shout 'YES! I'M ON YOUR SIDE!' - especially Bruce Bogtrotter, ever the hero. Matilda's parents, the Wormwoods, were played with aplomb, as was the lovely Miss Honey.
I know all the words to the soundtrack, which really deserves a post all on its own. Tim Minchin has not skimped on the tunes for his fancy wordplay, and every track is completely original and absolutely stonking. Chorus, duet, and solo all make you want to crawl onto the fabulous stage and never ever leave.

OH JUST GO AND SEE IT.

WEG x

EDIT: In the 2012 Olivier awards Matilda absolutely stole the show, winning:
Best New Musical
Best Actor in a Musical (Bertie Carvel, Miss Trunchbull)
Best Actress in a Musical (which the 4 Matilda's shared!)
Best Director
Best Coreography
Best Set Design
Best Sound Design


And here are some FABULOUS pictures of the Matildas with our Sophia Kiely on the far left, and Bertie Carvel looking like one of the kids:

THESE PICTURES MAKE ME SO HAPPY!

There wasn't even any chocolate involved...

So, for my first theatre trip in quite a while (excluding Broadway, post coming soon) I went to see, along with some friendly Northern lasses and lads who came down for the weekend, Educating Rita by Willy Russell at the Menier Chocolate Factory.

Things that came to mind when I heard Educating Rita:
Mainly Julie Walters
A level text
Monologue books
Liverpool
80's

So as any of you who have read or performed or seen Educating Rita will know, I was still a little far off the mark. But still quite close.

Things I got going to see Educating Rita:
A level text
Liverpool

And I THOUGHT I had grasped the basics. Clearly some of the list can be bypassed...
All in all, not a great production. Very telling when, being one for usually not blinking during a theatre trip, I looked at my watch 15 minutes in. The first half was bland, the first line (spoken by Matthew Kelly's Frank) was forced and unbelievable, and, while Claire Sweeney's Scouse accent was fab (she is a local girl after all) the pairing just did not click... Kelly dragged her down with him. The play is their own personal journeys as well as the emotional one linking them, and, while Rita's was clearly and effectively portrayed, I honestly could not have given a toss about the professor. I felt absolutely no sympathy or empathy or really anything at all for him. Lawks.
This was not helped at all by CARDIGANS. What harm, I hear you say, can a CARDIGAN possibly do? That garment so reminiscent of grandmas and teachers - what bearing did it have on Educating Rita? Well, imagine a small stage, covered mainly in books, with lighting from the back through a 'window' (through which, incidentally, I could see the edge of the backdrop). Now imagine ooooh I don't know, five, six, CARDIGANS littered strategically about this space.
I think the director Tamara Harvey's plan was to indicate the passing of time by not only having Rita change outfit (seriously swift costume changes there Claire) but having Frank swap his knitwear. On stage. When it was partially lit.
After three scenes I felt like screaming 'WE ARE NOT THAT STUPID, TAMARA, DARLING! WE GET IT! A WEEK PASSES! SOMETIMES A MONTH, IF THE PROJECTED TREE OUTSIDE THE WINDOW CHANGES COLOUR! WE KNOW! WE KNOW ALREADY! STOP WITH THE CABLE KNIT!'
It was excruciatingly irritating. And when I pointed it out at the interval to my comrades, they went back in waiting for it, and sure enough, by the end, they were all excruciatingly irritated too. If not asleep. I can't help feeling that the relevance this tale of a plucky Northern lass would have had in the 80's is well and truly dead - the script felt dated, and, especially the younger members of our party, we really didn't get the 'vibe'. I've been told that the film with Michael Caine and Julie Walters is now even more of a must see, as it's still fab.
Dear me. What else to say. Some line foul-ups (NB does anyone know if Rita misquotes Shakespeare, or was it Miss Sweeney? I'm quite sure Macbeth says that the poor player 'struts and frets his hour upon the stage', not 'fruts and strets'... but I wouldn't wish to accuse anyone of misquoting the Master if they are in fact just doing what they've been told). Annoying little level at the back of the stage, but I suppose necessary in such a small theatre.
I really want to stop talking about this now.
And I wanted to say something nice because a friend of mine's dad went out with Sweeney.
I had to say that of course, I couldn't very well go and see her and NOT SAY THAT.
I have to go now, before I start fuming about Franks bloody jumpers again.
Sorry, can you tell exams are coming up?

WEG x

Warning: Awful Restaurant Alert

Completely forgot to tell you. Here goes. Virulent vilification of victuals.
Actually that's not exactly true - the food was fine, even 'nice' (though the distinctions between 'medium' and 'medium rare' seemed to elude them... but now I sound snobbish...) but you could only really appreciate the 'niceness' of said fuel if you were prepared to wait an hour and a half for it.
Yes.
It was a full a hour and a half before the main course was served. And with 4 kids down one end of the table, really rather hungry, it wasn't a pleasant experience for parents.
I have been to Bertorelli's several times before, and each time the service has been appalling. Dreadfully slow, entirely unapologetic, the staff always assured us it was 'just coming'.
It very clearly was not.
And this time they gave us the bill before serving the ice cream (which we had naïvely assumed had arrived, been consumed, and left). Ice cream was then served at presumably what they call 'double-time' but the rest of the sane, time-keeping world calls it 'unrepentingly sluggish', and it had to be gulped down by the desperate children as we put on their hats, coats, scarves and gloves.
So if you're anywhere near St Martin's Lane, whether to visit Trafalgar Square, the National Portrait Gallery, the ENO or any of the surrounding theatres, don't bother the green-painted, silver-studded door of Bertorelli's. Or, if you still want to go, leave at least three hours for your meal. And don't count on ice cream. You may have to forsake it.

Sorry. Rant over.

WEG x

'Bah' said Scrooge, 'Humbug!'

No prizes for guessing what I've been to see! Simon Callow (that wonderful man again) is at the Arts Theatre, London, until January, and once again he is donning the mantle of Dickens; once again the man's thundering tones are to be heard echoing through Victorian London. But this time, we have no travelling cheap-jacks, no disillusioned dwarves (see this post)... this time we have Scrooge. Ebenezer Scrooge.
I will leave it to Mr C. Dickens himself to introduce you;
'Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.'
So there you have it. And of course you know him already! A Christmas Carol is trotted out at this time of year in so many households, that it really is a wonder we all don't know it off by heart. But still, I feel, it really never gets any older... the thing's 168 years old, and today, it was as alive as it's ever been for me. More so, in fact - I've rhapsodised about Callow's performance before, so I will only touch on it today - but he manages to capture the voice of the author so perfectly, and evokes such strong portraits while never skimping on his own intense performance, that I think if Dickens himself had walked into the Arts Theatre today, he would have been blown over at how his own oft-repeated, time-honoured words are being made to sound so fresh, so immediate.

A Christmas Carol is also, as well as being a classic festive tale, a ghost story; we have the three sagacious spirits, Christmas Past, Present and the really quite terrifying Future, come to warn the miserly Scrooge of his future. You would expect Callow, with Dickens' range of characters (including the ghosts) to leap from caricature to caricature; but his voice barely changed. This may sound like a detrimental comment, but trust me, it's far from it; Callow didn't need to change a thing. His physical presence and movement on the stage was enough; the dynamics that are usually there due to interaction between characters were all there within Callow's performance, and, of course, all in the text itself.
The minimal props (coat, chairs, and erm... fire...) that Callow manipulated himself were all it needed. Two sheets of gauze were used, one at the very back of the stage and one on an axis in the middle, and these were lit with different light depending on the scenes painted by Callow and Dickens. Gobos (silhouettes placed in front of lights to cast a shadow on the stage) showed us Scrooge's double-locked front door with the haunted knocker, and his own gravestone, chillingly placed in cold light at the back of the stage. Lights placed either side of the gauze helped conceal or reveal parts of the stage at key moments - with a clock appearing periodically to sound out the next hour of Scrooge's haunting... with the chime waking a napping member of my party - and Callow's turn as Marley (regrettably short) was made all the more spine-chilling by the cold, spectral spotlight cast on him; the spotlights' sudden switch from this to the warm, human light that encompassed Callow's Scrooge snapped us back from the phantoms' visit.
The sound effects were fantastic too; music was faintly heard for most of this hour-and-a-half long monologue (but by no means intruded on the story) and helped create the fantastic, almost tangible atmosphere.
I have one minor quibble; the appearance of the clock, and the changing of the lights, often happened abruptly... I found this a weeny bit distracting... perhaps fading them in and out and merging the colours would have helped to maintain the atmosphere that Callow had seemingly effortlessly created? Anyway, don't let this stop you from going, please. It really is a festive treat for all the family; I went with little ones ranging from 6 to 10 (hmm... 'little ones'... bit harsh on the two ten-year-olds!) and they all loved it and were captivated by it. I myself could watch Callow all day.
So you've got two ways to look at Christmas;
EITHER
'Every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!'
OR
'God bless us, every one!'


I know which one I'd pick right now... I'm feeling incredibly festive after today's trip!
Merry Chrimbo!
West End Girl x

You sir... how about a shave?

I'm afraid you're going to have to put up with my Sondheim obsession once more you poor things... because GUESS WHAT'S ON! Yes... what else could it be but;

SWEENEY TODD

The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

And you can all blame my Uncle, who just happens to be the best one in the world.

I reviewed the National Youth Music Theatre's version (see the review here) in the summer, but I have never seen a full professional production of it before (no offence to the very talented guys in the NYMT!) so you can imagine my indecent levels of excitement when, on my birthday, I opened a card to find an invitation to the Chichester Festival Theatre to see the Demon Barber and his pie-baking accomplice at work...

So off we went! On Thursday! Starring were Imelda Staunton as Mrs Lovett, and the usually adorable, cuddly Michael Ball as Sweeney. Now I knew she'd be perfect, but I wondered what they were going to do about Michael's instantly loveable features.

I'll show you just what they did; look at this snapshot!       > > > > >

Scary. His slicked hair, hollowed eyes and sharp beard really suited Sweeney; and of course Imelda Staunton's little, bawdy, busybody Nelly Lovett complimented him perfectly! She was incredibly funny, adding her own quirks to the already quirky character, but still in fact much darker than, say, Angela Lansbury's rather music hall characterisation in the original cast. Right at the end, when Sweeney pretends to forgive her for deceiving him (before throwing her into the fire) Staunton's Mrs Lovett was still frightened; she knew that she wasn't going to get out of this one, no matter what he said, and it was this genuine fear and realisation of what she has unleashed in him that was so subtle, and yet so central to the character. Ball's Todd had a real East End twang to his voice, something I'd not really heard, and it suited him. He had the right balance of malice, black humour, and finally, psycho, that it needed, and it really struck all the right chords; together, they worked like a dream. I could watch them all day.

What struck me at first was the time frame; Sweeney Todd is set in dark, dirty, Victorian London. This production, however, was set in dark, dirty, blitzed East End London, and the transition was remarkably smooth; 40's London also had buildings that were liable to collapse at any moment (the balcony above the stage looked hauntingly good as a round, tiled, bombed train station), a shortage of food and generally uncertain hygiene among the poor. The new timeline was a fantastic idea, giving it a real edge, and making it stand out vividly from other productions. In the spoken lines some changes had been made ('shillings' to 'quid' e.t.c) but there were still moments where the Victorian shined through; the Judge sentences a man to hang for thieving... Sweeney has been transported for life to Australia... the madhouse is named 'Bedlam'; and it is of course the madhouse, that quintessentially Victorian obsession, that is the biggest sticking point. Those horrific asylums had moved on considerably by the Forties, with the First World War sparking research into mental health, but really, the rest of the tale is so filled with horror, that historical accuracy stops making a difference. If Johanna must be sent to a madhouse, by God, it is going to be a recognisably nightmarish one!

And of course, the music; Sondheim's music gives me the shivers, and then it makes me laugh. My favourite song, 'A Little Priest', where Todd and Mrs Lovett merrily discuss the different flavours of human that will grace her pies after he's dispatched the unfortunate souls was brilliant, and always seems to be an audience favourite. The shivers come mainly when the chorus are working their magic. Sondheim commented that he hates hearing choruses that are just one melody being sung by all; he thinks it implies that all the characters have the same thought, and that that's silly. While I'm all for the chorus of 'There's Nothing Like a Dame' in South Pacific, the way Sondheim brings so many layers into the chorus, or indeed into any line, gives it a very unearthly quality and is part of his unique, instantly recognisable sound. In the final bars of the musical, the grille went up at the back of the stage and we see Todd enthroned on his barber chair - in the same position as when we first see him but this time with the added devil on his shoulder, Mrs Lovett - and the chorus warned us that he could be right next to us, 'perhaps today you gave a nod / to Sweeney Todd', and I got the shivers as suddenly, with their dissonant chord humming in the background, one by one, they spotted him high on his throne, and pointed, accusingly; 'There! There!'

It's coming to London! Hurrah! Chichester (who have been hogging it for far too long, in my opinion) have let us have it! I will be constantly checking theatre sites and gearing up my Sondheim buddy - everyone needs one - for a trip.

West End Girl x

(becoming a bit of a misnomer... promise I'll be back in London next time!)

What the Dickens!

Hoorah, hoorah, just like I promised, A NON-MOANING POST! And it's all thanks to three things; that wonderful seaside town of Brighton, the inimitable Simon Callow, and (extraordinarily, considering my dealings with him at GCSE) a certain Charles Dickens.
Early in the summer (not that we had much of one) I went to see Simon Callow in 'Being Shakespeare' at Trafalgar Studios. It was essentially the life and times of Shakespeare, along with some of his more famous speeches, rolled into two-and-a-bit hours; and it was fantastic. Though it may seem dry when described simply, Callow's rolling, rumbling voice and intense style was utterly perfect. He shone. It was rather unfortunate that one of our party fell asleep due to strong red wine lemonade, but even he admitted that he was sorry he'd missed it. Anyway, I got a history lesson, a biography, and some fabulous Shakespearean acting all in one evening.

Dr Marigold

And by George he did it again! In the 2008 Edinburgh Fringe Festival, I had seen Simon Callow in 'Dr Marigold & Mr Chops', a one-man play, with two characters, both of Dickens' creation. Callow entered first as an old circus master (telling us he was 'appy to see us and hhhentry would cost us a shilling) and told of the dwarf Mr Chops, a troubled man with dreams of 'entering socie'y'. After the interval, he entered as Dr Marigold, a cheap jack on the road around England.
I had forgotten the power in Callow's performance, and am forever glad that I got to see this a second time, three years later. Dickens (who I find immensely depressing and hard work) was suddenly transformed by Callow into a rich, deep tapestry of the Victorian underworld. Pictures were painted so vividly before my eyes, I stopped seeing Callow; all I could see was Marigold's cart, and his stunning adopted daughter, both deaf and dumb. All I could see was the dark dingy inside of the Circus building, the fading posters, the elegant crowd, forever hard to please.

Callow telling us of Mr Chops

It is testament both to Callow's extraordinary story telling skills, and Dickens' prose. It was all meant to be read aloud. Think about it; 'Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.' That pause, signified only by a comma in the first sentence, when read aloud, can be laden with all sorts of emotions. Mystery, fear, excitement, everything, comes from the speaker pausing, just for the right amount of time, to allow those who know what's coming to shiver and smile, and those who don't to glance at each other as if to say 'Does the pause mean there's some question as to how dead he is!?' It's perfect Victoriana macabre, perfect for dark evenings by a flickering fireside.
Callow captures all this and more. His characterisations are so utterly believable that his transformation (with the help of a fabulous wig) in the second half doesn't halt at all, because it is not the same man onstage. His grasp of Dickens' style is beyond me; anyone who can make so much sense and emotion out of the puntuation-less, endless sentences I struggle through deserves a medal.
The minimal set that has been built around Callow is fine, but unnecessary. This man could carry this at the same tip-top rate that he does with a black stage and a single chair. As it is, the deep colours, faded woodwork, and odd cog and spring do envoke the dingy Victorian setting, but Dickens and Callow re-iterate this all anyway through their words.
The power that pulsed from that stage blew me away; My eyes were both fixed on the man onstage, but still far away, watching the story play out before me. There is no feeling better than that, being swept utterly away. Please, go, he's touring, and I hope he's touring near you. If, like me, you moan and say 'It's Dickens. An evening of just Dickens. And not even famous Dickens! I think I'm cleaning the cats boils that evening, sorry', you, especially you, should go!
The Theatre Royal in Brighton was perfect too, with its gold gilt and red velveteen chairs. I've got the shivers all over again, thinking about my evening spent on lonely English country roads, and smokey Victorian alleyways.
Perfect for Halloween.

West End Girl x

Not a Tempest... just a mild sea breeze...

Who'd have thought sixth form was quite so hard? I feel so useless at having had a two-month (two-month!?) break in blogging - and I can't even blame the first month on school... anyway, after a mixture of laziness, procrastination and multiple English essays (but that's always fun) I'm back, and I'm afraid it is not  good.
Ralph Fiennes is currently starring in Shakespeare's 'The Tempest' at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, directed by Trevor Nunn, and on Friday, we all huddled over there (it was cold) to see how it worked out.
Now I have some big news for you all, so brace yourselves; Ralph has a NOSE. A REAL ONE. And, as well as this shocker, I have more news; a big star does not make a great production. I know, I know, you seasoned theatre goers are all tutting and rolling your eyes and saying 'The girl knows nothing. Nothing. OF COURSE you need more than a big name!' and I do know that, I swear; it's just, well, 'The Tempest was the high point of my week. Seriously, I'd really hyped it up. It was my night out (I'm just so wild) and I came away so... disappointed.
The Tempest is what I would term 'hard' Shakespeare; some of his plays roll off the tongue, and no matter what sort of fool you have directing, they will come out well. The Tempest is no such walk in the park; it has difficult (some half-formed, in my opinion) characters, many different themes, and it is run (mostly) in real time. It's TRICKY.
Take, for instance, Ariel, the spirit who attends on Prospero (played by Fiennes, incase you hadn't guessed). Ariel is usually compared to Puck, the 'merry wanderer of the night' in The Dream, and in this production we very much had that sort of Ariel; spritish, imp-like, full of energy. But where directors tend to make Puck a very masculine character (earthy, you might say), with Ariel, they tend to make him extraordinarily camp. Here, we had an ethereal spirit clad entirely in sky-blue lycra, prone to singing falsetto, and making strange 'airy' noises. When Prospero tortures him by reminding him of his past in imprisonment, he just sort of... twitched. I was not taken by him. At all. Especially the singing.
Nunn seemed to really want to go for the singing in this production; Juno and two other goddesses appeared near the end (Argh, why does Shakespeare bring in these random classical deities?) and regaled us with a very long number... beautifully composed, don't get me wrong, but I was running out of patience.
Miranda was good, but I missed a few jokes due to not being able to see her facial expressions up in the circle, which was a problem that really influenced the evening, I think. Fiennes himself, a much younger Prospero than usual - The Tempest was one of Shakespeare's last plays and it's said he may have written the character for himself - was, surprisingly, hard to watch. Though I'm sure I'm in absolutely no position to tell Trevor Nunn and Fiennes what to do, I thought he was falling into the classic Shakespeare-trap of proclaiming his part, not finding the meaning behind the foreign words. It was all delivered very monochromatically; very slowly, deliberately, deeply. Great for some aspects of Prospero, but not others; he is a complicated man.
Thank God for Nicholas Lyndhurst as the clown; he did his office and made me smile. Caliban (played by Giles Terera) was suitably spitting, twisted, and yet defiant and righteous; a hard character made easy, both to watch and to delve into.
So, once again, I'm sorry for such a long wait... and that my come-back is a lot of moaning! Anyway, give this one a miss. I'll be back with a better one. As one of those many phrases pinched straight from the Tempest says, 'We are such stuff as dreams are made on'; shame Trevor Nunn's dream hasn't quite panned out.

West End Girl x