A Christmas Carol - Southwark Playhouse - Wednesday 30th December 2009

Synopsis:

Ebenezer Scrooge sits in his counting-house on a frigid Christmas Eve. His clerk, Bob Cratchitt, shivers in the anteroom because Scrooge refuses to spend money on coal for the fire. Scrooge's nephew, Fred, pays his uncle a visit and invites him to his annual Christmas party. Two portly gentlemen also drop by and ask Scrooge for a contribution to their charity. Scrooge reacts to the visitors with bitterness and venom, spitting out an angry "Bah! Humbug!" in response to his nephew's "Merry Christmas!"

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Later that evening, after returning to his dark, cold home, Scrooge receives a chilling visitation from the ghost of his dead partner, Jacob Marley. Marley, looking haggard and pallid, relates his unfortunate story. As punishment for his greedy and self-serving life his spirit has been condemned to wander the Earth weighted down with heavy chains. Marley hopes to save Scrooge from sharing the same fate and informs Scrooge that three spirits will visit him during the night. After the wraith disappears, Scrooge collapses into a deep sleep.

One ‘o clock strikes, heralding the arrival of the Ghost of Christmas Past, a strange childlike phantom.. The spirit escorts Scrooge on a journey into the past to previous Christmases. Invisible to those he watches, Scrooge revisits his childhood school days, his apprenticeship with a jolly merchant named Fezziwig, and his engagement to Belle, a woman who leaves Scrooge because his lust for money eclipses his ability to love another. Scrooge, deeply moved, sheds tears of regret before the phantom returns him to his bed.

One ‘o clock strikes again, to Scrooge’s confusion. The Ghost of Christmas Present, a majestic giant clad in a green fur robe, takes Scrooge through London to unveil Christmas as it will happen that year. Scrooge watches the large, bustling Cratchitt family prepare a miniature feast in its meager home. He discovers Bob Cratchitt's crippled son, Tiny Tim, a courageous boy whose kindness and humility warms Scrooge's heart. The spectre then takes Scrooge to his nephew's to witness the Christmas party. Scrooge finds the jovial gathering delightful and pleads with the spirit to stay until the very end of the festivities. As the day passes, the spirit ages, becoming noticeably older. Toward the end of the day, he shows Scrooge two starved children, Ignorance and Want, living under his coat. For the third time, the clock strikes one. The Ghost of Christmas Present vanishes instantly as Scrooge notices
a dark, hooded figure coming toward him.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come leads Scrooge to the cold, cheerless home of the Cratchitt family, who are mourning the death of their beloved Tiny Tim. Through a sequence of mysterious scenes relating to an unnamed man's recent death. Scrooge sees businessmen discussing the dead man's riches, some vagabonds trading his personal effects for cash, and a poor couple expressing relief at the death of their unforgiving creditor. Scrooge, anxious to learn the lesson of his latest visitor, begs to know the name of the dead man. After pleading with the ghost, Scrooge finds himself in a churchyard, the spirit pointing to a grave. Scrooge looks at the headstone and is shocked to read his own name. He desperately implores the spirit to alter his fate, promising to renounce his insensitive, avaricious ways and to honour Christmas with all his heart. The ghost disappears suddenly finds himself safely tucked in his bed.

Daylight streams through the window and Scrooge finds that it is Christmas morning. Sending a small child to buy an enormous turkey for the Cratchitt family, he visits his clerk and announces an enormous pay rise for him. Leaving Tiny Tim and his brothers and sisters surrounded by Christmas gifts, Scrooge runs off to his
nephew’s Christmas party, a changed man forever.

Creative Team:
Ellie Jones – Director
Barbara Fuchs – Designer
Neill Brinkworth – Lighting
Helen Beasley and Conchita Perez – Costumes

Cast:
David Fielder – Scrooge
Steve Hansell – Bob Cratchitt
Sarah Paul – Mrs. Cratchitt
Louise Collins – Christmas Past
Trevor Georges – Christmas Present
Thomas Padden – Jacob Marley
Tiny Tim – Festus Shodipo

Programme: Free!

Well, this was….unusual, to say the least, and not quite what I was expecting. I always think that productions of A Christmas Carol which run on into the New Year feel a bit…well, redundant really, probably because the story is so time-specific. A bit like a partially deflated balloon left over after a party. Not that I am comparing this production with a partially deflated balloon left over after a party. Or perhaps I am. The whole thing seemed just a little flabby around the edges, even though the concept is good and the production ditto. It may be that the “community cast” (for which read “local people getting involved just for the fun of doing it”) caused the performance to sag slightly as they could have done with being a little more disciplined about various things or better drilled by the director. It could be that the whole concept of a promenade production is problematic in itself – the logistics involved in shepherding a large group of people around a series of dank and dingy vaults underneath railway arches without losing the narrative flow made the production feel a bit episodic; there is always the possibility that people will dawdle between scenes, drift off, get in the way of things, fall over props or scenery, break off into private conversations or not be able to see properly. It could be that the interval felt slightly unnatural in that it broke the spell after a particularly poignant scene (personally, I wouldn’t have objected at all if there had been no interval as the performance seemed to be progressing fairly quickly and very smoothly towards its concluding scenes). Or it could be that A Christmas Carol is one of those works which has just been done to death in all sorts of formats and I was just tired of the story. Or maybe I was just suffering from post-Christmas blues. I tried hard to like it and appreciate it for what it was but just had an enthusiasm fadeout after the first 45 minutes or so. There were scenes which I thought worked well and I enjoyed, and scenes that didn’t come across well enough. Perhaps I was essentially bothered by these inconsistencies.

The setting itself was extremely effective – a series of dank, dripping vaults with the rumble of the occasional train echoing through the gloom far overhead – which perfectly captured the feel of the slums of Victorian London (A thought just occurred to me while writing that last sentence; perhaps one of the inconsistencies which bothered me is that all the performance spaces felt dark and damp, meaning that the scenes set in warm, brightly lit interiors (the Fezziwig’s Christmas party, for instance) felt subtly out of joint. Perhaps better lighting and a bit more opulence for these scenes would have made them sparkle a bit more and heightened the divisions between scenes). The chill did, however, perfectly suit the clever opening scene in Scrooge’s office, the Cratchitt home and the graveyard. And nice efforts were made to involve the audience in the action itself – empty desks in the officer were occupied by audience members, about a dozen became extra family members at the Cratchitt family dinner and I particularly liked the way that we were all very deliberately spread around the large, foggy room for the final scene so that the cast had to move in and out of a host of hazy “onlooking ghosts”. Some scenes, however, just didn’t work. The “Ghost of Christmas Past” section seemed to go on an on forever and the dreary and wordy scene immediately before Scrooge is taken to visit his own grave could well have been done without. The Tiny Tim element of the plot seemed to be extremely underplayed, particularly during the “Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come” scenes – in fact, if your attention had wandered slightly at this point (for example, while trying to extricate your foot from a tangle of lighting cable) you might well have not realised that he had actually died. Unless I missed it, neither was there any clue to suggest that Tiny Tim was actually crippled. There were also problems caused by double casting – having Mrs. Fezziwig and Mrs. Cratchitt played by the same woman could well have caused confusion (particularly as the actress concerned had quite a powerful presence).

There were some excellent ideas – Scrooge’s casement window was a frame on wheels which could be moved about, giving the impression that Scrooge was rushing from window to window to look out into the night. Bare light bulbs were used instead of candles, and while these were strictly an anachronism, didn’t seem out of place at all. In fact, there was much humour to be had from Scrooge unscrewing the single bulb hanging from the ceiling of his office and taking it home with him to screw into the frame of his bed. In fact, his bed was a recurring motif, cropping up in all sorts of unexpected places To illustrate a long, rather dreary speech about other people celebrating Christmas, the windows of the Cratchitt home were used like those on an advent calendar, revealing brightly coloured stained-glass images of ships and lighthouses. One of the windows of the calendar became a door through which the audience was shepherded into the next room. The Ghost of Christmas Present didn’t suddenly appear from nowhere but was actually on stage for the entirety of the scene preceding his arrival – but so clever was his costume that you didn’t actually notice. The “prize winning turkey” purchased by Scrooge at the very end was, indeed, bigger than the boy who was sent to fetch it, causing much laughter. The sound effects, however, were disappointing and the entire production could have done with just that little bit more professional gloss to see it safely home for Christmas.


What the critics thought:



http://webcowgirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/13/review-a-christmas-carol-southwark-playhouse/

http://www.britishtheatreguide.info/reviews/ccarolsouthwark-rev.htm

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/dec/15/a-christmas-carol-review-southwark

http://www.internationallife.tv/A-Christmas-Carol-%20Southwark-Playhouse

Rope - Almeida Theatre, Monday 14th December 2009

Synopsis:

On a night not unlike any other night, Brandon and Granillo commit murder. They kill a fellow classmate in college for the simple sport of it. What do you do to top a murder? Why, you stuff the boy’s body into a chest in the middle of the room and you invite friends over for a dinner served off that very chest. And for good measure you invite the boy’s father too, One of the friends invited over is Rupert, slightly older and more sophisticated.

And it is upon Rupert that the truth behind the secret of the chest in the middle of the room begins to dawn.

Cast:
Philip Arditti – Sabot
Bertie Carvel - Rupert Cadell
Emma Dewhurst - Mrs Debenham
Michael Elwyn - Sir Johnstone Kentley
Henry Lloyd-Hughes - Kenneth Raglan
Blake Ritson - Wyndham Brandon
Alex Waldmann - Charles Granillo
Phoebe Waller-Bridge - Leila Arden

Creative team:

Roger Michell – Director
Mark Thompson – Design
Rick Fisher – Lighting
John Leonard – Sound

Finally, the Almeida produce something worth seeing. It hasn’t formally opened yet, and I suspect that the critics will be extremely divided in their opinions, possibly seeing this play as a bit of a museum piece. But its extremely well written, directed with panache and, with a few caveats, well acted.

It’s interesting that the director made the decision to set the play in its original period (the 1920’s) which comes as a bit of a shock to anyone who only knows the piece through the Hitchcock film. I must admit that I haven’t seen the film, but still somehow expected it to be set in the 40s. So it was a pleasant surprise to get an “authentic” production (even though I spent the first 10 minutes or so feeling that I had wandered into an Agatha Christie novel), and even more surprising that this is set “in the round”. This decision works well, because it’s quite a claustrophobic piece (particularly for the poor sod in the chest!) and being able to see the audience on the other side of the auditorium enhances this feeling of restriction and airlessness. The chest around which all the action is centred is therefore, quite literally, in the centre of the action and the centre of attention as it commands the middle of the octagonal stage. You therefore can’t actually take your eyes completely off it and it consequently becomes a brooding, menacing presence throughout the entire play, almost taking on a character of its own. Clever, clever! One thing I didn’t like about the production, however, was the final coup de theatre, which struck me as completely unnecessary and somewhat “theatrical” (in the worst sense of the word) - rather as if the director was trying to end the play “with a bang” when really such a well-written piece doesn’t need it.

Acting was practically perfect, apart from one or two slight quibbles. Alex Waldmann was a very milquetoast Granillo, and I noticed that Michael Elwyn played the role of Sir Kentley almost as two people, becoming softer round the edges as the action progressed and more “cuddly” almost, perhaps in a misguided attempt by the director to engender sympathy for the character. Bertie Carvel, however, walks away with the entire evening with his portrayal of Rupert Caddel as a lisping, mincing aesthete with a razor-sharp mind, although it has to be said that his projection was, at times, extremely poor and many of his lines simply didn’t reach us in the back row. This, however, may have been the fault of the production being in the round, which always causes problems as, try as you might to avoid it, the actors always end up with their backs to at least part of the audience. Credit to for Emma Dewhurst for making a good part out of a character who has less than a dozen lines throughout the entire play. I also enjoyed Henry Lloyd-Hughes’ portrayal of Kenneth Raglan for all the wrong reasons – not only did he look and sound exactly like he had stepped off the page of Agatha Christie, but there’s something indefinably sexy about a moustached cad in a well-cut dinner jacket….

My enjoyment of the play was spoiled somewhat by some kind of technical problem with the sound system for the first 15 minutes but thankfully this resolved itself just as I was starting to get irritated by it. I would also like to thank the stupid cow who shoved past me en route to the theatre causing me to drop a brand new library book into a muddy puddle. Merry Christmas, you daft bitch. I hope your bus broke down at the next stop.

What the critics thought:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/dec/17/michael-billington-rope-almeida

http://westend.broadwayworld.com/article/REVIEW_Rope_Almeida_20091217

http://www.theartsdesk.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=686:rope-almeida-review&Itemid=27

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/lon_rope_1209.htm

Aladdin - Wimbledon Theatre, Friday 4th December 2009

Cast:
Abanazer – Brian Blessed
Genie of the Lamp – Ruby Wax
Genie of the Ring – Djalenga Scott
Widow Twankey – Jonathan Ellis
Wishey Washey – Paul Thornley
Aladdin – Ashley Day
Princess Jasmine – Leila Benn Harris
Emperor of China – Ian Talbot
PC Pong – Sam Bradshaw

Creative Team:
Writer – Eric Potts
Director – Ian Talbot
Choreography – Sarah Dean
Musical Director – Warran Wills
Lighting – Tim Macall

I admit that I had a really hard time enjoying this – not because there was anything intrinsically bad about the production but because I was feeling terribly depressed about life. And theres nothing quite like a theatre full of people having a jolly time to make you feel worse if you’re coming down with a cold and you’re having a rotten time personally. Particularly in the run-up to Christmas.

The place was packed out, and I have to say that not a single child misbehaved themselves. This can’t be said for the adults- articles have been appearing in the press for a couple of years about badly behaved audiences and the writers of these would have had a field day during this performance. Firstly, I was amazed at just how many latecomers there were – and just how many of these people seemed to have seats right in the middle, forcing everyone else in the row to get up and let them in. The sheer amount of popcorn and noisy sweet-eaters was outrageous. Yes, I know that noisy sweets are a very lucrative sideline for theatres, particularly in panto season, but I think I’m going to start my own campaign against this. Its soooo rude, distracting for the performers and the rest of the audience, and the upcoming generation of theatre-goers is being taught that going to see a show = eating noisy food and slurping drinks, just like going to the cinema is these days, and bugger the irritation it causes everyone else. And it wasn’t just the audience – the front of house staff were major noise culprits as well; constantly walking up and down the side aisles, leaning around at the sides to watch a bit of the show then congregating en masse to have a good, loud talk about it. Absolutely disgraceful – and extremely unprofessional.

Panto is, of course, a traditionally English form of theatre, so I was disappointed that this production soft-pedalled a lot of these traditions. There was no “behind you”- ing, very little “oh, no it isn’t”-ing and no comedy wallpapering scene. There was also only one Chinese Policeman; traditionally there are two, the production company obviously being too tight to pay for a second one (neither had the costume budget apparently run to providing the leading man with a pair of tights – not a good move as it looked like he had a pair of milk bottles hanging out of the bottom of his breeches. He could at least have put some make-up or fake tan on his shins). It was, however, nice to see that one particular panto tradition had been maintained – that of employing a troupe of absolutely hopeless dancers from the type of dancing school generally to be found over suburban supermarkets, in this case “June Pughe’s School of Dance, Allesley” (syllabus includes Jazz, Tap, Ballroom and loft lagging).

Brian Blessed was, well, Brian Blessed (as always). Never will anyone ever convince me that this man can play any part other than Brian Blessed. What I particularly dislike about him is a pathetic habit (one which he shares with the actor Royce Mills) of quite literally asking for applause by either making a gesture with his hands to the audience or, as he did this evening, by actually saying “Come on, that’s got to be worth some applause”. This is something that even the rankest amateur knows is tacky beyond belief. Djalenga Scott was particularly noteworthy as the sexy Genie of the Ring (nice to see this part actually included for once!). Jonathan Ellis was not quite on best form as Widow Twankey (sad fact: Twankey is a blend of Chinese Tea, so the late Mr. Twankey must have been a Tea Merchant) and some of his costumes were quite disappointing. One of the conventions of panto is that the Dame’s costumes are completely OTT, and that a different one is worn for every scene. Here, one costume was worn three times, and one “costume” consisted merely of a purple velour tracksuit that looked as if it had been bought at the local branch of TK Maxx that very afternoon).

Thank heavens for Ruby Wax – the saving grace of the entire production, with a nicely observed, sardonic and sarcastic turn of caustic wit that lanced through much of the saccharine bogging down the stage. The jokes about Pamela Anderson were particularly clever, seeing as the botoxed-to-buggery Ms. Anderson is taking over the role of the Genie in a couple of weeks’ time. In fact, I must quote you (at some length) from Ms. Anderson’s biog in the programme as it is quite heave-inducing:

The most recognisable icon of the new millennium continues to hit her stride again and again in so many different fields. this model, actress, mother, entrepreneur, philanthropist and activist has appeared on more magazine covers than any other star of her generation….. Her unparalleled career in television extends from the extraordinary global phenomenon which was Baywatch to her recent global documentary series Pam – Girl on the Loose. …though she does not think of herself as an “actress”[that's lucky!]..she has collaborated with some of the most esteemed artists and photographers of the age. … Pamela is currently delighted to be launching her own fragrance Malibu by Pamela Anderson, followed by an extensive range of related products. This is now available in drugstores across America and coming to Europe at the beginning of next year. Negotiations are ongoing for the launch of several international spa hotels based around Pamela’s name and her principles [so they will obviously be called the "Waggle your tits at the camera and take the cash Hotels"]…at 41 years old, this powerful woman, devoted mother, sex symbol and style icon continues to live life on her own terms and give meaning to everything she does.

Honestly, she’s got a great career in comedy ahead of her if she wrote that. It would almost be worth going back to see this show when she takes over just to see what an utter tits-up she’ll undoubtedly make of it.

What the critics thought:

(what hacks me off is that that none of the reviewers went to see the first performances of this and therefore Ruby Wax didn't get her deserved review. Everyone waited until Pammie appeared - two days late, apparently)

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/6821133/Pamela-Anderson-in-Aladdin-at-the-Wimbledon-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/dec/16/pamela-anderson-aladdin

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/article6958310.ece

Peter Pan - 360degree Theatre, the O2 - Wednesday 2nd December 2009

Look into my eyes and whisper "I DO belive in fairies...."

Synopsis:

The Darling household is a place of joy, consisting of the three children, Wendy, John, and Michael; the practical and sometimes stern father, Mr. Darling; the loving mother, Mrs. Darling; and the children’s nurse, a dog named Nana. But sneaking into the children’s bedroom at night to listen to Mrs. Darling’s bedtime stories is Peter Pan. One night, Nana and Mrs. Darling see him and try to stop him, but are only able to catch his shadow as he flies out the window. So they roll it up and put it in a drawer. Peter, of course, wants his shadow, and returns later after Mr. and Mrs. Darling have left for a dinner party. He brings with him his not-very-polite fairy, Tinker Bell. However, when he finds his shadow, he can’t make it stick to him and wakes Wendy as he begins to cry.

Peter is entranced by Wendy and tells her that he had run away the day he was born because he heard his parents talking about all the things he would do when he was a man, and he went to live with the fairies so that he would never have to grow up. Now he lives in Neverland with the lost boys, children who fell out of their perambulators and were never found again.Wendy sews Peter’s shadow back to him, and then Peter convinces Wendy and her brothers, by teaching them how to fly, to return to Neverland with him and Tinker Bell. So off they fly, over the rooftops of London to Neverland, where the lost boys share the island with the mean pirates, led by Captain Hook, and a tribe of Indians led by their chief and princess, Tiger Lily. It was Hook’s greatest desire to capture Peter Pan and his friends because it was Peter who had cut off Hook’s hand and fed it to a crocodile. The crocodile had so liked the taste of the hand that he followed Hook everywhere, waiting for the rest of him. The crocodile had, unhappily, also swallowed a clock, and its ticking warned Hook of any approach.To this magical land Wendy and her brothers fly with Peter Pan. The lost boys, seeing Wendy and spurred on by a jealous Tinker Bell, think her a giant bird and shoot her with a bow and arrow. Peter arrives immediately and sees that Wendy is only stunned, and, after banishing Tinker Bell for a week, he tells the others that he has brought Wendy to them. They quickly build her a house and ask her to be their mother.

The next day, Peter takes Wendy to Marooner’s Rock to see the mermaids. While there, the pirates bring in Tiger Lily, who they have captured and bound and are leaving on the rock to drown at high tide. Peter saves her, and she and the rest of the Indians become their friends and guardians. Eventually, the children begin to worry about their parents and to feel the pangs of homesickness; and they decide it is time to return to their warm beds in London. The lost boys decide to go with them, but Peter will not hear of going if he will have to grow up. Hook and the pirates, however, foil their plans and capture all the children and take them to their ship. Only Peter, with Tinker Bell’s help, avoids capture.

The pirates are about to have their captives walk the plank, when Peter arrives and saves them. In the final fight with Hook, Peter forces the pirate captain to the edge of the ship where he hears the ticking of the crocodile and, unnerved, falls into its waiting jaws.The three children then return home, along with the lost boys, who the Darlings adopt. Peter stays in Neverland, coming to visit Wendy on occasion, but she soon turns into an adult and mostly forgets Peter. However, she has a daughter, Jane, who dreams of pirates, Indians, and magical places far away . .

OK, lets start with some facts. Fact 1: Peter Pan is a very long, wordy play adapted from a very long, wordy book. Both are very much a piece of their time, and are generally thought of as ideal fare for children – by adults, rather than the children themselves. Children are therefore dragged to the play by their parents or grandparents on the slightly suspect basis that it will be “good for them” to be exposed to classic English Literature of the type that only features in some golden Neverland childhood that didn’t really exist. The whole thing is therefore just an adult fantasy of the kind involving crumpets toasted for Nursery Tea before an open fire, Silver Cross prams, Winnie the Pooh and kindly servants straight out of Upstairs Downstairs. Peter Pan is actually quite a tedious play.

Fact 2: The general social demographic of 02 customers is not the kind of person who lives in a four-storey townhouse in one of the better parts of London. They do not generally take their young children to the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens to sail wooden boats, or afterwards serve supper on the Nursery floor in front of the fire, accompanied by another thrilling chapter from Mr. Barrie’s well-known book. The average O2 family (on yesterday’s evidence) is likely to consist of slatternly women in tracksuits trailing a large collection of children fathered by several different men, one of whom has coughed up the substantial amount of money he recently “earned” (by stealing hub caps) for tickets, and who would probably be happier dahn the boozer with his mates getting bladdered or sticking the DVD of Disney’s Peter Pan on to keep the kids quiet for an hour while he spliffs up with the new girlfriend. The children, one of whom has today been excluded from school for extortion and another who has some kind of unspecified “Attention Disorder Syndrome” are both high on the sugar contained in their Jumbo Bucket of Popcorn, have never seen any kind of theatrical performance before and are getting bored and twitchy.

Fact 3: put Facts 1 and 2 together and you have a recipe for disaster.

The evening didn’t get off to the greatest start when myself and Him Indoors, having negotiated our way round 2/3 of the circumference of the O2, (past an enormous array of naff-looking chain restaurants and the saddest, emptiest, most expensive “Christmas Fun Fair” on the entire planet - £4 a ride and they wonder why nobody is on the dodgems - staffed by a pack of sullen faced men who appear to be on day release from Belmarsh and for whom the addition of Santa hats is, frankly, doing nothing) to the “360theatre” have to walk most of the way back again to find the one public toilet in the O2. We then walk the remaining distance back to the entrance in order to find that the cashpoints are not working, and that getting money out involves trailing all the way back to the tube station. In the pouring rain. We walk all the way back to the “360theatre” to find that, having walked all that way under cover, getting to the “360theatre” now involves a 200 yard dash through the rain, the proprietors of which obviously can’t be arsed to pay for a covered walkway for their customers.

A glance at the programme (£5) reveals where the money for the covered walkway has gone. And honey, it ain’t on the cast. Crammed into the first couple of inches of a double page spread, tiny type reveals that there are 4 Lost Boys and 5 Pirates (most of whom seem to be understudying each other). The Pirates also constitute the on-stage band. White Man’s Diseases seem to have decimated the Indian Tribe down to TigerLily, its sole representative. There are 2 mermaids – Mermaid 1 is understudying TigerLily and Tinkerbell, and Mermaid 2 is understudying TigerLily, Tinkerbell and Mermaid 1. The credits for the production team takes the remaining 9/10 of the pages. The Wardrobe Mistress has a dozen Costume Assistants, 2 Deputies, a Wigs Mistress (and Deputy) and 2 Dressers. There are 4 Assistant Stage Managers, and a “Basketwork Co-ordinator” (who obviously provided the laundry hamper) and 83 musicians played the soundtrack. There are 3 Sound Engineers but the entire production is so badly miked that the moment any of the cast turn their back, their words disappear into thin air. As this is “in the round”, people turn their back quite often. The thin amplification has to contend with: rain on the roof, passing aircraft coming into land at City Airport, Latecomers admitted during the quiet bits, Latecomers in Very Loud Shoes, Latecomers Who Sit Down And Immediately Start Eating Popcorn and Latecomers In Loud Shoes Who Sit Down And Them Immediately Go Out Again And Then Come Back In With Two Glasses Of Wine. My blood pressure begins to inch towards Shouting At People Level
.
The first half 20 minutes of the play is very tedious and wordy, with lots of Edwardian Dialogue. Not much happens and the audience starts to get shifty. Peter Pan flies in, ragged shirt open to the waist and showing off his three Fairy Friends: Fairy Sixpack, Fairy Pectorals and Fairy Biceps. Fairy Tinkerbell, however, is a not the beam of light as Barrie envisaged, nor a twinkly little winged minx a la Disney, but a grubby Punkette wearing DMs, a dirty vest and a filthy tutu with a couple of Fairy Landing Lights sewn into it. Things perk up considerably during the flying sequence, when the entire roof turns into an enormous CGI screen on which the flight over London to Neverland is projected, and everyone ooohs and aaaahs and gets a crick in their neck and starts to feel slightly queasy after five minutes. However, Neverland seems to have shifted location since I last saw Peter Pan and is now not to be found “Second star to the left, and then straight on till morning”, but at the bottom of the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. The Mermaid Lagoon is the Serpentine, and the Albert Memorial sticks up out of the sea. Ah, I get it – the whole thing is being presented as an extended fantasy sequence, with Neverland being made up of aspects of the Darling children’s daily life (for those Readers baffled by this, and who obviously weren’t listening at bedtime, The Little White Bird, the first book to feature Peter Pan, is set in Kensington Gardens). This leads to some interesting ideas; the Wendy House is built using a cot, a couple of blackboards, nursery blankets and a tennis racquet, the pirate’s rowing boat is an Edwardian bathtub and the Crocodile is made out of coathangers and clothes pegs and has footballs for eyes. But the rest of the show is almost incidental to the CGI which switches rapidly between pirate ship, coral reef, Lost Boy hideout, mermaid lagoon, exotic forest etc. Most of the audience spend so much time staring up at this that they start to tune out what is happening on stage. When the CGI isn’t on, they have to contend with lots of Wordy Edwardian Dialogue which tries hard to be funny but is just painful, a loathsome Tinkerbell about whom nobody really cares much and a general feeling that the cast are rapidly giving up the fight to maintain the audiences’ interest. In fact, about 15 minutes from the end, a tiny voice pipes up “I’ve had enough of this” and the whole auditorium erupts in the biggest laugh of the night. TigerLily (Sole Representative of the Indian Tribe) performs an acrobatic dance which is faintly indecent, ending up on her knees in front of an obviously embarrassed Peter and looking for all the world like she is about to go down on him. Mermaid 1 and Mermaid 2 perform a series of vague rope tricks rather than be hooked up to the flying system, which is a major opportunity missed as regards spectacle in the underwater scene. Wendy gets more and more irritating and the entire show maunders on and on and eventually (pun intended) peters out completely.

Of the performances, none really stands out. Ciaran Kellgren makes a good stab at the title role, battling against what is really quite an unsympathetic role when you look closely at it, although I spend most of time looking closely at his Fairy Pectorals. The role of Tinkerbell is badly, badly misjudged by the writers and the hideous, tatty costume lends no magic to the portrayal. Abby Ford was blonde and bland as Wendy (and it irritated both me and Him Indoors that she wore pajamas, which would have been considered indecent for an almost pubescent girl of the period). Neither is she old enough or tall enough to convincingly play the older sister of Michael and John Darling. Jonathan Hyde seemed too weighted down by his dialogue to give Captain Hook anything like the necessary evil swaggering bravura, and his dark, rather tatty costume meant that he failed to dominate the stage visually. Captain Hook should be a panto villan in a bright red and gold frock-coat and an enormous feathered tricorn hat, not a slinky black and silver dressing gown affair. Note for the writer: Captain Hook’s first name is “James”, not “Jas” (although this is invariably how the name was signed during the period, rather like “Thomas” always being rendered at “Thos”. Someone didn’t do their homework properly).

Later, the autopsy report from Great Ormond Street Hospital reads “Cause of Show’s Death – Complete Lack of Heart”.

Look out for the coathanger as they fly past St. Paul's Cathedral! Of course, this is shot from the actor's perspective, not the audience's, so it doesn't look quite like this for them!





What the critics thought of the original run in Kensington Gardens earlier this year:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jun/11/peter-pan-kensington-gardens-review

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/peter-pan-kensington-gardens-london-1705124.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/5507345/Peter-Pan-at-Kensington-Gardens-review.html

http://www.thelondonpaper.com/going-out/whats-new/theatre-review-of-peter-pan-in-kensington-gardens

and a couple from the new run:

http://www.newsshopper.co.uk/leisure/4777738.THEATRE_REVIEW__Peter_Pan____/

http://www.wharf.co.uk/2009/12/review-peter-pan-meridian-gard.html

The Tsarina's Slippers - Royal Opera House, Friday 20th November 2009

Synopsis:

As the witch Solokha admires the beauty of the moon, the Devil comes and flirts with her. He has come to the village to take revenge on her son Vakula who has painted an insulting image of him on the church wall.The Devil invokes a huge snow storm to cause confusion in the village, making the moon disappear so that he can steal it. He and Solokha ride into the sky on their broomsticks.The villagers, Chub and Panas, get lost in the blizzard below.

Oksana, the village beauty, is at home admiring herself in the mirror. Vakula arrives and declares his love for her but she ignores him. Chub, Oksana's father, and his friend Panas stumble in. In the dark of the blizzard, Vakula does not recognise them and kicks them out, believing them to be intruders.

Solokha and the Devil return from their broomstick ride and the Devil tries to seduce her. There is a knock at the door. It is the Mayor who has also come to woo Solokha; the Devil hides in a sack so he won't be found. There is another knock at the door, and the Mayor hides in a sack. It is the school teacher, he has also come to woo Solokha, and he also hides in a sack. Then Chub enters, also intent on wooing Solokha, he too conceals himself in a sack.Finally Vakula comes in to see his mother. He is miserable after being rejected by Oksana. He exits, carrying off all the sacks.

The villagers dance to celebrate Christmas Eve and one of the boys presents his girlfriend with a pair of slippers. Oksana is jealous and challenges Vakula to fetch her the Tsarina’s slippers. In return, she says, she will marry him. He sets off in despair, leaving all but one of the sacks behind. Solokha’s lovers (except the devil) all pop out of the abandoned bags - to everyone’s surprise.Vakula is so dejected that he contemplates throwing himself in the lake. Just as he is about to fling himself in the water, the Devil pops out of the last sack he has been carrying and offers him a deal: he will help Vakula get the Tsarina’s slippers in exchange for his soul. They fly to St Petersburg to find the Tsarina: Catherine the Great. They enter the palace where a great ball is underway. They marvel at the dancing, steal the Tsarina’s slippers and leave.

Back in the village, both Solokha and Oksana grieve for Vakula believing he has drowned himself in the lake. Vakula appears and they are overjoyed.Vakula offers Oksana the slippers and she agrees to marry him, declaring that it is he she wants – not the slippers.

Creative team:
Composer: Tchiakovsky
Director- Francesca Zambello
Set Designer- Mikhail Mokrov
Costume Designs- Tatiana Noginova
Lighting Designer- Rick Fisher
Choreography -Alastair Marriott

Cast:
Oxana -Olga Guryakova
Vakula -Vsevolod Grivnov
Solokha-Larissa Diadkova
Chub -Vladimir Matorin
The Devil- Maxim Mikhailov
Schoolmaster- Viacheslav Voynarovskiy
Pan Golova- Alexander Vassiliev
Panas -John Upperton
His Highness -Sergei Leiferkus
Master of Ceremonies -Jeremy White
Wood Goblin -Changhan Lim

Anyone who’s been following this blog for a while ( I HOPE there are more than six; six readers after four years of hard slog does seem a little disappointing, particularly when there are so many people fawning over the likes of the West End Whingers) will know that I don’t “do” opera. The idea of sitting for three hours listening to people sing at each other in Foreign while disguised as their maid or taking an inordinate amount of time to die ain’t really my idea of fun. So it was with a great deal of trepidation that I pencilled this outing onto the calendar in the kitchen a while back. Still, thought I, its Tchaikovsky, so there will be something to hum along to, at least, as well as a vaguely festive storyline (I see that the Royal Ballet are rolling out their incredibly dreary Nutcracker AGAIN this year, while the Birmingham Royal do their fantastic version for those people fortunate enough to live within striking distance of the Midlands). There was a slight contretemps when I announced to Him Indoors that at least Tchiakovsky might be vaguely hummable; he countered with “No, its by Rimsky-Korsakov” and we argued back and forth until an old programme was unearthed from god knows where of “Christmas Eve [the alternate title of the piece] by Rimsky-Korsakov”. I went and had a sulk until I read in the programme a couple of hours later that the original story had been turned into operas by four different composers, among them Tchaikovsky, at which point I became unbearably smug for another couple of hours.

The Opera House was completely and utterly packed out; loads of Russians and people with those insufferable little Jocastas and Tarquins that you get every time something vaguely child-friendly is on there. Standing room only. Sold out for the entire run. All of which makes what happened in the following three hours somewhat of a let-down. Somehow the whole thing didn’t gel. Yes, it was charmingly costumed and the whole thing looked authentically “Russian” in the manner of those little black lacquerwork boxes you get with pictures from Russian fairy tales on them. Yes, there were some very good voices on the stage (but also, it has to be said, a couple of the cast who were distinctly off form). But it looked rather under-rehearsed, with some poor staging of the chorus scenes; people didn’t look as if they knew exactly where they should be standing and there was a lot of vague milling about and gesticulating as a result. Scenes inside houses were very cramped, staged on small “floating” sets plonked at the front of the stage. Lots of opportunities for comedy were missed. Important parts of the story seemed to have been cut in favour of long, pointless recitatives which did nothing to progress it and the ballet sections seemed very badly placed on the stage. The only saving grace for me was, essentially, the final act, which exploded onto the stage as if the lid had popped off a toy box on Christmas morning. Finally the entire thing took on some life and everyone on stage looked like they were having fun. There was a dancing bear (in pointe shoes, a tiara and a tutu), lots of chorus movement, a panto-style walk-down of all the cast, a wonderful sunburst set and the campest exit for the hero and heroine I think I’ve ever seen in an opera; both piled into an enormous gold slipper which was on runners like a sledge. And then it was over.

I felt a bit underwhelmed really and not a little cheated of what I expected to be a fun night out. The pro critics of all the major newspapers have been incredibly sniffy about the entire production; this is just as expected. I sometimes wonder whether opera critics are trained not to like anything they consider "populist". OK, the evening wasn't fabulous, but it wasn't that bad.

What the critics thought:





http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/classical/reviews/tchaikovsky-the-tsarinarsquos-slippers-royal-opera-house-1825198.html





http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/30a87f82-d77c-11de-b578-00144feabdc0.html



http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/nov/22/tsarinas-slippers-review

http://www.theartsdesk.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=554:the-tsarina-s-slippers-royal-opera-house&Itemid=27

Mrs Klein - Almeida Theatre - Friday 13th November 2009

Synopsis:

Mrs. Klein is one of the most admired psychoanalysts of her time, but her relationship with her daughter has been damaged almost beyond repair, and unexpected message from abroad brings it to a bitter confrontation.

Cast:

Mrs. Klein - Claire Higgins
Zoe Waites - Melitta

Nicola Walker - Paula

Creative team:
Director -Thea Sharrock
Design -Tim Hatley
Lighting -Neil Austin
Sound -Ian Dickinson for Autograph
Casting Director - Sarah Bird
Dialect Coach - Jan Haydn Rowles
Fight Director- Alison de Burgh
Assistant Director- Oliver Baird

Goot evenink, you are very prompt. This is good, no? Ven coming for psychoanalysis it is most important to be prompt, so zat ve ken do as much digging around in the liddle grey cells as possible. Zere are many, many dreadful zings to be discovered lurking around in ze depths of zat naughty little brain of yours. Please, to be sitting in zis chair. I am sorry zat it is only a chair, but after so many productions recently at Ze Almeida featuring counselling sessions, I am afraid zat ze couch is now completely worn out.

It vas a goot play, no? Veeeery interezting, veerry … vat? “Freudian”, you say? Ach no, zat Freud he vas a complete sex maniac, seeing villies and boobies and ozzer disgusting leetle bits and pieces of ze body all over ze place, effen vile vandering round zis loffley set, vich as you can see is all red. Veeerry red, veeery claustrophobic. Vat? “Klaus-trophobic”? Vat is dat? Oh, I see, you make the leedle joke. Very funny. I am glad ze set makes you feel so comfortable. Ze set is my drawing room, not a vis-drawing room. See, I make the little joke too, eh? Anyvay , the set is aaalll red. Just like going back to ze vomb, non? See, it has vindows, so it is a vomb viz a view. Ha ha, I make anozzer little joke.

Vould you like a leettle drink? Sherry? From zis bottle zat looks like a penis? No? Visky then? From zis bottle zat also, strangely, looks like a penis? Ach, goot. Let me pour you a liddle visky into zis glass zat looks like a vagina. Gott in Himmel, vat is the matter vis me today? I haf been reading too much about Herr Freud, obviously. Ze visky is very brown, no? Just like the little poo-poos you did ven you ver a liddle baby. I vonder if Herr Freud ever did ze little brown poo-poos? If so, zat probably means zat he hated his mozzer and his fazzer veeeeery much and vanted to have secks viz dem both. Visky is referred to in zis play as "symbolic urine".

So, about zis play. Vat? You found it a liddle “heavy going”? Vy? Did your mozzer play naughty games viz you ven you were a liddle baby doing poo-poos? Ach, goot, I can see zat you vill haf to be coming to me for a loooooong time in my liddle red room. Probably at least for ze second half of ze play. Ach, I haf dropped my pen. Please to be excusing me vile I pick it up. Vere haf you gone, liddle pen? Vere is der little pen…. Is it here? No, here ze pen is! Hmmm…. Pen. Is. Pen. Is. It sounds like “penis”, no? Vat? You zink I am fixating on ze penis? Zat is veeeeery interesting – I must write it down vis my little penis…ach…. PEN and remind myself to ring my analyst zis effening. My anal-lyst, in fact. Vat is this you say? Oh yes, ve anal-ysts are all veeeeery anal. Zat is why ve are called analysts. Ve aaall hate our mozzers and projects those feelings of hatred onto our kinder. Dat is why zey have to have analysts also.

You sink ze play vas a little bit too gloomy? Vy is dat? Zere were lots of veeery funny lines, I sink. Ach, zat is vat ve anal-ysts called “bleak humour”. It is veeeery important to make de silly liddle jokes all ze time, ozzervise ve vould be throwing ourselves off ze cliff. Just like my son. But not to vorry. After nearly two hours of make de liddle jokes and getting all vorked up about villies and poo-poo and blaming our mozzers for ze fect zat we are all monsters and very horrible to each other and our daughters and anyvon else who might happen to come into zis liddle red room – such as ozzer psychoanalysts fleeing from ze Germans who haf volunteered to vork for ozzer psychoanalysts by typing up there latest mansuscript - ve vill find out zat he did, in fect, not throw hizzelf off ze cliff shaped like ze boobie. It vas, in fect, just a liddle accident, despite ze fect zat he vas probably a raving loony from heving me analyse him for all those years ven he was a liddle boy growing up into a naughty teenager interested in villies.

I do vish dat det lady in zer row behind vould stop coughing so. It is veeeeery annoying and I am sure det it means she is suffering from being over-analysed about vanting to hef secks viz her father and vanting to chop off his villie and cover it with visky. Because the visky bottle looks like a penis, no?

Vat? Yes, it is a great shame dat ze couple in the seats next to you decided to leave at ze interval. Perhaps ze play made zem veeeeery depressed. Never mind. You vill probably see zem again veeeeery soon, hanging by de neck from a tree in zer street outside. Did you know, just out of interest, zat ze interval represents the dark void of the vomb?

Vat? You sink I sound like Julie Valters? I em chust doing my best Cherman eccent. Who is dis Julie Valters? Is she anozzer analyst? Ach no, I sink I sound like Claire Higgins. You know her? She is in a veeeeery strange play at ze Almeida, aaaaaall about poo-poo and villies and hating your mozzer.

Vat ze critics thought:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/oct/30/mrs-klein-michael-billington-review

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/11/01/review-mrs-klein-almeida-theatre/

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/mrs-klein-almeida-theatre-london-1813067.html

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/0e24d57e-c7d1-11de-8ba8-00144feab49a.html - can I just point out that several critics have chortled in an extremely over-intellectual way about the “three drawer filing cabinet”, each identified by the title character as “the ID drawer, the EGO drawer and the SUPER-EGO drawer”. What none of them seem to have noticed is that the cabinet on stage actually has FOUR drawers.

http://www.theartsdesk.com/index.php?option=com_k2&view=item&id=458:mrs-klein-new-almeida-theatre&Itemid=27

Arturo Brachetti's "Change" - Garrick Theatre, Wednesday 4th November 2009

Synopsis (from the Garrick Theatre website):

The world’s greatest quick-change artist Arturo Brachetti presents the world premiere of his new show written and directed by Sean Foley. In an amazing display of virtuosic skill that simply has to be seen to be believed, Arturo Brachetti brings over one hundred characters to the stage in a unique and spectacular show. From James Bond to the Queen via Johnny Rotten, he transforms between characters in the blink of an eye in an astonishing display of the time-honoured art of quick change.

Arturo’s own distinct brands of humour and charm combine with eye-popping illusions in a show that tells the story of a famed entertainer whose memories of his illustrious career come to life.

Well, what a bizarre night. Him Indoors was convinced that we were going to see Ennio Marchetto even though I’d done my best to persuade him otherwise. Trouble is, I couldn’t come up with his name to do a google search, and the keywords “Italian paper costumes” didn’t really come up with any possibilities. So, we didn’t get to see someone lip-synching Britney Spears and Edith Piaf. Which was a shame.

Having said that, it looked like the audience was doing its best to provide a display of outrageous outfits anyway. Five rows in front we had the old chap in a broadly-striped boating blazer and tie made of exactly the same material so he looked like at least one of his parents had been a deckchair, next to whom was a VERY expensively coiffured woman who looked like she should have been at the opera instead. Immediately in front of us we had the Scum Family, complete with 16 year old son wearing a Burberry Alice band, to the left an impassive Italian with the biggest afro I’ve ever seen on a white man. To the right, an old guy in carpet slippers and a slightly grubby parka (who took a tube of Rolos out of his pocket, opened it, put one in his mouth, put the tube back in his pocket, chewed the Rolo, swallowed it, took the tube out of his pocket, opened it, put one in his mouth…. repeat until tube empty, then drop wrapping on the floor), in the row immediately behind a black guy wearing dark glasses and a trilby. Somewhere off to the right a pair of very expensively suited Suits next to four Japanese lady tourists of decreasing height looking like those wooden dolls you unscrew to find a smaller one inside and, three rows behind us, Bobby Davro (mums and dads, boys and girls!), who spent the entire evening laughing in the manner of Zippy from Rainbow. So, the bello mondo, the alto mondo, the meta-mondo – tutti, in fact. I think the phrase they use in Theatre-speak is “heavily papered, dharling” – either that or the management were standing on Charing Cross Road with an extremely large butterfly net and dragging in anyone they could catch with it. In fact, we were the only normal people there.

Brachetti’s show is a strange thing, neither fish nor fowl. Essentially he is a quick-change artist/magician, and if you had seen one of his routines involving magic tricks, quick change, shadow puppetry etc on something like the Royal Variety Performance (not that any of my readers would ever watch such a thing) it would completely blow you away. But two hours of it and you start to get desensitised to exactly how incredible the whole thing is. Another problem is that his material is essentially old-fashioned variety but wrapped up in a modern theatrical way; I had to describe it later to someone as a stainless steel gift box with a copy of The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady inside – the two elements feel forced together and somewhat at odds with each other. And because of this, I think that the audience didn’t really know how to react to a lot of it. I mean, what would you make of going to the theatre and sitting watching someone making shadow puppets of bunnies and elephants on a big screen? Yes, I bet the Victorians would have loved it…Him Indoors, of course, loved it but then Him Indoors loves Ken Dodd, for pete’s sake.

Another problem with Brachetti’s material is that it is very uneven. Some of it is brilliant, highly entertaining in a kind of “end of the pier show” kinda way, with spectacular routines involving magic and mind-bogglingly fast costume changes. But this takes a long time to arrive – the first long section of the evening is merely him assuming different characters via costume changes and – basically – standing there waiting for the applause. Which sometimes fails to come. The “linking device” between each section is a rather grandiose multimedia “dialogue” between his “older self” and his “younger self” about “the final transformation”, which turns out to be death itself; all this feels laboured and completely at odd with what we are actually there in the theatre to see. The long end section is based around, and laden with references to, Fellini’s films, starting with The Clowns, then moving to 9½, La Dolce Vita and La Strada. Now, like it or not and however much theatregoers might like to deceive themselves and others about how well they know the works of Fellini, this fell spectacularly flat as it flew completely over the head of the vast majority of people.

The best section was undoubtedly the opening of the second half – a long, visually witty and extremely funny tribute to some of Hollywood’s greatest films. Using the enormous spinning “box of tricks” on the stage as an ever changing backdrop with projected images, doors, windows, ladders and screens, Brachetti proceeds to affectionately send up Nosferatu, Casablanca, The Wizard of Oz, The Sound of Music, Gone with the Wind, Carmen Miranda films, Shrek, Star Wars, the Harry Potter films, Frankenstein, Lord of the Rings, Titanic, King Kong, Jaws, ET and Cabaret (among others) in an almost never-ending stream of visual jokes and costume changes. Because the very vast majority of these films are cross-cultural references, everyone “got” practically every joke and I thought Bobby Davro (mums and dads, boys and girls!) was going to wet himself. It was brilliant – exceptionally clever, wonderfully paced and something I would happily sit and watch again. Unfortunately, it was followed by the Fellini sequence and this completely deflated the audience again. All in all, the evening was very much like the “Curate’s Egg” – good in parts. But parts of it definitely didn’t work for me, or for many other people by the sound of the very muted applause at times.

Still, I did manage to send an email today to the theatre journalist who wrote an article for the programme and correct a couple of points he made about two Shakespeare plays. Which was nice.

What the critics thought:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/theatre/theatre-reviews/6447934/Arturo-Brachetti-Change-at-the-Garrick-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2009/oct/29/arturo-brachetti-change-review

http://thepublicreviews.blogspot.com/2009/10/arturo-brachetti-change-garrick-theatre.html

http://www.thestage.co.uk/reviews/review.php/26014/arturo-brachetti-change