Moonlight and Magnolias -Tricycle Theatre Kilburn, Monday 14th July 2008

Synopsis:

Three weeks into the filming of Gone With the Wind, producer David O. Selznick has halted production, dissatisfied with an inferior screenplay and a director whose style and pace are not in harmony with his own. Recognizing that his professional reputation, financial stability, societal status and even the fate of his family rest on the success of this enormous and risky project, Selznick summons the proven “script doctor” Ben Hecht and larger-than-life director Victor Fleming to his studio offices, determined to engage their services.

But obstacles soon arise - Hecht has not read the novel and is convinced that a Civil War picture will never make money. Fleming is in the middle of filming The Wizard of Oz and questions whether anyone — especially Hecht who is unfamiliar with the characters and the plot — is up to the monumental task of reducing a 1,030-page book into a 130-page screenplay. Enticed by the promise of a sizeable fee, Hecht reluctantly agrees to devote five days to the project; contracted under the studio system, Fleming has no other choice but to agree. With nothing but a stockpile of peanuts and bananas, Selznick locks the three men into his office and they begin the marathon creative session....

Oh the irony! I bet Trevor Nunn is spitting feathers. His multi-million pound production of Gone With The Wind closes after only 79 performances, while this tiny four-hander about the writing of the film is back at the Tricycle Theatre "by popular demand" and is playing to capacity audiences. It matters not one whit that the audience seems to be largely composed of Jewish matrons with lacquered coiffures backcombed to buggery and men wearing M&S summer jackets and toops so unconvincing that I had to be physically restrained at one point from pointing and shouting out "Wi.....ggyy, wi.....ggy!".

Given the subject matter, the popularity of the show and its source and the fact that it counterpointed the Nunn production to perfection, I thought I would love this. And I tried really hard, I really did. The evening got off to a really bad start thanks to the Tricycles policy of having all seats unreserved, making for an unholy scramble for seats, lots of saving of same with handbags, coats and programmes for latecomers and quite a lot of "Is that seat taken?" gesticulating by several mad old bags directed at people on the other side of the auditorium who weren't wearing their glasses and couldn't see that they were being gesticulated at. Him Indoors said that "People enjoy the fun of having unreserved seats - its so un-English". Well, I remain to be convinced of the "fun" of said scramble and demand the owners of the theatre damned well print numbers on their tickets. Its not as if the Tricycle is the Albert Hall, for chrissakes - it seats about 15. Or that's what it feels like. There's a small balcony (constructed of scaffolding) over which people flop like they're part of a Punch and Judy show, leading one of the more vocal idiots behind me to start a loud conversation with her friends about "ooooh, its just like being at the Globe! Have you ever been to the Globe? We have. Oh, what fun!" No, madam, its not like being at the Globe. The Globe performs Shakespeare, its not just off Kilburn High Road and its clientele dont perch their oversized bottoms on the backrest of your seat while they witter on to Judith and Manny from the Bridge Club, so sit down and belt up before I stick your umbrella where the sun dont' shine.

*Takes deep breath* OK, having got that off my chest...As I said, I really tried to like this. I was actually looking forward to it. But after 10 minutes or so, I was sitting there losing the will to live. Around me, the entire audience were practically screaming with laughter like hyaenas on LSD, fanning themselves with the programmes and gasping for breath, while I sat there increasingly bewildered, cross and completely unable to see what was so funny. OK, the script is quite amusing, that I will concede - but it was played so broad that, for me, it came perilously close to farce. There was more mugging on stage than you'd get on a Saturday night in a pub full of hoodies. Eyebrows were raised constantly (usually at the end of a line and with the dialogue given an upward inflexion) to such an extent that I thought they might fall off. The only thing that was missing was a sign saying "Funny line!" This show has a well written, intelligent and interesting script and, given the calibre of some of the performances, could be far better, wittier, cleverer and much more interesting if the performances were "pulled back" by about 75%. When you have a good script, entertaining worth listening to, dealing with a subject you know a bit about and enjoy and full of ideas, you don't need a custard pie in the face accompanied by "Wah waaah waaaaah waaaaaaaaah" from the orchestra pit (not that there was an orchestra pit, you understand - fortunately, for Him Indoors insisted on sitting in the middle of the front row so that I had to crane my neck up to see the stage and saw lots of the actors' nasal hair and not much else).

And then, of course, the three writers decide to lock themselves in the office for five days, with only huge piles of bananas and peanuts to sustain themselves. Cue dozens of rubber "banana skins" being hurled over the set during the blackout, with several bags of monkey nuts strewed about. At this point, the audience went into such paroxysms of hysteria ("Oh, Rachael, look! They're throwing banana skins about!") that I thought someone was going to do permanent damage to their colostomy bag. Thankfully, the performances became slightly more subdued and natural half way through Act 2, and the dialogue began to show itself for what it was - interesting, well written and with a lot to say about the film industry and the writing process. But, by then, I had more or less given up the will to live.

The best person on stage was Andy Nyman, playing David Selznick - but only during the moments when he wasn't gurning, flailing about, screeching or generally over-acting. I just wanted to slap Duncan Bell, guilty of all the above in spades. All that he was missing was a Whoopee Cushion and his performance would have been complete.

The title "Moonlight and Magnolias" is a quotation from the film (it doesnt appear in the book, giving the lie to the play's assertion that only Mitchell's original dialogue was used) - Rhett, having realised that Scarlett is trying to pull a fast one on him to get his money while he's in jail, says "You can drop the moonlight and magnolias, Scarlett, because it isn't working". And Moonlight and Magnolias didn't work for me either.

What the critics said:

All the critics were universally adoring (god only knows why) about this production - so much so that I really didn't see the point of putting any links. If you're that interested, go Google.

Marguerite – Theatre Royal, Haymarket, Friday 11th July 2008

Synopsis:

Marguerite is the beautiful and notorious mistress of a high ranking German officer. Armand is a young musician half her age who falls obsessively in love with her. Their dangerous love story is played out against the background ofOccupied Paris.

First there was La Dame aux Camellias (a novel). Then came La Traviata (an opera), followed by Camille (a film), followed by Marguerite and Armand (a ballet), then Moulin Rouge (a stage musical, later turned into a film). Now we have Marguerite, (billed as an “adult musical”) – the latest incarnation of a story that has been doing the rounds ever since God was a boy. Do we really need it? Do we really need another doomed romance set against the backdrop of Occupied France with a chorus of French Collaborators, Nasty Nazis and members of the Resistance? Do we really need one more version of the tragically misunderstood tart with a heart coughing her guts up in a red frock? From the sound of the rather lukewarm applause this production received, I would say that the answer is probably no. The whole exercise just seemed rather… pointless, really. There’s nothing new to be said, the story’s been told. Making Marguerite the mistress of a high-ranking Nazi and Armand the piano player in a cabaret band which consists of him, his little sister (in the Resistance) and her Jewish boyfriend is frankly trying to pad out the story with extra layers of “Who’s going to get hurt?” and playing on our Secret Army/Schindler’s List/Sophie’s Choice fetish. Not to ruin the plot, Marguerite sets up the Nasty Nazi so that the Resistance can murder him, but of course, nobody realises that she's behind it until its too late..... Its just Romeo and Juliet all over again, with a bit of Cinderella thrown in for good measure (you know, unrecognised virtue and all that). Add some wildly atonal music, pitched way too high for the leading lady and that makes everybody else sound like they are having major note-pitching problems, and you're in trouble of losing your audience.

There were some high spots – Julian Ovenden made a stunning Armand, easily hitting notes so high and sustained that several bats fell out of the roof. The producer got the whole package here – shoulders to die for, boyish good looks, a fantastic voice and acting skills too. The only problem was that I found him just a little bit too anodyne to be truly convincing – a little more fire in the belly was needed, I think – because he mainly came across more as being Michael Ball than a passionate, artistic, tortured soul. And a costume note for the Director – men with shoulders and abs like that don’t keep their vest on while shagging. Alexander Hanson was smoothly and believably evil as Otto, the Nasty Nazi, making one wonder why he couldn’t have brought more to the role of Captain von Trapp in The Sound of Music a couple of years back. The rest of the cast struggled to overcome the sheer cardboardness of their roles – Plucky Bicycle Riding Jews With Pigtails, Arrogant Profiteer etc – to really make an impact, although Annalene Beechey did sing really well as Annette (the plucky bicycle riding Jew with pigtails).

And Ruthie – what of Ruthie? Well, I run into difficulty here. For me, Ruthie is usually one of the residents of the They Who Can Do No Wrong hall of fame, and it feels slightly disloyal to run her performance down. But she sounded strained, as if the role was too high for her, and seemed to be relying on gawky, slightly faded charm rather than the glamour which the role demands. I dunno – maybe this is the wrong vehicle for her, or maybe I was just so generally disenchanted with the “seen it/heard it/bought the T shirt” aspect of the evening that she failed to ignite the usual sparks of adoration.

At the end, the audience reaction was slightly too OTT to be quite credible this far into the show’s run, leading me to think that the house had been slightly “papered” (filled out with people on complementary tickets), and the game of “Boo The Nazi Baddie When He Takes His Bow At The End” a bit naff. I won’t be rushing to see this again.

What the critics thought:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre/reviews/marguerite-theatre-royal-haymarket-london-832012.html

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/marguerite_0508.htm

http://www.thelondonpaper.com/cs/Satellite/london/culture/article/1157151857089?packedargs=suffix%3DArticleController

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/theatre/drama/reviews/story/0,,2281191,00.html

SIX POUNDS FOR A PROGRAMME?

SIX POUNDS? Now come on, I know that the last time I went to the Haymarket they were charging £4.00, which was bad enough (see my review for The Lady from Dubuque as I believe I may have commented there on the price of the programme) – but SIX?? I even saw an American reel back white-faced from a programme seller; he finally managed to croak “Don’t you have any cheaper ones?” As he’d paid nearly $100 for his seat, even I felt a slight sympathy for the bloke – but not that much; if you're a broke but canny theatre-goer, there are ways and means....

Honestly, without wanting to rant on about this (oh, alright then, you persuaded me), its an economic downturn, for chrissakes. If you want to pack your theatre out with punters, then its no good making a night out financially beyond Mr. and Mrs. Joe Public. Add on a couple of interval drinks and maybe an ice-cream, plus your travel costs there and back and you’re not looking at much (if any) change from £150 – and that’s before you’ve had anything to eat (mind you, this is probably why The Stockpot in Panton Street was heaving with punters; it may not be Gordon Ramsey and the waitress looked like she had just clambered out of the big wicker hamper marked “Muppet Show Rejects”, but money’s money). I remember the days when you could get a programme and an orange squash for 3d and still have change for a fish supper on the way home. Catherine Tate has recently said much the same thing – about ticket prices, not about fish suppers – and although the cynical part of me thinks that it was merely a plugging device (“Catherine Tate, star of Doctor Who, who is shortly appearing in whatever it is at the Doobry Theatre, lashed out at high ticket prices today….”), what she says is very true, and never truer when we’re all having to give up the third foreign holiday, pull the sprog out of drama school and get him a job on the Pick’n’Mix Counter at Woolworths and drink tap water in restaurants just in order to pay the friggin’ gas bill.

Oh yes, it’s a very nice programme – big, glossy, 12 pages of colour photographs, three pretentious background articles of the kind that one normally finds in programmes at the National Theatre, just the sort of souvenir that I’d be happy to have of something like The Sound of Music or Wicked – but I baulk at paying £6.00 for a “souvenir programme” of yet another rehash of La Dame aux bloody Camellias. Even the Royal Opera House doesn’t charge that much.

OK, I know putting on a show isn’t cheap, especially if there’s an orchestra in the pit to pay for as well, but come on, producers, why not pile it high and sell it cheap? Otherwise, you run the risk of half empty houses, a “papered” auditorium or a much shorter run than you would like. None of which are good for the business. Even though its recently been reported that sales of tickets for big musicals are booming (mainly thanks to I’d Do Anything to Solve a Problem Like Joseph Lloyd-Webber and all its wretched progeny), I don’t see why we punters should be bled dry just because we want something to read in the interval. Mind you, there’s an opening there for some savvy east end would-be entrepreneur – setting up shop outside renting out programmes, two pahnd a shot guvner, twenny percent discahnt if you bring it back at ‘arf time, extra fifty pee reduction if it ain’t all covered in greasy fingermarks, one for the missus as well? There’s an episode of “The Apprentice” there somewhere.

The Chalk Garden - Donmar Warehouse - Friday 6th June 2008

Synopsis:

The eccentric Mrs. St. Maugham potters about her country estate, watching over her granddaughter Laurel (who seems to be developing a taste for pyromania) and her beloved garden, even though nothing she plants there seems to thrive. The troubled adolescent, whose mother Olivia has recently announced her intention to marry the father of her expected child, has frightened away several governesses until the enigmatic Miss Madrigal is hired, a woman with a secret past. Upstairs, the bedridden former butler still manages to exert his control over the household, including Maitland, the new manservant; the fact that he has served a prison sentence in the past is known only to Laurel. Mrs. St. Maugham invites a former beau, now an elderly judge, to lunch - and Miss Madrigal recognises him....

I admit I got my wires slightly crossed here. I impressed everyone at work with my culture and erudition saying that we were off to see yet another play by Brecht – and then of course realised that I had got “The Chalk Garden” mixed up with “The Caucasian Chalk Circle”, so there was a bit of backtracking to do the next day at the water cooler! Durr!

What I got (rather than the expected gloom) was a slightly odd mix of 50s high comedy, country house thriller and deep psychological brooding – not perhaps seen from the best angle, thanks to the Donmar’s rather oddly placed balcony, but I can assure you that the top of Penelope Wilton’s head is very pretty indeed! It did take me about 20 minutes to re-jig my mindset to accommodate the style of the play from what I was expecting – and even then I think I was slightly wrong-footed by the fact that the first part of this play borders perilously close on farce. Just as I had sorted myself out and re-tuned my ear to the sheer speed of what, had it been played very slightly slower, would obviously have been incredibly witty and dextrous dialogue (don’t laugh at one line or you’ll miss the next – Maggie Tyzack’s first line is a shouted enquiry from offstage about the possible whereabouts of her false teeth!), the mood of the play darkens and it all gets a bit “sub-Agatha-Christie”. A directorial decision had been made to present all three acts with no intervals between, which I think helped the thrust of the play a great deal – had it been presented more “traditionally”, a lot of the brooding “will she, won’t she?” tension could well have gone for nothing. But it does need to slow down a little so you can actually relax into the dialogue.

In terms of performances, it was a straight three-horse race between Maggie Tyzack, Penelope Wilton and the astonishing Felicity Jones. The latter can’t be more than in her very early 20’s, but she gave an incredibly powerful performance – half gangly, spoilt girl, half creepy, intense young woman – and was incredibly “watchable” from start to finish. She’s certainly been taught that “less is definitely more”, because most of her acting seemed to be taking place in her eyes. Maggie Tyzack wobbled about the stage rather like a latter-day Lady Bracknell, fussing and carping and worry-budgeting like an elderly, slightly bedraggled hen with only one chick, denying reality with every breath. And Penelope Wilton – winner of one of my They Who Can Do No Wrong awards – just WAS. This is definitely an actress who knows the value of being still and communicating with her expressions – this was a wonderful performance of repressed intensity, often delivered in a flat monotone of supreme world-weariness. I’ve always thought that PW is one of our neglected treasures; in a just world, she’d be up there being feted with the greats like Judi Dench. Sign the petition now! Come on – she deserves an award just for having been married to that Uberswine Ian Holm.

Loved the set as well – a vast conservatory, decked out with shelves, living room furniture, potting racks and all the detritus that you’ll find in the “engine room” of a fanatical gardener. The eponymous chalk garden is not seen – merely suggested by an all encompassing haze of white through the windows, like the fog that clouds all our judgements. Just one tiny note for the props buyer – when the script refers to Madonna lilies, make sure that you don’t use Lilium longiflorum; some nitpicker with ivy leaves on his business card is bound to notice.

What the critics thought:

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23394966-details/The+Chalk+Garden/showReview.do?reviewId=23494131
(probably the first time EVER that Nicholas De Jongh has given five stars!)

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2008/06/10/review-the-chalk-garden-donmar-warehouse/
(the director has obviously put in an interval since the previews)

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/chalk-garden_0608.htm

The Revenger's Tragedy - National Theatre, Saturday 31st May 2008

Synopsis:

Renaissance Italy (or is it modern Italy, or indeed a blend of both?) The main character is Vindice who lives away from the court. The Duke poisoned Vindice's beloved nine years ago because she resisted him. His father has recently died from the Duke's unkindness. Vindice learns from his brother Hippolito that the Duke's eldest son Lussurioso is looking for an unscrupulous servant. He disguises himself with the name Piato and gets the job, which he finds involves seducing for Lussurioso his and Hippolito's chaste sister Castiza. The Duchess had three sons by a previous marriage, the Duke has one bastard, Spurio. Her Younger Son has raped the wife of a lord, Antonio; the woman killed herself, the Son is now in prison. The Duchess is wooing Spurio. Vindice is happy to find that Castiza is incorruptible, shocked to find their Mother eager to change her mind (she later repents). He reports to Lussurioso that he overheard the Duchess and Spurio agreeing to sleep together; Lussurioso breaks into the bedroom but find the Duke, his Father, with the Duchess. He is arrested for attempted assassination. The Duchess's two other sons hate Lussurioso; they forge an order for their "Brother's" execution. Only the Duke has forgiven Lussurioso and set him free; the only "Brother" remaining in prison is their Younger Brother, who is duly executed. The Duke asks Vindice to find him a chaste woman he can corrupt. In a secret place, Vindice gets the Duke to kiss a mask containing the skull of his own dead lady. Poison is hidden in its mouth, and as the Duke slowly dies he sees his wife and Spurio together. Lussurioso sacks "Piato" for his mistake and Vindice offers to "take his place" under his own name. His first job is to murder Piato. He and Hippolito dress the Duke's body in Piato's clothes and Piato is assumed to have escaped after killing him. Lussurioso becomes Duke, banishes the Duchess, and throws a party. Vindice and Hippolito play a masque, during which they kill Lussurioso and his three companions. The Duchess's sons with Spurio, arriving with a similar plan, find Lussurioso dead and kill each other over their claims to be Duke. Antonio becomes Duke and tries to understand what has happened. Vindice hopes to be praised by Antonio, assuming that he too wanted revenge, and boastfully tells what they did. Antonio fears for his own life and orders their immediate execution.

OK, I admit it, I was expecting to be bored rigid by this play. But even I'm allowed to be wrong sometimes. Having almost literally thrown myself in my seat after the route march from Waterloo station (when going to the theatre with Him Indoors, one is late at one's peril), I was fighting to regain my breath when I had what little was left of it taken away by the wonderful opening of this production. Loud, funky music of the kind that I am occasionally to be found bopping away like a loon to on a Saturday night out was totally unexpected but counterpointed the vaguely period sets and modern costumes wonderfully. So, here we have our revolving set, the stage divided into three equal segments like bits of a cake. Make each of the dividing lines a corridor running between two adjacent pieces. Set the stage turning, and people the rooms and corridors with libertines, drug takers, sexual predators and victims, oral sex, dark intrigue, corruption, rape, blackmail and other types of human vice, and you have an overview of complete depravity spiralling out of control - rather like the palace scene in Rigoletto should be, but rarely is. Set all this in front of a courtroom fresco of Truth and Evidence, or a luscious red leather banquette topped with a column carrying a statue of the Virgin, and the irony becomes almost unbearable. I loved the way that all this lush depravity was contrasted with the stark, poverty-struck simplicity of Gratiana's home, the walls decorated only with the non-faded squares of wallpaper over which family portraits had previously hung. The one remaining picture - all that could be salvaged from the wreckage- had been stripped of its valuable frame which left only its ghost behind. Neither had the bookshelves survived - their the remains of their treasured cargo piled up around the fringes of the room like flotsam. One particular piece of direction that I particularly appreciated was the "epilogue" after the text comes to its end - updates of several of the characters and how they react to the various pieces of news that come their way, for good or ill, were presented in mime, and rounded off the shocking, rather sudden ending perfectly.

Anyway, loved the costumes as well - most of them had that "sad fashion victim" look about them - silver trainers, winkle pickers, skinny cut jeans, suit jackets with the sleeves rolled up, contrasting well with the "slimy executive look" of over-shiny suits and highly polished shoes, with tie and hanky matching.

Of the players, two come away with my "TWCDNW" (They Who Can Do No Wrong) award I have recently instigated. Rory Kinnear goes from strength to strength as regards both his ability to act almost everyone else off the stage and to flash up different facets of a character like a brightly-lit diamond, with the shadows just as brilliantly highlighted. I've loved Barbara Flynn ever since I first saw the TV adaptation of The Barchester Chronicles many years ago - you may well have seen her in several period series since, such as Cranford and He Knew He Was Right, as well as playing Rene Zelleweger's mother in the film Miss Potter, or from her TV voiceover work, and she gave an excellent, funny and moving account of her character here (even though I did (briefly) mistake her for Zoe Wannamaker!). Also brilliant was Elliot Cowan as the sexually and politically ambiguous Lussurioso and Jamie Parker as Hippolito. Given such a generally good looking cast, it was difficult to see how Katherine Manners' Castiza could have inspired such lust, as I thought she would have been more suited to portraying one of the runners in the 3.40 from Haydock.

Add a (mostly) brilliant cast to great sets, interesting costumes, gore by the bucket and deaths by the dozen, and its hard indeed to see why the couple in front failed to return to their seats after the interval.

What the critics thought:

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/revenger_0608.htm
http://arts.guardian.co.uk/theatre/drama/reviews/story/0,,2284228,00.html?gusrc=rss&feed=41

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre/reviews/the-revengers-tragedy-olivier-national-theatre-london-841251.html?r=RSS

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2008/06/05/review-the-revengers-tragedy-national-theatre/

Feerie - Moulin Rouge, Paris - Wednesday 28th May 2008

Lovers of camp the world over - hie yourself along to one of the most famous nightclubs in the world and overdose on feathers, beads, G-strings and sweat!

A visit to the famous “Red Windmill” was our “last night of the holiday” treat – the 9pm show was sold out completely at least a month beforehand, and there were only a few tickets left for the 11pm show, so we decided to become Gentlemen of the Night for the evening. Unfortunately, CBB failed to realise that the MR is in the middle of one of the most famous red light districts in Europe and had somewhat of a prissy hissy fit when it transpired that being a boulevardier for half an hour or so might mean “being importuned by prossies”. Some people, eh? So, while he scuttled along in the shadows (surely the worst place to scuttle?), I managed to beat him by three “Looking for a good time, Mister?”s to nil – one of whom was from a particularly aesthetic looking chappie – if I’d had the time and a couple of euros spare, this review might never have been written… Anyway, all attempts at getting CBB to sit down at a pavement café, chill out and watch the world and his pickup go by having failed, we headed for the MR – and it was probably a good job that we did, as the queue was already stretching well along the street, to the consternation of several café owners (if we’d been there any longer, we could have probably had moules frites and a coffee while remaining stationary in the queue) and the managers of the review La Grand Prix de Monte Carla, the posters for which showed that it was really “Oooh la la, there go my pantalons” by any other name - none of the audience, when they came out, getting mixed up with our queue in the process, looked as if they had laughed any great deal. Really, tout le monde were in the queue – Americans (you mean we’ve really got to join this queue? We’re from Bedillybong, Idaho!), Russians, Chinese, Germans, Brits; in fact, everyone except the French who stared as everyone in the line with that “looking down the nose in a superior fashion at the tourists” kind of way they have. By 10.50pm, the queue was down the road and then some, and people were getting distinctly edgy. At 11pm exactly, the doors swung open and an excited buzz went up. The curtains opened at 11.30pm, to a chorus of popping champagne corks and muttering from people who thought they’d been put at bad tables.

And what a show it was. An acquaintance of ours had reported that, having seen the show earlier that year, he “hadn’t noticed” that the girls (collectively known as “The Dorris Girls”) were bare-chested until about half way through “because it was done so tastefully”. I’d made loud scornful noises, but I have to say that I could see what he meant. There was absolutely nothing sleazy or seedy about any of the show – yes, there were many perky boobs on show, but it was about as raunchy as a vicarage garden party. In a fab way, though.

The show started with a bizarre act in which all the girls were decked out in tomato red feathers – in fact, some of them did look just like tomatoes for a while as the feathers were curled round their upper bodies, although they “dropped” later to become long feathery skirts. The boys were in silver lame toppers and tails, but ripped their trousers off a la The Full Monty very quickly! The next routine was a slightly bizarre number that started off with the entire cast camping it around as sparkly pirates – then the backdrop changed to The King and I on LSD and costumes went brief, camp and glittery – sort of Scherezade and Indiana Jones meet Chu Chin Chow and Carry On up the Khyber. There were some amazingly OTT deep blue Conquistadors (both male and female) prancing about the stage briefly, and then we seemed to be in the Temple of Medusa – at which point a see through water tank filled with pythons actually rose from the stage! A scantily clad young lady then jumped in and proceeded to do underwater acrobatics – I noted that the snakes didn’t really seem particularly bothered! On a 1 – 10 scale of camp, this number went completely off the scale!

In order to cool everyone in the audience down (by now we were all at least halfway through the champagne and getting into the swing of things), we then got a solo act involving ping pong balls. No, its not what you think – the chap actually juggled them with his throat! He swallowed one, shot it about four feet in the air and then caught it back in his throat – and then proceeded to do the same thing with three balls at once. I tell you what – it was filthy!

Then on to the big Act 1 Finale – Au Cirque Dorris! Firstly there were some distinctly creepy clowns, managed by a distinctly horny Ringmaster. Then “Olga and her lions” – human lions with big, bronze feathered headdresses all covered in spangles, then a rather bizarre and somewhat distasteful “Siamese Twins” act – two girls in one big dress between them (which I don’t think most of the audience knew quite how to react to. It certainly wasn’t funny and, I think, fell rather on its face. Then six girls in very skimpy “Jockey” costumes each led a miniature horse (each with full complement of feathered headdresses!) across the stage – and of course the audience went completely wild. I’ve said it before in reviews – you can put on the most spectacular production and blast people from their seats, but bring on some kind of cute animal and the rest of the production will go unnoticed as the audience go totally beserk! Bring on SIX cute animals and you might just as well give up competing with them because, cherie, the punters just ain’t looking at you no more!

After a short interval, during which the audience had to collectively take aspirin in order to calm themselves down, Act II started with the classic Moulin Rouge “Can Can” – and theres absolutely no need whatever to describe this because it was everything (and more) that you would expect, culminating in absolutely everyone on stage (I think there were 70, but they wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to count them accurately!) doing the splits and “whoop”ing and “Oh la la”ing their heads off. Fantabulous! There was a rather strange “Homage to Women” number which started with the girls in rather revealing versions of turn of the century costumes, moving through the 20s, 40s and 50s and which ended up, bizarrely, with all the men in leather trousers, body harnesses and black leather caps. Finally there was another “big feathers and spangly G-strings” number – this time in shocking pink – and just when you thought it couldn’t possibly get ANY camper, all the women’s headdresses actually lit up! Superlatives failed me at this point and the audience went completely AWOL, as you might expect. We staggered out into the night squiffy and elated – but not squiffy enough for me to disregard an unopened bottle of Moulin Rouge Champagne on a nearby table - it left under my jacket. C’est manifique!

The Good Woman of Szechuan - Young Vic, Monday 12th May 2008

Synopsis:

The play opens with Wang, a water carrier, explaining to the audience that he is on the city outskirts awaiting the foretold appearance of several important gods. Soon the gods arrive and ask Wang to find them shelter for the night. They are tired, having traveled far and wide in search of good people who still live according to the principles that they, the gods, have handed down. Instead they have found only greed, evil, dishonesty, and selfishness. The same turns out to be true in Sichuan: no one will take them in, no one has the time or means to care for others - no one except the poor young Shen Te, whose pure inherent charity cannot allow her to turn away anyone in need.

Shen Te is rewarded for her hospitality, as the gods take it as a sure sign of goodness. They give her money and she buys a humble tobacco shop which they intend as both gift and test: will Shen Te be able to maintain her goodness with these newfound means, however slight they may be? If she succeeds, the gods' confidence in humanity would be restored. Though at first Shen Te seems to live up the gods' expectations, her generosity quickly turns her small shop into a messy, overcrowded poorhouse which attracts crime and police supervision. In a sense, Shen Te quickly fails the test, as she is forced to introduce the invented cousin Shui Ta as overseer and protector of her interests. Shen Te dons a costume of male clothing, a mask, and a forceful voice to take on the role of Shui Ta. Shui Ta arrives at the shop, coldly explains that his cousin has gone out of town on a short trip, curtly turns out the hangers-on, and quickly restores order to the shop.

At first, Shui Ta only appears when Shen Te is in a particularly desperate situation, but as the action of the play develops, Shen Te becomes unable to keep up with the demands made on her and is overwhelmed by the promises she makes to others. Therefore she is compelled to call on her cousin's services for longer periods until at last her true persona seems to be consumed by her cousin's severity. Where Shen Te is soft, compassionate, and vulnerable, Shui Ta is unemotional and pragmatic, even vicious; it seems that only Shui Ta is made to survive in the world in which they live. In what seems no time at all, he has built her humble shop into a full-scale tobacco factory with many employees.

Eventually one of the employees hears Shen Te crying, but when he enters only Shui Ta is present. The employee demands to know what he has done with Shen Te, and when he cannot prove where she is, he is taken to court on the charge of having hidden or possibly murdered his cousin. The townspeople also discover a bundle of Shen Te's clothing under Shui Ta's desk, which makes them even more suspicious. During the process of her trial, the gods appear in the robes of the judges, and Shui Ta says that he will make a confession if the room is cleared except for the judges. When the townspeople have gone, Shen Te reveals herself to the gods, who are confronted by the dilemma that their seemingly arbitrary divine behavior has caused: they have created impossible circumstances for those who wish to live "good" lives, yet they refuse to intervene directly to protect their followers from the vulnerability that this "goodness" engenders.

Welcome back! Im writing this about three weeks after the event, as Ive been on holiday and far too busy enjoying myself to write theatre reviews! So apologies if its a bit sketchy on the details.

First good point was that the interior of the Young Vic has been completely and totally re-jigged, from being a theatre in the round to a proscenium arch clad with plywood representing the interior of an inhuman, soul destroying cement factory (the sense of shock, particularly to those familiar with the Young Vic, is quite profound). Rather than entering the auditorium from the back and sides as usual, the audience end up entering at the back of the stage and having to walk down through mimed action of endless drudgery to the seats - not the usual padded and comfy ones, but row on row of battered plastic chairs. As you climb down the steps to your chair, you are scrutinised by a timekeeper in a glass cabinet - all of which adds to your sense of alienation. The set is bleak, the chairs are ruddy uncomfortable, the walls of the set are lined with old lockers, there are dozens and dozen of teenagers in the audience (this must be a set text for A level EngLit!) .... it doesnt look like its going to be a comfy ride. I suppose this is all meant to increase the sense of bleakness and futility of life (particularly when surrounded by A level students). And this is provided in buckets, as Shen Te's life lurches from awful to bearable to good, back to awful and then to bloody awful and beyond. This being Brecht, there's lots of "bloody awful" as she is variously humiliated, imposed upon and betrayed, only finding happiness in the discovery that he is with child. Little compensation when her lover is robbing her blind and her business is sold for practically nothing. The bleakness all gets a little too heavy-handed sometimes, and this very stark, almost brutal production never allievates this dark view of the world.

I liked the multi-purpose set - lockers become front doors out of which various residents of Szechuan pop, the gap between the front row of seats and the stage becomes various alleyways along which people scuttle, a filing cabinet opens out to become a teahouse to provide shelter from a rainstorm, Shen Te's little tobacco shop is slyly jazzed up with different kinds of lights reflecting the upwards or downwards situation of her life. I also liked the doubling up of cast members - playing completely different characters with just a subtle change of clothes or make up. And, surprisingly, I enjoyed the actual story - in fact, I got so engrossed at one point that I actually stopped registering the "production".

I forget the name of the chap who played the Water Seller, but he was terrific, playing the role as a slightly backward, concentration-impoverished half idiot. One of the female gods was played by a teacher from Grange Hill, which was a little disconcerting. I kept expecting her to shout "Tucker Jenkins, detention!". Jane Horrocks .... hmmmm.... well, she makes a totally unconvincing man, for one thing. And the other thing is that there is just that little bit too much of Jane Horrocks/Bubble to make her portrayal completely convincing. I suppose that we are all too familiar with her TV persona to see her as anything other than a slightly ditzy actress who pouts a lot and speaks with a slightly Northern accent.

I enjoyed the actual play, I think, rather more than I enjoyed this particular production. What with Gods, prostitutes and Water Carriers, I think I was expecting something more of a traditional Chinese Fable sort of setting – which would have lent an “everything changes, everything stays the same” feel to the evening. Even bleaker than the play itself was the overshadowing fact that, although this play may paint a grim picture of Szechuan, conditions in the real province of Szechuan were even grimmer that night.

It was quite a raw evening all said, and I'm not 100% sure that I completely understood what Brecht was aiming at when he wrote the play - unless its "life is complete shit in a gloomy, Russian kind of way".

One comment which I overheard at the end from one of those poncey A level students trying to impress his friends: "I liked it, but only because it was Brecht. If it hadn't of [sic] been Brecht, it would have been rubbish". Plus ca change!

What the critics thought:

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/theatre/drama/reviews/story/0,,2280488,00.html

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/szechuan_0508.htm

http://webcowgirl.wordpress.com/2008/05/13/review-of-the-good-soul-of-szechuan-with-jane-horrocks-young-vic/

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article3939130.ece