Madame de Sade - Donmar Theatre @ Wyndhams - Friday 13th March 2009

Synopsis:

Against her mother's wishes, Renee remains vehemently devoted to her husband, the Marquis de Sade, the notorious aristocrat imprisoned in the Bastille for his lurid escapades and licentious behaviour.

Cast:
Judi Dench ( Madame Montreuil)
Rosamund Pike (Renee)
Frances Barber (Comtesse de Saint-Fond)
Fiona Button (Anne)
Deborah Findlay (Baronesse de Simiane)
Jenny Galloway (Charlotte)


Well, I suppose even the Dame can be unlucky sometimes in her choice of work. Quite why one of the greatest and shiniest jewels of our stage chose this to appear in I can’t really fathom – unless she thought it would be “different”. And “different” it certainly is. Written by a Japanese chap apparently in homage to Racine, the French playwright, translated into English by a speckky academic and dealing with the life of the infamous Marquis de Sade, this isn’t so much a play as a series of tableux vivants – long, mostly static, detailed, declamatory speeches reporting the action in retrospect. That, I suppose, is why I had such trouble finding a synopsis of the play – nothing happens in it. It merely reports what has happened to the characters – they just stand around discussing it. For an hour and three quarters. With no interval. There was minimal direction – or perhaps micro-direction is a better phrase. I really don’t think it was what the vast majority of the audience were expecting – in fact, there were a couple of walk-outs. From a Judi Dench performance! Off with their heads!

Still, my buttocks were quite in sympathy – it really was a very long hour and three quarters, even for a Judi-Freak like me. The translation (forty years old – why no new translation?) was very turgid, and long sections of it sounded like they had been translated literally from the original and just slapped into the script with a Pritt Stick. It says something about the text when the most fun you get out of the evening is from admiring the costumes for a couple of minutes and then watching the lighting changes. Because otherwise there is really very little to enjoy here except for the Judi Diehards and possibly the Racine Diehards. And even the Judi Diehards would have to admit that, at last night’s performance, The Dame was not on top form. Several times she tripped over words and entire phrases, and at one point, imitated Eric Morecambe in the famous Andrew Preview sketch – she said all the right words but not necessarily in the right order. Maybe she’s like me; when I learn words for a show, I tend to link the text to the direction – and find it incredibly difficult to remember words when I’m anchored to the spot doing nothing for long stretches. But here she seemed to be fumbling for her words and consequently was unable to give the “performance” we were all expecting.

The costumes, it has to be said, were magnificent, and would have done Marie Antoinette proud. Spot on historically, beautiful and sumptuous and, cleverly, all colour-co-ordinated with each other and the lighting. Part of me wants to be of the opinion that they were all co-ordinated with the text as well – warm golds, bronzes and coppers for the first act when the French aristocrats are all bathing in the sunlight of their own self-importance, soft springtime greens and pinks in the second as, unbeknown to them, a new social order is born around them, and cold blues and greys in the third as the chill winds of Revolution blow, touched with the blade of ice that is Madame Guillotine. The only “off” point I would mention is that during the first act, The Dame was wearing an evening gown while her guests were in day dress, which looked a bit odd. And when Frances Barber made her appearance in Act 2, her enormous Marge Simpson wig was completely unadorned, where it should have sported feathers or flowers or pearls or all three. In fact, it wouldn't have been historically inaccurate to have her wig topped off with a bird cage containing finches.

The lighting was very, very effective, giving the kind of effect you get on a sunny day when a brisk wind is hurling scraps of cloud across the sun – from brightness you are plunged into sudden brief spells of darkness. And unless there was something wrong with my hearing, there was an effective sound plot as well – on occasion, speeches seemed to have a metallic echo to them. The set was the sort of thing you see so often these days - angled mirrored walls covered in tarnished and peeling silver - in fact, much like the set from the Meniere's A Little Night Music.

Audience reaction at the end of the evening was very muted, and its not difficult to see why. I think the play alienated a lot of people with its formality and lack of action and, although the pro reviews have yet to appear, predict that they will reflect this disappointment. Still reeling from the fall-out surrounding the reviews of The Taming of the Shrew, I now find myself wondering whether The Dame will be sending me malicious emails. Hope so – I’m used to being abused by old queens, but to be abused by an old Dame will be a completely different experience.

I did have a rather po-faced clip of an interview with the author here, but reading the "West End Whingers" review of Madame De Sade reminded me of the brilliant French and Saunders skit on "Dangerous Liaisons" (which they compared MDS to, so I've replaced it!)

19th March: reviews just in.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/5015667/Madame-de-Sade-at-Wyndhams-Theatre-review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/mar/19/madame-de-sade-grandage

http://www.theatermania.com/london/reviews/03-2009/madame-de-sade_18165.html

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/03/18/review-madame-de-sade-donmar-at-the-wyndhams-theatre/#more-3141

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/first-night-madame-de-sade-wyndhams-theatre-london-1648515.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23358409-details/Madame+De+Sade/showReview.do?reviewId=23664141

Duet for One - Almeida Theatre, Monday 2nd March 2009

Synopsis:

Stephanie Abrahams, a brilliant concert violinist, who seemingly has it all, is forced to re-evaluate her life when struck down by an unforeseen tragedy. Faced with a truth too difficult to comprehend she consults psychiatrist Dr Feldmann and through a series of highly charged encounters is led to examine her deepest emotions and finally to consider a future without music.

Cast:

Dr. Feldmann - Henry Goodman

Stephanie Abrahams - Juliet Stevenson

On the face of it, a play about the emotional, psychological and physical ravages of MS, that uninvited guest which destroys so many lives, doesn’t sound like a recipe for a good night out. But I haven’t stood up to deliver my applause at the end of a show since last January’s The Magic Flute at the Young Vic – and that, Dear Reader, shows just how discriminating I can be when I have to. Those who would accuse me of not knowing what good theatre is should know that I don’t stand up for rubbish – unless its to make a quick exit as soon as the curtain falls on the first act (cough). But you couldn’t have dragged me away from this play during the interval without pointing a gun at my head and threatening to cut off my Bunty subscription – and even then I think I might have taken the risk and stayed put. Sod Bunty – this is good. No, its not good – its fantastic. Rarely have 2 ½ hours in the theatre slipped by so fast as they did last night.

OK, I hold my hands up and state in advance that Juliet Stephenson is very definitely a member of my TWCDNW (They Who Can Do No Wrong) club – for chrissakes, I once saw her play Hedda Gabler (regrettably not in Helsingborg) and make it funny. But if her performance in Duet for One doesn’t win her a double armful of awards, then there is no God. Every nuance, every pause, every look is perfectly judged and slotted into place here and creates an entire jigsaw that glitters like a black diamond. Critics have sometimes been of the opinion that she can overdo the “snot and slobber” during her more emotional moments, but in this piece, every dribble is full of real pain and is completely justified. Particularly “real” is her physicality – the awkward placing of a leg, the fall that you don’t see coming, the hand that stutters as it reaches for a glass.

On the opposite side of the coin is Henry Goodman as Dr. Feldmann, who gives a performance of complete gravitas and calm; even when sitting silent and completely still, he completely inhabits the role and gives it reality. He also displays a great sense of comic timing and the ability to almost throw a line into the air like a piece of invisible thread, then draw it tight like a lasso around his unsuspecting victim. In fact, both Stephenson and Goodman spend the entire evening playing Spider and Fly with each other - but so well do they work together that its never quite certain which is the spider and which the fly at any given moment.

The direction was, frankly, astounding. There’s very little physical action – most of the time he sits in his chair, she opposite him in the wheelchair. By rights, this should become very tiring and very boring extremely quickly. But here’s the genius of it – it doesn’t. It serves only to make the situation more real. I never thought that watching two people sitting down and talking to each other could be so riveting. The direction here is in the glances, the empty silences, the actual lack of physical movement. The only time when I thought the direction slightly forced was during Stephenson’s last big speech, when she hauls herself up out of the wheelchair and, using a walking stick, totters to the bookcase and hangs on to it like grim death. It smacked a little of that “Joan of Arc” moment you find in plays like this – the final denouncement, the valedictory paragraph where everything is wrapped up and tidied away, the rally to battle against dark forces. If I’d been directing, I’d have had Stephenson totter in the other direction and stand looking out of the window, perhaps leaning heavily on the frame, like a prisoner looking through the bars at a golden world she will never inhabit again, turning her back on her jailer yet ensuring that he knows every word is a shot fired in his direction. Dammit, I missed my calling.

The set was wonderful – a scholarly, masculine room with bookshelves that you really wanted to rummage around on. It was beautifully but simply lit, with afternoon light pouring through wooden Venetian blinds onto a parquet floor. Through the window was a hint of a slightly overgrown garden – a wilderness held at bay by reason and logic. It was interesting to note that Stephenson starts the play quite formally dressed in plain shirts and dark trousers but, as her character’s physical condition deteriorates, her clothes became more floral, as if she’s leaving this ordered and tidy world behind and becoming more and more a creature of the primitive jungle outside the room. Oh well, that’s my theory anyway.

What I don’t have a theory for is quite why the audience was so badly behaved during the performance. This is Islington, for chrissakes – people here should be used to going to the theatre. Its not like going to see Oliver! where the majority of the audience think its acceptable to talk to each other, text their friends, sing along or make cooing noises at the pigeon they've brought in under their cloth cap because its got a touch of croup and can't be left in t'loft on its own in t'dark, Moother. Yet one chap was yawning very, very audibly, which is incredibly disrespectful to the actors and bloody annoying for others in the audience. After Stephenson’s first exit, some old cow behind us and somewhere to the left thought it necessary to comment loudly on psychiatric practice – “You shouldn’t touch the patient, you shouldn’t touch the patient, Polly wants a cracker”. OK, I put that last bit in for comic effect. After the interval, during a really quiet scene, some fool in the row behind gleefully started scraping the last dregs of his ice cream out of the tub with the little plastic spoon and making num num num lipsmacking noises like it was Going Home Time at nursery school. Even after I’d shusssssssh’d him loudly (and my shussssssssh’s can get very loud when I choose to make them so), he carried on unconcernedly rattling away in a “Hang on a minute while I just get this very last little bit out” kind of way. Honestly, you can’t take some people anywhere.

What the critics thought:


(I think its worth noting that, desp

ite extensive searching, I couldn’t find a review for this production that didn’t give it less than four stars. Nicholas de Jongh, who hates practically everything and everybody, gave it five. For once, I’m in complete agreement with the man)

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jan/30/review-almeida-duet-for-one

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article5615340.ece

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/4396180/Duet-For-One-review-this-Duet-is-sublime.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23589908%20details/Duet+For+One/showReview.do?reviewId=23631813

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/02/15/review-duet-for-one-almeida-theatre/

Julie Andrews and Max von Sydow in the film version of "Duet for One" - probably a lot sparser on laughs than the Almeida production

Madama Butterfly - Surrey Opera at The E. M. Forster Theatre, Tonbridge School, Kent - Saturday 21st February 2009

Synopsis:

On a hillside overlooking Nagasaki, a young geisha, Ciochio San, marries Pinkerton, an American naval lieutentant, stationed in the area. Three years later, abandoned and renounced, she still awaits his return.

Cast:
CioCho San – Rebecca Cooper
Pinkerton – Stephen Brown
Sharpless – Tim Baldwin
Suzuki – Rebecca Stockland
Goro – Christopher Ovenden
Kate Pinkerton – Elaine Hayward
Bonze – Paul Hancock
Yamadori – Alexander Walford


Anyone who knows me knows that "I Don’t Do Opera”. Its an art form that I’ve never really got into. But when a nice lady from Surrey Opera emailed me and offered me two free tickets in return for an ad on this site and a review, I thought “There’s a credit crunch on, after all” and looked up the times of the trains to Tonbridge. Unfortunately, Him Indoors had got wind of the fact that Tonbridge High Street is Charity Shop Heaven so, once we’d paid the bus and train fares, purchased 3 bags full of assorted junk, and been fleeced in Wetherspoons (never, ever eat in a chain pub if you can avoid it), I don’t think we saved that much. Particularly as the free tickets didn’t include a free programme. Still, it was a very good night out and made a nice change from slobbing in front of the TV watching Total Wipeout and eating monkey nuts. Speaking of which,

“How are the monkeys?”

“Oh, they’re fine, but we had to put the kangaroo down this morning. Arthritis, you know”.

is not something I suspect is often heard in the hallowed precincts of the E. M. Forster Theatre, or indeed anywhere, but the group of upper class yobs sitting, and standing, and lying, and kneeling all over the seats immediately behind us carried on their conversations at such a high decibel level that I’m sure the entire audience heard it. The entire audience also probably heard them coughing, rattling their bags, changing seats with each other during the performance, talking during the orchestral intermezzo and hawhawhawing loudly at anything that their smutty little minds could twist into a sexual reference.

The day before, while attending a rehearsal for La Cenerentola (being performed at the Spa Theatre, Bridlington next week by Oyster Opera – book your tickets now and no, they haven’t offered me a freebie in return for a review, which is a shame because its Bloody Good), and discussing Butterfly it was mooted that “You can’t really do anything wrong with Puccini. It's so good it stages itself”. This clearly was not the view of the director, who “updated” the Nagasaki setting from the late 19th century to 1950 – even though Nagasaki was practically bombed out of all existence in 1945. Would, therefore, the residents be quite so pleased to welcome an American warship into the harbour and carry on with “their incessant and enthusiastic experimentation with American style and fashion”? I think not. This updating also meant that Pinkerton wore a modern suit and therefore totally lost his identity as an American naval officer, that CioCioSan wore a 50s “New Look” dress for Act II and that the chorus wore a strange mix of kimonos and modern dress. Very odd, both in concept and the overall look, as was the fact that, although CioCioSan is referred to as a geisha and therefore rightly dressed and made up as one, the entire chorus (and the minor Japanese characters) all wore white face makeup, which brings the whole thing down to the level of The Mikado. And if you are going to do this, for pity’s sake get a responsible member of the chorus to check everyone’s make up and ensure its all the same degree of whiteness – some of the chorus looked like Marcel Marceau and others looked like they were merely in the process of recovering from a dose of flu. A good Oriental base make up and a bit of eye shadow would have been far more effective and far more realistic.

“This is SUCH a contrast for us. We went to see He’s Really Not That Into You this afternoon hawhawhaw. How many bits are there in this thing? I didn’t really get the bit with the tie.”

I did. It’s a symbol of Western dress and therefore of Westernisation. But by golly was it used to the point of overkill – to the point where Acts II and III seemed to be becoming “The Tie Acts”. First it was hanging with Pinkerton’s shirt on the inside of the door of the fridge (don’t ask). Then it was used as a blindfold, then a sash. Then Sorrow got to wear it. Then it was a blindfold again. I did begin to wonder whether the ending had been rewritten to have CioCioSan hang herself with it. Thankfully we were spared this. But not before it had been used to point up every conceivable metaphor and I was sick of it. It even turned up as part of the picture on the front of the programme. Overkill!

Lighting, the bete noire of the touring company, was a little shaky at the start, with a few nasty dark spots on the stage, but improved considerably throughout the performance. Him Indoors has asked me to mention that the cyc (backcloth to you and me) was particularly competently lit for the entire evening.

"I live in Oxford. Well, that’s not really true. I’m studying to be a vicar at Oxford. Gosh, the acoustic in here is really dry”.

If it was (can an acoustic be dry?), this didn’t seem to bother either the orchestra pit or the stage. A relatively huge orchestra of 25 (two flutes, two clarinets, two trumpets but, regrettably, no second trombone) gave it considerable welly for the entire evening under the very capable baton of Jonathan Butcher. Pit and stage only parted company once all night, but was quickly rescued. Male chorus, surprisingly, noticeably better than female chorus. Among the supporting cast, the gong goes to Christopher Ovenden for an outstandingly sung and acted Goro, with Honourable Mention to Tim Baldwin as Sharpless. Apologies to Elaine Howard who took the very small role of Kate Pinkerton; vocally adequate she may have been but was far too old to be convincing. Although on for only minutes, she was left awkwardly and completely abandoned on the side of the stage by the director, who should also have vetoed the Posh Spice sunglasses.

In the principal stable I thought Rebecca Stockland sung the role of Suzuki much better than she acted it. I know it’s a difficult and often thankless part - Butterfly gets all the big tunes and all the emoting whereas Suzuki just gets to be solid and dependable – but more could have been made of the part, particularly in the closing scenes. Admittedly, her costume looked odd, uncomfortable and neither fish nor fowl in aesthetic terms which cannot have helped; it would have been better, I think, to have dressed her in a black kimono like most of the ladies chorus. Stephen Brown threw out top notes confidently, without any apparent effort and like they were going out of fashion, damn his hide (sorry, bit of tenor jealousy there!) but, again, was not best served by his costumes. Rebecca Cooper pulled out all the stops vocally in the incredibly demanding title role and was Pretty Darned Impressive, although I personally think One Fine Day needs more vocal light and shade than it was given at this performance. Mind you, she still managed to pull my heart up into my throat and squeeze a couple of tears out of these cynical old eyes while performing it. And that’s pretty good going for someone who “Doesn’t Do Opera”.

Thank you, Surrey Opera, for the very enjoyable evening. Shame the audience wasn't as enjoyable - but at least the kangaroo is spared the misery of being brayed at any more.

The Taming of the Shrew - Novello Theatre, Friday 13th February 2009

Synopsis

Lucentio and his servant Tranio (both from Paris) stroll while Lucentio ponders that he has come to Padua to pursue knowledge. Tranio points out that he should pursue pleasures, as well. Then, Baptista and his daughters Katherine (older, the shrew) and Bianca (younger) appear with Bianca's suitors Gremio and Hortensio. Baptista tells them they cannot pursue Bianca until Katherine is married. Privately, Gremio and Hortensio agree to find her a husband so they can both resume wooing Bianca. While looking on, Lucentio falls in love with Bianca. He decides to let his servant Tranio pretend to be Lucentio, so that Lucentio can be a school teacher to Bianca. Biondello (another servant of Lucentio) is told to act as a servant to Tranio. Petruchio of Verona arrives in Padua with his servant Grumio to see his friend Hortensio. Upon meeting, Hortensio mentions Katherine in passing and Petruchio vows to woo and marry her (for her large dowry). Hortensio then decides to pretend to be a school master and instruct Bianca in music. Gremio arrives with Lucentio (disguised as a school master, Cambio) and tells Hortensio of his plants to let Lucentio school Bianca and speak highly of Gremio. Tranio then arrives and announces that he (as Lucentio) will be a suitor to Bianca.

At Baptista's house, Petruchio arrives with Hortensio (as Litio) and Gremio arrives with Lucentio (as Cambio). Tranio (as Lucentio) is also there, proclaiming his suit for Bianca. Petruchio meets Kate and the two spar wits, making Petruchio more determined than ever to marry Kate, which he announces to all; they are to be married on Sunday, though Kate obviously protests. Baptista, upon hearing this, tells Tranio (as Lucentio) and Gremio that the one with the highest dowry will get Bianca.. Tranio bluffs to have more wealth and possessions than Gremio, but Baptista declares Lucentio's father Vincentio must personally assure he has the wealth and will give it to Lucentio.

At Bianca's room, Lucentio (as Cambio) and Hortensio (as Litio) school Bianca. Both reveal their intentions for her love, but they also begin to suspect the other of amorous intentions. On the wedding day, Petruchio arrives late, and is dressed in a fool's clothes. He acts irrationally at the wedding, then immediately leaves town with Kate. Baptista, although flabbergasted, is happy to be rid of her.

At Petruchio's country home, he and Kate arrive, exhausted from the journey, since, throughout, Petruchio has been giving Kate a taste of her own medicine. He continues to berate her and his servants continually. Back in Padua, Tranio and Hortensio spy on Lucentio (as Cambio) courting Bianca. Hortensio, in defeat/despair, swears with Tranio (as Lucentio) not to pursue Bianca anymore. In fact, Hortensio plans to marry a widow who has long loved him. Biondello then appears and tells Tranio and Lucentio he's found a man from Mantua (a Pedant) to impersonate Lucentio's father Vincentio. They trick him to do this by saying people from Mantua are despised in Padua. At Petruchio's house, he further tries to tame Kate by starving her, refusing her to have new clothes, and refusing to visit her father's house since she continues to disagree with him, even though both know he is wrong. Back at Padua, Tranio (as Lucentio) introduces the Pedant (as Vincentio) to Baptista, and all agree to sup together. Meanwhile, Biondello instructs Lucentio to bring Bianca to the church to be married. Elsewhere, Petruchio and Kate travel on the road to Padua where they meet the real Vincentio (Lucentio's Father). Petruchio has Kate so much under his control that he gets her to declare Vincentio is a female to his face, then to apologize and admit that he is truly a man. Petruchio informs Vincentio of his son's marriage
to Bianca, and all travel to Padua.

At Padua, Vincentio arrives and asks to see Baptista, though the Pedant (as Vincentio) and Tranio (as Lucentio) deny Vincentio is who he says he is and call for him to be arrested. Lucentio himself and Bianca arrive and set things straight, then announce that they've been married, causing Baptista and the real Vincentio to fume even more. At length, Baptista, Vincentio, and Lucentio come to agreement and all celebrate the three marriages: Petruchio and Kate, Lucentio and Bianca, and Hortensio and the widow. At supper, Petruchio wins a wager by demonstrating that Katherine is now more obedient than Bianca or the widow. He celebrates by saying, "Kiss me Kate," and they do.

Cast:

Arsher Ali - 1st Huntsman
Jade Anouka - 4th Servant

Will Beck - Grumio

Stephen Boxer - Christopher Sly/Petruchio

Keir Charles - Tranio

John Paul Connolly - Tailor

Simon Darwen - 3rd Servant
Adrian Decosta - 2nd Huntsman
Leonard Fenton - Vincentio
James Garnon - Curtis
Amanda Hadingue - Lady/Widow
David Hargreaves - Baptista
Amara Karan - Bianca
Sean Kearns - Hortensio
Jack Laskey - Biondello
Patrick Moy - Lucentio
Will Sharpe - Bartholomew (Page)
Peter Shorey - Gremio
Larrington Walker - Pedant

From the Novello Theatre website: "Please note this production contains sexual references" What, Shakespeare? Sexual references? Really? Well, that's fucking disgraceful, if y0u ask me. I'm shocked to my middle class core. To think, for all those years, I've been reading or watching Shakespeare, only to find that its got sexual references in it.

Honestly, this got my hackles up even before I had seen the show. As if we need to be warned about this kind of thing. I suppose, in our litigatious times, the theatre management feel the need to cover themselves in case anyone is offended. Soon they'll be announcing "Please note this production contains scenes of gratuitous coffee-drinking. We in no way condone the drinking of hot coffee on health and safety grounds. In addition, coffee contains caffiene, which is a drug. It also contains sugar, which is bad for your health, and which used to be grown by slaves. Slavery was a BAD THING."

As the curtain went up, the floppy-haired fool in front of me leant forward in his seat, completely blocking my view of the stage. Retrospectively, I made a mistake by asking him to sit back - had he stayed leant forward I would have been spared the sight of this utter trash.

This production includes the prologue (called the Induction for some odd reason), which is usually omitted as its crap, totally gratuitous and doesnt fit with the rest of the story. For those of you unfamilar with it, it involves a chap called Christopher Sly, a drunk, who falls asleep after one pot of beer too many. A passing lady decides (for some reason never really explained) to trick him - she orders him carried home to her mansion, dressed in fine clothes and laid on a luxurious bed. When he wakes, he is treated like the lord of the manor, and convinced that his former life was, in fact, merely a dream. A troupe of strolling players arrive at the manor and proceed to act out a play - which turns out to be the play we know as The Taming of the Shrew, presented as a play within a play; however, as the "play" gets under way, Christopher Sly and all reference to the action of the Induction vanish and are never seen, heard of or referred to again. Would that this had happened this evening.

This Induction took place outside a seedy modern nightclub, with possibly the laziest and most incompetent pole dancer ever seen, who squirmed embarrassingly round her pole for all of 5 seconds. Sly's friends, lager louts to a man, wearing the kind of hats that straight men buy when they're completely wrecked (you know, ones that look like jester's hats or pints of Guinness with a furry shamrock stuck on the side) do a rugby-style chant and Sly then falls into a roadsweeper's cart and falls asleep. He's wheeled to the mansion, where a truck with "The Players" painted on the back in a typeface which bears more than a passing resemblance to that of the RSC logo backs onto the stage (licence plate XME K8, if you're interested) and disgorges a troupe of actors, who then proceed to dress in vaguely period costume and present "The Play". Christopher Sly sits on the side of the stage watching for a while, then bizarrely gets up, joins in the action and becomes Petruchio, shedding his impenetrable Mancunian accent yet managing to lose the power to project his voice and, seemingly, to act at all. Around him, the rest of "The Players" act out The Taming of the Shrew in a fashion bearing more resemblance to Carry On Shakespeare than the hallowed precints of the RSC. Oh, how witty, we think, - "The Players" are all really bad actors. But no, this goes deeper than that. The terrifying realisation sinks in that its the cast who are all really bad actors, and they think they can do Shakespeare. Not a single one of them are able to act their way out of a paper bag. They mug. They wave their hands about. They declaim. They stalk around the stage doing all three at the same time, making Frankie Howerd look like Johnny Gielgud. Very few of them can be heard properly. Quite a lot of them are so irritating that it comes as a relief to find that most of this production is set so far forward on the stage that, from our seats, nothing of the front 4 feet of the stage can be seen - with or without Mr. Floppy Hair in front who, incredibly, starts falling asleep after about 10 minutes, in that noddy-head-drooly kind of way that you see on the last train home on a Friday night. Even more incredibly, the chap in the seat to my right ALSO dozes off. I suddenly become acutely aware of the individual ticks of my watch as the drivel on stage progresses.

There are some cringeworthy attempts at humour - as if the first rule of Badly Directed Shakespeare is "If your direction is crap, some regional accents will make the audience laugh". One of the characters keeps his glasses on the whole time. In 17th century Padua? The text mentions a lute lesson - and then a character comes on stage holding a guitar. Hello? The famous fight between Petruchio and Katherine passes almost unnoticed. Then Katherine appears at the wedding wearing a 20th century wedding dress. Petruchio appears, his outlandish costume having been described at length prior to his arrival on stage. Strangely, what he is actually wearing bears no relation to this - he looks like a cross between Lucia di Lammamoor and Herne the Hunter as he's wearing a blood-spattered flouncy crinoline and a pair of antlers on his head. The expected (by the director) gales of laughter fail to materialise - there is simply a baffled silence from the audience. The end of the first half arrives so unexpectedly that the applause has to be prompted by clapping from backstage. Him Indoors looks at me. I look back. We gather our coats and scarves and leave the theatre, having decided that going home for a bowl of stewed pears in evaporated milk and the last episode of The Victorian Farm on BBC2 is preferable to staying for the second half of this tragic mess.

Reading the programme on the train during the escape (sorry - I should have said ""on the way home") reveals that, shockingly, Amara Karan, playing Bianca (a principal role and quite an important one at that) is making her professional debut in this production. That's appalling. To paraphrase Him Indoors "In my day, you had to do 20 years in Rep in the provinces before the RSC would even give you an audition - and even then you'd only be carrying a spear", yet this girl is playing a major role in Shakespeare with the RSC and its the first time she's ever appeared on a professional stage. I know that colourblind casting is all the rage these days, but is the director trying to make some sort of point by casting an Indian actress in the role of Bianca? Apparently, (according to reviews rather than my personal experience), another black actor in the cast plays his minor role with the kind of Jamaican accent usually utilised by the likes of Lenny Henry. Not funny, not necessary. Same actor then apparently (in one of this play's many, many tedious "mistaken identities" subplots), assumes the role of a caucasian actor's father. Huh? This determined policy of blindness is, in its way, as subtly racist as - well, Carol Thatcher.

Michelle Gomez, playing Katherine, has The Vagina Monologues as her principal stage experience. Perhaps this explains why she can't act for toffee, or be heard further back than row 4 of the stalls. But hey, at least she's been in Green Wing on the telly. Perhaps the fact that Tamsin Greig, also from Green Wing, won a gong (undeserved, in my opinion) for her portrayal of Beatrice for the RSC a couple of years back, inspired the casting director to try this tactic again in the hope of luring fans from their sofas into theatre seats - if so, its completely misguided. Will Sharpe, playing Bartholomew, doesn't appear to have had any formal theatrical training at all - but hey, he is "22 years old and graduated from Cambridge University where he studied Classics and was President of Footlights", so thats all right then. His "credits" encompass one play on BBC3 and something called WhamBham at Footlights..... where he happened to be President. Apparently he's also a stand-up comedian - from the look of his picture in the programme, the comedy element of his stand-up consists of people laughing at his stupid hair style. Getcheraircut, you 'orrible little man.

C'mon, RSC, what's going on here? Where are the professionals who have honed their craft for many years? In fact, where are the people who can actually perform Shakespeare? Or even act? And what does it say about directing standards at the RSC that this crud, critically lambasted while at Stratford upon Avon, gets a London season when they could have brought the David Tennant Loves Labours Lost and packed the place out for months, rather than leave the production languishing in the sticks?

The one thing I like about this production is the furniture. There are several pieces dotted about the stage that look like they were made by a very clever architectural designer - a classical domed basilica opens up and becomes a table, and its dome becomes a dish cover with a cake underneath. A chest of drawers opens out from a clocktower - when this trash finishes its run, I intend to have this in my living room its so beautiful. Backless stools are designed to resemble arcaded buildings, with arches connecting the legs. Even these beautiful bits of working scenery are misused and under-used, either left lying about the stage in odd corners or completely in the way of everything. The backdrop is a series of pivoting panels which, closed, feature a evocative panorama of the city. Opened individually, they provide extra exits from the stage (handy, I suppose, if you realise that the production you're in is so dreadful that you need to exit the stage in hurried shame).

And so, Ladies and Germs, the evening ends (half way through) with the sound of an exceedingly damp squib falling splat onto the stage, to the eternal discredit of Conall Morrison, the "Director" (who couldn't direct his own piss into a bucket if this production is anything to go by) and to the RSC for allowing this crud to get past the first rehearsal. It joins the Hall of Fame of productions that I've left at the interval for the sake of my mental health and a bowl of stewed pears with evaporated milk.

This production was reviewed when it opened last year in SUA – I can’t see that its warranted any further reviews on its transfer to London:

http://blogs.warwick.ac.uk/annawormleighton/entry/_the_taming/ - someone else who left at the interval

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article3863050.ece

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/the-taming-of-the-shrew-courtyard-theatre-stratforduponavon-821060.html

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article3889740.ece

La Bayadere - Royal Ballet@ The Royal Opera House - Monday 19th Januarh 2009

Synopsis:

A bayadère (temple dancer), Nikiya is an innocent and beautiful girl. She is in love with Solor, a young captain serving the Rajah. The High Brahmin, who is also in love with Nikiya, is seeking a chance to make her his own. The Rajah's daughter Gamzatti, loves Solor, and they are betrothed. When Gamzatti finds out that Solor loves not her but Nikiya, she sends the bayadere a basket of flowers containing a poisonous snake, which bites her. The High Brahmin offers Nikiaya the antidote in return for an admission of love from her but she refuses and dies. Her spirit descends to the Kingdom of the Shades. Solor takes opium and follows her but, awakened from the dream, goes to the temple in search of her - only to find that Gamzatti, the Rajah and the High Brahmin are waiting for him as the wedding ceremony starts. A vision of Nikiya appears to Solor and he pledges true love to her. The gods are angered and destroy the temple, killing all within. Nikiya's spirit leads Solor's spirit to the Abode of the Blessed, where they are reunited.



Interviews with the principal dancers and Natalia Makarova (Choreographer, hamming it up in deliciously fruity Russian tones) plus stills from the production and short extracts. Trivia note for balletomanes (which I never knew) - the dancers in the famous "Entrance of the Shades" in act 3 represent the coils of smoke coming from Solor's opium pipe.

Cast:
Nikiya – Tamara Rojo
Solor – Carlos Acosta
Gamzatti – Marianela Nunez
High Brahmin – Gary Avis
Rajah – Christopher Saunders
Magadyeva [“Mags” to his mates] the Fakir – Kenta Kuro
Ayah – Genesia Rosato
Golden Idol – Jose Martin
First Shade – Yuhui Choe
Second Shade – Helen Crawford
Third Shade – Hikrau Kobashi

Forget your over-conceptualised Swan Lakes and buggered-about with Nutcrackers. Give me a good Bayadere - as long as its the "proper" version that rounds the story off with the roof of the temple falling in and everyone dying - and I'm a happy man. If there are dancing women with parrots, an elephant and a "spesh act"* in the wedding procession, so much the better but I can live without them as long as I get plenty of death at the end.

What I like about this ballet is its spectacle – there’s lots of colour and pageantry and sparkly costumes. I’m easily pleased. This production has lots of all of it (but unfortunately no parrots).

There were some fairly acid reviews of this on the opening night, and I’m pleased to report that most of the problems seem to have been sorted out. Marianela Nunez was back this evening in the role of Gamzatti, and some of the staging problems reported didn’t appear that obvious. I did notice, however, that several of the pas de huit dancers seemed to have trouble in finding the middle line of the stage, making a couple of their dances extremely wonky and off-centre. Nothing major though.

I have to agree with some of the criticism of Carlos Acosta. I’ve never really rated him as a classical dancer; OK, he’s been excellent in some of the non-classical stuff I’ve seen him in, but a lot of his lines seemed unfinished in this production and it looked a lazy performance in consequence. He came across as being rather emotionally absent as well – while Nikiya and Gamzatti are emoting all over the shop, all he seems to be able to manage is a somewhat smug blankness. OK, Solor isn’t Hamlet, but I don’t think his face broke into a smile once the entire evening. Tamara Rojo was born to play the title role – she’s tiny and lithe and capable of expressing great emotion on stage, and she’s a fantastic technician. Everything looks so easy when she does it, which is the mark of greatness. Marianela Nunez is also excellently cast as the proud Princess Gamzatti, stalking about the stage like a haughty panther in Act 1, then confident and shimmering in the garden scene when she does all her variations. Come Act 3, however, her sudden transition from sex-kitten to bewildered, spoilt child, taking refuge in Daddy’s arms when things go AWOL, is a joy to watch.

Lovely, lovely scenery and costumes throughout, although I do often wonder why its necessary for Nikiya to change her outfit at every conceivable opportunity. Gamzatti can get away with wearing a different frock for different appearances (she is a Rajah’s daughter, after all, and a wet dream for the likes of Gok Wan) but a humble bayadere wouldn’t have that many togs, surely? The Ayah costume, however, needs a bit of a rethink in my opinion, as it makes the poor bitch wearing it look like a wet crow, basically, particularly as the role is one of those awful “non-roles” meted out to clapped out members of the company to give them something to do as they approach retirement.

The opening of The Kingdom of the Shades act was sublime – there is no other word for it. I’ve put a YouTube clip of it at the bottom of this entry so that you can indulge yourself – be warned that its 8 minutes or so long. I could watch it for ever. There was a Silence** in the House as the scene progressed – one of the few of the evening as otherwise the place sounded like a TB ward with people coughing and hacking their lungs out. But politely. This is the ROH, you know.

The evening wasn’t entirely without incident. We were a few seats away from a completely mad woman who had not only seen another performance of this ballet about four days ago, but who had booked herself two seats for this one; in case the view from one of them wasn’t good enough, she could go and sit in the other one, she announced. There was an awful crash backstage at one point – loud enough to be heard clearly by us sitting in the cheap seats about ¾ of a mile from the stage, so it must have been deafening from the stalls. Maybe it was the ROH Chief Executive’s wallet falling on the floor. In Act 2, during one of the Shade Variations, some idiot's phone went off loudly (now, a rant. I know that people get obsessed with their phones and cannot live without them. But announcements are made at the start of each performance asking people to turn them off – and anyway, how effing slow do you have to be to remember to turn them off in the theatre anyway??) and, later, during a big pas de deux, something came off Ms Rojo’s tutu and went tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle across the floor, making a heck of a lot of noise for something so tiny. At the end, the collapsing temple failed to collapse (extremely disappointing as I do like the odd polystyrene boulder crashing to the floor every now and again). And just as I was settling down for a damn good clap at the very end as the principals came on for their solo calls, Him Indoors starts scrabbling for his coat and making “come on, let’s be off” gruntings. This is exactly what happens when we’re watching a film – as soon as the credits start to roll, off goes the DVD player, and by heck is it irritating. Next time I get dragged to something pompous, I’ll be trying the same trick and watching the effect.

And no parrots. Damn

* Spesh Act - Luvvie-speak for "Speciality Act" - essentially outsiders shipped into a theatre company to perform something outside the capability of the rest of the cast. For instance, in The Boyfriend (a musical comedy), the "Spesh" are a pair of dancers who perform in a scene in the last act. Its a longstanding joke that the "Spesh" in Bayadere perform the wild "Native Dance" which appears as part of the entertainment for guests arriving for the betrothal ceremony. Of course, they are not strictly "spesh" as they are company members, but the fact that they are gyrating all over the stage dressed in very little, in contrast to the rest of the company who are doing classical ballet and togged up accordingly is enough to qualify them as "spesh". Unfortunately, this version does without this particular dance. It also does without the parrots, which I believe I have already mentioned elsewhere.

** Silence – not the absence of noise, which is merely silence. A Silence is when the entire audience is concentrating furiously to the extent that people forget to cough or fidget about and are totally immersed on what is happening on stage. Rarely experienced. Previously defined as “the sound that black velvet would make if it could”, but Him Indoors seems to find this definition extremely funny and worthy of Zippy from Rainbow.

What the critics said:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jan/18/la-bayadere-royal-opera-house (I love the last paragraph of this describing Nikiya's last scene!)

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/jan/15/review-bayadere-ballet

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/la-bayadere-royal-opera-house-london-1366302.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/markmonahan/4241318/La-Bayadere-by-the-Royal-Ballet-Covent-Garden-review.html



Couldn't resist the opportunity to include a clip of my favourite ballet scene ever -the Entrance of the Shades - performed here by the Bolshoi Ballet

God bless YouTube - Parrots, the elephant AND the spesh act!

Mandy Patinkin in Concert - Duke of Yorks Theatre - Friday 9th January 2009

"In Mandy Patinkin Concert"??

Synopsis:

Mr. Patinkin gets self-indulgent on stage for two hours.

Cast: Mandy Patinkin - Mandy Patinkin.

To the Duke of York's Theatre, very recently vacated by Harold Pinter's No Man's Land. The venerable Mr. P. popped his clogs late in the run, and apparently the lights on Broadway dimmed in tribute. On stage at the Duke of Yorks, the cast stood in tribute for ten minutes' silence, although the audience apparently thought that this was just part of the play.

Shoved on in its place is Mandy Patinkin in Concert (not, as Him Indoor's mother, Pat Malaprop, thought "Amanda Tinkin? Never 'eard of 'er!). It was a bitterly cold evening, and there was much entertainment to be had from admiring the range of vastly inappropriate hats sported by the audience in the foyer, from those knitted jobbies with the long swinging plaits that make the wearer - often male, for some reason - look like Pippi Longstocking, through the pale blue leatherette "Nanook of the North" look to a fantastic fur hat/coat combination that made the female (I think) wearer look like a tall furry pepper grinder. The aspect of the hat which made all other contenders pale into sartorial insignificance was a real racoon tail hanging from the back, making the wearer appear like the bastard offspring of pepper grinder and Davy Crockett. Alas, this outfit was real fur, not fake. And doubly alas, I missed my chance to hiss my usual rejoinder at the wearers of such articles: "Excuse me, Madam, I think you'll find there's blood dripping from your coat", which always embarrasses the shit out of such people and makes me cackle with glee for at least an hour every time I use it. Try it sometime - its fun.

Anyway, Mr. Patinkin strides on the stage, which is artfully designed and lit to look like "Backstage". His pianist is "off" and the replacement, apparently, has been "flown in". What? Flown in? In London's West End there is apparently no spare pianist? Mr. P, despite his self-laudatory I Love Barack Obama/Fuck George Bush stance, is so environmentally arrogant that he jets a spare pianist in? Obviously it was a rush job, as the poor man sits there all night playing the pedals with unshod feet, displaying an incredibly manky pair of black socks that look as if they've seen much better days. Mr. P. then makes another "joke" about bottles of Evian water that makes my green hackles rise, and this revew starts to write itself in my head.

What I thought we might be getting was an evening of the Elaine Stritch - At Liberty kind of thing. You know, a bit of personal background, a few shocking revelations, some self-deprecating humour, a bit of angst, some nice songs, a few jokes - him being a bit of a raconteur, in fact, showing the audience a side of him that they don't know. Instead, we get two hours (without interval, please note) of I'm a starry luvvie self-indulgence. Oh, granted, the man can sing, and sing well. But there's a big gap between his chest voice and his head voice, and when he goes falsetto (which he does regularly), he sounds like Tweety-Pie and screws up his eyes like he's straining on the toilet.

And his diction is awful. Not for the entire two hours does he manage to end any of his sung words with a T or a D. Not once does he put any of the stuff he sings into any kind of context (what show it comes from, what's happening during the number etc). Presumably, of course, we are all such luvvies in the audience that we know Mr. P's entire back-catalogue. - sometimes, during the first few bars of a number, there is a whoop from some sad sap in the stalls which is intended to inform the rest of the audience "Oooh, I know this!" And not once does Mr. P. actually stand up straight while he sings, prefering to hold the "Deformed Crane" tai chi position throughout.

One song, "Bring him Home" (complete with shocking vibrato on all the held notes) from Les Mis, is dedicated to "All the Israelis and all the Palestinians". Mr. P. then launches into a speech from The Tempest. "It's from The Tempest", he says, "by Shakespeare. Well, this is England, you all know it, so I won't have to tell you what the plot is!" This is met by a stony silence - this is indeed England, and we don't appreciate being stereotyped as Shakespeare-ites, thank you. Half way through the big "I'll break my staff in two" speech - damn, I just stereotyped myself - he "dries". Everybody sits there silently hugging themselves in glee. Oh, how I wish at this point I knew the play well enough to shout out the next lines and wipe the smile off his smug face.

Anyway, it was an OK two hours. I could have done with an interval. I could have done with a lot more of Mandy The Raconteur and a lot less of Mandy The Luvvie. I could have done without the "God bless you, Shakespeare" and the bowler hat and waistcoat covered in Vote Obama badges. I could have done without the Deformed Crane position, and I could have done with a lot less of the smug self-indulgence and a little more of the "I'm here to entertain you" over the "You're here to listen to me" attitude. Perhaps I should drop Mr. P a short note telling him that the house was significantly papered last night. And ask him to buy his accompianist a pair of shoes, poor sod.

What the critics said:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturecritics/charlesspencer/4209176/Mandy-Patinkin-in-concert-at-Duke-of-Yorks-Theatre-review.html (I SWEAR I didn't read this until after writing my review)

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article5484008.ece

Twelfth Night - Donmar Theatre @ Wyndhams - Friday 2nd January 2009

What Act 1, scene 1 should look like - but didnt.

Synopsis:

Viola has been shipwrecked in a violent storm off the coast of Illyria; in the process she has lost her twin brother, Sebastian. She disguises herself as a boy and assumes the name Cesario for protection. Thus disguised, Viola becomes a page in the service of Orsino, the Duke. It seems that Orsino is having little luck courting Olivia, who is in mourning for the deaths of her father and brother. As Orsino's proxy, Viola is sent to Olivia with love letters. Viola refuses to budge until she is let in to see Olivia; Olivia, intrigued by the impudent young "boy," contrives to get "Cesario" to return by sending her steward, Malvolio, after her with one of Olivia's rings. Viola realizes to her dismay that Olivia has fallen for her – Cesario - rather than Duke Orsino—further complicated by the fact that Viola has had stirrings herself for Orsino.

Sebastian (Viola's twin, presumed dead) comes ashore in Illyria thinking that Viola has drowned in the shipwreck. A man named Antonio rescued him from the surf, and continues to aid him—at some risk to himself, as Antonio fought against the Duke at one time. Meanwhile, in Olivia's house, Sir Toby Belch (her uncle) has hoodwinked foppish Sir Andrew Aguecheek into supporting him by convincing him that he could be a suitor to Olivia. There is a running feud between Malvolio and Belch; with the help of Maria, Olivia's maid, and Feste, a clown, Belch plots to make a buffoon of the steward. Maria writes a love letter to Malvolio that will make him think Olivia has fallen for him.

Malvolio falls entirely for the sport, which eventually leads to his confinement as a madman. All the while, Belch is egging Sir Andrew into a duel with Viola's "Cesario" character as she departs from Olivia; Olivia is now entirely smitten with Cesario, even though Viola continues to press Orsino's cause. As Viola and Sir Andrew prepare for a duel that neither one wants, Antonio happens upon the scene. Believing Viola to be Sebastian, he intervenes and is arrested. Viola, of course, does not recognize Antonio. Later, Belch and Sir Andrew encounter Sebastian, who doesn't back down from Aguecheek when challenged and resoundingly beats him. Olivia intervenes in the matter, and—mistaking Sebastian for Viola/Cesario—presses her suit for him. A bemused Sebastian agrees to marry her.

Antonio is brought before the Duke for questioning, and Viola relates the events of the duel. Antonio tells everyone how he dragged "this man" from the surf, saving his life. Then Olivia enters, searching for her new husband—which she thinks is Viola (as Cesario). Adding to this confusion, Belch and Aguecheek enter claiming that Viola/Cesario has violently assaulted them. In the midst of Viola's denials, Sebastian appears. The brother and sister recognize one another and are reunited; Sebastian helps to clear the confusion as to who fought who and who married who. At the end, Orsino and Viola pledge their love, Olivia and Sebastian will remain satisfactorily wed, and Olivia rebukes Belch and Maria for their abuse of Malvolio, who vows his revenge upon the whole lot. Belch agrees to wed Maria to make up for getting her in trouble, and all—except the disgruntled Malvolio—will apparently live happily ever after.

Cast:

Mark Bonnar - Orsino
Norman Bowman - Curio

Ron Cook - Sir Toby Belch
Ian Drysdale- Sea Captain / Dancing Master / Priest
Victoria Hamilton - Viola
Guy Henry- Sir Andrew Aguecheek
James Howard - Valentine
Lloyd Hutchinson - Antonio
Derek Jacobi - Malvolio
Samantha Spiro - Maria
Zubin Varla - Feste
Indira Varma - Olivia




I couldnt find anything on the web about this particular production, so here's the opening sequence from a very visually engaging film version. No idea who is playing the Captain, but he's VERY cute and I certainly wouldn't mind going down with all hands on him.

Right - let's put some benchmarks up here. Twelfth Night is my favourite, favourite Shakespeare play. Ever. Not only was I once in a production playing Sir Andrew Aguecheek (which allows me to feel somewhat proprietorial about the whole thing), but back in the mid-1990s I was privileged to see a production by the RSC at the Barbican which was so completely and utterly wonderful in every way that it remains, for me at least, the definitive production. It was visually stunning, perfectly directed and incredibly well acted. Desmond Barrett was Malvolio, Hadyn Gwynne was Olivia, and Derek Griffiths was Feste. So any subsequent production I see has to overcome many hurdles - and this version cleared several, but not all of them.

The first hurdle is that I do enjoy traditional productions; my heart sinks when I find out that a director has decided to give a modern dress production. I think its lazy. I did see a DVD about the recent Donmar Othello which presumed that modern directors panic somewhat about period sets and costumes as they don't think these "resonate down through the centuries" with modern audiences. But they're wrong. They do. Shakespeare wrote about character types and emotions that we all recognise. This particular Twelfth Night falls between two stools - its not "modern", its not of any recognisable "period"; at first it appeared to be set during the British Raj, then moved on to the 30's. It's very non-specific about time and location, which irked me somewhat. I suppose the director was going for an "anywhere, anytime" feel by paring sets and costumes down to the very basics. Half of the production takes place in front of a row of very Donmar-esque wooden shutters, the other half on a featureless, windswept beach. I suppose this concentrates one's attention on the actors, but its sometimes nice to allow the eye to wander. The RSC production was so pretty and detailed that there was always plenty to look at if you found your attention flagging.

The second hurdle is that Twelfth Night is a very dark and cruel play in places, focussing on class distinction, social position, the pain of unrequited love and malicious revenge, and I like to see these aspects preserved, as they throw the rest of the play into contrast. Light and shade is what is needed. But this production is very much played for laughs all the way through - like the National Theatre production of Much Ado About Nothing that I have reviewed elsewhere, which soft-pedalled the darker aspects in favour of the fun. To play Twelfth Night as a bright and breezy romp all the way through is to miss quite a lot, I think. At some points, this felt like a P.G. Wodehouse version of the story.

Another problem I had was that the entire show was played so bloody fast. I know that anything which speeds up some of Shakespeare's more dreary speechifying is a good thing - but there are times when the language is so beautiful and the emotions so true that it can pay to take time over them. Certainly, I thought at a couple of points, if you weren't already familiar with what is a very complicated plot, a lot of it could very easily be missed completely in the rush.

All this, of course, makes it sound like I sat there with a frown and crossed arms all night. But there were things that I hugely enjoyed along the way. Zubin Varla was, quite possibly, the best Feste I've ever seen. Great singing voice, able to play his own guitar, perfect diction, the ability to do cartwheels and, most importantly, the ability to deliver his lines wittily and make them sound "off the cuff" rather than "rehearsed and parrotted", which so many actors who get saddled with Shakespeare's "clowns" just can't manage. Guy Henry's Sir Andrew was possibly even better than my own (cough) and has great comedy legs, prancing about the stage like a distracted stork. The part could have been written especially for him. Derek Jacobi's Malvolio was a masterclass performance, with touches of Jeeves, the snotty butler from The Remains of the Day and, oddly enough, Ratty from The Wind in the Willows. - particularly in his yachting get up. Victoria Hamilton was a feisty Viola, and reminded me visually of a girl I was at school with who was mistaken for a boy by a short-sighted teacher, who demanded to know why "he" wasn't wearing a tie. Her outraged response - "I'm a girl!" - would have fitted very nicely into the text of the play! And Samantha Spiro was pert and saucy as Maria - a difficult part to pull off successfully. I didn't think Ron Cook bought much to the role of Sir Toby (but then I don't like Ron Cook anyway) and, I thought, didn't explore Sir Toby's parasitic relationship with Sir Andrew anywhere near enough. And Indira Varma was a ravishingly beautiful Olivia, all bone structure and poise, although I did think playing it all for laughs was wrong. There are times when Olivia should be the calm centre of the storm of madness that is sweeping through her household, and a little more gravitas would have been better. Mark Bonnar seemed a rather indifferent Orsino - but I have to tell you this; the man is a real Silver Fox with an impressive body and, visually at least, perfect for the role.

The music was practically perfect - all the songs were tuneful and full of musical light and shade where necessary, and the incidental music excellent and unobtrusive, highlighting what was taking place on stage extremely well. And the lighting was excellent as well - its often said that, if you notice the lighting, the Lighting Designer hasn't done their job properly - but this was all properly sourced and correct (although there was a bit of a dark patch in the middle of the stage sometimes).

It was also nice to hear people laughing at lines that don't normally get a laugh in this play. However, like the waves crashing on the shore of Illyria, there was sometimes too much foam and not enough fathoms to make this a truly wonderful evening.

What the critics thought:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/reviews/twelfth-night-donmar-londonbrsimply-cinderella-curve-leicesterbramazonia-young-vic-londonbrcinderella-lyric-hammersmith-london-1065623.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/3724509/Twelfth-Night-at-the-Donmar-at-Wyndhams---review.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2008/dec/11/theatre

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article5322177.ece




Photos of "The Perfect Production:"