The Country Wife – Theatre Royal Haymarket– Friday 26th October 2007

If the owners of this theatre ever read this review, I want them to know that £4 is an OUTRAGEOUS price for a programme. And additionally, I’m sick of their tiny seats, in which I have to sit with my knees up under my chin and get cramp. So there. And why is this theatre always so packed out with Merkins from Bediddlybong, Idaho (see my review for “The Lady of Dubuque”)? Is it because they have been unable, at the last minute, to get tickets for “Phantom” just across the road and have had to do a quick belt across the Haymarket to the Theatre Royal in order to avoid having to spend another long evening in the Angus Steak House on the corner of Lie-Chester Square?

Restoration “comedy” is an acquired taste. And I’m really not sure that I’ve got it. When the play is good, you don’t really notice it as you’re too busy enjoying it (see my review of “The Man of Mode”). When its bad, it can be a real uphill struggle. In fact, I was really quite relieved when this play was over – there are only so many “humorous” comings and goings, seductions, betrayals, “disguises” and reconciliations that I can take in one evening. And lordy, there were a lot of them in this play. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. My Bestest Friend in the Whole World (Hi Danni!) has oft commented that, not having a boyf obsessed with taking her to the theatre (there are drawbacks, Danni, believe me!), she misses out when reading these reviews because she’s not familiar with the play. So there will be a regular “Synopsis” section for each production from now on.

“The Country Wife tells the story of Horner, a notorious and lascivious man - about - town and his ingenious scheme for the rampant and mass seduction of the women of London society. By spreading the false rumour of his own impotence, he gains the sympathy of the husbands of the town and, more importantly, free access to their wives. Meanwhile the newly-married Pinchwife desperately attempts to keep his naïve country bride from the clutches of predatory London
bachelors. When she and Horner meet, events spiral out of his control…”

I think you get the idea.

I have to say that I enjoyed the production of this play a lot more than I enjoyed the play itself. It really was an uphill struggle by the end. Around me, people seemed to be pissing themselves with laughter but I just couldn’t see what they were laughing at. What seemed amusing in Act I was getting a bit tiresome by Act II. I think what put me off was that elements of this play come very close to farce – not my favourite genre of theatre. There is a lot of hiding in cupboards, disguises that really wouldn’t fool anyone, marital discord eventually resolved, substituted letters, frantic searches for people who have just gone offstage – you know the kind of stuff; all the usual elements of “Whoops, There Go My Trousers!” as performed by the West Wiggington on Sea Amateur Players, Every Night This Week (plus Saturday Matinee) in the Church Hall. But with “The Country Wife”, you get all this plus corsets, full bottomed wigs and people saying “Gadzooks, wench! Thou hast indeed a goodly pantouffle, or my name’s not Sir Spratlington Spyglass!” and trying to sound like they know what they are talking about. This kind of stuff floats the boat of a lot of people, but not me.

I did like what the costume designer did in this production. The oldest character of all was dressed in strict period costume with an appropriate wig. Middle-aged characters were dressed in costumes of appropriate period design, but clearly made of modern materials – Sir Jasper Fidget (groan!) was wearing a Restoration frock coat, waistcoat and knickerbockers, but these were made of pinstriped suiting, and he had on a modern collar and tie, and a pinstriped shirt with big baggy cuffs that flopped out from his sleeves, and his hair was vaguely “old fashioned” in style but not strictly period. And the younger characters had modern haircuts and wore costumes with an appropriate period silhouette, but with modern elements – the four young male leads all had on jazzy frock coats in peacock colours, teamed with modern shirts, baggy jeans and black lace up shoes. Clever!

I also liked most of the scenic elements – no attempt was made at realism and there was a deliberate “stage set” look to them. I loved the way that a green interior wall with a panel of painted foliage stayed on stage when the scene changed to an outdoor one and just became “part of the scenery” in Vauxhall Gardens – which was particularly pretty in a kind of “pantomime” kind of way. The “garden” set too was well realised – a rear wall with an iron gate and a pallisaded apple tree, a small rostrum centre stage covered in green felt with three large pots of roses and a watering can on it, and a steamer chair. Not realistic but hey – instant garden.

The interior sets were less well done - there seems to be a fashion in theatre design at the moment to have your set consist of one wall of an interior, sharply angled and with lots of doors and set into the wall, each of which is larger than the one upstage of it, so that the wall looks longer than it really is (ie the door nearest the audience is normally sized, and they get smaller as you go towards the back of the stage). This, of course, falls completely flat when actors have to come in through the door furthest upstage and have to duck their head so that they don’t bang it on the lintel. I’ve seen several productions use this type of set this year and its getting tiresome. There also seems to be a fashion to paint your set in virulent colours – so Horner’s house was all dark peacock blue and mauve in a kind of flock wallpaper design, and Pinchwife’s house shocking pink and covered in flamboyant roses, both of which got a bit difficult to take after a while. There was, however, to CBB’s delight, a real rabbit (white) in a hutch (pink) – he’s easily pleased, bless him; I think he could have watched it being fed lettuce (green) for hours.

Even given that I found the play heavy going, I enjoyed some of the performances. This must be the first time ever that I’ve seen Patricia Hodge not play Patricia Hodge and she showed her complete mastery of comic timing with her throwaway lines. Both Toby Stephens (Horner) and Jo Stone-Fewings (Sparkish) were doing what CBB calls “Thigh Acting” and the latter took the prize for both “Lantern Jaw with butch 5 o clock Shadow Acting” and “I’ve Got a Big Packet Tucked Into My Jeans Acting”. Wonderfully cocky – in all senses of the word. In fact, he seemed more in possession of the stage than Stephens, who is technically the lead. David Haig was a bit of a disappointment – much spluttering and frantic spewing out of lines while rushing round the stage, but I suppose the part of Pinchwife is written like that, so its hard to see what else he could have done really. For such an old trooper, Janet Brown was practically inaudible for much of her dialogue and I noticed that the quality of silence from the audience deepened whenever she spoke – it was quite obvious that people were having to strain to hear what she said. It’s a shame that the director couldn’t be persuaded to let her play the part as Maggie Thatcher. Fiona Glascott as Margery, the eponymous “Country Wife” seemed to be playing the part as Bubble from Absolutely Fabulous and I found her very heavy going – mostly because her accent was so thick (oh, I see! She’s playing a country bumpkin! ‘Ello moi Luvver!) that she’d finish saying a line long before I could work out exactly she’d said – goodness knows what the Merkins from Beddidlybong, Idaho must have thought. But then they probably think we all speak like that in this country. And drink warm beer and bicycle through the sunset to Evensong as well.


What the critics thought:

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/theatre/drama/reviews/story/0,,2187696,00.html

http://arts.independent.co.uk/theatre/reviews/article3044210.ece

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/country-wife_1007.htm

Richard II - Birmingham Royal Ballet, Sadlers Wells, Saturday 13th October 2007

All right - a joke's a joke, but why were the orchestra playing the score backwards? Well, that's what it sounded like. Apparently John McCabe is one of our "foremost composers" - but this sounded like the soundtrack to a very bad Tom and Jerry cartoon played on a collection of old tin cans, rusty saw and the odd bit of catgut. PomPompomPom weasel diddley diddley diddley wah wah pom weasel weasel pom Pom DAHHHHHH diddley. There was a point in act 2 where I really didnt think I could stand the noise any longer as it was making my head hurt. This "score" sounds like the composer had picked up a load of crotchets and minims in a second hand job lot from somewhere and tipped them all over a big sheet of paper marked "Score for Richard II". Sorry, call me old fashioned, but this wasn't music, just noise.

The cacophony coming from the pit was well matched by the utter rubbish being danced on stage. I know that ballet shouldnt be all about sequins and glitter but for crissakes, who commissioned this crap? It really was the sort of rubbish that people clap because they think doing so makes them sound educated and appreciative of dance's "cutting edge" rather than because they really like it. There is some semblance of a plot (whether or not based on historical fact or just the overheated imaginings of a fusty old academic who's not had any tang lately), but nothing very thrilling - even the "Red Hot Poker Up the Jacksie" bit failed to ignite any spark of interest with me. And a substantial reward will be offered for anyone able to rationally explain the sudden arrival on stage of a small troupe of strolling players - one dressed as a jester with a 2 foot phallus attached to the front of his costume, one dressed as a donkey, one as the Virgin Mary and the other as Death. Oh, its Symbolic, is it? More like shambolic, if you ask me. Talk about the Emperor's New Clothes.

Oh yes, the costumes. Lets talk about them. Jasper Conran, dahling. Apparently, shiny pastel lounge suits with matching ties and shoes were SO "in" in 13th century France. As was the punk look for the hoi polloi - black string vests and tatty trousers with loads of strategically placed rips and zips. And as for the Evil Barons - well, everyone knows that Evil Barons always wear sweaty black studded leather and have long greasy hair, don't they? Of course they do.

The audience was pretty thin at this performance - probably everyone was staying home to watch England v France (oh, there's an unexpectedly relevant metaphor) - but the applause was surprisingly loud and prolonged. Perhaps, like me, everyone was extremely relieved that the evening was over.

Present Laughter – National Theatre, Saturday 29th September

I don’t know why it is that every time I see Alex Jennings perform, I’m ill. Or maybe its that I’m ill every time I see Alex Jennings perform. Maybe it’s the way he sprays spit all over his fellow actors all the time. Whatever it is, I had a stinking cold when I saw him in “The Alchemist” and I had a stinking cold when I saw this, so I had a hard time finding this production funny even though the people around me seemed to be shrieking their tits off with laughter. Lord only knows what they found to laugh at so much. Lets face it, this is not one of Coward’s “greats”. This is no “Private Lives”, no “Tonight at 8.30”. It tips the scales at almost three hours long and there seemed to me to be no particularly memorable lines, nor really any traceable story line. In fact, there seemed to be two different plays – one in the first half, one in the second. The play in the first half seems to be a rather bitter, savage diatribe about “the modern world and how neither I nor my plays fit into it any more” and the one in the second teeters on the brink of farce with various wives disappearing into offices and spare rooms so that their various husbands don’t realise they’ve spent the night with the lead character. There are also comedy foreign housekeepers, infatuated playwrights who want to worship at the feet of the master (and very possibly do other things to them as well) and devoted, dykey secretaries to add to the “fun” of the piece. Unfortunately no trouserless vicars or French maids with feather dusters.

I think I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that I don’t like Alex Jennings. He seems to me to be one of those actors – and there are several in each generation – who make a living out of playing themselves. Mr. Jennings seems to have gone to the “Jim Carrey School of Acting” – in order to express any kind of emotion, it is only necessary to screw your face up in some way. In this production we get “Alex Jennings doing the slightly faded but still devastatingly attractive to women and witty matinee idol” role – a role which Coward assumed during his time and one that most people get tired of very quickly; it just dates so badly. Actually, I think that is the main problem with this type of play – its just dated badly. Its not yet old enough to be accorded historical status – it just looks old and tired; the type of play that you could comfortably take Great Aunt Flossie to see on a wet Thursday afternoon in Frinton. There were a couple of very good performances here – Sarah Woodward was very funny as the devoted, brusque, slightly dykey secretary and Sara Stewart was spot on as Liz Essendine – both had the right “look” and “feel” for the period. Both were helped by wonderfully accurate costumes, beautifully cut. Simon Wilson and Tim McMullan as Henry and Morris proved once again that Coward could not write believable, fully rounded, supporting male roles, only little satellites that revolve around a central sun. I was fed up with Garry Essendine by the end, hoping desperately that he would hurry up and get on his wretched boat to Africa and take all his stupid friends with him.

On first sight, I thought the set design was wonderful – lots of forced perspectives, different levels etc. But the colour – a strident turquoise – was very hard on the eyes after three hours.

And nowhere in the programme can I find anything that tells me why the play is called “Present Laughter”. Is it a line from the play itself? Or a quote from something else. Answers on a postcard, please.

What the critics thought:

http://arts.guardian.co.uk/theatre/drama/reviews/story/0,,2182174,00.html

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23373969-details/Present20Laughter/showReview.do?reviewId=23414847

Take Flight - Menier Chocolate Factory - Saturday 25th August 2007

Demonstrations about extra runways, baggage handlers losing X million cases a year, having to check in 2 hours before take-off, interminable queues at security and Passport Control, overcrowded facilities - do you REALLY want to fly? Well, these people do - but then they are the Wright Brothers, Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart. Presented simply and sparingly, with a hard working cast of a dozen, the minimum of sets and props and a tiny (by West End standards) orchestra, this was a little gem of a show set in a time when flying was new, exciting and a cause for excitement rather than boredom.

The stories of four famous pioneers of flight (narrated by an obscure and failed - and already dead - fifth) may seem a bizarre subject for a brand-new musical - but then again, why not? There have been shows on stranger subjects. And this one presents its topic with a kind of wide-eyed wholesomeness that is very refreshing when so many productions these days seem to be struggling with cynical world-weariness. Trouble is, a lot of the reviews I've read of this seem unable to escape this world-weariness and miss the point, I think, of this show. They criticise the fact that this is not going to be another Chocolate Factory transfer to the West End, that the set is sparse and the props few. But who cares? Without complex sets to gaze on, you are forced to pay attention to the actors instead. As you are sitting uncompromisingly close to them anyway, this is surely no bad thing? These people are working hard to entertain you, and deserve your full attention The simplicity of the setting replicates the simplicity of the age - a time when life was slower, technology in its infancy, things more difficult to achieve and experiences all the more intense as a result. It shows that you don't need highly elaborate sets and tons of props in order to create an effective atmosphere. And - dare I say it - you come out having actually learned something along the way.

The problems faced by Wilbur and Orville Wright (Sam Kenyon and Eliot Levy – both hysterically deadpan) in actually getting their flying machine off the ground are woven in with the stories of the first solo flight across the Atlantic by Charles Lindbergh (Michael Jibson) and the career of Amelia Earhart (Sally Ann Triplett), narrated by Otto Lillienthal (no, me either; apparently he was a pioneer of gliding pre-Wright brothers). All the stories proceed at different paces and through different timescales, so unless you have a nodding acquaintance with what is going on and who is who, you can get a little bogged down in the over-long first half. Its therefore a good idea to have a good shufti at the programme notes beforehand. All three stories are presented in an uncompromisingly spare way – the set is a length of windswept, sandy beach, the backdrop a bare brick wall. A few chairs, a traveling trunk, a couple of suitcases, a stepladder and a couple of model aircraft– and that’s all, folks. This spareness forces you to use your imagination in a way that more complex sets fail to do – by the end, you can feel the cockpits, rather than being shown them. Having said that, there are a few stunning (and stunningly simple) visual effects – the best probably being the representation of Earhart’s fateful round-the-world flight. Remember the red line which describes the path of the airplane in films like “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom”? Well, that’s what is being given to you here – except its not a computer-enhanced image, just a spool of red ribbon being unwound and held at differing heights by a line of actors ranged across the stage, silhouetted against the brightly lit sky. Very simple and incredibly effective. A network of tiny lights embedded in the sand dunes becomes the lights of night-time Paris, above which Lindbergh hovers, perched on a stepladder. You don’t need any more than this – these are flights of imagination, literally and figuratively.

Sure, there are moments when schmaltz manages to get in the way – most notably in the second half of the show, and mainly in Earhart’s sections of the story. Finding that her flying causes marital strife, Earhart promises to take “just one more flight – my last ever” – and you just KNOW that something is going to go wrong. One is left with the faint feeling that she commits suicide on the home stretch of her journey around the world, not wishing to return to her earthbound and uncompromising publisher husband. Maybe? Maybe not. Then the dead Earhart appears to Lindbergh as he approaches Paris on his momentous flight (odd, because she disappeared some years after this event) exhorting him to “Keep on flyin” – cue for sentimentality in bucketloads, syrupy lyrics and gooey lighting effects. But these moments are mercifully few and far between in a barnstorming, flying circus of a show that catches hold of your imagination, takes wing and flies into the wild blue beyond.

What the critics thought:

arts.independent.co.uk/theatre/reviews/article2817059.ece

www.musicomh.com/theatre/take-flight_0707.htm

www.timeout.com/london/theatre/events/445272/take_flight.html

Saint Joan- National Theatre, Friday 3rd August 2007

I’m finding it hard to write this review – I wasn’t feeling great, for various reasons, and a lot of it I saw “through a glass, darkly” as the saying goes. Its very long and, in parts, very wordy and static, and deals with quite a weighty subject – there is little of the light froth of, say, “Arms and the Man” or even “Pygmalion”. Its also the second play I’ve seen lately that indulges in Catholic-bashing! There’s also quite a lot of “England-bashing” – to greatly humorous effect, but each with a dark undertone that suggests in itself the gloom of forbidding castle walls. In fact, the only character that comes out unbashed is Joan herself - presented less as a visionary or mystic than an image on a fluttering banner around which a battered army re-forms, a secular Virgin inspiring her muddy and war-weary troops. Because, essentially, that’s all Joan of Arc was – a figurehead for a cause, a simple country girl who somehow managed to inspire an army and who was ultimately betrayed by her own side.

One of the faults of the play, I think, is that there is no examination of whether Joan’s “Voices” are the product of a deranged mind or whether she is really on the receiving end of Divine inspiration. Its almost as if Shaw was in love with his heroine and out of love with everyone else. What is also difficult to reconcile is the action-packed first half ending with a very long and static final scene, and then the almost entirely static second half which deals only with her trial. Still, that’s the fault of the text, rather than this production, which seems to be wowing audiences at the moment, mainly due to the incredible, gut wrenching performance by Anne-Marie Duff.

The “modernisation” of the trial scene in this production was very difficult to cope with – Joan sits practically alone on stage, with spotlights trained on her and using a microphone on a stand, almost as if the trial was some kind of Nazi interrogation – which I suppose essentially it was. I’ve seen this device used on stage before in trial scenes – I think in “Measure for Measure” - and it never fails to irritate me. Although the play is presented in a spare “non-period” way – no tabards, trumpets and fleur-de-lys here – it feels very jarring with the subject matter. A bit of period realism perhaps wouldn’t have come amiss – and I was looking forward to a good funeral pyre, with lots of hissing, crackling flames licking round. What I got was a shaft of white light and a lot of stage smoke. There was one odd touch of realism which jarred horribly because it was doubled up with imagery – a kingfisher is sighted on the banks of the river. When in flight, this was represented by some tattered strips of turquoise ribbon attached to the end of a long pole. However, we also got a “glove puppet” kingfisher for a few short moments, which was then replaced with the swirling ribbons. Very odd. What I did enjoy was the physicality of many of the scenes – particularly the “Stomp” inspired battle scene depicting the taking of Orleans; noisy, brutal and visually exciting.

All honours, of course, to the “Joan” although I did find her Irish accent somewhat difficult to reconcile with the character initially. How she can play that part 8 times a week and not be shaking and crying at the curtain call is completely beyond me. The trial scene was saved in its entirety by a masterful Oliver Ford Davies as the Inquisitor – every syllable and inflection perfectly placed and projected with supreme gravitas (and probably audible in the very back row, which contrasted unmercifully with the muddy consonants and poor delivery of some of the minor cast). Paul Ready played the Dauphin with just a hint too much sulky brattishness for my liking and I do wonder whether the heir to the throne of France ever wore purple football socks. Angus Wright was terrifyingly sardonic as the Earl of Warwick and displayed devastating comic timing, but I wish someone would tell Brendan O’Hea to stop swivelling his hips while speaking – I found the constant flexing of his pelvis and his seeming inability to put equal weight on both feet very irritating.

I just wish that I had been in a better frame of mind on the day as I think I would have enjoyed this production rather more than I did.

The Last Confession - Haymarket Theatre, Wednesday 18th July 2007

Just the thing for a sultry Wednesday night in London – a bit of Catholic-bashing. And not just any old catholics either – this is real Pope on a Rope stuff. Set in the very recent past, this play looks at the backstabbing, deceit, blackmail and Byzantine machinations of the Conclave of Cardinals electing the successor to Pope John, the unexplained death of Pope John Paul I after only 33 turbulent days in office as God’s Vicar and the election to the Pontificate of the previously unheard of man who was crowned John Paul II. Along the way we get every stereotyped kind of cardinal there is – old and fusty, young and ambitious, slimy and deceitful - David Suchet stalking the corridors of power in his red robes, wrestling with his conscience and giving us a bit of his Poirot act thrown in for good measure, earnest young prebends and even a comedy nun (“Would you be wantin’ a cop of coffee Hooly Fadder? Oh go’wan, go’wan, go’wan!” OK, maybe she didn’t say it exactly like that, but she could have done).

Although I did find parts of this very heavy going – the subject matter isn’t frivolous, after all – I was really amazed to read in the programme that this is the author’s first play. You’d never believe it. It’s a little top-heavy at times, but the supporting roles are written very well and nicely integrated, there is just enough comedy to leaven the mix sufficiently to make the whole loaf rise and just enough blasphemy to affront all the good Catholics in the audience. Although there is sometimes some confusion about exactly what the play is – political thriller, murder mystery, heavyweight comedy – it unravels at just the right pace to leave you slightly unsure about where the next few minutes will be leading, with dialogue as intricate and complex as the tiled floor of the Sistine Chapel. There is a sense of discomfiture as well – after all this is the very recent past – and when the name of an obscure German cardinal called Ratzenberger is thrown in unexpectedly during the incessant in-fighting towards the end, this discomfiture slaps you round the face and leaves you with the impression of the Fisherman’s Ring outlined on your cheek (yes, its that Cardinal Ratzenberger); you can almost feel time unfurling and catching up with you. The play also feels astonishingly relevant as it’s about the appointment of a “liberal” pope and his unpopularity with the Catholic Church’s hierarchy, his subsequent “removal” and the enthronement of a Polish replacement whom they hope will be considerably more hard-line (but unfortunately who, as history shows, turns out to be just as liberal as his predecessor. So, when he dies, the Church brings in a Rottweiler who overturns everything that the two John Pauls have worked so hard to achieve. But hey, all for the Glory of Mother Church, eh?).

David Suchet seemed a little uncomfortable at times with his role and even (gasp!) actually fluffed a couple of his lines. There was, unfortunately, quite a lot of his Salieri and his Poirot on stage at times – in fact, in the investigation scene, where the Vatican doctor and various minor Vatican officials are being cross-examined (“Doctor, did you test the coffee in his cup? The sweets in the bowl?”) I half expected him to whip off his skullcap, straighten the ornaments on the table and mutter “But you see, ‘Astings, there was the motive, the method and the opportunity! In fact, the murderer is in zis very room!” In fact, the denouement turns out to be very sub-Christie – Suchet’s confessor turns out to be none other than JP2 himself, which is a bit too neat and tidy. Richard O’Callaghan was a worthy John Paul, with enough of the “son of a Venice bricklayer” about his portrayal to make it believable that he was a man promoted above his ability and outside his range of experience but determined to do what he thought was right, but I doubt very much that the Big JP would ever have participated in the following exchange: JP – “I’m sending you to Florence” Cardinal – “I’d rather go to hell!” JP – “That too can be arranged!”. I thought Maroussia Frank could have done a little more with her Nun than play it as Mrs. Doyle from “Father Ted” and I noticed that her accent slipped a couple of times.

Lighting was effective, if slightly badly sourced at times, leaving some of the actors’ faces in shadows. The set was very well done, representing (I suppose) rooms within rooms and doors within doors as a way of commenting on the endless political wangling going on inside them – or maybe it was “There are many mansions in my fathers house” (or whatever the quote is). I did think, however, that some of these doors ended up being practically superfluous as they didn’t seem to be used much. And I do very much doubt that they use chrysanthemums in the Vatican Gardens. The choice of music was rather odd – with 2000 years of Christian music to choose from, the use of what sounded like Enya seemed very strange.

All in all, an interesting and absorbing play about earthly power and its use and abuse, but showing the odd fault here and there. Not bad for a beginner though, even if he is 61 years old. But he’s not as old as some of the recent popes have been, so there’s time for him to work on his craft yet.

Interestingly, there were three Catholic priests in the audience. I’d give three Hail Mary’s and a Hello Dolly to know what they thought of the evening!

What the critics thought:

http://www.musicomh.com/theatre/last-confession_0707.htm

http://www.londontheatre.co.uk/londontheatre/reviews/lastconfession07.htm

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/show-23366247-details/The+Last+Confession/showReview.do?reviewId=23395594

The Inland Sea - Rose Bruford College at Greenwich Theatre - Friday 16th June 2007

BROWN’S BROTHER BUGGERED BUCOLICALLY!

Sometimes, you go to see a play which is so up its own arse that sitting through it becomes a chore in itself, at which point one’s critical “capabilities” switch off and it becomes impossible to see the performances because the play keeps getting in the way, so I offer my apologies should anyone connected with this production read this review. I also try and promise not to waffle on interminably about the many errors in the text in terms of the gardening history aspect of the play.

This was the final performance of the Rose Bruford College season of performances, so the house was full of talent (not all of it on the stage) and there was more than a hint of “end of term show” about the place – whooping and laughing and patting each other on the back, and filled with the slightly ribald type of laughter you get when people see their school chums on the stage doing naughty things – as well as the type when the audience know the performers and laugh at the performances rather than any inherent funniness of the play. We went to see this because, on the face of it, it seemed to be about the great 18th century landscape designer Lancelot “Capability” Brown – one of my personal household gods. I think both of us were expecting a play like Tom Stoppard’s “Arcadia”, but what we got was an interminable piece of pretentious wank (literally) which had me shifting in my seat and glancing at my watch every five minutes or so in case there was still time for a couple of cards of bingo if we left quickly enough.

The premise of the play (which sank practically without trace after its professional premiere – one wonders why?) is that “Capability” Brown helps his younger, randier brother gain a major landscaping commission, which involves relocating a village. The villagers object to this, leading to confrontations between the villagers themselves and the army cadets employed on the digging. During the excavations in the park, human bones are unearthed. The Gamekeeper who (it proves) did the dastardly deed, is constantly bothered by a strange girl running around the stage like a hyperactive Ophelia. She turns out to be the ghost of the sister of one of the villagers, whom her mother has told for many years that her father and sister suddenly decided to emigrate one night. The gamekeeper has (for some reason unexplained) kept the murdered girl’s skull and therefore she cannot rest until it has been interred with the rest of her bones. During all this, Asquith Brown is seduced by the murdered girl’s sister, taught how to wank effectively by his older brother and then comprehensively fingered up the arse by the girl. An irritating lady with an easel and palette wanders in and out, complaining that she cannot paint a landscape which is in a constant state of flux (the character is not actually called “Mrs. Blantantly Obvious Cypher” but she could well have been). Stretch all this out over 3 hours and you have exactly the kind of evening which ends with me coming out of the theatre “with that face on”. Hey, I could have been watching “Britain’s Got Talent” all night – that’s why I was pissed off. Really. Performing budgies and chavs from Erith and Wembley trying to prove they’re the next Celine Dion, all introduced by comedy geniuses (cough) Ant and Dec would have entertained me more.

Sure, there were some good performances on the stage. Jessica Brown was a wonderfully earthy (in every sense of the word – most of the cast looked as if they had just finished rolling around in the midden) Ellen. Laura Doherty maintained the difficult part of Hesp with style, although her accent was more Jane Horrocks than Jane Austen. Joseph Greenslade obviously has a great future ahead of him – primarily as a Baldrick stand-in (if at any point in the evening he had turned to the audience and said “My Lord, I have a cunning plan” then I suspect he would have been washed off the stage as the audience collectively pissed themselves with delighted hysterics). And Janice Burne was wonderfully detached as the exasperated lady painter. But the play kept getting in the way and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Until you actually fathom what is going on (its eventually spelled out for you so pointedly that it’s a wonder the text doesn’t call for a drum roll and cymbals at this point), Lena Kaur’s Bliss is just an irritating and baffling interruption. The juxtaposition of low comedy (think of some of Shakespeare’s most strained “hilarious moments”), high falutin’ sentiment and sheer “what the fuck is going on-ism” gets very wearying very quickly. And I’m sorry, but the constant references to sexual activity are either just the mark of a very jejune playwright trying to shock or one who needs a damned good screwing to release some tension. I’m no prude about sex, but when its presented gratuitously just for effect, then I start feeling a bit like Mary Whitehouse and go into spitting-feathers mode. If anyone can tell me exactly why Asquith Brown slips off his breeches and masturbates furiously (in accordance with the extremely graphic “rules of play” recounted by his elder brother) in the middle of a field,, then apparently willingly goes on his hands and knees in order to get comprehensively buggered by a woman using her fingers, or why a genteel lady painter in panniers suddenly feels it necessary to publicly lick the right nipple of a filthy villager actually achieves in terms of characterisation or plot, then please do jot it down on a postcard and let me know (thought: does she have nostalgie de a boué (dreams of the dirt) fantasies? No, she’s just been railing about how the extensive earthworks have turned her bucolic landscape into 11 acres of mud. Geddit? Has the author hit you hard enough with this metaphor yet?).

Mix all this in with coco-roju samba music interspersed with “didley deedly didelly dee dee de doo” sub-Riverdance vocals and scenes which are over in less than a minute involving hysterical girls a la Mad Margaret, comedy yokels with alarming facial hair dressed in costumes so obviously and regularly sponge-printed all over with grey-green “mud” by the costume department that they begin to appear like the worst stencilling excesses of Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen ("don’t turn the sponge round, girls! Otherwise your “mud” won’t look like a repeating pattern!”) and you have an evening which would give any self-respecting landscape architect the screaming ab-dabs. There must be better plays than this for young actors to be in, surely?

And “Capability” Brown never worked with any of his family on landscape projects. And didn’t have a brother called Asquith. He designed 200 or so estates, not 50. “Alnick” is pronounced “Annick” not “All-nick”. The "rare pine trees" you were planting were wretched Cupressus leylandii from B&Q's garden centre. And William Chambers’ “Dissertation on Oriental Gardening” wasn’t published until 1772, and was not a critique on the landscape movement. So there.

What the critics thought: not a lot, as I couldn't find a single review other than mine - not even in the local paper!