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

Synopsis:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the critics thought:





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





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



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

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

Mrs Klein - Almeida Theatre - Friday 13th November 2009

Synopsis:

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

Cast:

Mrs. Klein - Claire Higgins
Zoe Waites - Melitta

Nicola Walker - Paula

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vat ze critics thought:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Synopsis (from the Garrick Theatre website):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the critics thought:

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

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

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

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

Beauty and the Beast – Churchill Theatre Bromley, Thursday 22nd October 2009

Synopsis: I'm sure you know, and if you don't you should be ashamed of yourself!

Cast:
Beast – Shaun Dalton
Belle – Ashley Oliver
Gaston – Ben Harlow
LeFou – Eddie Dredge
Maurice – Richard Colson
Mrs. Potts – Sarah Louise Day (understudy)
Cogsworth – Ashley Knight
Lumiere – Phil Barley
Wardrobe – Laura Barrie
Feather Duster – Sophia Thierens
Rug – Chris Cage
Monsieur D’Arque – Daniel Page

Creative Team:
Director/Choreographer – Alison Pollard
Set – Gareth Williams
Costumes – Elizabeth Dennis
Lighting – David Howe


From Broadway to Bromley – how are the mighty fallen! The No. 1 Disney production of this tale “as old as time” (an epithet which could be used about the “girl” playing Belle yesterday), having toured the provinces to the delight of little girls in yellow polyester ballgowns for what seems like an eternity is now being farmed out to touring companies who usually produce “all-star” pantomimes at venues such as the Anvil Theatre Basingstoke and the Grand Pavilion, Rhyl. “UK Productions” is run by two slightly dodgy-looking blokes who look like distant relatives of the Kray Brothers in their programme photos. There’s nothing “all-star” about this Beauty and the Beast – Belle’s biography reveals that “in 2006 [she] featured in a commercial stills photoshoot for Bishop’s Finger Beer” – so not quite Elaine Paige then.

Still, this was a reasonably good, if slightly work-a-day production of something I still wish I had seen when it was on in the West End. If it hadn’t been played quite so cartoony though, it would have been heaps better. Beauty and the Beast is actually quite a dark story (most fairytales are), and this was very firmly aimed towards the very young members of the audience who have spent hours plonked in front of the DVD while their mothers are busy painting the scuffmarks on their white stilettos with tippex. Most of them spent much of the performance screaming (the children, not their mothers). The show veered dangerously towards panto during the first half – scenery and direction for the opening chorus seemed lifted direct from something like Mother Goose, and Gaston and LeFou were played as classic panto villain and sidekick, complete with “comedy” sound effects while trading not-very-convincing blows. I was left thinking that it could have been played a lot more “down the middle”, which would have appealed to a broader range of audiences. Mind you, this didn’t seem to bother the gaggle of Bromley-ettes sitting next to us who spent the entire show with their shoes off and bare feet firmly plonked on the edge of the balcony rail. One of the major criticisms of Disney is that it always goes for the sugary goo in stories and downplays any darker nuances, and the sugary goo is applied with a bucket here to the entire production’s detriment. Its basically a cheesy version of the already-cheesy film version.

There was only one point when the creepy, slightly gothic nature of the story rose though the gloop (and interestingly its an aspect that never appeared in the film) – at several points, the staff of the castle comment on and worry about how they are gradually changing from people into inanimate objects as the spell progresses, nicely reflected in the script and in minor costume alterations – at one point, Cogsworth acquires a key sticking out of his back and the chambermaid’s hands start turning into feather dusters. Its commented on that one of the minor flunkeys is so obsequious that he’s turning into a doormat. It would have been good if this idea had been developed further, along the lines of the Birmingham Royal Ballet production I saw and reviewed in October 2008. However, the idea of giving the wardrobe a back story and making her into a faded opera singer makes little sense – what is an opera singer doing hanging around a royal castle? Still, it gives Cogsworth someone to pair off with at the end, I suppose, and of course everyone must have someone to hold hands with at the curtain call in Pantoland.

For some reason, the second act was played considerably “straighter” than the first, and this improved the production no end. Belle’s feeling of being “different” – she’s described in the programme as being thought odd by the villagers as she prefers books to boys – could have been pointed up and made more of, and would have chimed in nicely with the Beast’s problem of being perceived as something “different” because of the way he looks. Instead, we got the usual wide-eyed Disney heroine whose worries about being thought different are no more than a slight wisp of cloud in an otherwise clear and untroubled sky. Still, its easier to go for saccharine than psychology, isn’t it?

Set changes were impressively slick throughout, although there were a troubling number of front-and back-projections, which achieve nothing but blur the dividing line between live theatre and film, meaning trouble ahead for the next generation of theatre set designers who will find it increasingly difficult to find work, and easy times ahead for directors who will use projections as a lazy option. Some of the special effects were impressive – petals falling off the enchanted rose, the transformation of the Beast back into a human (although it was painfully obvious that there were two people wearing Beast costumes at one point, one keeping his face very obviously hidden and having his dialogue miked over the sound system).

Of the performances, I have to say that Ben Harlow was dreadful as Gaston. Yes, he had the biceps required, but where Gaston should be burly, boneheaded, baritone and butch, Harlow was stringy, soprano and sissy, milking the role for camp comedy value rather than having that “you lookin’ at me, mate?” arrogance that physically beefy but dunderheaded men have when they feel that their brawn is being outclassed by brain. He was obviously cast for his strange but unique ability of being able to grin exactly like a Cheshire cat and show off acres of teeth. He didn’t come across as being any kind of villain and consequently his demise at the end of the show didn’t really register. Ashley Oliver was OK as Belle – if rather too long in the tooth and she has an irritatingly squeaky speaking voice, pitched just below the range at which dogs start to whine. Sarah Louise Day did OK as Mrs. Potts considering that she’s the show’s “Swing” – theatrespeak for someone who understudies any part that needs understudying, whether principal, chorus member or dancer, but played it too young to be the kind of wrinkled motherly influence that Angela Lansbury achieved in the film. She also *gasp* CUT the second verse of Tale as Old as Time at which point I almost demanded my money back. Ashley Knight seemed a bit tired as Cogsworth; very slow to pick up on cues. The banter between Cogsworth and Lumiere should snap back and forth as the two friends try and top each other intellectually, and I felt that this wasn’t happening. Even Phil Barley as Lumiere didn’t seem quite on top form, although he was far and away the best person on the stage; I thought that many of the lines were just thrown away. If the production hadn’t been pitched at the very low intellectual level, perhaps he might have put in a bit more effort. But then Thursday afternoon in Bromley, a week before half-term (bad timing, UK Productions!) isn’t exactly going to be a cerebral fantasmagoria.

Annie, Get Your Gun! - Young Vic, Saturday 3rd October 2009

Synopsis:

When the traveling Buffalo Bill's Wild West show visits Cincinnati, Ohio, Frank Butler, the show's handsome, womanizing star challenges anyone in town to a shooting match. Foster Wilson, a local hotel owner, doesn't appreciate the Wild West Show taking over his hotel, so Frank gives him a side bet of one hundred dollars on the match. Annie Oakley enters and shoots a bird off Dolly Tate's hat, and then explains her simple backwoods ways. When Wilson learns she's a brilliant shot, he enters her in the shooting match against Frank Butler.

While Annie waits for the match to start, she meets Frank Butler and falls instantly in love with him, not knowing he will be her opponent. When she asks Frank if he likes her, Frank explains that the girl he wants will "wear satin and smell of cologne",. The rough and naive Annie comically laments that "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun". At the shooting match, Annie finds out that Frank is the "big swollen-headed stiff" from the Wild West Show. She wins the contest, and Buffalo Bill and Charlie Davenport, the show's manager, invite Annie to join the Wild West Show. Annie agrees because she loves Frank even though she has no idea what "show business" is. Frank, Charlie, Buffalo Bill, and everyone explain that "There's No Business Like Show Business."

Over the course of working together, Frank becomes enamoured of the plain-spoken, honest and tomboyish Annie and, as they travel to Minneapolis, Minnesota on a train, he explains to her what "love" is. Buffalo Bill and Charlie find out that the rival show, Pawnee Bill's Far East Show, will be playing in Saint Paul, Minnesota while the Wild West Show plays in nearby Minneapolis. They ask Annie to do a special shooting trick on a motorcycle in Minneapolis to draw Pawnee Bill's business away. Annie agrees, since the trick will surprise Frank.

As Annie and Frank prepare for the show, Frank plans to propose to Annie after the show. When Annie performs her trick and becomes a star, Chief Sitting Bull adopts her into the Sioux tribe. Frank is hurt and angry, and he walks out on Annie and the show, joining the competing Pawnee Bill's show.

The Buffalo Bill show tours Europe with Annie as the star, but the show goes broke, as does Pawnee Bill's show with Frank. Annie, now well-dressed and more refined and worldly, still longs for Frank. Frank and Pawnee Bill plot a merger of the two companies, each assuming the other has the money necessary for the merger. They all meet at a grand reception, where they soon discover both shows are broke. Annie, however, has received sharpshooting medals from all the rulers of Europe worth one hundred thousand dollars, and she decides to sell the medals to finance the merger, rejoicing in the simple things.

When Frank appears, he and Annie confess their love and decide to marry, although with comically different ideas: Frank wants "some little chapel," while Annie wants "a big church with bridesmaids and flower girls". When Annie shows Frank her medals, Frank again has his pride hurt, and they call off the merger and the wedding. They agree to one last shooting duel. Annie deliberately loses to Frank to soothe his ego, and they finally reconcile, deciding to marry and merge the shows.

Creative Team:

Director: Richard Jones

Choreography: Phillip Gireaudeau

Costumes: Nicky Gillibrand

Lighting: Mimi Jordan Sherin

Musical Arrangements: Jason Carr

Cast:

Sitting Bull - Niall Ashdown

Annie Oakley - Jane Horrocks

Pawnee Bill - Eric MacLennan

Charlie - John Marquez

Frank - Julian Ovenden

Dolly - Lisa Sadovy

Buffalo Bill - Chucky Venn

The evening didn’t get off to a great start. Thanks to the Young Vic’s unreserved seating policy (booooo!), the queue was through the bar, up the stairs, round the corner, through the ticket hall and into the street, doubling back on itself several times, and threatening to merge with the queue for returns for Inherit the Wind up the road at the Old Vic. Anyone wanting to get a drink or go to the toilet would probably have needed an Indian scout to guide them through the crush. Getting to the cloakroom was like being at Custer’s Last (Hat) Stand. And anyone trying to track the footprints of the Programme Seller through the underbrush would have been severely disappointed as, although this show has been previewing for a week or so, they still hadnt arrived from the printers, which I think is disgraceful. There’s a strange sign right outside the auditorium saying “Annie Get Your Gun Downstairs” – a new fringe production, perhaps? Or an instruction? Whatever it means, its nonsensical as there are no stairs, unless it refers to the stairs up to the balcony, in which case the sign is in the wrong place. The chaos continued inside, where there were a lot of Excuse me, is anyone sitting here? conversations going on and lots of staff saying to people Can you move up?. At one point, cramming everyone in got so complicated that the staff were sending smoke signals across the auditorium to each other while trying to clear enough space for a party of six that had arrived slightly late. And then, two minutes after the curtain (vile mustard-yellow polyester and too long) was supposed to go up, one of the staff arrived carrying a big pile of photocopied sheets with the cast list and production team credits on, stood right at the front to hand them out and several small children, a pensioner and two gay men in plaid shirts were trampled to death in the crush. In fact, not so much Annie Get Your Gun as Annie Get Your Act Together.

The first major shock of the evening was that there was no orchestra, just four upright pianos ranged across the front of the stage where the orchestra pit wasn’t. . This, I suppose, gave the whole evening a folksy, Wild West (or “cheap”, depending on your point of view) feeling, reflecting the period in which the show is usually set. It was a novelty to begin with, but means that you miss out on all of Irving Berlin’s fantastic orchestrations, as well as making all the music seem rather thin and shoddy. Annie Get Your Gun was written in 1946, at the height of the American love affair with the Musical, and having only four pianos pounding away at what should be a lush, razzamatazz score (this is a show about “Show Business” remember) just feels so wrong.

The lights went down (in fact, the lights went up – they were chandeliers made of wagon wheels on ropes which were heaved on by members of the theatre staff – talk about “no frills”). The cheap mustard polyester curtains opened (as they were too long, this meant they swept across the fronts of the pianos – at least one of the pianists had to make a grab for their sheet music as the curtain went past) and the big shock of the night was revealed – this production isnt set in the fabled Wild West of vaguely 1890, but in a vague amalgam of the 1940s and 50s – the time the show was written, rather than the one its set in. This contrasted strangely with the “four pianos and wagon wheel chandeliers” set-up of the auditorium, and makes complete nonsense of a story featuring historical characters such as Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill and Chief Sitting Bull. In fact, the confusion permeates the entre show – the entre’act, depicting Annie’s triumphal tour of Europe, is a projected film incorporating Annie into historic filmreels featuring Winston Churchill (Prime Minister of the UK 1940 – 45 and 1951 – 55), Ghandi (died early 1948), Hitler (dead by 1945) and Chairman Mao and his Little Red Book (published 1964). Part of Act 2, to go by the costumes, is set sometime in the 50s. Was this the director telling us that the story is timeless, or are there shocking great holes in his “concept”?

Another shock is that the stage is only about eight feet deep, presumably because the auditorium has been designed in a way as to get as many rows of seats in as possible. This means that everything is very linear, lots of straight lines and absolutely no room to dance. The director had a cunning plan to get round this last problem – not having a single dance routine in the entire show. Sorry, but when you’ve got no dancing in numbers like No Business Like Show Business you really do start to feel terribly cheated. As I’ve said before, the entire show is about show business, and this production has practically no show-biz in it whatsoever. The set is almost without exception dreary, there's a see-through swing door plonked right in the middle which is very annoying and terribly over-used, and there's a strange upper level to the set giving a small room "upstairs"; thankfully this isnt used very much because practically nobody sitting left of centre out front can see into it. Horribly, the very final scene between Frank and Annie takes place in this and half the audience couldn't see what they were doing.

The lack of pazzaz and sparkle even extends to the cast. Yes, Jane Horrocks is charmingly kooky, and her interpretation entertains for a while, but she’s not a big enough personality to bring the thing off. I have sympathy for her - doing this part must be like playing Lady Bracknell in The Importance of Being Earnest. Every actress who plays this part has to wrestle with the ghost of Edith Evans, and every actress who plays Annie Oakley has to wrestle with the ghost of Ethel Merman, and also the recent memory of Bernadette Peters in the Broadway production. Horrocks just can’t cut it – there isnt enough theatrical weight behind her and Merman wins by at least three falls and a submission, if not a total Knock-Out. There’s also far too much reliance on Horrocks’s established stage persona – slightly Northern vowel sounds, crossed eyes and pursed up lips, which gets tiring after a while - and she doesn’t scrub up well enough to make the transition to glamorous leading lady in Act 2 (although there is a huge, unintentional laugh during Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better when she sings about how well she fills her girdle – Horrocks’s chest is like two peas on an ironing board). Lots of the second act looked horribly under-rehearsed.

Chucky Vennis a complete failure as Buffalo Bill. Not only can he not sing a note, he can’t act, is the wrong ethnicity (yes, I know its called “Integrated Casting” but Buffalo Bill was NOT black), is far too young for the part and is even the wrong body type. We all know what Buffalo Bill should like like – Howard Keel. Big and burly with long white hair and a big droopy moustache. Big Chief Sitting Bull is played here by Niall Ashdown, a tall, pasty-faced caucasian wearing a dreadful “Injun” wig that makes him look like Fenella Fielding in Carry On Screaming (and while I’m on the subject of bad wigs, the ladies in the chorus wear the worst-dressed wigs I’ve ever seen on stage – hideous!).

Still on the subject of hair, the book has also been scalped. There’s an entire romantic sub-plot gone missing somewhere as two major supporting characters have been cut out. A lot of their lines and one of their songs (which has been moved to the second act and, frankly, should have been cut completely) have been given to John Marquez as Charlie and Lisa Sadovy as Dolly. Now, here I change gear slightly and praise something. Marquez is completely wonderful, and is a joy to watch (as he was in The Good Woman of Schechuan at this venue last year. He plays his part with a great Noo Yoick accent, has total mastery of comic timing and could easily play one of the gangsters in Kiss Me Kate, so perfect is his characterisation. Sadvoy however, is far too old for her role, is deeply annoying and looks hideous in her red fright wig. I rather wish that Jane Horrocks had missed the bird on her hat and blown her head off instead.

Julian Ovenden, though looking eerily like a very young John Barrowman, was a brilliant, if not definitive Frank - very sexy in a veritable parade of increasingly OTT cowboy shirts and, finally, a pair of trousers so tight that you could almost read the cleaning instructions. However, it seemed that some of the songs hadnt been transposed for his tenor voice (Frank is usually a baritone, or even a bass-baritone) and there were a couple of occasions when he had to jump up from the register he was singing into one in which he was more comfortable. Ironically, this was most obvious in the song that Jane Horrocks was also having trouble pitching - in this case though it was written too high and she had to keep swooping down. He has great stage presence, great hair, a great voice and a great bod - its only a shame that he hasn't got a great Annie Oakley.

All in all, it was a spectacularly disappointing evening, and I came away feeling really cheated of what should have been a night full of escapism, great show choonz and outrageous costumes. The production was mildly entertaining, but completely ran out of steam very early on in the second act. I was forced to do my Ethel Merman impression on the train on the way home to compensate for such a dreary evening. And if you've never heard They Say That Falling in Love is Wonderful sung by a 6'4" bloke on the 2325 Waterloo East to Mottimgham then honey, you ain't lived.

What the critics said:

http://westendwhingers.wordpress.com/2009/10/07/review-annie-get-your-gun-young-vic/

http://webcowgirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/07/review-annie-get-your-gun-with-jane-horrocks-the-young-vic/

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/review-23758120-songs-hit-target-in-annie-get-your-gun.do

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/8bd37dda-bcc9-11de-a7ec-00144feab49a.html

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article6879946.ece

ENRON, Royal Court Theatre, Wednesday 30th September 2009

Synopsis: Based on true events, ENRON goes from a relatively small gas and oil company to one of the most successful companies in the world. Its dramatic expansion and ever-increasing stock price hide the fact that the coffers are empty and that something nasty is lurking in the basement....

Creative Team:
Written by Lucy Prebble
Directed by Rupert Goold
Design: Anthony Ward
Lighting: Mark Henderson
Music and Sound: Adam Cork
Movement: Scott Ambler
Video Design: Jon Driscoll

Cast:
Samuel West - Jeff Skilling, President of ENRON
Tim Pigott-Smith - Ken Lay, Chair of the ENRON board
Tom Goodman-Hill - AndyFalstow, ENRON Chief Finance Officer

Amanda Drew - Claudia Roe
With: Gillian Budd, Peter Caulfield, Howard Charles, Andrew Corbett, Cleo Demetriou, Amanda Drew, Susannah Fellows, Stephen Fewell, Tom Godwin, Ellie Hopkins, Orion Lee, Eleanor Matsuura, Ashley Rolfe and Trevor White

You get on a plane, you don't understand exactly how it works, but you believe it'll fly. And if you got out of your seat and said "I'm not flying, I don't understand how it works", you'd look crazy. Well, its like that. Except, imagine if the belief that the plane could fly was all that was keeping it up in the air. It'd be fine. If everybody believed. If nobody got scared. As long as people didn't ask stupid questions about what it is that keeps planes in the air"

To Sloon Skwyare, to the Royal Court Theatre, somewhere I’d never been before. Ironically, as this is the theatre where lots of plays about kitchen sinks were first performed and is thus the birthplace of “Theatre for the common man”, the place was heaving with Henrys, Caspians and Jamies – the kind of brayers who have first-hand experience of ENRON-type companies on a daily basis and for whom “kitchen sink” means the place under which Anna, their Taiwanese cleaner (in the country without a work permit, but happy to work like a dog for 17p an hour and eat plate-scrapings, such a find) sleeps during her few off-duty hours.

In fact, Anna probably has more room among the spare toilet rolls and bottles of Fairy Liquid than there is available for your legs in this theatre. I spent nearly three hours crammed into a seat so tiny that my chiropractor has had to cancel his golf on Sunday in order to unbend me. But, dear Reader, such is my devotion to the dwama that I will undergo any trial in order to tell you about the hottest show in town this autumn. Sold out, full house, returns only but don’t get your hopes up, get one of the West End Whingers to donate their ticket because they’re in Jordan and can’t go (no jokes about Peter Andre, please).

Him Indoors had rolled his eyes and muttered “Obsessed” when I expressed an interest in going to see this. Yes, I’ve followed the ENRON story but no, not obsessed – I just take an inordinate delight in seeing a certain kind of person get their comeuppance. Politicians, bankers, corporate fat cats, particular hospital managers – I do like to see a calling card from Nemesis on the silver tray on their hall table. And these particular corporate fat cats had practically cornered all the markets in hubris, so it was a great delight to sit and watch their downfall. And what a downfall. In fact, it wouldn’t be at all out of place to compare this play with Greek Tragedy, so expertly does it depict the rise and fall of those who would equate themselves with the Gods.

If presented as an ordinary play, this would be unbearable to watch. But with Light Sabre-wielding brokers, twisted accountants portrayed as ventriloquists dummies and Jurassic Park raptors stalking the basement (to say nothing of the Lehman Brothers portrayed as Siamese Twins, both inside the same enormous jacket and "the market" personified as the Three Blind Mice) its still unbearable – but in a can’t-take-your-eyes-off-the-stage-but-have-to-look-through-your-fingers way. What is essentially a multi-media presentation with a play woven through it becomes immediate, powerful and an utterly compelling lesson on the evils of capitalism, how it devours the morals of those falling under its spell and how it can ruin the lives of innocent people (no, please don't bother leaving pro-capitalist comments because I won't publish them).

Tim Piggott-Smith gave a terrific performance as Ken Lay, Chair of the ENRON board; paternalistic yet creepy, overlaid with all the cigar-waving insincerity and false bonhomie of Boss Hogg from The Dukes of Hazzard. Sam West (Member of the "They Who Can Do No Wrong" club) actually managed to make Jeff Skilling a strangely sympathetic character, progressing from uber-geek with comb-over and Joe 90 glasses to sharp-suited, slicked back lizard in a $1500 dollar suit and handmade shoes. There was more than a touch of Hannibal Lecter about his performance towards the end (those whom the Gods would destroy, they first make mad), particularly in the chilling closing speech in which he expresses his continued belief in (and almost worship of) "the market". Tom Goodman-Hill was completely credible as Andy Falstow, evil architect of ENRON's continued rise and keeper of the raptors in the basement

I think it was the raptors that really made this production for me. City-suited men with head-covering dinosaur masks (complete with creepy red-light eyes), they personified the companies-within-companies that ENRON "fed" with the debts they wanted to keep off their balance sheets, giving those of us in the audience with little or no knowledge of how financial markets work an easy way of understanding the complex procedures involved by turning the abstract ideas involved into something concrete and almost visceral. The play is full of clever ideas like this, which inform the audience without going into tedious detail. Lighting and choreography were excellent, blending seamlessly into the production - and incidentally providing much-needed light relief at times. And it was a masterstroke to have an electronic ticker-tape display showing share prices (with ENRON's highlighted in yellow each time) constantly flickering across the back of the set - as the price edged higher each time, it really became the focus of everybody in the audience's attention (exactly how this had been in real life for the ENRON executives) and I certainly couldn't tear my eyes away each time the display lit up. It was perhaps only right at the very end that the play ran out of steam - as it was put to my by Him Indoors "Once Julius Caesar is dead, the rest is a bit boring and you want to go home". Perhaps if it had ended with the incredibly moving scene in which two of the "ordinary people" ruined by the ENRON crash explain just how their lives had been changed, rather with than a long, rather dull speech by Skilling in which he tries to justify his actions, the evening might not have felt as if it ended with a whimper.

I was only just prevented from marching on Canary Wharf with a flaming torch and a pitchfork on the way home. This is a "must see" - but it might be a good idea to invest in some leg-room.



What the critics said:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/stage/2009/sep/23/enron-review

http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/finance/jameshall/100000989/enron-play-is-gripping-allegory-for-our-times/ - what I particularly like about this review is that it has obviously upset some Capitalist Suit who felt the need to ridicule it in a comment at the end – which is even more entertaining than the review itself and goes to show a) how closely this play has hit home and b)what a blinkered world these people live in.

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/features/enron-lies-greed-and-all-that-gas-1791631.html

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/theatre/article6846278.ece

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/theatre/review-23747616-enron-is-a-dashing-tale-of-greed.do

http://www.curtainup.com/enronlon.html

Guest Review - Surrey Opera@ Chequer Mead, East Grinstead - The Barber of Seville - Saturday 12th September 2009

Synopsis

Count Almaviva, a Grandee of Spain, is desperately in love with Rosina, the ward of Doctor Bartolo. Figaro is Bartolo’s barber, and, learning from the Count of his heart’s desire, immediately plots with him to bring about his introduction to Rosina.

She is strictly watched by her guardian, who himself plans to marry his ward, since she has both beauty and money. In this he is assisted by Basilio, a music-master. Rosina, however, returns the affection of the Count, and, in spite of the watchfulness of her guardian, she contrives to drop a letter from the balcony to Almaviva, who is still with Figaro below, declaring her passion, and at the same time requesting to know her lover’s name. Figaro tells her that the man is Signor Lindor, claims him as cousin, and adds that the young man is deeply in love with her. Rosina is delighted. She gives him a note to convey to the supposed Signor Lindor. Meanwhile Bartolo has
made known to Basilio his suspicions that Count Almaviva is in love with Rosina. Basilio advises to start a scandal about the Count.

To obtain an interview with Rosina, the Count disguises himself as a drunken soldier,and forces his way into Bartolo’s house. The disguise of Almaviva is penetrated by the guardian, and the pretended solider is placed under arrest, but is at once released upon secretly showing the officer his order as a Grandee of Spain

The Count again enters Bartolo’s house. He is now disguised as a music-teacher, and pretends that he has been sent by Basilio to give a lesson in music, on account of the illness of the latter. He obtains the confidence of Bartolo by producing Rosina’s letter to himself, and offering to persuade Rosina that the letter has been given him by a mistress of the Count. In this manner he obtains the desired opportunity, under the guise of a music lesson Figaro also manages to obtain the keys of the balcony, an escape is determined on at midnight, and a private marriage arranged. Now, however, Basilio makes his appearance. The lovers are disconcerted, but manage, by persuading the music master that he really is ill -- an illness accelerated by a full purse slipped into his hand by Almaviva -- to get rid of him.

When the Count and Figaro have gone, Bartolo, who possesses the letter Rosina wrote to Almaviva, succeeds, by producing it, and telling her he secured it from another lady-love of the Count, in exciting the jealousy of his ward. In her anger she disclosed the plan of escape and agrees to marry her guardian. At the appointed time,
however, Figaro and the Count make their appearance-the lovers are reconciled, and a notary, procured by Bartolo for his own marriage to Rosina, celebrates the marriage of the loving pair. When the guardian enters, with officers of justice, into whose hands he is about to consign Figaro and the Count, he is too late, but is reconciled by a promise that he shall receive the equivalent of his ward’s dower.

Cast:
Rosina - Kelly Sharp
Count Almaviva - Yuri Sabatini
Figaro - Jeremy Vinogradov
Bartolo- Gabriel Gottlieb
Basilio -Leon Berger
Berta - Katherine Price
Fiorello -Samuel Queen

Creative Team:
Director - Mark Hathaway
Design team: Susan Beattie, Francesca Branch
Conductor - Jonathon Butcher

The lovely people at Surrey Opera once again provided me with free tickets for this production. Unfortunately I was going to be away on holiday when this was on. I was sad to miss the opportunity to see the show but, rather than waste the tickets, passed them to a friend and asked her to attend on my behalf. This review was kindly provided in my absence by Vanessa C.

Lovely little theatre. The Set got the first applause – even if it was only three people. It was very simple and effective, quite bare and hard, but gave an excellent platform for the show with the balcony providing a second level for action and with the arches below making it a super space for all the sneakings in and out and busy-ness of the Barber.

I was dreading the orchestra – but what a delight! They were the best thing about the whole evening. A fabulous start (despite the backstage banging) to what turned out to be a rather weak show vocally. Neatly held together by Jonathan Butcher, the band made an excellent sound in what can be such a mess of an overture, and they continued throughout the show with some great solo playing from all of the sections.

I personally favour operas performed in the original language. One of the reasons being that singers too often forget about their technique when singing in English (because, I guess, they are trying to enunciate too much) and so the vocal line together with the support totally disappear. Surrey Opera’s performance was a complete example of this, particularly with Kelly Sharp, who proved to be a good actress, but who is not, in my mind, an opera singer – very pretty, but inaccurate, unsupported, no vocal line, singing, particularly in her oh SO well-known aria, she should have known better!

The selection of voices for the performance was disappointing – with so many thousands of singers around, why is it not possible to find singers who look good, can act AND who have a technique and most importantly, who have a ‘voice’. It is all very well having people running around and being funny but what about the voices? The actual quality of sound made by these singers was dismal. The inability to colour the sound, the lack of control – the inability to sing quietly but still with focus, the obviously lack of training to support the voice – particularly with Rossini – underneath all the runs – was evident throughout. Shaking the head violently whenever they are supposed to sing a grace note, or strutting around the stage from left to right at the beginning of each run thrusting an arm out like a sword, is just irritating.

Which brings me to Yuri Sabatini. I was excited when I read in the programme about an Italian singer, etc., etc. But after a couple of minutes my bubble was burst when Count Almaviva started to sing, and even more so when he forgot his lines and asked for a prompt (was it three times) instead of just singing anything…I mean WHO is going to know that he has got the translation wrong…and for him to have come right out of character (his whole body did a kind of “oh damn it of COURSE that’s what the stupid word was how silly of me, thanks Jonathan) – dreadful dreadful.

The worse thing for Sabatini was that his first entrance was to sing after the best vocal instrument in the show – Samuel Queen. He has a lovely fresh, baritone, evenly placed and free, and his voice made a stark contrast to the pinched, nasal, laboured vocal production of the Count.

The Chorus however were excellent. They had delightful costumes and made many pleasing pictures – all the maids with their numerous duties and up-and-downing of stairs and sweeping looked great. And the chaps in the band at the beginning sang and acted well, with nicely understated humour. I don’t quite understand the costumes for the soloists however. The Count (sorry to get at him again) at the beginning had a very weird tabard-thing going on that was way too big for him, and Bartolo had a massively distracting wig, so much so that one couldn’t really see his face – which is always disappointing. Figaro, who was very dashing, wore boots with metal tips that made a lot of unnecessary noise.

Overall the production was visually pleasing and entertaining and the orchestra really excellent. I can quite understand how an audience would have found the show an extremely enjoyable night out – the humour and of course the story come across so well particularly with the Holden translation. For me, however, I was disappointed by the solo voices.

Final comment: Hoorah for Jonathan Butcher!

Geekery:
The Barber of Seville is a “prequel” to Mozart’s opera The Marriage of Figaro (or “Figaro” is a sequel to “Barber” depending on your pov).

The overture is played during the end credits of the Beatles film Help! “Largo et Factotum” (arguably the most well-known piece of music from the opera) has been parodied by Woody Woodpecker, Tom & Jerry and Homer Simpson, among many others.

Rossini composed the opera in little more than 2 weeks. Time to prepare for the first performance was limited so he borrowed the plot of a story that had earlier been used in an opera by Giovanni Paisiello. Paisiello was quite angry at this so he sent a group of loyal friends to disrupt the opening night of the opera. They booed and hissed and threw things on the stage. This made the singers nervous and caused one to trip on his robe; another broke a guitar string; and a third fell through a trapdoor. Someone even let a cat loose on the stage. The opera ended up even funnier than Rossini had intended.

During a performance in Cincinnati in 1952, four audience members died during Act II.