Review: Teddy and Topsy (Old Red Lion Theatre)

Purple prose doesn’t make for the most exciting theatre. Teddy and Topsy (an Edinburgh Festival success) consists of the love letters written by the ‘creator of modern dance’, Isadora ‘Topsy’ Duncan to her lover, the theatre designer Edward Gordon ‘Teddy’ Craig.  It features an accomplished performance by the actress and dancer Anna-Marie Paraskeva. However, while I don’t doubt the sincerity of the letters, most of them are fairly monotonous and limited in dramatic impact. There’s far more emphasis on Duncan’s clinginess than on any of her achievements.

Robert Shaw, who has compiled the letters and directed the show, assumes too much prior knowledge and doesn’t offer any context for the benefit of audience members who, like me, aren’t experts on Duncan and Craig. We never learn exactly why they can’t be together (presumably he’s already married?) and only get to hear from him towards the end of the show (in a pre-recorded slot by Hugh Bonneville), by which time it’s hard to care.

In her flowing Grecian-style dress, Paraskeva (who also choreographed the show) works very hard for not much reward in her portrayal of a woman who performed with great confidence, but clearly suffered from terrible mood swings and insecurity off stage. The dance routines are passionately performed and full of expressive arm work (as if always reaching out for something), effectively conveying the loneliness of a life spent moving from one anonymous hotel room to another and longing for something more secure.

An hour and a half of flowery declarations of love and devotion (“We were born in the same star!”) quickly becomes wearisome. Surely an exploration of Isadora Duncan as an artist would be more interesting than a recounting of this affair.

Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: Accolade (Finborough Theatre)

This first ever revival of Emlyn Williams's 1950 play is remarkable in how unlike a period piece it feels.

Williams enjoyed a long career in theatre and in Hollywood as a writer and an actor and never made a secret of being bisexual. Accolade concerns a man living a double life; not a relationship with another man - for there are references to him having sex with women - but an addiction to the hedonistic lifestyle portrayed in his novels.

The play is incredibly resonant. Will Trenting, a controversial novelist whose books describe dubious sexual practices in the East End, is about to be welcomed into the establishment with a knighthood.

This scenario is a familiar one in a society where the personal lives of public figures are constantly under scrutiny with rumourmongers desperate to get hold any hint of scandal. The real damage is inflicted on the accused’s family and friends, and the tension is almost unbearable when Trenting has to explain his predicament to his son Ian (a thoughtful performance by Patrick Osborne in the tricky role of an adult playing a child) in a way that an unworldly fourteen year old will understand.

Aden Gillett wonderfully illuminates the Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde sides to Trenting’s character. He isn’t the easiest protagonist to warm to, a man who is accustomed to having the best of both worlds- comfortable domesticity in Regent's Park with his wife and son, and the freedom to abandon it all in pursuit of inspiration for his books. The closest friends he makes on these exploits, Cockney good time couple Harold and Phyllis (Simon Darwen and Olivia Darnley), are genuinely caring towards Trenting and his family but not as entirely golden of heart as they might seem. The play isn’t exactly a defence of hedonism as the ultimate lesson than Trenting learns is that he can’t have things both ways without repercussions and shouldn’t expect to.

There is a skin-crawlingly sinister, rather Dickensian turn from Graham Seed (the much mourned Nigel Pargetter on The Archers) as the blackmailer, Daker. Oily in manner and appearance with a protruding tongue, this failed writer seeks influence, which in the literary world is far more valuable than money. Saskia Wickham, delivers an outstandingly sensitive performance as Trenting’s rather too understanding wife Rona, who was attracted to him because his unusual sexual preferences excited her and never turned a blind eye to her husband’s activities, but has become somewhat desensitised over fifteen years of marriage.

Blanche McIntyre’s beautifully understated production shows how powerfully emotion can be conveyed without raised voices. McIntyre and her impeccable cast make a strong case for Emlyn Williams to receive a similar kind of attention to the treatment that Terence Rattigan is receiving this year. Williams’s label as ‘the Welsh Noel Coward’ seems rather misleading- beyond the well-upholstered drawing room (designed by James Cotterill and lined with excellent bookcase wallpaper) is a very painful reality that The Master’s characters in their secluded little world are comfortably shielded from.

Written for musicOMH

Review: The Nutcracker (Pentameters Theatre)

 

 There are few things more quintessentially Christmassy than Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker, based on the German writer E.T.A. Hoffmann’s frankly really weird sounding 1816 novella The Nutcracker and the Mouse King. The ballet’s fame has long eclipsed its source material’s and this quirky interpretation presented by young company Butterfly Wheels led by Alice Old and Kayleigh Allenby (who have written and directed the show) has returned to the original story and given it a contemporary flair. There’s no Land of Sweets in Hoffmann and the gracious Sugar Plum Fairy and her friends are replaced by the young heroine Marie’s creepy clown dolls who descend from their shelf and dance- truly the stuff of nightmares.

It’s always fun to explore a ‘new’ theatre for the first time and the Pentameters is a lovely and very friendly above pub affair about a minute away from the Hampstead tube station with velvet scatter cushions on the seats (like a Hampstead Rosemary Branch). Entering the auditorium is like walking into a secret grotto and chocolate is very kindly given out. The set (designed by Alice Old and Amelia Marchant) has a really exuberant home-made quality, offering an exaggerated version of a perfectly traditional Christmas scene.

It’s undeniable that this ‘multi-sensory’ company throws just about everything except the kitchen sink into the production, reflecting the cast’s very varied backgrounds. Early nineteenth century Romanticism meets the New Romantics of the 1980s and it combines story telling, music and dance of all different kinds, video and shadow puppetry. A haunted mechanical remix of the Sugar Plum Fairy’s suite creepily illuminates the nature of Marie’s eccentric godfather Drosselmeir’s clockwork works of art (not toys) and the violin playing is beautiful- it’s a pity that more of the music isn’t played live

Much of the show is pre-recorded (the sound is bit of a problem- the Mouse King’s rap is incomprehensible), which adds a layer of distance between the characters and audience and there’s an emphasis on developing the atmosphere at the expense of narrative and character. The shadow puppet re-telling of how the Nutcracker came into being (Katie Mitchell uses a similar device in her production of Beauty and the Beast) offers the kind of story that you can get immersed in, in contrast to the rather stilted writing that peppers the main narrative.

This love child of Tim Burton, Kate Bush and Sarah Brightman is definitely an avant-garde alternative to the usual festive fare. Butterfly Wheels clearly have a lot to offer and have created an excellent, striking aesthetic, but the dramatic qualities need quite a bit of fine tuning to really make the piece flow and feel complete. I can’t say that it’s the most lovable Christmas show around and it’s hard to pitch exactly what kind of audience it’s aimed at. It’s too scary and conceptual for very small children but the moody quality may well appeal to teenagers. An Amazon voucher has just turned up in my inbox and a copy of the original Hoffmann seems an excellent way of spending it.

Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: Salad Days (Riverside Studios)

In some ways, it’s quite difficult to believe that Julian Slade and Dorothy Reynolds’s musical Salad Days is set in the present day of 1954 as there’s something about the perpetual sunshine that feels so Edwardian. The balmy summer in which our protagonists learn how to dance and fall in love is enchantingly brought to life in this revival of a production originally presented by contemporary opera company Tête à Tête and directed by Bill Bankes-Jones last autumn.

It’s no wonder that Salad Days was the longest running musical in grim and grey post war Britain (prior to My Fair Lady) with its abundance of charm and sunbeams, combined with utterly glorious music, erudite lyrics and skilfully bonkers yet emotionally truthful book. 

This is the silliest of silly musicals and the real magic comes from the way in which it is so cleverly done that the audience is more than happy to be swept away in a sea (or even a saucer) of whimsy. By the end, the songs and characters all feel like old friends.

 Bright young things Timothy and Jane are graduating from the idyllic bubble of university after three years of avoiding lectures and enjoying picnics on the quad and finding the real world rather more difficult to navigate. Jane’s mother wants her safely married off to an eligible young man (preferably a Lord) and Timothy finds himself with a degree but no qualifications to do anything useful (that’s certainly still resonant today) without the help of his assorted high-flying uncles. While mulling over their options, the pair are unexpectedly given the guardianship of a magical piano named Minnie who makes everyone who hears her want to dance, be it Charleston, foxtrot or tango (showcased by Quinny Sacks’s sprightly choreography). And why on earth wouldn’t they?

In many ways, this is the 1950s successor to Gilbert and Sullivan, but it very much has its own character and it’s a true delight to hear such clear unamplified voices fill the air. While a small concert hall isn’t really the ideal space for what’s essentially a chamber piece and some of the transitions between scenes are a little muddy, it is prevented from feeling cavernous by the traverse staging and the non-threatening audience-cast involvement. The cast dressed as university dons escort the audience to their seats and at the height of the celebrations, members of the front row are invited to dance. Despite usually being audience participation phobic, I rather envied the ones who were chosen.

Earnest young Timothy is charmingly portrayed by Sam Harrison as a thoroughly decent sort with lots of wide-eyed charm. He is beautifully matched by professional theatre debutante Katie Moore who makes an enchanting ingénue as Jane, with that particular kind of English Rose vocal purity reminiscent of Julie Andrews and lots of brisk common sense. The entire cast are on tip-top form, including Les Miserables’s original Cosette Rebecca Caine as Jane’s glamorous and glacial mother (a pity she doesn’t have more to sing) and Tony Timberlake as the twinkle-toed police inspector.

This is feel good theatre at its purest and a period piece that fully embraces the sweetness rather than trying to put an ironic spin on it. A real heartwarmer that sends one wanting to Charleston out into the snow.

Written for musicOMH

Review: The Merry Wives of Windsor (Richmond Theatre)

 

Shakespeare’s Globe’s indoor tour of their highly successful and popular production of The Merry Wives of Windsor arrived at Richmond on the day of the first snow of winter and there couldn’t be a better pre-Christmas treat than Christopher Luscombe’s breezy and utterly charming staging.

Merry Wives seems to only occupy a very minor place in the Shakespearean canon, considered by many scholars to be too trivial to be interesting. I disagree- this isn’t exactly social realism about everyday Elizabethan life, but I think it’s fascinating to get an insight into the kind of provincial society that Shakespeare himself grew up in. Its semi-obscure status makes it doubly refreshing as, firstly, it hasn’t been done to death and secondly, it’s genuinely funny (humour becomes dated far more quickly than anything else) and full of good lines (“Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy!”) and physical comedy.

Much has been made about this play as an argument for putting Shakespeare forward as the precursor of the modern domestic sitcom. Falstaff, perhaps somewhat like the great sitcom monsters Basil Fawlty or Hyacinth Bucket doesn’t have many redeeming features. He has an overly inflated sense of his own importance and attractiveness and thinks he’s much cleverer than he is, and yet he’s still lovable. What he has got is a huge amount of energy, something which is immensely appealing. Christopher Benjamin (Sir William ‘Capital, Capital!’ Lucas in the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice) imbues this irascible rogue with deliciously fruity intonation and plenty of warmth as well as the oily charm.

As the wives themselves Sarah Woodward and Serena Evans are the most extraordinary sister act as Mistresses Ford and Page, with their razor-sharp timing in which they fully ham up the pretence that they’ve created and make it seem utterly natural. This is a town where these shrewd, acerbic ladies are very much in control. Andrew Havil’s Ford (who disguises himself in a wig much like his future son-in-law’s hairstyle) does an excellent line in outraged, in which the word ‘cuckold’ is worse than any kind of blasphemy.

Sue Wallace is a warm and motherly presence as the go-between Mistress Quickly who doubles up as Gloriana in the ‘fairy pageant.’ As Falstaff was apparently Queen Elizabeth’s favourite character, part of me wishes that Falstaff had proposed to her at the end. The slightly star-crossed lovers Anne Page and Master Fenton are sweetly portrayed by Ceri-Lyn Cissone and Gerard McCarthy, alongside Anne’s other suitors, the Frenchman Dr Caius (Philip Bird) and the sexually ambivalent Slender (William Belchambers), who ends up much happier with another man.

Costume and set designer Janet Bird offers plenty of vibrant outfits, which include lots of colourful doublets and hose and huge ruffs that make modern clothes seem so dull. The music by Nigel Hess is a joy, which everyone came out humming.  

Merry Wives doesn’t seem to appear on many reading lists and it’s true that the scope for essay questions is probably rather limited. However, I’ve never laughed at a production of, say, Twelfth Night or As You Like It (let’s face it, Feste and Touchstone are unlikely to ever bring about hysterics) nearly as freely as I fell about laughing over Falstaff’s misadventure in the laundry hamper. What a mercy public transport wasn’t cancelled due to the snow.

(Postcript: After my friend and I shivered and giggled our way back to the station, I found myself on the last Overground train home sitting opposite Falstaff himself (and several other cast members). Jane Austen’s Sir William Lucas couldn’t have hoped to have been portrayed by a finer gentleman than Mr Christopher Benjamin.)

Review: Passion (Donmar Warehouse)

Apparently the reason why so many nineteenth-century heroines die of consumption is because having a fever supposedly heightens one’s sex drive. From that perspective, Violetta and Mimi are at the heights of their ‘powers’ when they’re at their most vulnerable. However, as we all know, sexually aggressive women, particularly ones who read, are dangerous (which coincidentally makes Passion an excellent companion piece to Breakfast With Emma). The sickly Fosca, suffering from some kind of consumptive hysteria, is another woman who feels too deeply and she uses books as a way to live through others without getting emotionally involved herself. She comments, “If you have no expectations/You can never have a disappointment”- there are few sentiments bleaker than that.

Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s 1994 musical Passion (inspired by a little known 1981 Italian film Passione d’Amore, which was in turn based on an equally obscure 1869 semi-autobiographical novel Fosca by Igino Ugo Tarchetti, written when the author himself was dying of typhus) is like being trapped a fevered dream cum nightmare. Jamie Lloyd’s chamber production (the intimacy of the Donmar needs no further comment) is very wisely played without an interval, in which the fever is broken with applause for the curtain call. It’s true that this is Sondheim’s most repetitive score (frequently labelled as ‘difficult’) and it doesn’t have the witty wordplay and humour of the other works. I firmly believe that ‘catchy’ and ‘memorable’ are two separate things. I find that the scores that take a little longer to get to know are often the ones that are the most rewarding.

In the crudest terms, Passion could be described as a sort of Beauty and the Beast story with the genders reversed, but the message (if there is one) is far more opaque than the idea of how “true beauty comes from within.” Sex, death, love, obsession and sickness are all so closely interlinked that they practically become interchangeable.

David Thaxton (who caused a fangirl explosion with his Enjolras in Les Mis that was practically unheralded for a show that’s been running for decades) excels in the extremely tricky role of sensitive literary soldier Giorgio, enjoying his matinees with his lovely married mistress Clara when he is transferred to a dreary provincial garrison where his superior officer’s scary cousin Fosca starts stalking him. His transformation from an ardent lover and military hero to an ‘alone and palely loitering’ wreck like the knight in Keats’s La Belle Dame Sans Merci, who has succumbed to Fosca’s almost vampiric ‘love without reason’ is charted with supreme sensitivity and his gorgeous baritone voice is a joy.

Elena Roger’s Fosca isn’t made to look repulsive; physically, she’s more of a ‘Poor, plain and obscure’ Jane Eyre type in a suitably governess-y dress (she also resembles the famously reclusive poet Emily Dickinson). Roger’s diminutive stature works brilliantly, suggesting that the idea of her being sexualised is grotesque because of the unsettling juxtaposition of her haggard face and childlike body. Her voice may not be pretty, but it’s remarkably expressive (and contrary to other comments, her diction was absolutely fine). However, it’s her extraordinary eyes that truly make the performance- they devour her prey with her bitterness and grimly sardonic acceptance of her fate.

The third member of the triangle is less well served by the direction. Scarlett Strallen is beautiful floating around the stage in her corsets and crinolines and has a soprano like a dream, but her Clara is a rather remote figure. I don’t think that the Giorgio/Clara relationship needs to be downplayed in order to make Giorgio/Fosca as sympathetic as possible. Their relationship turning into ‘Just another love story’ seems an inevitability as soon as Fosca appears, which I think somewhat undermines the bewildering nature of this piece in which nothing is that predictable.

Amongst the ensemble of boorish soldiers, Simon Bailey stands out as the soldier constantly shooting jealous looks at Giorgio, as well as the abusive fortune hunter. It’s hardly surprising that Fosca is drawn to Giorgio for his gentlemanly manner and the simple kindness of lending her his books- a soldier with a bit of culture is a rare thing indeed in this society.

Having listened to the cast recording dozens of times, I had hoped that seeing the piece in its entirety would answer that elusive question- why exactly does Giorgio fall in love with Fosca? I still can’t quite articulate it. Perhaps it’s more important to question how it happens. Fosca muses about Rousseau’s heroine, “The character of Julie is a great mystery.” One could say the same thing about Giorgio. And indeed all the characters in this piece.

Review: Palace of the End (Arcola Theatre)

The Canadian playwright Judith Thompson’s 2007 triptych of monologues about the Iraq war (winner of Amnesty International’s Freedom of Expression Award in 2009) makes for an extraordinarily harrowing yet mesmerising theatrical experience in this new production by Jessica Swale.

Like the Palace of the End of the title (the former 'Palace of Flowers' transformed into Saddam Hussein’s torture chamber), these pieces are simultaneously beautiful and appalling.

There’s a female soldier based on Private Lynndie England, the suicidal weapons inspector Dr David Kelly and an Iraqi lady Nehrjas, one of the many victims of Saddam’s reign of torture. These three characters are linked by the fact that they are all damaged from having seen so much brutality and Thompson’s script explores the divergent ways in which they respond to it.

First up is Jade Williams as a heavily pregnant trailer park girl from West Virginia turned soldier, awaiting trial for sexually tormenting Iraqi soldiers, claiming that she didn’t made her victims do anything that she hadn’t at some point done herself. This is a young woman given responsibility that she is far too immature and poorly educated to handle- she's more concerned about her image on the internet and place in popular culture than the consequences of her actions. Yet she isn’t a complete monster as she has grown up in a culture of bullying and has never been taught any differently.

The case of Dr David Kelly, the weapons inspector who killed himself in 2003 over the British government’s dossier on weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, is a conspiracy theorist’s dream. Robin Soans portrays Kelly as a devoted and caring husband and father destroyed by the murder of his closest friends in Baghdad. The audience is placed in the awkward position of being asked to witness his death, as his family would try to revive him- you feel as if you should step in, but this is theatre. And it’s impossible to change what has already happened.

Thirdly, Imogen Smith delivers a highly dignified performance Nehrjas ('Daffodil' in Arabic), an elegant and well-educated widow in her fifties whose family was destroyed by Saddam Hussein’s secret police when they refused to divulge information of her husband’s whereabouts. Her unflinching descriptions of the torture that she and her sons endured juxtaposed with the anecdotes about day-to-day life in Baghdad before Saddam took over are narrated without losing control. It’s even more chilling that way.

Judith Thompson’s exquisite writing has a very welcome lightness of touch amidst the horror. Her attention to the little quirks that make characters human rather than archetypes is a delight. The poetic touches in the language never feel forced or overdone, but rather reflect the characters’ fragile state of mind as they slip further and further ‘Through the Looking Glass’ (a recurring motif). Jessica Swale’s direction is impeccably simple, letting the words speak for themselves.

All three monologues could be presented as stand-alone pieces, but as a trio, combined with three outstandingly sensitive performances, they make a remarkably powerful tour de force. While it deserves a larger audience than can be accommodated in the Arcola’s smallest studio, the intimacy is yet another one of the production’s greatest assets. The pieces may be miniatures in length, but there is nothing small about them. I haven’t seen anything quite so powerful this year. 


Written for musicOMH

Review: HMS Pinafore (Rosemary Branch)

Despite my intense, non-ironic love for the American Musical, I have always found the very British Gilbert and Sullivan harder to get along with and regarded their work as something to respect rather than love. There was always something a bit too fussy and cutesy about it that made me long to go home and listen to some Sondheim. However, the colourful and zany productions by young chamber opera company Charles Court Opera, who have produced over 20 operas in five years and feature some of the most talented young professionals in the business, have helped to change that. Having now seen several operas in the intimate Rosemary Branch Theatre (a perfectly formed black box theatre above a pub that seats about 60), it seems the best place in the world to experience the genre, especially comic operas. There is something that makes the entire experience so much more all-encompassing by being so close to the proceedings.

Director John Savournin (who also lends his rich baritone voice to a pompous Captain Corcoran with a touch of childlike naïveté) certainly extracts the full comic potential from this tale of entertaining naval nonsense about class, camp sailors and accidents of birth, in which Captain Corcoran's attempt to marry his daughter Josephine off to the First Lord of the Admiralty Sir Joseph Porter KCB (a delightfully jaunty performance by Simon Masterton-Smith) is thwarted by her preference for lowly sailor Ralph Rackstraw. Sir Joseph Porter’s entourage of sisters, cousins and aunts are de-pluralized for the simple reason that a whole gang of them wouldn’t fit on stage  (keep an eye out for the aunt’s droll cameo). James Perkins designs with elegant economy with a few nautical props and Sullivan and Gilbert’s own faces in the sun and moon keeping a watchful eye on the action.

As the bumboat woman Little Buttercup, Rosie Strobel is a total delight with her powerful voice and expressive eyes in the way in which she manages to milk the sensuality of the role without sexing it up (subtle distinction). Georgia Ginsberg and David Menezes are both very winning and sing charmingly as star-crossed lovers Josephine and Ralph, perhaps the hardest roles to make an impact in amongst all the clowning. The cast are supported by the four hands of Wigmore Hall piano duo David Eaton and James Young, who play with exuberance and sensitivity.

I can’t help wondering if you’re supposed to question or even notice the inconsistencies in the plot: Ralph Rackstraw can’t be that young a lover if he’s Josephine’s father’s age and is it supposed to be at all creepy that Captain Corcoran in his reduced circumstances finds solace in the arms of his former foster mother? Probably not. The idea of Gilbert and Sullivan with the subtext laid bare is not a particularly appealing thought. This has to be a case of accepting the ‘topsy-turvydom’ for what it is.

A merrier, more beautifully sung show in London would be hard to find. I would particularly recommend it to anyone who is feeling a little disillusioned as it would be very difficult indeed to leave without succumbing to the infectious charms of this compact and uproarious production. Take along all your sisters, cousins and aunts (and all other friends and relations).

Originally posted on A Younger Theatre

Review: The Thunderbolt (Orange Tree)

Arthur Wing Pinero (1855-1934), a contemporary of George Bernard Shaw, is not exactly a household name these days in spite of being one of the most prolific and popular playwrights of his time with an oeuvre that included light farce, sentimental comedies, and ‘problem plays’ about contemporary society. Like Shaw and Ibsen, Pinero had a particular interest in the role of women in Victorian and Edwardian society, the most famous on the subject being The Second Mrs Tanquery, which was referenced by Hillaire Belloc in his poem about Matilda who told such dreadful lies (indeed, I never realised that it was a real play before doing my research for The Thunderbolt). The female characters in this play are shown to be grasping vultures (but no more so than their husbands), desperately nervy and almost too good and forgiving to be true. It is the illegitimate daughter who has far more class than any of her ‘legitimate’ relations.

The Thunderbolt could probably be best described as a family drama filled with unpleasant and desperate characters satirising greed, petty rivalries and the desperation of keeping up appearances in the fictional Midlands town of Singlehampton. At nearly three hours long, some of the long-winded passages could be trimmed, but it refrains from the tedious philosophising that certain Ibsen and Shaw plays suffer from and has an agreeable lightness of touch.

This play works beautifully from being presented in the round as the audience steps through the late Mr Edward’s library (designed by Sam Dowson) to get to their seats. Set changes are deftly handled by the cast re-arranging the furniture to create a whole new room. The dining room table in Act II is revealed to be three separate cabinets that form part of Mr and Mrs Thad’s drawing room. Very simple, but so effective.

The Mortimores have to be one of the most ghastly families in fiction. The sudden death of the eldest brother Edward Mortimore, a wealthy brewer who was estranged from the rest of the family has his three surviving brothers and one sister and their spouses descending en masse, calculating what they believe to be their rightful inheritance as next of kin to the last penny. The introduction of Edward’s lovely illegitimate daughter Helen (Grainne Keenan) temporarily complicates the celebrations. Helen refuses to accept an allowance from her newly discovered relations, determined to make her own living as an artist through the invaluable education that her father ensured she received, in spite of being deeply hurt not knowing whether her father meant to provide for her or not. The Mortimores are only too happy to respect her independence.

The acting amongst the entire cast is impeccable, including Geoff Leesley as bluff family spokesman and property developer Mr Jim and David Whitworth as local newspaper editor and insufferable pedant Mr Stephen. Brenda Longman and Julie Teal make the most of their roles as their sour wives. The sole sister Rose (Janet Spencer Turner) is an aspiring London society hostess and her husband Colonel Ponting (Osmond Bullock) might actually be the most avaricious of the lot.

The society of Singlehampton is one in which to be a grocer’s daughter is a fate worse than death, evidenced in the abuse that youngest brother Thaddeus’s wife Phyllis receives from her in-laws. Natalie Ogle excels in the role of this complicated woman who is deeply vulnerable and scarred from the years of cruelty. She is well supported by Stuart Fox as her husband. The very fact that Thad and Phyllis love each other and had the spirit to rebel by getting married sets them apart from the other Mortimores.

While I am not entirely sure if The Thunderbolt is a lost ‘masterpiece,’ it retains its power to expose the timeless themes of greed, hypocrisy and social snobbery in a quietly angry way. It is impossible not to feel indignant when Mr Jim grovels to Helen, stretching her generosity to the limit. It could hardly be better served by Sam Walters’s stylish production and the flawless ensemble cast. I am still not certain as to whom (or what) the ‘Thunderbolt’ of the title refers- perhaps it is the way in which the Mortimores’ smug complacency is suddenly threatened by public scandal. Of course they’ll never appreciate Helen’s compassion that protects them from this, but Pinero must be suggesting that she is the richest in the end, being the only one who can move forward with a clear conscience and build a life to be proud of.

Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: After The Dance (National Theatre)

As I am fascinated by the interwar period and am always intrigued by ‘lost’ novels and plays, this production of After the Dance by Terence Rattigan directed by Thea Sharrock was the most appealing looking item in the National Theatre’s summer brochure for me. Many plays and novels are forgotten for the perfectly legitimate reason that they aren’t very good, but there is also the matter of fashions constantly changing. It also must have been a lot easier for things to fade away in the days before the Internet. After the Dance was Rattigan’s second play after a making his name with a frothy comedy French Without Tears and opened in June 1939 to excellent reviews, but as the political climate grew ever more turbulent, it closed in the middle of August, two weeks before Hitler invaded Poland. Despite the fact that Rattigan’s reputation suffered from the fifties onwards and was perceived by many as hopelessly middle class and narrow in range, it was Rattigan himself who attempted to eliminate this particular play from his oeuvre by refusing to include it in his Collected Works, due to his discomfort with the fact that it was a financial failure (as Michael Darlow argues in the programme notes).

After the Dance tells us what happened next to the ‘Bright Young Things’ immortalised by Noel Coward’s ‘I Went to a Marvellous Party’ and Evelyn Waugh in Vile Bodies. These are people with no need to work, who thrive on alcohol and gossip about the good old days and live entirely for pleasure. It’s like an extended network connected by one big in-joke. The ultimate put-down in their world to avoid discussing anything serious is ‘Don’t be a bore.’ At the centre of the action are David and Joan Scott-Fowler, who married twelve years ago for the fun of it and are drinking themselves to death with no intention of stopping.

Observing this hedonistic lifestyle with disparagement are David’s earnest much younger cousin Peter and his fiancée Helen, the younger generation who do not drink before dinner and only engage in a few chaste kisses. This is the generation who will fight the war that may or may not be coming. Helen’s crush on her fiancé’s bad boy cousin and her plan to reform him are the catalyst of the tragedy that follows.

Apart from the cliff hanger between Acts II and III, there are few shocks or surprises in this play. It is very much a domestic character piece that builds up slowly. Without wanting to give too much away, I feel that the heart of the tragedy is the fact that the characters are unable to communicate with each other effectively. Joan is unable to tell her husband how much she really loves him in fear of being dismissed as a ‘bore.’ It is a classic example of English emotional repression, but also the obliviousness of people who never really grew up.

Thea Sharrock’s direction is clear and unfussy, letting the words speak for themselves rather than trying to make the piece ‘relevant’ to a contemporary audience. Hildegard Bechtler’s evoking a luxurious Mayfair apartment is spot-on and the performances are universally excellent. As the Scott-Fowlers, Benedict Cumberbatch is both debonair and compellingly tragic and Nancy Carroll is particularly powerful in her silent despair. John Heffernan is perfectly cast as Peter, the most sensible and level-headed character in the piece and newcomer Faye Castlelow is obnoxiously perky (I mean that as a compliment) as Helen, the young woman who thinks she is far more mature and knowing than she really is. Adrian Scarborough delivers one of the finest supporting performances I have ever seen as the Scott-Fowlers’ high maintenance hanger-on, delivering one wisecrack after another and eventually emerges to David’s shock as a voice of reason. There is also a fun cameo from Pandora Colin as Joan’s dreadful over the hill flapper pal Julia and Jenny Galloway milks every nuance she can find in her single scene. Only Nancy Carroll’s rather unflattering wig hits a false note.

After the Dance will never be considered cutting edge. I doubt it was avant-garde in 1939 either, but I suspect that one of the reasons why it failed then was because it hit too close to home. One of the most telling moments is when Joan is confronted with the reality of losing her husband to a younger model and comments, “When you know something is going to happen, it makes it seem further off to joke about it.” I think that this is the kind of sensitively directed, beautifully acted work that the National ought to encourage. The very fact that it was written before anyone knew whether there would be a war or not, let alone the outcome gives it an authenticity and poignancy in a way that a modern writer commenting on the era could never achieve.

Originally posted on A Younger Theatre

Branching Out 3

With 20-odd new shows in three weeks, it's a bit like pot luck and I tried to attend as many as I could. I'm so lucky to only be about five minutes away from the Rosemary Branch, which I believe (wholly without bias) to be the best fringe theatre in London. It's a shame one can't be a professional audience sweller- I think I'd be quite good at it. It's a win-win situation as they get one more person in the audience and it keeps me off the streets.

I'm not really in the target audience for Rosie Wilby's Edinburgh Fringe hit The Science of Sex (I don't feel entirely comfortable with the tell-all style that Sex and the City and the likes has made the norm), but I quite enjoyed it nevertheless as Wilby has an engaging, amiable style. I saw a show with a very similar concept in Cambridge a few months ago and that was absolutely awful, so it was in some ways a breath of fresh air. There were some very funny lines ("I love the term LGBT- it sounds like a sandwich!") and I enjoyed the story of how she came out to her parents on April Fools Day, thinking they'd be horrified, but were very excited and handed out leaflets to the neighbours with the good news.

The Forecast, performed by Marvin and the Theatre Cats seemed to be the hot ticket- I didn't need to be there to swell the audience as it was absolutely swollen. The premise is that a luxury cruise liner sinks, and three rich twits are stranded on a raft together and inevitably get on each others' nerves. This might have potential with a lot more work (the dancing is quite amusing), but it currently feels very incomplete and about as aimless as the raft itself.

The undoubted highlight of the festival is Rosemary Branch co-Artistic Director Cleo Sylvestre's one-woman show The Marvellous Adventures of Mary Seacole, which is everything a one-person show should be- beautifully written and performed, informative, warm, funny and poignant. It really is like having an audience with the real Mary Seacole. Cleo takes us on a journey from Mary's upbringing in Jamaica, where she learned about herbal remedies from her Creole mother and practiced nursing her dolls and pets, her first visit to England at the age of sixteen, her many personal tragedies and struggles with poverty,  and finally the Crimea where she was turned down by Florence Nightingale, but started her own unique hospital. It's told with so much gentle humour (I loved the descriptions of all of Mary's colourful outfits- she clearly had quite an eye for detail) and there's not a trace of self-pity. I now really want to read her autobiography. Miss Nightingale might have been interested in formal qualifications, discipline and references, but Mary Seacole did more by doing what came naturally and clearly had a much more effective bedside manner. A pearl.

The trouble with Ah, Bet You Didn't Know, performed by Allistar Bain is that you need to have some kind of prior knowledge of Caribbean folklore for it to make sense as it isn't easy to follow. It's a bit like an in-joke and I think that sort of defeats the purpose of storytelling...

Soviet Zion by Katy Lipson and Giles Howe met with a mixed reception from my friends, but I'm leaning towards the more positive end of the spectrum. Jewish flavoured musicals seem to be tricky things (in spite of the fact that nearly all of the great musical theatre writers are of Jewish extraction) and last year's Holocaust musical Imagine This (my scathing review can be found here) was the most embarassing, misguided thing I've seen in my entire life ("Let's put on a show in the ghetto!"). This is certainly an ambitious project- an epic musical spanning thirty years in Soviet Zion, an area of Siberia given to the Jews by Stalin in the 1920s (I'm ashamed to say this is something I'm completely ignorant about, and I'm half-Jewish). I worry that it's too ambitious and that the time span won't allow sufficient character development and there isn't much in the way of traditional Jewish rhythms or humour (though I realise how tricky it is to get the balance right...).  It would also be nice if it ended on a note of hope. Of course, it's never going to be a commercial success. However, I enjoyed what I heard, I didn't find it emotionally manipulative, the lyrics (so often the biggest problem with new musicals) didn't make me want to bang my head against a wall and I would be interested in seeing a fully staged production. There were great performances from Arabella Rodrigo, Julia Buckley and Nancy Hill, as well as Katy and Giles themselves. I'm cautiously optimistic about this one, I think it has the potential to be very good.

I found Terje Tveit's staged reading of Peer Gynt to be a very curious piece of work that I don't think I'm clever enough to appreciate. It's not that I don't enjoy a crazy, sprawling epic from time to time, but I definitely prefer Ibsen's tightly plotted "domestic tragedies." I read a synopsis beforehand, but still got completely lost early on (my cleverer friends fared much better than I did). This production is set in a 1920s jazz underworld full of music and dance, including a rendition of Broadway Baby. As Follies (a favourite of mine) is the most meta-theatrical musical I know, my head started spinning at that point with all the meta-ness. The aesthetic, in which the only colours on stage were red and black, reminded me a lot of Chicago and the jazzy feel and the anti-hero working his way through the underworld and seducing numerous women with an overhanging threat of murder and self-destruction felt pretty close to The Threepenny Opera and Pal Joey. The stage directions were read out by the director, and that actually worked really well with the whole stylised feel of the production. Sort of like Ibsen done as Brecht. All the acting was very good, especially Peer Gynt himself, his mother, "Green Eyes" and the maid who gets murdered (no cast list, I'm afraid). I can't honestly say I enjoyed this, but that's probably most likely to due to the fact that Peer Gynt is almost definitely an acquired taste. The rhyming couplets started to grate on my nerves almost immediately. I found myself having flashbacks of Michael Frayn's Afterlife, agh.

The Clock Master by Sparkle and Dark's Travelling Players was real treat. I couldn't quite work out if it was aimed at children or adults, but that's not really the point. This is very much from the Angela Carter school of fairy tales as they aren't afraid to step into sinister, macabre territory, all of the stories have a sting in the tail and are full of cryptic messages. There was such a creative use of puppetry and props (the origami birds were particularly delightful) and the music was lovely. I really hope to see more from this multi-talented troop of actors, story-tellers, puppeteers and musicians. Enchanting.

My least favourite piece was Graham Farrow's Stay With Me Til Dawn, which I found really horrible. At least it was only a reading as the violence is hideously gratuitous, bordering on voyeuristic. The unpleasantness is laid on so thick (ever heard of the expression less is more??) and needless to say, I won't be going to see the staged version, if it happens. I expect the Hackney Gazette, which runs a pedophile story practically every week, would love it...

Dead-Kat Productions' (can't say I'm too keen on their name) 'multi-media' adaptations of Macbeth and A Midsummer Night's Dream condensed into under an hour each reminded me a bit of the BBC's animated Tales From Shakespeare (very useful for when revising for Finals...). Of the two, I preferred Macbeth, with was very effective in capturing eerie atmosphere, with the projected blood and witches. There was some confusion over who the child puppet was supposed to represent- apparently it was drippy Malcolm. My problem with Dream was that most of it wasn't terribly funny. I did like the way they did Pyramus and Thisbe as a puppet show though- I was a bit concerned as to how they'd pull that off with only two mechanicals. The Shakespearean performances weren't quite world class (though I thought the actress playing Lady Macbeth and Titania did have real presence), but were mostly pretty good. As it was the first time they'd performed Dream to an audience, I'm sure the comedy will start to flow more naturally. This would be a perfect show to take round to schools.

My favourite parts of Mew and Me by distinguished actress Petra Markham (sister-in-law of Corin Redgrave, who was in attendance) were the scenes between her character (an actress) and Charlotte Mew herself. I've never read any of Mew's work before (even though obscure Victorian/early C20 women poets are right up my street), but she seems like quite an enigmatic character full of contradictions, which naturally works really effectively in drama. However, I think this piece might work better as an Afternoon Play on Radio 4 than as a staged drama...

Saving the most eccentric to last, Fiona Watson's show An Evening With Bunty Carnavon was a most quirky take on spiritualism for a commercial era (actually, you could say that spiritualism has always been commercial). Blinky and Minky were hands down the finest guinea pig puppets I've ever seen.

As expected, a real mix of things. I have to single out Mary Seacole and The Clock Master as my favourites. There was an all-time low in September with a one-woman vanity show by a not particularly talented 'singer/songwriter,' which was half a cabaret (including songs from a musical she's written about Adam, Eve and Milton in therapy- as you do) and the other half was a solo musical in which she played a gay man dying of AIDS, performed to tracks used for ring tones (the same eight beats on a loop over and over again). It really was dire ("Who does she think she is- Kathryn Hunter?!"). It's very hard indeed to imagine anything else being as soul-destroyingly awful as that (though Stay With Me Til Dawn was on a par). Here's to a fantastic November and December. I have a very good feeling about all the forthcoming shows and there really never is a dull moment around here.

Rigoletto and Iolanthe

I have to admit it- I'm not really sure if I'm an opera fan. There are some I really love (La Traviata and Eugene Onegin being top of the list), others I wouldn't choose to listen to for fun but found really interesting and moving in performance (Jenufa), but there are many that leave me cold. Jonathan Miller's production of Rigoletto falls into the latter camp. It's something of a modern classic that's been revived numerous times since its premier in 1983 and judging by the performance I saw, I really don't see what's so brilliant about it. For one thing, it didn't sound right in English as the words seemed so banal. It didn't help is that the acting was lacklustre, the singing was nothing more than adequate and the soprano's voice was far too thin for a venue as vast as the ENO. Miller's great innovation is that he transports the action from sixteenth century Italy to 1950s New York and the set for Rigoletto and Gilda's apartment building was straight out of West Side Story. Gilda has to be the wettest blanket in opera- "Oh, my boyfriend is cheating on me and never really loved me, but because I love him sooooo much I'm going to die in his place." Get a grip, girl.

I'm very lucky that all the Gilbert and Sullivan shows I've seen to date have been beautifully sung and presented, but it's the kind of thing I enjoy well enough while the show is going on (though the baby switching twist in HMS Pinafore is just too much) but am quite happy to leave behind at the end. Although I love musical comedy, I've always found G&S just a bit too cutesy and contrived for my liking. I first saw this production of fairy and parliament operetta Iolanthe at the Rosemary Branch last year and it's even better now.  I knew there was a reason why I'd never been to the Pleasance Theatre in spite of the fact it's reasonably local- it's so convaluted to get to by public transport. A shame, as it's a very nice venue with really comfy sofas and the openness of the auditorium works beautifully.

One of the things I loved most about this was the attention to detail and the way that all the characters responded to each other and to all the crazy things going on. I shouldn't really single out anyone from the universally excellent cast, but the three adorable fairies, Fleta (Charlotte Wooll-Rovers), Celia (Karen Richmond) and Laila (Rosie Strobel- whose facial expressions reminded me greatly of Nessa in Gavin & Stacey- could Ness have had a secret career as a G&S star?? Interesting how Gilbert and Sullivan and Gavin and Stacey share the same initials...) stole every scene they were in, giggling and prancing like hyper eight year olds. Iolanthe herself was beautifully sung by Anne-Marie Cullum and the Fairy Queen, portrayed by Kristin Finnigan, was an majestic figure who also was a devoted and loving mother to her daughters. Director John Savournin was very sweet as love interest Strephon (though I missed the blue hair) and he and Georgia Ginsberg as his lady love Phyllis in her flouncy gingham frock and curly blonde wig made an adorable pair of young lovers. There was also a delightful turn by Simon Butteriss as the Lord Chancellor. The music was played beautifully by the Eaton-Young Piano Duo. I loved Mia Wallden's costumes, especially the fairies' brightly coloured ballet-style frocks. It all looked so fresh and vibrant, and the boat that Strephon and Phyllis sailed off in after their duet was a hilarious touch.

I'll never be a card carrying G&S fan (like I am with Sondheim), but for the first time in my life, I thought I might like to listen to more of their works for the fun of it. Something of a revelation.

Judgment Day (Almeida Theatre)

Despite being local, I'm a bit ambivalent towards the Almeida Theatre. I always get the impression that they take themselves terribly seriously as they seem to do Serious Drama only without much in the way of fun. They get tons of funding and plenty of support from rich people, attract lots of star names for their productions and always get outstanding reviews, many of which bemuse me entirely. I've seen a couple of really excellent shows there (Duet for One with a once in a lifetime performance from Juliet Stevenson being a highlight of my theatre going career), but I find so many of them overly earnest and frankly pretentious and dull. I was only vaguely familiar with Ödön von Horvath beforehand as the author of Tales From The Vienna Woods which my grandfather edited (unfortunately for me in German, which I don't know) and it makes me wonder why his plays aren't produced more frequently. In fact, James Macdonald's production is the first fully staged production of Judgment Day in this country, thanks to Christopher Hampton's translation and championing of his work.

Judgment Day doesn't make any explicit references to the Nazis or anti-semitism, but the behaviour of the members of this ghastly provincial town who are quite happy to swap one hate figure for another certainly evokes the way that petty vindictiveness can grow into mob hysteria. It all sounds dreary, but it's absolutely gripping (with a certain amount of sardonic humour) and all the characters are well drawn regardless of their overall importance to the narrative, particularly Sarah Woodward as an increasingly malicious gossip.

Joseph Millson is outstanding as the station master Thomas Hudetz ("such a nice young man, they don't make young men like that anymore...") who has always lived a blameless life and "followed orders and done my duty" until he is 'distracted' by young Anna (a most assured Laura Donnelly), leading to a failure to deliver a signal that leads to a collision on the lines, and both commit perjury. This inevitably leads to horrible consequences. The kiss is witnessed by Hudetz's much maligned older wife (played to neurotic perfection by Suzanne Burden), who is branded a madwoman and pariah. Upon his release from prison, Hudetz is welcomed back into the community as a hero, until the tables turn again...

The staging is remarkably clever, as the train tracks twist and turn at different angles to highlight different locations and perspectives. I also appreciated how it was performed straight through- an interval would have greatly interrupted the suspense.

I was never bored which is high praise for the Almeida. A terrific production and one that's more than worthy of a transfer.

A Streetcar Named Desire (Donmar Warehouse)

I can't that that depending on the kindness of strangers is something that I make a habit of, but I'm deeply grateful to the Donmar Warehouse for running the Donmar Discovery scheme and offering free tickets for their production of A Streetcar Named Desire, which has been sold out for months. It really was the full royal treatment with a free poster and post-show discussion on top of the ticket. The Donmar might be known as the most exclusive theatre in London, but it's also one of the most generous. It's hardly like they do this because they're under booked. This (and my brand new Entry Pass for the National Theatre) is something I'm really going to miss when I turn twenty-five (thankfully not for a few more years).

I've never seen 'Streetcar' on stage before, and it's been years since I saw the film (I adore Vivien Leigh, but tend to re-visit Gone with the Wind and Waterloo Bridge), so I was able to come to it fairly fresh, which I think helped. The production is directed by Rob Ashford, who's most prolific as a choreographer, and I think it shows in the (sometimes unbearably) intense physicality and fluidity of this production. This was the first time I've been in the stalls at the Donmar, and I was right on the corner in the first row, and avoided being hit by Stanley's crockery smashing rampage by centimeters (rather terrifying). That's how intimate it was. Christopher Oram's set with the beautiful spiral staircase and dingy two-bedroom apartment below evokes the outward glamour of New Orleans and the internal squalor of the lives on display.

Rachel Weisz's Blanche arrives in this ghastly place dressed from head to toe in white, setting off her porcelain skin perfectly, and resembling a youthful Miss Havisham. She is rarely off-stage, and she is extraordinary. She makes Blanche tragicomic and sympathetic and I was completely drawn into her flights of fancy and even wanted to make them come true for her. Blanche Dubois might be a terrible manipulator and a nightmare of a house guest, but she really is one of the greatest fantasists in literature, spinning her own stories and in the end, I don't think she has any idea of what's true and what isn't. It all becomes mingled into one.

There is strong support from Ruth Wilson, who is outstanding as Stella (perhaps the heart of the play, and the onstage representative of the audience- she's the one who has to 'watch' Blanche), the tricky woman-who-loves-husband-who-beats-her role. She is no doormat, and is more than a match for Stanley. I can't help but be reminded of the Bigelows in Carousel, but the difference is that Julie loves Billy because she sees in him a vulnerability that no one else does. The violence doesn't turn her on, unlike Stella, who admits she was excited by the way he smashed all the light bulbs in the apartment on their wedding night. The question is- why is she so obsessed with a man who treats her appallingly, has no charm and isn't even remotely physically attractive? No relationship based almost entirely on sex can be healthy and Stella knows that, but she can't let go... and she never comes across as a victim.

I never would have recognised Elliot Cowan as Mr Darcy from the dreadful Lost in Austen (Stanley Kowlaski really is the anti-Darcy), and frankly, Blanche really does have have a point in suggesting that this sweat-soaked, beer-guzzling, tank top wearing (not a good look unless you're Naveen Andrews) brute has missed a few rungs on the evolutionary ladder. He's extraordinarily vulgar and bestial and incapable of thinking before he acts. I think his best moment was his despair after he'd lashed out at Stella, fearing he'd lost her for good. Barnaby Kay as Mitch, the only man who shows any traits of the Southern gentlemen of Blanche's fantasies is decent and straightforward, but who could cope with all the lies that Blanche tells?

It's a long play, and one that left me feeling rather drained, particularly after the heartbreaking final scene. I felt as awful for Stella as I did for Blanche. What happens to Stella and Stanley's marriage after the play? I think Stella knows what her husband is capable of and that Blanche isn't lying about the rape, but the world isn't kind to single mothers... I don't sense a happy future for poor Stella regardless of whatever decision she makes about her marriage.

The post-show discussion was particularly interesting in seeing just how protective Ruth Wilson is of Stella, to the point of being a bit abrupt. I think it's wonderful that she's that passionate about her character (and they must have all been exhausted), but was quite glad I wasn't on the receiving end. An evening I won't soon forget.

A pet for life- not just for a show

I suppose this has been bit of a wake-up call. I was blissfully lucky with Les Primas. Everyone was approachable and considerate, everything was beautifully organised and there were no stupid demands. It was the very opposite of the diva-like behaviour being parodied on stage. I never took that for granted, but this has made me appreciate that cast and creative team all the more. So much hinges on having an organised, sensible, tactful director. One who isn't particularly well organised and is severely lacking in People Skills isn't anyone's dream employer, least of all the lowest minion of all- the bunny chaperone. I'm still not entirely sure what the point was in going to enormous fuss and expense (though my fee was absolute peanuts) to get a real rabbit to appear in two scenes, after which he's replaced by a toy for a climax that apparently made no sense whatsoever. There's nothing about about a rabbit in the text at all; it's all in the director's warped mind. It isn't like needing a real Toto for The Wizard of Oz. How did I get involved? Well, I was up for just about anything to get a foot in the door in the theatre industry, but now I know that there really are limits. I should have backed out when Herr Director (HD) (who clearly hadn't done any research about the practicalities) told me that the bunny was coming from a pet shop, as I don't approve of animals being bought and sold when there are so many in rescue centres that need homes. I'd made it pretty clear that I couldn't keep the bunny permanently, and had been led to believe that there was someone interested in taking him, but that fell through. I have never felt as awkward as I did in that pet shop when HD asked if Bunny (name withheld in interest of privacy) could be returned in a week's time and he was informed that animals are sold for life. Which is exactly the way it should be. I'm not sure when I'll get over that feeling of shame about buying an animal just to use it. I was supposed to be delighted when a deal was negotiated to have him returned to the pet shop the day after the show was over. On the contrary, I was disgusted by the attitude that it's acceptable to buy an animal, use it for a few days in your little project and then return it when you don't need it any more. I can't believe no one else picked up on that. If you want to 'hire' a rabbit, find someone who already has one as a pet and is willing to have it appear (and if that isn't possible, use a toy). He might be sold eventually, but goodness knows when. We're in the middle of a credit crunch; only a fool would pay £50 for a rabbit when you can get one for free from a rescue centre.

The first night was absolute hell- I was given the wrong instructions, which the rather unpleasant leading lady blamed me for and there was a misunderstanding somewhere along the line (I maintain that I only did as I was told) which caused HD to speak to me quite harshly in a way that was completely uncalled for. It's awful not knowing if anyone is on your side (I'll always be grateful to the lovely tenor for trying to comfort me and telling me it wasn't my fault- which it wasn't, but I'd been made to feel as if it was). Funny how HD claims to be experienced in theatre, opera and film (in fact, IMDb suggests that his screen experience is limited to three individual TV episodes in German soap operas, and the last one was ten years ago) in his resumé, but is very coy about giving examples. My family and friends who saw the show (I didn't get to see any of it as I was backstage the entire time) found it pretentious, convaluted and incomprehensible thanks to the inept direction and awkward staging (although I'm sorry they had a wasted evening, such comments really were music to my ears), and all agreed that Bunny was the best thing about it. Lots of people cooed over him and told him he was the star of the show. Being a modest kind of bunny, he's trying not to let all the praise go to his head, but I think he's entitled to feel rather pleased with himself. He was absolutely good as gold throughout and is astonishingly docile and relaxed for a rabbit.

At the time of going to press, Bunny's future is undecided, but one thing is for certain- he won't be going back to that pet shop. I'm unutterably relieved that my mother has come round to my way of thinking. Ideally, a young family with a garden will be delighted to give him a home. He really is the ideal family pet. If not, he'll stay with us. It isn't what was planned, but he's been very happy here, and adjustments can be made. We all love him and a home is a home. It's hard to imagine another job coming with so much emotional and ethical baggage. Should I continue in this line of work, you never know what's going to happen.

Oklahoma!, butchered by John Doyle

 You can throw as much social commentary and historical context into Oklahoma! as you want, but in its purest essence, it’s a love story about whether the farm girl will choose the handsome cowboy or sinister hired hand to take her to the party. There’s no use denying it- it’s the simplicity that makes it so beautiful. I always thought it was difficult to go too far wrong with it as it’s got a terrific blend of comedy and drama, a fairytale and a comic romance, and a happy ending for the survivors (well, maybe not for Ali Hakim…). Stephen Sondheim may have said that he would have written the show with Jud Fry as the hero, but Rodgers and Hammerstein did not. However, John Doyle is so concerned with making it all edgy and minimalist (no scenery! What a concept) that the romance is completely butchered. There’s no playful teasing and one doesn’t even particularly care when Curly and Laurey finally admit their love for each other (they don’t even look at each other during the wedding- some kind of love match!). That added to the clunky staging and general lack of charisma amongst the cast makes it an all-round disappointing experience, especially as Chichester did so brilliantly with its glorious production of The Music Man last year. It’s as if they’re shying away from the fact that it’s a musical so that critics who usually dislike musicals can praise the production’s ‘Chekhovian’ qualities. It is possible to bring out the darkness of the show without sacrificing the joy. Can’t they let the text speak for itself? Oklahoma! has a very special place in my heart as it was my companion piece to Carousel as more positive view of love and relationships when I was seriously getting into musicals in my early teens; I wanted to be Shirley Jones, and Gordon MacRae was my first proper crush. Whenever I watch the movie, I’m always astonished at the way it’s absolutely teeming with sex that went over my head when I was 13 (I’m quite astonished so much managed to get past the 1950s production codes). It’s got a bit of everything, and yet John Doyle seems determined to suppress the very heart of the show.

The staging is terribly awkward- having the whole cast constantly on stage when they weren’t needed, and Aunt Eller in her rocking chair looking on was a dreadful decision. It all looked so cluttered. The actors didn’t particularly play to the audience or to each other. Curly and Laurey were metres away from each other throughout The Surrey with the Fringe on Top and People Will Say We’re In Love involves Laurey rushing around the stage at breakneck speed. There’s no intimacy or warmth at all. The title song was the best sung number, but it had little animation or spirit. It’s also horribly over-mic’d. It’s a big theatre, but these people really ought to be able to fill it without too much help. Oh for the days when singers could actually project…

Leila Benn Harris is not a natural Laurey (she also doesn’t look right for the part- too exotic), and she isn’t helped by the terrible direction. This Laurey doesn’t even respond when Curly finally kisses her, and has a face like stone during the wedding. I’m also not the biggest fan of her Disney princess-ish voice. I prefer a fuller sound for this kind of singing (she can’t compare vocally or acting-wise to last year’s leading lady, Scarlett Strallen, who would have been perfect for Laurey). As for her frocks, I don’t mind Laurey being scruffily dressed whilst she’s doing her farm work (I realise that that’s more gritty and realistic than Shirley Jones looking gorgeous in all her pretty, spotless dresses), but for goodness sake, she needs a nice party dress. Even Josefina Gabrielle in Trevor Nunn’s production got one. At least she gets a wedding dress, but she should have been wearing lace-up boots, not anachronistic pumps- it wouldn’t have been noticable if her dress had covered her feet.

I have to single out Natalie Casey as Ado Annie for delivering the most embarassing, obnoxious performance I’ve seen so far this year. She has no singing abilities and shrieked and gurned her way through her lines with a bizarre half American, half Cockney accent. Louise Plowright (any relation to Joan?) makes nothing of the role of Aunt Eller (bring back Charlotte Greenwood…), apart from waving her legs in the air so that Ali Hakim can fasten her garters (Aunt Eller would never do that. She wouldn’t have permed blonde hair either). The most successful female performance was probably Amy Ellen Richardson as Gertie, who had the best comic timing in the cast- I remember my friend raving about her Cosette in Les Mis, so I think she really should have been cast as Laurey or Ado Annie. The men fare a bit better as Michael Xavier sings with the best voice in the cast (shame about the complete lack of chemistry with Laurey and he lacks the curls that give his character his nickname) and Craig Els is fairly menacing as Jud, but both could have been stronger under more competent direction. I wonder if it was intentional to have a Curly and Jud who looked similar. The choreography is uninspired (one of my favourite bits, the Many a New Day ballet is completely cut- Kansas City is the boys’ chance to show off, Many a New Day is the girls’ moment), and Out of My Dreams is particularly disappointing, without any real shock factor (the wedding veil covered with red rose petals that becomes Curly’s shroud- a metaphor for virginity? Never heard that one before…).

The Telegraph reading, lilac two-piece wearing audience seemed to love this. I did not. There was also a Tourette’s sufferer disturbing the first act- I know it’s very politically incorrect to complain about such things, but if they’re going to distract everyone else… Anyway, now this is how Oklahoma! should be done:

Les Primas

I've known for a while that I want to work in theatre. You could say an obsession with theatre is in my genes. However, if someone had told me that I'd be making my professional technical theatre debut (something I never did at amateur level- backstage was every bit as cliquey as onstage at school) with Les Primas, a drag ballet troupe in a pub theatre, I never would have believed it. It still feels a bit surreal. When I signed up at the Rosemary Branch Theatre as a sort of errands girl, I expected to sell tickets and deliver leaflets (which I did), but at the dress rehearsal I found myself put in charge of sound. I was probably more nervous than the performers on opening night (which was especially exciting as we were listed above the Mariinsky in Time Out). It's hardly the most complicated job (far less so than lighting), but I think being taken out of my comfort zone has given me a lot of confidence and I had such a high when everything went according to plan, and the show was received with enormous enthusiasm. I honestly hadn't felt so happy or positive in quite a long time. It's hard to overstate how good it felt to feel useful again.

I feel very lucky to have been able to watch the creative process, and to observe all the little details that make a show come together. The cast, led by the effervescent Joel Morris as prima ballerina Margot Funtyme (he's absolutely extraordinary in the sense that he dances- ON POINTE- and looks like a real ballerina- it isn't like watching a man in drag at all), are all remarkably talented. Joel is supported by Leigh Alderson (the perfect male dancer- I have no doubt that this young man has a very big future ahead of him and I may have nearly passed out on opening night when he delighted us with some surprise moves to 'I Get a Kick Out Of You') as premier danseur Rudolph Koklova, Ian Archer-Watters as Iamaya Plisetswanskaya (Margot's rival), actor and ballet newcomer (though you'd never guess...) Michael 'Tim' Heywood as character dancer Irek Tchnyob (and also offers some stand-up and cake as Doreen, the Northern cleaning lady), and finally Gary Albert Hughes (one of the loveliest people I have ever met) as hostess and singer Misty Willow (the ultimate in glamour- a bit like a benign Norma Desmond). It's the most wonderful, affectionate pastiche of classical ballet (the bitchiness, the upstaging, the milking of applause, the bows that go on forever), and the cast know how to milk every single nuance for every laugh it's worth. I love the way that they manage to blend the high camp silliness and the beauty and intricacy of the dancing together so skillfully. I have to admit that I was originally expecting it to be very much a niche show aimed at a very specific audience, but I couldn't have been more wrong. It's perfect for anyone who likes to be entertained (I appreciated how the innuendo was kept to a minimum- it's much funnier that way). Tutus, glitter, false eyelashes and fairy lights- what could be better?

Les Primas ought to be recommended on the NHS to anyone who's feeling low. As one audience member commented, "It's better than Covent Garden!" I couldn't have hoped for a more fun first show to work on. If they return to the Rosie, I'll have to force everyone I know to come along. I'm never going to be able to watch Swan Lake in the same way again, but somehow it feels worth it.