Review: Not By Bread Alone (ArtsDepot)

A very wise actor acquaintance once told me, "Theatre should never be what you expect." When I go to the theatre, I usually have some kind of idea about the piece’s concept and subject matter, but I had absolutely no preconceptions whatsoever about Not By Bread Alone, a piece devised by Israeli company Nagala’at, in which all the performers are deafblind. It’s a predicament that seems unbearable to those of us fortunate enough to be able to see and hear. Perhaps the most famous deafblind person (or at least the only one I could name off the top of my head) is Helen Keller, who was taught a special sign language by her governess Anne Sullivan through touch. There are plenty of examples of that in this piece, as well as Hebrew, Russian and Israeli sign language, and the English subtitles. It’s slightly surreal, especially when the words are being translated amongst the performers themselves in more ways than is possible to follow.

Nagala’at is the only theatre company of its kind in the world and began life as a two month workshop led by the Swiss born actress and director Adina Tal, but was so successful that it has been running for ten years. The Nalaga’at Centre opened to the public in 2007 in Tel Aviv and this production has been three years in the making.

When entering the auditorium, the audience is greeted by the sight of ten people in a kitchen making bread and one typing away at a typewriter with cheerful music playing. It all looks quite idyllic. The bread itself acts as ‘the taste of nature’ and the purest way of sharing, and therefore communicating. We learn about the loneliness (like being in a foreign country and not knowing the language), the frustration of dependency on others and constantly being interrupted, but there is no self pity and plenty of humour.

I felt that some scenes, such as the Italian episode in homage to the company’s former member and friend Michael who died during the early rehearsal period at the age of 27, could have had a bit more narrative clarity. The simple stories are best, such as the lady who took refuge in fashion magazines when she could see and dreamed of having her hair styled by a famous celebrity hairdresser. This was taken away from her when she lost her sight.

I felt that the most poignant scene was when Genia, the matriarch of the group, expresses her wish to share her love of music and plays her favourite Russian folk song from when she was a little girl and before she lost her hearing. The fact that she can still hear the music through the vibrations seems remarkable and the way in which the performers are alerted to the scene changes through the vibrations of drum beats shows the most extraordinary sensitivity that I imagine most able-bodied people could never achieve.

I cannot praise the performers, director Adina Tal and the interpreters highly enough. I can’t imagine how challenging learning all the blocking must have been. In her extraordinarily emotional speech, Tal comments that “Nothing is impossible.” It is one of those sentiments that is used so often that it has become something of a cliché, but when watching this company, one can only agree.

The performance is accompanied by a pitch-black bar attended by blind waiters and an exhibition of artworks (including paintings, pottery, mosaics, collages, rugs and more) by blind-deaf artists. What I would love to know is how they choose the colours.

 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

Review: Ballets Russes (Rosemary Branch)

This UK premiere by A Stage Kindly of prolific writer David Reiser’s Ballets Russes is the soap opera version of the groundbreaking early twentieth-century dance company. This movement was led by impresario Sergei Diaghilev and incorporated ballet with contemporary music and visual arts with an emphasis on Russian, rather than Western cultural identity, causing huge controversy with the premiere of The Rite of Spring in 1913. This isn’t the absolute worst romantic historical musical I’ve ever seen (an honour that has to go to a musical version of Madame Bovary told from Charles’s point of view), but the very generic, American cabaret-style music, clunky lyrics and banal book (by Bernard Myers) in which character development is practically non-existent make it an underwhelming combination despite the intriguing subject matter and the best efforts of the cast.

The story focuses on a love triangle, in which a vaguely Machiavellian Diaghilev moulds the young Vaslav Nijinsky (a sexless James Muller) as his protégé and his lover, until up-and-coming ballerina Romola Pulzsky sets her sights on him. After a brief crisis about his sexuality, the two are hastily married and Diaghilev is left heartbroken. Frank Loman brings some gravitas to Diaghilev and Katrina Gibson is sweet voiced as young Romola. However, to produce a musical about one of the most famous dance companies of all time with a cast of non-dancers (particularly in the case of Nijinsky) is a bold move and not a particularly wise one as the intensity and physicality that Nijinsky was celebrated and the other characters rave about is all talk and never becomes a reality. The angular port de bras and jazz hands would also be better suited to a Bob Fosse revue than a musical about ballet.

The most bemusing aspect of the piece is the uncertainty as to whether it’s supposed to be ironic or not. Arabella Rodrigo and Fabian Hartwell ham it up as prima ballerina Matilda Tchessinka and camp company manager Serge, but other cast members remain entirely earnest. Ultimately, I don’t think it is intended to be tongue in cheek because the ‘jokes’- the stereotypical characters and childish rhymes (such as ‘Money, money we need money,’/Lacking funds is never funny./Money money, needing money/Keeps the sky from being sunny’) that make one suspect that Reiser heavily utilised a rhyming dictionary in his writing of the show- get old pretty quickly.

Ballets Russes is amusing in places, but not really for the right reasons. An angry Stravinsky comments ‘These dancers don’t dance/They stomp and they jump./Take this garbage to where it belongs- in the dump,’ which might be a little harsh, but less melodrama and more substance and more actual, you know, dancing, would be most welcome. David Reiser is the author of almost fifty musicals and if this is one of his stronger efforts, one wonders what the less impressive ones are like.

(Stage management by Award Winning Professional Ballet Dancer Kyle Davey- who recently appeared as the Prince in Swansea Ballet Russe’s production of The Nutcracker-was impeccable.)

The Winds of Heaven

I think I must have picked this up at a jumble sale around the time I read my first Persephone, Monica Dickens's Mariana, but a story about an old lady didn't hold much appeal to me as a 13 year old and it's languished on my shelves ever since. Hopefully I'm less ageist now at nearly 22. I was quite excited to read in the Persephone Biannually that it's going to be one of their autumn titles and it seemed the perfect time to take it off the shelf. I have no idea what the rooster on the cover is supposed to represent and I very much doubt the person who wrote the tag line, "Her husband's death leaves Louise with nothing- except her freedom" had read the book. The whole point of the story is that a penniless widow is entirely dependent on others and has no freedom at all. You can only be a merry widow if you have money. Despite this rather gloomy predicament, it's just as enjoyable as Dickens's coming-of-age classic Mariana as it has the same wry humour, well-drawn characters and the feeling that things will be all right in the end.

The Winds of Heaven is set in London and the Home Counties of the early 1950s, familiar Persephone and Virago territory. The protagonist Louise in her fifties (when fifty really was elderly) and is left penniless and homeless after the death of her awful husband Dudley and is passed from one daughter to another: brisk, house-proud Miriam, married to a successful barrister, temperamental actress Eva and (the worst of the lot, in my opinion) Anne, a lazy, hideously insensitive, self-centered brat who could give Mary Musgrove a run for her money. Anne's husband Frank is 'socially inferior' and looked down upon by the rest of the family, but he's the only adult in the family to show any real empathy towards his mother-in-law's predicament. Louise bonds with her eldest grandchild Ellen, a kindred spirit who also doesn't really belong, and unexpectedly makes friends with a bed salesman who writes thrillers with titles like The Girl in the Bloodstained Bikini on the side. In the winter she's packed off to an old school friend who runs a haphazard seaside hotel on the Isle of Wight. Her attempts to help out are met with a lack of enthusiasm ('Oh, Mother, you're living in the past. People don't do great big washes on Monday anymore') and I think this passage perfectly sums up the agony of being dependent:

Going from one to the other and trying to pass the time and keep out of the way in someone else's house, temporizing with visit after visit, and no roots anywhere- what did other women do, who had been left alone without money or purpose in life? How did they bear this futile necessity to be house somewhere, like a surplus piece of furniture?

What did they do? If their children would not have them, they went to shabby hotels, or were pushed into old ladies' homes, if they were senile enough. It would be easier on the family, Louise thought, if I were an invalid. Then they could put me away in a nursing home without any qualms.

A bleak passage, I know, but this is a story about confounding prejudices and taking risks in order to follow your heart and develop the relationships that really matter, regardless of what anyone thinks of them. Perfect for snuggling up in an armchair with. I look forward to reading more reviews of it in the autumn and to seeing what kind of endpapers Nicola & co. choose for it.

Thanks very much to Claire and Verity for organising the second (annual?) Persephone reading week and I've had lots of fun reading everyone's posts. There are so many beautiful blogs out there (some of which I have to admit inspire a bit of lifestyle envy) and I'm making a resolution- in May, I know- to post more regularly on my little corner of the internet. Not because I expect anyone to read it, I just want to feel as if I'm being vaguely productive.

Hostages to Fortune

'He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune; for they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue, or mischief'- Francis Bacon (1561-1626)

Well, here's Francis Bacon's analogy from a female point of view. Hostages to Fortune isn't a title that you hear about often, or one that had ever really jumped out to me while browsing through the Persephone catalogue. I was very lucky to receive a token for two Persephones as a leaving present from the organisation I was doing a placement with and chose one that I'd had my eye on (To Bed With Grand Music by Marghanita Laski) and took a chance on the other. I'm certainly glad that I did because this is a novel that really challenges preconceptions of the domestic novel as something 'nice' and 'cosy.' In fact, this is a novel steeped in domesticity without a trace of sentimentality.

Like her protagonist Catherine, Elizabeth Cambridge was also a doctor's wife raising three children in isolated rural Oxfordshire after the First World War in middle class poverty (though I had to raise an eyebrow slightly at the way in which they have a house that is admittedly too large for them, a car, a maid and a gardener). Catherine's husband William is invalided out of the army and is ambivalent towards his children upon his return, they struggle with too little money, and Catherine's literary ambitions are stifled by rejection and lack of time.

Perhaps strangely, the book it most reminded me of was Lark Rise to Candleford (Flora Thompson's trilogy is exquisite and infinitely better than the schmaltzy TV show that shares its name, but very little else) in the way in which there is no plot in the traditional sense and it details a way of life soon to disappear over a period of about 15 years, from the birth of Catherine's first child Audrey to when Audrey is on the cusp of adulthood and her youngest joins his brother at boarding school. It's at the end of this era when she realises that the drudgery and tedium has been worth it.

The simplicity of the writing (at least on the surface) and understated tone also reminds me of Dorothy Whipple, particularly in her short stories, but Whipple is an extremely moral writer. As much as I love her, she can be a tad all-knowing at times, while there are no heroes and villains in Cambridge's novel. Her characters are people doing what they feel is best in less than ideal circumstances.

I'm becoming increasingly interested in life writing and autobiographical novels like this seem to blur all sorts of boundaries between reality and fiction. I wonder how Cambridge's children felt about this as Catherine's children aren't always portrayed in the most positive light.

A couple of sample passages:

She didn't want Audrey to love her if Audrey wasn't ready to love. She wasn't bound to, just because she and William had begotten her. Love had to grow, like everything else.  She would have to obey, and at once, without argument, life was so sudden and dangerous for the very young. But love? She loved Audrey, that was enough for the present. (31)

'Fairies poached eggs!' Audrey said, pointing to the floating daisies.
   Catherine laughed, her face close to Audrey's. She kissed her
'You don't encourage her for doing something for you,' Violet said, 'but you kiss her when she talks nonsense. As if she was always going to be a baby!'
   Catherine said nothing. She thought her daughter had really done something more deserving of kisses than the dumping of discarded flowers. She stood up, the bowl of shelled peas in the crook of her arm, and reached for the basket of pea shucks with her other hand. (110)

It's only Wednesday and I'm 'between jobs', so what next? I have a Penguin copy of The Winds of Heaven by Monica Dickens, one of the autumn re-prints, so maybe I'll have a little sneak preview.

Paris (Lost Musicals)

This performance of Cole Porter’s 1928 musical Paris presented by Ian Marshall Fisher as the first of this year’s Lost Musicals provided a delightful Sunday afternoon diversion.

Founded in 1990, the Lost Musicals project presents lesser known works by many of the most popular and distinguished American musical theatre composers, lyricists and librettists of the early twentieth century and are ideal for completists, or those seeking some light entertainment (or both). Despite the fact that back-row seats for a show that is essentially a rehearsed reading performed with scripts and devoid of fancy costumes, scenery and props are not cheap at £21, I did not feel as if I had been short changed as the talent and energy on display more than compensated for lack of spectacle.

Paris was created as a star vehicle for Broadway producer and sometimes composer’s E. Ray Goetz’s new French bride Irène Bordoni and was originally offered to Goetz’s brother-in-law Irving Berlin, who gave it to his more suitable Francophile colleague Cole Porter. The plot is one of those bits of entertaining nonsense not dissimilar to a comedy of manners by Nancy Mitford or P.G. Wodehouse (complete with a pompous butler) that gently satirises American-French relations and their ultimate incompatibility. Architecture student and Boston socialite Andrew Sabbot, portrayed by Richard Dempsey (best known as Peter in the BBC’s Chronicles of Narnia), falls for showgirl Vivenne Rolland and wants to make her his wife. Vivienne will only settle down in domestic bliss in Massachusetts (pronounced Must-You-Choose-It) if his mother approves of her. Meanwhile, her leading man Guy, played by a charming, if slightly mature James Vaughn, has other ideas. 

I found it somewhat ironic that although the role written for Mrs Goetz, the hoofer with a heart of gold Vivienne (played here with great pizzazz by Sian Reeves- the only cast member in costume, wearing a gold fringed flapper frock), is great fun and gets to perform the Cole Porter standard and one of his craziest lyrics Let’s Do It with hilarious Gallic manic energy, the show really is stolen by her mother-in-law to be. Anne Reid’s performance as disapproving, teetotal, ultra-respectable Boston matron Cora Sabbot is a joy to behold as she humiliates her son by transforming into a woman of the world who stays out all night, bobs her hair and takes a toy boy (or two).

Would a full-scale revival of Paris, perhaps at the Open Air Theatre, work in 2010? Probably not. There isn’t really enough substance and the score isn’t nearly as full as Anything Goes. I think it is the way in which the musicals of this period are presented that should be adjusted to the times, rather than changing the pieces themselves. For those tired of huge spectacles with little heart, this production that relies only on the actors’ charms and passion for their work and the wit, music and lyrics of Cole Porter shows that small and simple really can be best. 

What's Occurring?

 I've never been a regular blogger, but the past month or so hasn't been easy as my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer after a routine mammogram a week before Christmas and is having surgery next week. I know things are going to be difficult for a while longer, but it really makes me appreciate our wonderful socialist NHS service. I'm also extremely grateful for all the kind comments and words of encouragement from the members of the Virago Modern Classics group on LibraryThing- truly the loveliest corner of the internet. Christmas somehow was more enjoyable than expected, and I'm very grateful for all my presents, including new boots (very useful for keeping my feet dry in the recent snow), some jewellery, plenty of chocolate and three new Persephones (Fidelity, Manja and my own copy of my Persephone favourite, Saplings). I also got a copy of Paul Morel by D.H. Lawrence from my cousin (Lady Chatterley's Lover is the only one of his books that I've read- because I wanted to find out what all the fuss was about), which is apparently an early version of Sons and Lovers. The Oneworld Classics edition is lovely, and reminds me a bit of the Persephone Classics. I'm finding myself coveting several of the books they publish, especially the Russian titles.

In terms of books read, I was really annoyed by Hilary McKay's Wishing for Tomorrow: The Sequel to A Little Princess ('the' sequel? Surely it can only be 'a' sequel unless officially sanctioned by the author). It's quite extraordinary in the way in which Miss Minchin's abuse of Sara and Becky is completely glossed over. Is anyone supposed to buy into the idea that Maria Minchin only turned into a tyrant because she was so much cleverer than a Victorian woman ought to be? Funny that, as Frances Hodgson Burnett herself tells us that Miss Minchin was 'not a clever woman.' If McKay thinks that she, Lavinia and Lottie could live happily ever after in a little house together, that's fine, but I hope Miss Minchin burned in hell. The Brontës Went to Woolworths by Rachel Ferguson was a zany delight- what is about books with 'Woolworths' in the title? (Our Spoons Came From Woolworths was my favourite read of the year). So surreal and yet so deadpan- wonderful. I've finally broken the ice with Elizabeth Taylor as I really loved The Soul of Kindness. A brilliantly delicate, incisive depiction of a woman with a serious Lady Bountiful complex and completely oblivious to the misery she inflicts on others.

One of the highlights of the festive season was Charles Court Opera's production of Dick Whittington at the Rosemary Branch, a panto that truly is a cut above the rest. It's all gloriously un-PC, with sweets and bits of play-dough thrown into the audience, which must violate all sorts of health and safety regulations. Panto is much scarier in a tiny venue as there's a far greater possibility of being singled out by John Savournin's (pictured) Dame, but fortunately (for female audience members with chronic stage fright like myself), her tastes lean towards dads and granddads (I just about passed out with embarassment when my father was chosen as the object of her affection). Apart from that, I loved it, it's such a pleasure to have an entire cast who can sing beautifully, act and tell jokes effectively (not as easy as it sounds). My favourite bit was A Weekend in the Country (one of Sondheim's wittiest and trickiest songs) from one of my absolute favourite musicals A Little Night Music being transformed into A Voyage to Morocco.  Loved Idle Jack doing the Henrik bit at the end. It shows that this panto really is the ultimate in class and wit, and I hope there were other people who got it. There was also a delightful duet for Dick and his cute Welsh lady love Alice (modelled heavily on Stacey from Gavin & Stacey), In Milton Keynes, to the tune of Somewhere That's Green from Little Shop of Horrors. It really annoys me that it's always the same pantos that get all the attention in the press: The Hackney Empire (yes, Clive Rowe is amazing, but once you've seen one of their shows, you've seen them all), whichever one has a 'serious playwright' doing the script (this year, Mark Ravenhill at the Lyric Hammersmith) and the one with the most ludicrous celebrity guest star (Pamela Anderson has to take top honours this year). Still, column inches in the broadsheets hardly makes or breaks a show.

I finally saw Bright Star in early January- what an anti-climax. I was expecting to love it as the subject matter is right up my street and it was being hailed as a masterpiece left, right and centre. I personally found it bit of a nicely designed and shot anemic bore. I'm afraid pretty cinematography doesn't compensate for insipid acting and pedestrian dialogue. The beautiful black and white cat was by far the most engaging character. Still, I'd rather watch that ten more times than It's Complicated once more- dire would be bit of an understatement. Absolutely nauseatingly smug, grotesquely unfunny gastro-lifestyle pornography, full of the most thoroughly unpleasant, self-indulgent spoiled brats with tons of money and no sense. The only time I vaguely cracked a smile was the bit with John Krasinski in the pink pyjamas. I don't know what Meryl Streep was thinking.

I have to admit I nearly started hyperventilating in the office when checking What's On Stage and saw that Shirley Jones is making her London debut. It's hard to express just how intensely I admired her when I was 13- her beautiful voice and radiant performances in Oklahoma!, Carousel and The Music Man made me fall in love with the musical genre. I think I also wanted to be her. In recent years, her politics (supporting George H.W. Bush and his son) and some lousy career moves have left me less than impressed. However, a celebration of her wonderful musical talent in person is something I wouldn't miss for the world. Now, that's something to look forward to.