Review: I Am A Camera (Rosemary Branch Theatre)

New company Cornelius Cooke Productions make a vivacious debut with a rare revival of John Van Druten’s 1951 play I Am A Camera.

It is based on Christopher Isherwood’s autobiographical novels set in Berlin during the rise of Nazism – which in turn inspired the musical Cabaret.

The play is set in the bedsit occupied by aspiring writer Christopher and nightclub singer Sally Bowles, and Van Druten excels at making these hedonistic characters likable. Director Owen Calvert-Lyons maintains a fast, farcical pace, rather like a sitcom punctuated with moments of bleakness, while Amy Yardley’s set beautifully evokes seedy bohemianism. These friends, preoccupied with partying and cultivating Americans with unlimited wealth, fail to realise that they are living in extraordinary times, the hideousness of the growing gangs of Nazis in the streets only hitting home when witnessed first-hand.

The heart of the piece is the somewhat one-sided friendship between Chris (Mark Jackson) and Sally (an entrancing Vicki Campbell), who talks faster than she can think and leaves others to tidy up the debris she leaves behind. Jackson is equally impressive as her less flamboyant counterpart, particularly when hinting at Chris’s ambiguous love life.

Caroline Wildi is deliciously clipped as Sally’s mother and arch-nemesis. Erika Poole also impresses as Fraulein Schneider, the ever-helpful landlady with a heart of gold who fortunately knows the local abortionist’s telephone number – alongside the fact that she also represents the brainwashed majority that helped Hitler rise to power.

This is a sparkling tribute to mark the 25th anniversary of Isherwood’s death, a captivating snapshot into another world that’s delivered by a remarkable team who have set themselves a very high standard.

Written for Islington Gazette. Disclaimer: the print version was really kind of savaged.

Review: Autumn and Winter (Orange Tree Theatre)

All things Scandinavian seem to be quite ‘in’ at the moment: Swedish crime drama is all the rage and there was a Woman’s Hour feature last week about how Nordic cuisine is currently the most fashionable in the world. In the Orange Tree Theatre’s latest production, Swedish playwright Lars Norén is given a rare English-language outing with this angsty and shrill family drama directed by Derek Goldby and translated by Gunilla Anderman.

Norén’s writing and emphasis on domesticity are somewhat reminiscent of the nervous hysteria found in Alan Ayckbourn (of whom I’m not a fan) and Mike Leigh’s mixture of character driven humour and gloom. This slice of middle class misery takes place after the two adult daughters drop in on their parents for a family dinner and all kinds of resentments are brought to the fore. The premise is perfect for the Orange Tree, where the audience is gathered around the perimeters of the living room (designed by Sam Dowson – the uncomfortable-looking sofa is a fitting touch), but it is let down by the clunky writing, with a sense of the characters competing as to who can be the most miserable and ‘issues’ being ticked off as if on a shopping list; abortion, divorce, eating disorders, etc.

The main perpetrator of the misery is the dungaree-clad Ann, a down-on-her-luck single parent obsessed with her supposedly horrible childhood, who blames all her misfortunes on her mother. In contrast, her elder sister, Ewa, is a linen-suited, French-pleated and frightfully smug corporate high flier, who chimes in with the cracks in her seemingly ideal life, and Mum follows suit by blaming her husband for everything. Everybody is keen to have their say but no one is willing to listen, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that the same points go around in circles and no one reaches any kind of understanding by the end.

Lisa Stevenson, in the showiest role, is at times ferociously volatile as the ever hard-done-by Ann and Kristin Hutchinson is perfectly pinched as overachiever Ewa. Diane Fletcher’s Mum is harder to pin down, presenting an icily detached façade, but gradually reveals herself to be just as much of a drama queen as Ann. If Osmund Bullock (splendid in The Thunderbolt) as Dad spends much of the show blending in with the furniture, it isn’t really his fault as his ineffectual character has so little to do.


With six bottles of wine imbibed by the end of the evening, plus various nightcaps of port, whisky and brandy, it’s remarkable that anyone can string a sentence together – and no one bats an eyelid at Ewa driving Ann home. Ultimately, a fairly aimless wallow in Nordic angst.

Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: Uncle Vanya (Arcola Theatre)

 

 Following on from their production of Anna Karenina (by Birmingham’s Piano Removal Company), the Arcola remains in Russia with Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya (a co-production with Coventry’s Belgrade Theatre), a play, which like Tolstoy’s novel, also features a young wife in an unfulfilling marriage with a much older husband.

This new version by Polish-born director Helena Kaut-Howson and Jon Strickland, who plays the title role, aims to move away from the “fossilising reverence” often found in English translations of Chekhov, extracting the full potential of the farcical elements that run concurrently with the disillusionment of so many wasted lives. Kaut-Howson’s fluid approach, strong performances from the entire cast and the detailed period design offer a glimpse into a long vanished world of country estates and lace parasols, but much of it is universal, particularly the frustration felt by the characters whose purpose in life is to do supposedly cleverer people’s work for them.

Sophie Jump’s three quarters in the round design helps to break down some of the potential distance between the characters and the audience, perfectly evoking the clutter of a picturesque but slightly distressed country estate. Alex Wardle’s atmospheric lighting hints at the heady indolence of a balmy summer afternoon full of familial and erotic tensions that can only be hidden under a mask of ennui for so long. The use of incidental music (by Boleslaw Rawski) gives the busier scenes an effectively cinematic quality, but is a little overly emphatic in some of the more reflective moments.

The return of Professor Alexander Serebreyakov (a suitably curmudgeonly performance by Geoffrey Whitehead) and his beautiful wife Yelena to his country estate interrupts the order maintained by the estate managers, his daughter, Sonya and brother-in-law, Vanya. Vanya’s misplaced hero worship is perhaps what’s most hurtful of all, being deceived that dedicating his life to the service of a genius was a noble thing to do, and the devastation of discovering that his brother-in-law’s ‘talent’ was based on delusion. Likewise, the environmentalism of Sonya’s unrequited love Dr Astrov (a charismatic Simon Gregor) is equally in vain, in which pioneers of change, rather than making improvements, simply repeat the same mistakes of the past.

Jon Strickland’s nervy Vanya is not a repressed genius, but a man who, like anyone given the right opportunities, could have achieved more. Marianne Oldham is luminously languid as the “regrettably faithful” second wife with “mermaid blood.” She has the power to set all the male hearts aflame, initially appearing to be something of an unknowable ice queen, but provides one of the most emotional moments with the burst of joy when she and her stepdaughter fling their arms around each other and finally come to an understanding.

Most poignant of all is Hara Yannas’s Sonya, who seems unbearably young to have her dreams crushed so completely. She’s imbued with a grim determination to get on with the dull work she’s been sentenced to, which prevents her from appearing like a victim. On the contrary, there is something heroic about her refusal to give in to self pity, particularly when she is surrounded by pervading melancholy that seems almost contagious.

Written for Exeunt

Review: The Tempest (Little Angel Theatre)

 

Four Things meme

A bit of frivolity circulating around the internet; a little break from theatre reviews.


Four books I recommend

1. No Fond Return of Love by Barbara Pym
2. An Education by Lynn Barber
3. Magic Flutes by Eva Ibbotson
4. My Turn To Make The Tea by Monica Dickens

Four jobs I've had

1. Theatre reviewer (I've yet to make any money out of it, but one day...)
2. Assistant Administrator/general dogsbody
3. Trademark monitor
4. Assistant stage manager (only once, but so much fun)

Last four films seen

1. The Tempest (new version with Helen Mirren)
2. Morning Glory
3. Black Swan
4. Tangled (by far my favourite of the four

Four favourite TV shows

1. Lost
2. Being Human
3. The Office (US version)
4. Outnumbered

 Four places I have visited

1. St Petersburg, Russia
2. Dubrovnik, Croatia
3. Dalyan, Turkey
4. Paris, France

Four favourite foods

1. Olives
2. Cottage pie
3. Smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels
4. Peanut butter on toast

 Four celebrity crushes

1. Aidan Turner
2. Naveen Andrews
3. John Krasinski
4. Julian Ovenden

Four things I'm looking forward to

1. My holiday in Chicago next month
2. Seeing my review in print tomorrow.
3. Visiting Wilton's Music Hall for the first time on Saturday- I keep hearing about how extraordinary the building is.
4. Meeting a rather interesting long lost relative next week.

Review: Lines (Rosemary Branch Theatre)

One of the many provocative points raised by James Fritz’s faux-verbatim drama Lines (which premiered at the Rosemary Branch’s new writing festival last autumn) is what it means to ‘enjoy’ a show. It’s possible to find something interesting and moving whilst wondering if it’s in poor taste to take pleasure from the experience, particularly when the subject is a recent tragedy that’s still in the headlines.


Fritz’s conceit is that a certain Kilburn theatre renowned for cutting edge political drama produces a verbatim play called Ian and Bill, about the death of Ian Tomlinson at the G20 protests. During the run, one of the cast members, Michael, is murdered by Terry Stein, the police officer he portrayed in the show. As we enter the auditorium, the actors are engaged in their warm-up exercises, and then form a line to express their feelings about this tragedy.

The writer, Robin (Ian Mairs) and director (Tom Berish) are young, confident types who are more than a little pleased with themselves. Robin expresses his sympathy, but is too wrapped up in his ‘art’ to accept the fact that he might be partially responsible. The parental loss is acutely captured in David Vale and Jeryl Burgess’s exquisite portrayals of quiet devastation. There’s also a thought-provoking turn from John Canmore’s Sergeant, a man with no artistic pretensions and who volunteered to be interviewed for the project simply as a chance to defend the Met’s reputation regarding their involvement in the Tomlinson case.

Flamboyant characters often register most strongly on stage, the creatives seizing on Stein’s enthusiasm at having at audience to perform to. Michael’s portrayal of Stein, with an emphasis on a childlike hero complex and the embellishment of a slight speech impediment, becomes the light relief amidst the bleakness. While we never see Stein and only hear his voice at the end (having the last word lends a certain gravitas), it’s remarkable how vivid and human he becomes.

Does a verbatim play have a writer? The words might come directly from the speakers’ mouths, but they become part of an arc of stories that can easily be twisted. It’s all carefully contrived as to what’s included and what’s left out, who speaks when and who gets the final say. It seems more like an editor’s role than a writer’s.

What could have been quite a specialised, theoretical exercise is turned into a beautifully observed human drama. Fritz’s writing is perfectly served by the sensitive cast and Thomas Martin’s understated direction. The premise might be extreme, but it becomes frighteningly plausible. Mimicry can be incredibly hurtful.

Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: Bed and Sofa (Finborough Theatre)

A silent film from the Soviet Union is unusual source material for a musical. Although I haven’t seen Abram Room’s 1927 film Bed and Sofa, it’s easy to see why the subject matter caused controversy, with a portrayal of a ménage a trois, abortion (which is still something of a taboo subject in films today) and, according to librettist Laurence Klavan, the question of what a ‘free’ society is. The last point is perhaps less obvious in this re-telling.

This musical adaptation by composer Polly Pen and librettist Laurence Klavan has arrived in London fifteen years after its premiere Off-Broadway, where it received seven Drama Desk nominations. While the cosy Finborough Theatre is an ideal venue for a chamber musical with a domestic setting (a typically lovely Finborough design by David Woodhead, with the musicians on the roof), it’s difficult for director Luke Sheppard to overcome the fact that the show is sustained on one recurring joke (who gets the bed, and who gets the sofa). Although there are a number of interesting themes to explore, they’re suppressed underneath the veneer of whimsy.

The setting is Moscow in 1926, in the midst of a housing shortage. Volodya, a young man with “blonde hair and a sensitive face” arrives in the city to take a job as a newspaper printer (there are some hints of radicalism that are never explored), and finds himself homeless. His old friend Kolya comes to the rescue, offering him the sofa in the cramped apartment he shares with his wife Ludmilla. When Kolya is transferred to Rostov for a few weeks, Volodya and Ludmilla fall in love over a trip to the cinema. Kolya soon learns that his place is now on the sofa, but can’t leave due to the housing shortage. Ludmilla inevitably falls pregnant and rather than being pressurised into having an abortion, she walks out to start a new life, leaving the two men in a state of resigned amusement.

The transformation of a silent film into a musical is most successful when directly paying homage to the genre, offering some witty pastiches of the music that accompany the films that give Ludmilla so much pleasure (while she is in a version of one herself- how confusingly meta). The ‘Bed and Sofa’ refrain is certainly memorable as it accounts for a large percentage of the text. Taking the place of the title cards is the all-knowing Announcer, sharing various witticisms and tips for harmonious living under the Soviet regime, though I wouldn’t imagine the voice of Communism to have the quintessentially English headmistress-y tones of Penelope Keith.

Kaisa Hammarlund gives a thoughtful performance as the housewife longing for romance and finally independence, while Alastair Parker is bear-like and boorish as the cuckolded roofer Kolya and Alastair Brookshaw is aptly fresh-faced as Volodya. An uncomplicated plot doesn’t have to make for diluted drama. Bed and Sofa doesn’t feel complete because the characters never become anything more than archetypes. There is something charmingly quirky about this piece that could have been distilled into a pithy twenty-minute sketch. Stretched out over nearly an hour and a half, however, the joke wears very thin indeed.

Written for Exeunt