Sweeney Todd
Sweeney Todd has director Tim Burton in full Gothic Horror mode, complete with fog, monsters and fountains of blood. As ever with Burton, the picture looks magnificent; the scarlet of Todd’s victims leaps out amid a Victorian landscape in shades of grey. Again, though, as ever with Burton, the plot seems subsidiary to the look of the thing; there is a sense of searching for motivations, having already decided that Todd will kill people, and the sickly sweet love affair between Anthony and Joanna is an odd adjunct to a film which delights in its darkness.
The film is so over the top, though, that these quibbles hardly detract from the fun. The music, and the urgent, spoken singing style carry the audience along at a pace, and the fact that the exchanges approach dialogue excuses the lack of memorable tunes – with the notable exception of ‘Try the priest’, which is filled with delightful wordplay and a memorable chorus.
Helena Bonham Carter is magnificent, giving a simultaneously tender and cavorting performance as Mrs Lovett, the lonely pie shop owner who becomes Todd’s accomplice in the hope of getting her to love him. Depp also gives a solid performance in the lead role, although he has yet to rid himself of all of Captain Jack’s mannerisms, whilst Rickman enjoys playing a sinister Judge Turpin and Timothy Spall is convincingly brutal and simpering as Beadle Bamford. None of them are fantastic vocalists, but all are perfectly competent for the style.
‘Sweeney Todd’ is pure melodrama, and those unable to submerge themselves in the current of imagery and emotion will call this a silly and insubstantial film. It certainly is silly - but it is good fun.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
A very old review, dug up
Linkin Park at O2, 28/01/08
The rejuvenated Dome certainly is impressive, with its cinema, restaurants and 17,000 capacity arena, and though negotiating security takes a while, it is a while worth waiting. Entering into a huge bowl which puts Earls Court and Wembley to shame, the excited buzz of fans surrounds the standing area.
It has been a couple of years since Linkin Park were the hottest band around, but they certainly had no trouble dominating this venue; bounding around with exuberant energy, their stage presence is impressive, and lead singer Bennington has the arrogance of a true frontman.
This energy was their saving grace in a set which included almost the entire new album. ‘Minutes to Midnight’ is passable enough rock, but hardly compares to the raw innovation of ‘Hybrid Theory’ – yet tracks like ‘Given Up’ and ‘What I’ve Done’ were carried off with aggressive, immaculately rehearsed skill, corny lyrics and all.
It was the old anthems which stuck out though. There was scarcely a drop in volume as Bennington allowed the audience to do the work for him on ‘Numb’, and a couple of years off the radio has certainly refreshed ‘In The End’, their standout track of the evening.
A misjudged drum solo (what drum solos are not?), and a cover of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’, in which Shinoda showcased his dubious skill as a pianist – and then forgot the words – are perhaps best forgotten, but this was an extremely professional performance, with slick changeovers, impressive lightshows and album-exact songs delivered by a mature band at the peak of their live performing skills. Wipe out the ‘Minutes’ material and it tips the balance into a great performance.
Support came from Biffy Clyro, who enhanced their reputation as an excellent live act. The new album has more crowd-pleasers, but they have managed to maintain the aggression and excitement which has seen them play T in the Park more times than any other band.
The rejuvenated Dome certainly is impressive, with its cinema, restaurants and 17,000 capacity arena, and though negotiating security takes a while, it is a while worth waiting. Entering into a huge bowl which puts Earls Court and Wembley to shame, the excited buzz of fans surrounds the standing area.
It has been a couple of years since Linkin Park were the hottest band around, but they certainly had no trouble dominating this venue; bounding around with exuberant energy, their stage presence is impressive, and lead singer Bennington has the arrogance of a true frontman.
This energy was their saving grace in a set which included almost the entire new album. ‘Minutes to Midnight’ is passable enough rock, but hardly compares to the raw innovation of ‘Hybrid Theory’ – yet tracks like ‘Given Up’ and ‘What I’ve Done’ were carried off with aggressive, immaculately rehearsed skill, corny lyrics and all.
It was the old anthems which stuck out though. There was scarcely a drop in volume as Bennington allowed the audience to do the work for him on ‘Numb’, and a couple of years off the radio has certainly refreshed ‘In The End’, their standout track of the evening.
A misjudged drum solo (what drum solos are not?), and a cover of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’, in which Shinoda showcased his dubious skill as a pianist – and then forgot the words – are perhaps best forgotten, but this was an extremely professional performance, with slick changeovers, impressive lightshows and album-exact songs delivered by a mature band at the peak of their live performing skills. Wipe out the ‘Minutes’ material and it tips the balance into a great performance.
Support came from Biffy Clyro, who enhanced their reputation as an excellent live act. The new album has more crowd-pleasers, but they have managed to maintain the aggression and excitement which has seen them play T in the Park more times than any other band.
Painfully accurate
Pains of Youth, The Cottesloe, National Theatre, 6/1/2010
Katie Mitchell's production of Martin Crimp's translation of Ferdinand Bruckner's play makes for electric viewing.
The premise has the mechanics of a farce: the self-involved characters are all sleeping with one another, as a rotating cast of lovers drift from one bed to another. In truth, there are few laughs. Instead, we get a parable on human relations which seems to have at its source Forster's "only connect."
The characters talk past one another, so wrapped up in their own concerns that they are utterly unable to listen. Desperate to avoid bourgeois moderation, they retreat into carefully constructed boxes. This is brilliantly evoked by Crimp's declamatory, disjointed writing, in which no statement seems quite to follow another. The speeches are not realistic; they are the epitome of theatricality.
Mitchell is never a passive director, and here she makes herself felt most clearly in the scene changes. Props are clinically bagged by anonymous, besuited investigators, harshly lit. This is set to uneasy, discordant music composed by Paul Clark. The two together provide a moral commentary on the actions onstage.
All the actors put in strong performances. Geoffrey Streatfield is perhaps the most outstanding, adding depth to manipulative, vicious Freder. Leo Bill's timid Petrell is a little lacking in definition, though it steers well away from cliche. Sian Clifford's besotted, naive Lucy is a remarkable creature.
This play is the result of brilliance in collaboration; the labours of Crimp, Mitchell, Clark and all the cast combine to create a memorable work.
Katie Mitchell's production of Martin Crimp's translation of Ferdinand Bruckner's play makes for electric viewing.
The premise has the mechanics of a farce: the self-involved characters are all sleeping with one another, as a rotating cast of lovers drift from one bed to another. In truth, there are few laughs. Instead, we get a parable on human relations which seems to have at its source Forster's "only connect."
The characters talk past one another, so wrapped up in their own concerns that they are utterly unable to listen. Desperate to avoid bourgeois moderation, they retreat into carefully constructed boxes. This is brilliantly evoked by Crimp's declamatory, disjointed writing, in which no statement seems quite to follow another. The speeches are not realistic; they are the epitome of theatricality.
Mitchell is never a passive director, and here she makes herself felt most clearly in the scene changes. Props are clinically bagged by anonymous, besuited investigators, harshly lit. This is set to uneasy, discordant music composed by Paul Clark. The two together provide a moral commentary on the actions onstage.
All the actors put in strong performances. Geoffrey Streatfield is perhaps the most outstanding, adding depth to manipulative, vicious Freder. Leo Bill's timid Petrell is a little lacking in definition, though it steers well away from cliche. Sian Clifford's besotted, naive Lucy is a remarkable creature.
This play is the result of brilliance in collaboration; the labours of Crimp, Mitchell, Clark and all the cast combine to create a memorable work.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Trying hard
Scouts in Bondage, The King's Head, 23/12/2009
This is a lightweight lark which seeks to lampoon Scouting and the Empire through filth and innuendo. The results are mixed.
Four scouts - one camp, one posh, one keen and one German - are flying to a jamboree in India. When their plane crashes in Afghanistan, they get into scrapes, and must outwit dastardly Afghans, dastardly Russians and dastardly Brits. Along the way, they learn about the true meaning of Scouting, and accidentally bend over in front of one another, in very tight shorts.
A miniscule audience - the same size as the cast - immediately puts the players at a disadvantage. From then on, they battle manfully along, little helped by an average script, without ever commanding outright hilarity. There is enthusiasm and energy from all the cast, but only Mark Farrelly, who is the most experienced of the actors, has genuine poise and comic timing. His soliloquies as the editor of Scouting Magazine are by far the most sophisticated and funny moments.
On a bustling Saturday night, with a tipsy crowd, this piece would be warmly received. As it was, it could never rise beyond the diverting, and never elicit more than a titter.
This is a lightweight lark which seeks to lampoon Scouting and the Empire through filth and innuendo. The results are mixed.
Four scouts - one camp, one posh, one keen and one German - are flying to a jamboree in India. When their plane crashes in Afghanistan, they get into scrapes, and must outwit dastardly Afghans, dastardly Russians and dastardly Brits. Along the way, they learn about the true meaning of Scouting, and accidentally bend over in front of one another, in very tight shorts.
A miniscule audience - the same size as the cast - immediately puts the players at a disadvantage. From then on, they battle manfully along, little helped by an average script, without ever commanding outright hilarity. There is enthusiasm and energy from all the cast, but only Mark Farrelly, who is the most experienced of the actors, has genuine poise and comic timing. His soliloquies as the editor of Scouting Magazine are by far the most sophisticated and funny moments.
On a bustling Saturday night, with a tipsy crowd, this piece would be warmly received. As it was, it could never rise beyond the diverting, and never elicit more than a titter.
The Hottest Show in Town
The Habit of Art, The National, 21/12/2009
Alan Bennett is probably the most respected of modern British playwrights. After the magnificent, gripping History Boys, expectations were perhaps unfairly high. Nonetheless, this play is an astonishing and clumsy misstep.
There is little plot to tell. A group of actors are rehearsing a fictionalized encounter between Benjamin Britten and W.H. Auden. In this play, very little occurs. Auden sits in his study, and receives visitors: his cleaners, a rent boy, and Britten. Britten and Auden reminisce, without shedding much light on the subjects they discuss. This lack of meat means the play rests entirely on the charm of it's characters - which is largely lacking.
Bennett explains that he used the 'play within a play' device in order to allow exposition. What he gains in doing so is vastly outweighed by its distancing effect; it is very difficult to care about characters when the actors are constantly shedding them. Moreover, as the play hovers indecisively, it does not give enough time to the characters outside of their play; the actors are never more than sketched out. Instead, they receive a list of stereotypical traits. There is a gay, luvvie one. There is a difficult, egotistical one. There is a fresh-out-of-drama school one. There is a pretentious writer, a shy actor obsessed with the vital importance of his minor part, and an efficient, sarcastic assistant director.
Without plot or proper characterization, the play might yet have been saved by Bennett's undoubted wit. Sadly, this too was not much in evidence. There are moments - the rent boy is amusingly blunt, and Frances de la Tour provides some of the most biting wit (as well as some poignant observations) as the assistant director trying to hold together her collection of egos. Auden and Britten, though, are essentially rather dull, whilst the actors are used only for a succession of cheap jokes about the theatre. Such lines would quite happily have sustained a 20 minute entry to the school House Drama competition, but they do not have the sophistication or zing that one feels entitled to expect.
One of the most remarkable moments comes shortly after the interval, when Adrian Scarborough - playing a nervous, try-hard actor who is playing Humphrey Carpenter - insists on trying to flesh out his character by performing some of Carpenter's music. Carpenter is a relatively well-known figure, and many of the audience will know that he was a jazz musician - not, as the play unaccountably suggests, a drag artist! This, one must presume, is Nicholas Hytner's idea. He would have done well to consign it to an Acorn Antiques revival.
Every ticket for the entire run has sold out. One hopes that the many who will see it will find more in it to enjoy than I did.
Alan Bennett is probably the most respected of modern British playwrights. After the magnificent, gripping History Boys, expectations were perhaps unfairly high. Nonetheless, this play is an astonishing and clumsy misstep.
There is little plot to tell. A group of actors are rehearsing a fictionalized encounter between Benjamin Britten and W.H. Auden. In this play, very little occurs. Auden sits in his study, and receives visitors: his cleaners, a rent boy, and Britten. Britten and Auden reminisce, without shedding much light on the subjects they discuss. This lack of meat means the play rests entirely on the charm of it's characters - which is largely lacking.
Bennett explains that he used the 'play within a play' device in order to allow exposition. What he gains in doing so is vastly outweighed by its distancing effect; it is very difficult to care about characters when the actors are constantly shedding them. Moreover, as the play hovers indecisively, it does not give enough time to the characters outside of their play; the actors are never more than sketched out. Instead, they receive a list of stereotypical traits. There is a gay, luvvie one. There is a difficult, egotistical one. There is a fresh-out-of-drama school one. There is a pretentious writer, a shy actor obsessed with the vital importance of his minor part, and an efficient, sarcastic assistant director.
Without plot or proper characterization, the play might yet have been saved by Bennett's undoubted wit. Sadly, this too was not much in evidence. There are moments - the rent boy is amusingly blunt, and Frances de la Tour provides some of the most biting wit (as well as some poignant observations) as the assistant director trying to hold together her collection of egos. Auden and Britten, though, are essentially rather dull, whilst the actors are used only for a succession of cheap jokes about the theatre. Such lines would quite happily have sustained a 20 minute entry to the school House Drama competition, but they do not have the sophistication or zing that one feels entitled to expect.
One of the most remarkable moments comes shortly after the interval, when Adrian Scarborough - playing a nervous, try-hard actor who is playing Humphrey Carpenter - insists on trying to flesh out his character by performing some of Carpenter's music. Carpenter is a relatively well-known figure, and many of the audience will know that he was a jazz musician - not, as the play unaccountably suggests, a drag artist! This, one must presume, is Nicholas Hytner's idea. He would have done well to consign it to an Acorn Antiques revival.
Every ticket for the entire run has sold out. One hopes that the many who will see it will find more in it to enjoy than I did.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
I Object, Mr. Monkey
Inherit the Wind, The Old Vic, 27/09/09
This play is a clumsy beast, with a raft of flaws. The standing ovation to which the curtain fell was undoubtedly for the big names, not for the quality of the performances.
First, the play is poorly chosen. The Creationism versus Darwinism debate arouses passion and tension in the United States; in the UK, particularly in front of a secular theatre-going audience, the question has long been settled. The director may make the cartoonish Chicagoans as arrogant and self-involved as he wishes, and the audience will still side with them. It does not help that the author spends all his time attacking literalist Creationism, rather than the somewhat more intellectually robust (if still wrong) Intelligent Design.
Second, the play is riddled with the clichés of the courtroom drama. Someone shouts “I object!” every ten seconds. The judge says “Mr. Drummond, this is highly unorthodox.” Everybody complains of the heat. Midway through, the great liberal lion of a lawyer gives his Great Liberal Speech affirming his faith in humanity. In all this, nobody denies that the defendant has indeed done what he is accused of doing – it would have been a greater travesty of law if he had been cleared.
There are other flaws. There are rather too many scenes illustrating the charming colour of small town American life – cute blonde girls selling lemonade, and hymn singing and banjo playing. There is a pretty, frightened love interest, her delicate spirit crushed by her tyrannical preacher father.
There are a few higher points. Kevin Spacey’s performance is baggy and unfocused, but it is certainly not uncharismatic. Bailiff Horace Meeks is tightly drawn and sympathetic for his perhaps thirty or forty lines. Arrogant Northern journalist E.K. Hornbeck is one-note, but he gets all the best lines and delivers them well.
In the final scene, there is some suggestion that the play may complicate itself a little, as our liberal hero defends his old adversary. In the end, though, the impulse is abandoned, and the play collapses under the weight of its own self-righteousness. The final image is of Spacey posing as a set of scales, holding the Bible in one hand and the Origin of Species in the other, looking profound.
This play is a clumsy beast, with a raft of flaws. The standing ovation to which the curtain fell was undoubtedly for the big names, not for the quality of the performances.
First, the play is poorly chosen. The Creationism versus Darwinism debate arouses passion and tension in the United States; in the UK, particularly in front of a secular theatre-going audience, the question has long been settled. The director may make the cartoonish Chicagoans as arrogant and self-involved as he wishes, and the audience will still side with them. It does not help that the author spends all his time attacking literalist Creationism, rather than the somewhat more intellectually robust (if still wrong) Intelligent Design.
Second, the play is riddled with the clichés of the courtroom drama. Someone shouts “I object!” every ten seconds. The judge says “Mr. Drummond, this is highly unorthodox.” Everybody complains of the heat. Midway through, the great liberal lion of a lawyer gives his Great Liberal Speech affirming his faith in humanity. In all this, nobody denies that the defendant has indeed done what he is accused of doing – it would have been a greater travesty of law if he had been cleared.
There are other flaws. There are rather too many scenes illustrating the charming colour of small town American life – cute blonde girls selling lemonade, and hymn singing and banjo playing. There is a pretty, frightened love interest, her delicate spirit crushed by her tyrannical preacher father.
There are a few higher points. Kevin Spacey’s performance is baggy and unfocused, but it is certainly not uncharismatic. Bailiff Horace Meeks is tightly drawn and sympathetic for his perhaps thirty or forty lines. Arrogant Northern journalist E.K. Hornbeck is one-note, but he gets all the best lines and delivers them well.
In the final scene, there is some suggestion that the play may complicate itself a little, as our liberal hero defends his old adversary. In the end, though, the impulse is abandoned, and the play collapses under the weight of its own self-righteousness. The final image is of Spacey posing as a set of scales, holding the Bible in one hand and the Origin of Species in the other, looking profound.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
My first Greek tragedy
Medea, The Scoop, 22/08/2009
Euripides’ tragedy is a chilling parable of a life lived in the public eye, immaculately staged and performed with bloody verve by a skilful cast.
First of all, there is a good reason this play is still regularly performed two and a half millennia after it was first written. The characters are strong, the plot races along (as it must do when the audience is perched on concrete steps), and there is a satisfying amount of blood and guts. The language (in a version by Stella Duffy) is direct and meaty, and the description of Princess Glauce’s death is gruesomely evocative.
The most compelling part is the series of press conferences towards the beginning of the play. The wronged Medea stands at the podium before an eager chorus of journalists, making her case to the public. She is succeeded by her supercilious husband Jason, and the powerful, uncaring King Creon, who in turn sway the fawning journalists to their cause. The staging turns the play into an ancient Pete and Jordan in extremis. The inclusion of Medea and Jason’s angelic children – who do not normally appear – makes the violence of Medea’s revenge even more immediate.
The performances are in general strong. The Steam Industry group of players have form in Greek drama, and do fairly well here. Siobhan O’Kelly is smart, Scottish and spiky as Medea, whilst Joe Fredericks’ Jason is an unflattering Blair. Both, though, cannot quite make the transition to maddened despair. Fredericks in particular gets caught in this emotional transition, and ends up in anodyne histrionics (though in fairness, he has only few lines in which to effect this emotional switch). It matters little; by this point in the play, the mechanics of tragedy have taken over – characterization matters less when Fate takes control, and the extremity of the actions leaves little room for acting subtlety.
One final note. The Scoop is an outdoor amphitheatre, and the performance is free. I should like to be bohemian and enthuse about the democratic spirit and how theatre is supposed to be. In truth, it was a little annoying. There are an awful lot of places in London where chatting is actively encouraged. Watching a play (and when sitting behind me) is not one of them. That these distractions (and the occasional microphone glitch) did not detract from the evening is a tribute to the power of the story.
Euripides’ tragedy is a chilling parable of a life lived in the public eye, immaculately staged and performed with bloody verve by a skilful cast.
First of all, there is a good reason this play is still regularly performed two and a half millennia after it was first written. The characters are strong, the plot races along (as it must do when the audience is perched on concrete steps), and there is a satisfying amount of blood and guts. The language (in a version by Stella Duffy) is direct and meaty, and the description of Princess Glauce’s death is gruesomely evocative.
The most compelling part is the series of press conferences towards the beginning of the play. The wronged Medea stands at the podium before an eager chorus of journalists, making her case to the public. She is succeeded by her supercilious husband Jason, and the powerful, uncaring King Creon, who in turn sway the fawning journalists to their cause. The staging turns the play into an ancient Pete and Jordan in extremis. The inclusion of Medea and Jason’s angelic children – who do not normally appear – makes the violence of Medea’s revenge even more immediate.
The performances are in general strong. The Steam Industry group of players have form in Greek drama, and do fairly well here. Siobhan O’Kelly is smart, Scottish and spiky as Medea, whilst Joe Fredericks’ Jason is an unflattering Blair. Both, though, cannot quite make the transition to maddened despair. Fredericks in particular gets caught in this emotional transition, and ends up in anodyne histrionics (though in fairness, he has only few lines in which to effect this emotional switch). It matters little; by this point in the play, the mechanics of tragedy have taken over – characterization matters less when Fate takes control, and the extremity of the actions leaves little room for acting subtlety.
One final note. The Scoop is an outdoor amphitheatre, and the performance is free. I should like to be bohemian and enthuse about the democratic spirit and how theatre is supposed to be. In truth, it was a little annoying. There are an awful lot of places in London where chatting is actively encouraged. Watching a play (and when sitting behind me) is not one of them. That these distractions (and the occasional microphone glitch) did not detract from the evening is a tribute to the power of the story.
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