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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Arcadia
Arcadia, Tom Stoppard, Duke of York’s Theatre, 29th May 2009
This play is a bitch. It sucks you in with an opening scene of easy drawing room farce. Then, quite without warning, the smooth theatrical mechanics have transported you to an intricacy of interlocking debates on history, science, poetry, sex and philosophy; a complete list of the issues it explores would fill this review and more. That there are no answers is fine – this is art, not science – but the sheer number of questions is dazzling.
A pure set of classical architecture and unobtrusive lighting is occupied by a large cast of considerable skill. Ed Stoppard sulks handsomely as Valentine, while his nineteenth century counterpart, Septimus, is coolly handled by Dan Stevens. Jessie Cave is convincingly vulnerable and precocious as Thomasina. Meanwhile, Samantha Bond is complex and poised as one half of the duelling academics; it is a shame Neil Pearson cannot quite match her.
That the staging and production should be unadventurous is fitting; this bulging, baggy work leaves little room for directorial intervention. The air sizzles with ideas, from which the audience is better not distracted. Occasionally, though, this can render the production a little cold. This is particularly true in the modern scenes, which lack overtly sympathetic characters. Similar ground has recently been covered with more charm by Alan Bennett’s ‘The History Boys.’
Nonetheless this is a philosophical meditation of astounding virtuosity, supported by the wit and careful theatrical machinery of one of the most skilful playwrights of the age. Just don’t go because you couldn’t get tickets to ‘The Lion King.’
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Buffylicious
I have just watched the first ever episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, on an extraordinarily low quality Indonesian streaming site. I'm probably hooked already. It's not Shakespeare, but I like it. Everybody is smart and sassy. EVERYBODY is ridiculously good looking - even Thomas the Vampire sounds like Sean Connery. I also like the fact that the fantasy is silly and slightly self-knowing - it's a nice change from the plodding earnestness of Tolkien.
I watched it a few times when I was 14 or 15, but only for a few minutes at a time, for adolescent drooling over Sarah Michelle Gellar (something I'm not above now, admittedly). I certainly wasn't concentrating on dialogue or characterisation. I usually had my finger hovering over the remote, in case anybody came in and read my rather transparent motives for watching it.
Bed now (I'm supposed to be getting my sleeping patterns under control in time for exams, and it's 1am already!), but I look forward to episode 2 tomorrow.
I watched it a few times when I was 14 or 15, but only for a few minutes at a time, for adolescent drooling over Sarah Michelle Gellar (something I'm not above now, admittedly). I certainly wasn't concentrating on dialogue or characterisation. I usually had my finger hovering over the remote, in case anybody came in and read my rather transparent motives for watching it.
Bed now (I'm supposed to be getting my sleeping patterns under control in time for exams, and it's 1am already!), but I look forward to episode 2 tomorrow.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Online-Real Life Etiquette
Further to a brief exchange with Unmutual, I want to say a few words about the nature of blogs. Relatively anonymous, and with a similar subject matter, they feel something like a diary. There is, of course, one crucial difference: they are public.
Naturally that means blogs require a certain amount of self-censorship. That's fine. But people still seem to be more willing to share personal things online than they might have been in a face to face situation. Even if they are quite circumspect, and say nothing that they dont mind their readers knowing, a regular reader can still find out a lot more than they would in real life, simply because the number of conversations is greater.
Which brings us to the problem. It can be downright weird when someone mentions something that you wrote. Even quite anodyne posts can have the effect of killing conversations. For instance:
Major Tom: I really hate that David Bowie.
Ziggy: I know, I read your blog post. You really dont like him, huh?
Major Tom: No I dont. He's just so supercilious.
Ziggy: I know. I read your blog post.
Major Tom: Yeah.
Ziggy: So...um...I have to go to the toilet now.
As someone who relies quite heavily on anecdotes for conversation fodder, this is a particular problem.
But then, it is also downright weird to repeat a conversation you've already had online.
No resolutions offered, I'm afraid. But if you guys have any, I'd be interested to hear them.
Naturally that means blogs require a certain amount of self-censorship. That's fine. But people still seem to be more willing to share personal things online than they might have been in a face to face situation. Even if they are quite circumspect, and say nothing that they dont mind their readers knowing, a regular reader can still find out a lot more than they would in real life, simply because the number of conversations is greater.
Which brings us to the problem. It can be downright weird when someone mentions something that you wrote. Even quite anodyne posts can have the effect of killing conversations. For instance:
Major Tom: I really hate that David Bowie.
Ziggy: I know, I read your blog post. You really dont like him, huh?
Major Tom: No I dont. He's just so supercilious.
Ziggy: I know. I read your blog post.
Major Tom: Yeah.
Ziggy: So...um...I have to go to the toilet now.
As someone who relies quite heavily on anecdotes for conversation fodder, this is a particular problem.
But then, it is also downright weird to repeat a conversation you've already had online.
No resolutions offered, I'm afraid. But if you guys have any, I'd be interested to hear them.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
This is not a drugs related post, but rather about the news. Though drugs may well have been involved in the design of Jeremy Vine's election graphics.
I'm not going to rant about how shit TV news is. Go watch Charlie Brooker's Newswipe - he shares my views, plus he does masturbation jokes.
Instead, I want to mention a few of the news sources I do use, trust and love.
The first is BBC World Service. It's a magnificent institution. Friendly, expert and with a genuinely global focus. In fact, those adjectives could apply equally to another favourite of mine, the International Herald Tribune. It's the international spin-off of the New York Times. It has a magazine-y writing style, and a confidence that the reader is intelligent and interested. Also, they are quite happy to put tiny, quirky stories on the front page - Carol Ann Duffy was front page news for them! Unlike the World Service, it does have a moderate-liberal bias. That's fine with me, because that's about where I am, but you need to read some of their columns with care.
The next is The Economist. The quality of the journalism is simply unparralleled. They have an excellent style guide, which makes their writing more careful than anything else. They know more than anyone else. Their strong opinions are always clearly seperated from facts; a prescription for action, or some predictions, usually follow a clear explanation of the situation.
Finally, there is The Guardian. They are too liberal for me, especially when it comes to foreign affairs - for about 3 years, they published an identical story every day on page 3, about suicide bombs in Iraq. It is wearying, and their writing is always completely loaded with assumptions. That said, their writing style is excellent; the quality of prose is extremely high. Also, their sport coverage is by far the best around, because it mixes serious analysis with genuine humour.
I would love to work for any of these, someday.
I'm not going to rant about how shit TV news is. Go watch Charlie Brooker's Newswipe - he shares my views, plus he does masturbation jokes.
Instead, I want to mention a few of the news sources I do use, trust and love.
The first is BBC World Service. It's a magnificent institution. Friendly, expert and with a genuinely global focus. In fact, those adjectives could apply equally to another favourite of mine, the International Herald Tribune. It's the international spin-off of the New York Times. It has a magazine-y writing style, and a confidence that the reader is intelligent and interested. Also, they are quite happy to put tiny, quirky stories on the front page - Carol Ann Duffy was front page news for them! Unlike the World Service, it does have a moderate-liberal bias. That's fine with me, because that's about where I am, but you need to read some of their columns with care.
The next is The Economist. The quality of the journalism is simply unparralleled. They have an excellent style guide, which makes their writing more careful than anything else. They know more than anyone else. Their strong opinions are always clearly seperated from facts; a prescription for action, or some predictions, usually follow a clear explanation of the situation.
Finally, there is The Guardian. They are too liberal for me, especially when it comes to foreign affairs - for about 3 years, they published an identical story every day on page 3, about suicide bombs in Iraq. It is wearying, and their writing is always completely loaded with assumptions. That said, their writing style is excellent; the quality of prose is extremely high. Also, their sport coverage is by far the best around, because it mixes serious analysis with genuine humour.
I would love to work for any of these, someday.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Blog officially populated
Now that this blog is well and truly underway, I can relax. Hope you enjoy reading some of those reviews.
This is a little old now, but I see Carol Ann Duffy has been made Poet Laureate. That she's the first woman, and the first openly gay person, to have held the position, are cool firsts, but more to the point she is an amazing poet.
I'd never read any of her stuff - at a conservative all boys school, she didnt come up on the curriculum, surprisingly enough. When I heard the news, though, I sought out the five or six of her poems that are available online. What a turn of phrase she has. It's unbelievable. I have to get a copy of 'The World's Wife'.
How about this from Mrs Lazarus:
'I breathed/his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,/moist and dishevelled from the grave's slack chew'
More, more. I want more.
This is a little old now, but I see Carol Ann Duffy has been made Poet Laureate. That she's the first woman, and the first openly gay person, to have held the position, are cool firsts, but more to the point she is an amazing poet.
I'd never read any of her stuff - at a conservative all boys school, she didnt come up on the curriculum, surprisingly enough. When I heard the news, though, I sought out the five or six of her poems that are available online. What a turn of phrase she has. It's unbelievable. I have to get a copy of 'The World's Wife'.
How about this from Mrs Lazarus:
'I breathed/his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,/moist and dishevelled from the grave's slack chew'
More, more. I want more.
Pinter, Marvellous Pinter
This was a Pinter double bill, of two of his more obscure early plays. I've made a resolution now that, having seen almost all the Pinter canon (bar the Caretaker), I'm going to see some other serious drama. I've finally seen Beckett, there's some Ibsen on at the Barbican right now, and I'm sure I can locate some Chekhov. For the moment, though, Pinter is good fun.
The Lover and The Collection
This Pinter double bill is about sex, captured, trapped and examined. It is the constant undercurrent, the backdrop and the motivating force for accusation and counter-accusation, for lies, and for games turned serious.
In the first of the two plays, ‘The Lover’, a happily married couple (Richard Coyle and Gina McKee) dispel the monotony of suburbia by role playing as adulterers. The game continues on and on, becoming more powerful, until their double characters invade every part of their lives, and pretence and reality become intertwined beyond separation.
The second play, ‘The Collection’, once again deals with truth and sex. An angry husband (Coyle) alleges that playboy Bill (Charlie Cox) has slept with his wife, and as the two men build up a curious rapport, Bill amuses himself by altering his story, delighting in the anguish he causes James. Meanwhile, Harry (Timothy West), Bill’s patron, rushes around trying to resolve the trouble which Bill is determined to cause.
Both plays are extremely well acted; in particular, Gina McKee is gloriously erotic as the wife in ‘The Lover’, and Charlie Cox is charmingly supercilious as Bill in ‘The Collection’. Timothy West is, of course, as good as you would expect as the frustrated, disappointed landlord, half lover, half father to Bill. Both plays are equally well staged, with an overpowering black wall betraying the apparent coziness of the living room, and a set which manages to evoke both moldering Kensington decadence (‘The Collection’) and dull Home Counties suburbia (‘The Lover’) without alteration.
Yet there is something missing. It is not the ending – neither play ends conclusively, but this is Pinter, and you would not expect it to. It is not the language, which is as witty as always. These plays feel somewhere in the middle; they are neither as glaringly intimate as ‘The Dumb Waiter’, nor as aggressive as ‘The Homecoming’. This double bill has all the hallmarks of Pinter, and is most certainly worth seeing – but it is not his satisfyingly brutal best.
The Lover and The Collection
This Pinter double bill is about sex, captured, trapped and examined. It is the constant undercurrent, the backdrop and the motivating force for accusation and counter-accusation, for lies, and for games turned serious.
In the first of the two plays, ‘The Lover’, a happily married couple (Richard Coyle and Gina McKee) dispel the monotony of suburbia by role playing as adulterers. The game continues on and on, becoming more powerful, until their double characters invade every part of their lives, and pretence and reality become intertwined beyond separation.
The second play, ‘The Collection’, once again deals with truth and sex. An angry husband (Coyle) alleges that playboy Bill (Charlie Cox) has slept with his wife, and as the two men build up a curious rapport, Bill amuses himself by altering his story, delighting in the anguish he causes James. Meanwhile, Harry (Timothy West), Bill’s patron, rushes around trying to resolve the trouble which Bill is determined to cause.
Both plays are extremely well acted; in particular, Gina McKee is gloriously erotic as the wife in ‘The Lover’, and Charlie Cox is charmingly supercilious as Bill in ‘The Collection’. Timothy West is, of course, as good as you would expect as the frustrated, disappointed landlord, half lover, half father to Bill. Both plays are equally well staged, with an overpowering black wall betraying the apparent coziness of the living room, and a set which manages to evoke both moldering Kensington decadence (‘The Collection’) and dull Home Counties suburbia (‘The Lover’) without alteration.
Yet there is something missing. It is not the ending – neither play ends conclusively, but this is Pinter, and you would not expect it to. It is not the language, which is as witty as always. These plays feel somewhere in the middle; they are neither as glaringly intimate as ‘The Dumb Waiter’, nor as aggressive as ‘The Homecoming’. This double bill has all the hallmarks of Pinter, and is most certainly worth seeing – but it is not his satisfyingly brutal best.
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