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.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
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.
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.
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