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Coriolanus

CoriolanusCoriolanus – RSC / Screen on the Green, London – Weds 11th October

The Shakespeare gang re-united for a live screening of the RSC’s Coriolanus at the charming Everyman cinema in Angel. We couldn’t find a performance of this play back in 2011 as the Ralph Fiennes film was due to come out over the summer. So, we put it in ourselves, in the beer garden of a pub in Edinburgh during a trip to the festival.

The acting tonight was rather more professional, although the play got off to a creaky start when the projection froze. Worse still, the action we should have been watching was already pretty dull.

You see, I have friends who don’t go to the theatre because they can’t suspend their disbelief and go along with the make-believe. At some fundamental level, they can’t get over the fact that they are watching other grown-ups pretending.

For the first (…what felt like…) twenty minutes of Coriolanus, I had a measure of sympathy for these otherwise misguided fools. The opening scenes are supposed to establish that Coriolanus is a martial man of individual bravery and tactical shrewdness.

These facts could have been asserted in one efficient swoop. Instead we had several noisy but frankly rather silly-looking battle scenes and a playground fight between Coriolanus and his nemesis Tullus Aufidius. As the ‘action’ dragged on I half-expected the minor characters to gather in a circle and start chanting ‘Oggy! Oggy! Oggy! Oi! Oi! Oi!”

Once Coriolanus had won both the battle and the war, we engage with the real drama of the play: his tortured relationships with his mother and his people. To his mother, he is utterly obedient. To his subjects, he is utterly arrogant. Any show of in front of the populace is, in his mind, to allow “The crows to peck the eagles.”

Not that this production gives the masses much credit either, comparing their foolishness in submitting to Coriolanus’ forced flattery with the presidential victory of Donald Trump. “What? You chose this man?” asks one of the female tribunes, aghast at their stupidity and venality.

It the infinitely elastic applicability of Shakespeare which has ensured his writing has been cherished for so long. This production explores the familiar themes of the contradictions of democracy and strong leadership, alongside Coriolanus’ maternal complexities in a fairly even-handed manner.

Going much further than any other production I’ve seen (or read in a pub car-park) was the focus on the homo-erotic relationship between Coriolanus and Aufidius. Their re-union and reconciliation was a moment of openly charged mutual admiration and sweaty physical intimacy.

As Billington points out, Aufidius engages in “one of the most violently sexual passages in all Shakespeare”, describing his “dreams of encounters ‘twixt thyself and me” in which they “fist each other’s throats”.

The power of this sequence and my faith in the production as a whole was, however, under-cut by the preceding scene featuring a crudely-drawn camp character flittering about and generally acting the nelly. So, apart from the massively homophobic bit, this was a production with a very modern sense of the characters’ fluid sexuality.

As ever with Shakespeare, a new era unearths new layers of meaning and exploration.

Cricket Bat Man

The Real ThingThe Real Thing – Theatre Royal Bath – Saturday 23rd September

To Bath for a second time this summer, to see the only Stoppard on the list.

As the title suggests, The Real Thing is a meditation on the nature of authenticity. What is real love? What is real writing? What is a real experience?

The central character is Henry, a famous and celebrated playwright who can write about the infinite wonder of love, but seems incapable of feeling it in his own heart. In the first half of the play, he escapes from an unhappy and love-less marriage to an equally unsatisfying and uneasy relationship with Annie, his (former) friend’s wife.

It falls to his teenage daughter to pinpoint with an innocent, adolescent fearlessness, his emotional cowardice and immaturity. It is easier, safer for Henry to hide behind an impenetrable wall of intellectual hauteur than let down his defences and attempt to connect emotionally and engage with the “negotiation” at the heart of every relationship.

The question of authenticity is re-examined through a different lens, when Annie tries to convince him that a piece of lumpen prose written by a political prisoner is just as valid as his refined writing. Both are good by the measure of their own subjective criteria, she argues. One is good because it fits within the canon of classically-defined literary quality. The other has its own merit as a piece of ‘real’ writing, not from the academe, but from the heart of lived experience.

In a wonderful scene, Henry picks apart this argument through analogy with a cricket bat. A cricket bat is a finely crafted, honed and tempered thing. You can hack a piece of wood into the shape of a cricket bat, and swing it about as if it were, but neither you nor the cricket ball will get very far. It is not, after all, the real thing.

I like the fact that the 101 Challenge leads me to odd and experimental theatrical productions. But there are times like today when I was glad to watch something sound all round: a strong cast, in an excellent theatre, staging a play that is intellectually self-confident and dramatically coherent.

Thank you Theatre Royal Bath and the folks for the debate and discussion after the play!

Hamlet

HamletHamlet – Park Theatre, London – Wednesday 6th September 2017 

Let us differ from the Dane and be direct: this was the best Hamlet I have seen by an Elsinore mile.

It was enormously inventive, brilliantly witty, and coolly self-aware (more on this later). And it starred Gyles Brandreth, his son and daughter-in-law.

Yes. That Gyles Brandreth. A man I see sitting on quiz panels sharing shaggy dog stories, rather than wrestling with the most famous text in Western literature. So I approached this performance with a low bar of expectations and a high sense of curiosity.

I was reassured by the wonderful space of the Park90 Theatre, containing the spare modern kitchen which provided the setting for the entire play. Then I was intrigued by Brandreth’s description of himself as a “near-lifelong Hamlet obsessive” in the introductory notes to the programme.

With admirable brio, the Brandreth trio cut and re-ordered the play to fit into ninety minutes and to allow three actors to play all the parts.

The result was a masterpiece of editing, staging and acting. With deft changes in costume, tone and mien, the three switched smoothly between the characters. The table at the centre of the kitchen was used again and again as the edge of the battlements, the deck of the ship, the stage of the play within the play, and much else besides.

Most impressively, Brandreth Benet and Gyles and Kosha Engler played all the parts with energy and emotion. Bravura performances all round.

At a few points, the trio played with the audience’s expectations. In the role of the first player, preparing for the play within the play, Gyles Brandreth began to act in a very, well, Brandrethian way; boomy, over-the-top, ostentatious.

No, Benet chided with a knowing grin, “If you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.” The laugh from the audience suggested we were all in on the gently joke at the expense of Brandreth père’s reputation.

I wrote back in 2011, during the Shakespeare challenge, and after Rory Kinnear’s acclaimed run, that I’ve always found Hamlet a ‘problem play’ in a very unwelcome way. It often feels like a philosophical treatise squeezed into the form of a play, at the expense of character development (Ophelia, Gertrude) and plot (particularly Hamlet’s sudden transformation from intellectual crippled by doubt to cold-blooded killer).

This performance made me forget those doubts and kept me fascinated for every second of its ninety minutes.

Bravo!

 

 

 

Helen – fighting on a lie

HelenOff to the Hen and Chickens in Islington to catch Helen at the Camden Fringe festival. One of the earliest plays in the list and, according to Billington, the first tragi-comedy.

This one-hour, semi-professional production emphasised the comedy over the tragedy although, as this review points out, the contrast between acting styles was striking. Elena Clements’ Helen was under-stated and quietly emotive, while Nicholas Bright’s performance as Menelaus was energetic and experience, and Darren Ruston entertained by channelling Zero Mostel as Theoclymenus. Bright wore only a loin cloth for the entire hour, so he had to keep moving just to stay warm.

Undercutting the humour is a sense of doomed futility, not just about war and its consequences, but mortal existence altogether. The premise of the play revolves around two misunderstandings. The first is Helen’s belief that Menelaus is dead, and she is fated to live out her life as a widow or the unhappy bride of a rival king. The second is that Menelaus’ bride is actually Helen. In truth, the being he has captured from Troy is a phantom, created by the Gods due to a conflict in the heavens.

It is the wry humour in the face of such capricious cruelty which Billington rightly praises. How foolish are men, even kings – no, especially kings? How pointless is war, especially when it is based on the misunderstandings of mortals and the deceits of the deities?

Yet the war was started, and the men must fight on. As Slim Charles explains to Avon Barksdale in the episode of The Wire entitled ‘Mission Accomplished’: “Once you in it, you in it. If it’s a lie, then we fight on that lie. But we gotta fight.”

The fragility of men was underlined toward the end of this heavily cut and tightly compacted version of the original text. Theoclymenus exposes himself as a buffoon, allowing his desire to impress Helen to blind him to her obvious attempts to escape with Menelaus. He is then prevented from taking out his rage on his sister the priestess Theonoe by the direct intervention of the Gods.

Helen and Menelaus escape, but to what? The next chapter in a life written by forces far beyond their comprehension. From the battlefields of Troy to the streets of Baltimore, we need comedy so we can laugh at in the face of such futility.

Twelfth Night

Twelfth Night – Lauderdale House, London – Friday 11th August

The tea lawn at LaudeIMG_0189(1)rdale House provided the ideal setting for Shakespeare’s country-house comedy of mistaken identities and romantic intrigues. The re-developed 16th Century building is now run as a community hub, providing a wide range of classes, events and exhibitions to the denizens of North London. The building and its grounds are well worth a visit, play or not.

I’ve followed the general consensus in describing Twelfth Night above as a comedy, though I find it a very problematic one.

Shakespeare’s favourite comedy mechanisms are all there: the identical twins who have become separated by a shipwreck, echoing Comedy of Errors; the girl dressed as a boy who attracts all kinds unwanted attention, in the style of As You Like It; the foul-mouthed and dirty-minded drunkards Andrew Aguecheek and Toby Belch channelling the spirit of Falstaff.

And it is, indeed, a funny play as Shooting Stars Theatre Co. demonstrated with brio and verve. The youthful cast of 10 kept the play moving at a quick pace, and mingled freely with the crowd, to the general delight of the even younger audience. The actors more than broke the fourth wall as they stole snacks from the picnics on the lawn and cajoled one of the dads into officiating a wedding.

Although one older spectator on our row was clearly less than impressed, to put it very mildly, when Belch accidentally spilled half a bottle of bubbly over her. And the use of pop music between and during some scenes didn’t really work through under-powered amps in an open-air setting.

James Henri-Thomas and Michael Totton were great value as the two lecherous Lords, alongside Joe Sargent as Malvolio, playing him to type as the prideful peacock whose feathers are plucked.

However, this is where I start to disagree with Twelfth Night’s straightforward categorisation as a comedy.

Aguecheek and Belch are upper-class bullies. What irks them most about Malvolio isn’t his Puritan priggishness or pomposity. It’s his belief that he and his mistress could be in love; a transgression of hierarchy that terrifies and angers them. See their response to Malvolio’s observation that there is “example” or precedence of the Lady of Strachy marrying her yeoman of the wardrobe: “Fie on him, Jezebel!”

As a result of the cruel trick they engineer with Maria, and at the end of this so-called romantic comedy, Malvolio ends up a broken man: socially humiliated; psychologically shattered; romantically denied; and presumably unable to return to his job after being gulled into making a yellow cross-gartered fool of himself. It is hard to see one of the lowest-status characters belittled in this way while (most of) the high class and high-status characters waltz off into the sunset.

I’ve seen several versions of Twelfth Night, including a production with Derek Jacobi, one of the actors I most admire, as Malvolio. I’d really like to see one that problematised the Malvolio sub-plot.

This evening, however, was a joy, made even better by my companion’s delicious picnic. Thank you Lauderdale House, thank you Shooting Stars and thank you Tina!

24 down – 77 to go.

Racing Demon

Racing Demon

Racing Demon, Theatre Royal, Bath, Saturday 1st July 

Hallelujah! Thank the Lord!

The hot streak of gory, grimy, sexploitation plays that ran through spring and summer was finally broken ‘Racing Demon’.

The fine city of Bath was an apt place to wash away the grit and soak up the witty, politically astute comedy of David Hare’s 1990examination of the state of the Church of England.

Racing Demon is one part of Hare’s triptych examining the pillars of the British establishment, alongside Murmuring Judges and Absence of War, which scrutinised the judiciary and legislature respectively.

Some of the references, to the ordination of women for example, were outdated, but the fundamental themes of the play remain eternal: the nature of faith; the difficulty of defining and doing ‘good’; the tension between the active evangelical wing and the passive, pastoral traditions within the clergy.

These complex and challenging questions were explored through the story arcs of four priests working in a loose communal arrangement in a deprived south London neighbourhood.

David Haig was given star billing, and he excellently conveyed the buttoned-up Englishman archetype, suppressing deeper passions and pains, that has become his trademark. His Lionel is the hero of the play, when it is read as a critique of an institution that has forgotten the importance of humility.

As a man outside of the church, however, as a husband and father, he is a villain. He has utterly neglected his family in the service of his parishioners, spending so much time in house of God, his home life has collapsed without him noticing.

It would be unjust, however, to focus solely on Haig given the strength of the rest of the cast. Paapa Essiedu gave a powerful performance as the ambitious, proselytising ‘Tony’. Essiedu fizzed with energy, driven by a complex mix of evangelical zeal and semi-suppressed rage in response to a childhood tragedy which, one suspects, drives his need to believe in an all-powerful God.

I wondered at the interval whether the multiple plot-lines and regular scene-changes would make it difficult to land the play in a coherent and satisfying manner. My concerns were allayed. Hare’ brings together the strands with grace, carrying to the characters to a serious of conclusions that satisfied the audience without trying to wrap everything into neat bundles.

The only wrinkle I had, and one I shared with my mum and dad who joined me for the play, was the very final movement. At several points, the fizzily irreverent tone was quickly replaced by a series of particularly bleak endings that felt sudden and tonally jarring.

All in all, however, this was a magnificent performance of a play that is as relevant today as it was a generation ago.

Photo credit: Nobby Clark – nobby@nobbyclark.co.uk

 

Woyzeck Hodgson

Woyzeck

Woyzeck, The Old Vic, London, Saturday 20th May 2017 

We are on a roll. A seedy, sexually exploitative, and violent roll.

After the strangeness of The Goat and the threatening, unsettling atmosphere of The Homecoming, next up was Georg Buchner’s unfinished 1837 drama.

Close observers of the challenge may remember that Woyzeck appeared on the schedule of ‘found’ plays very early on, then disappeared from the list.

Let me explain why.

After successfully auditioning for a role in an amateur production, a friend of mine invited some family and friends, including me, to watch when it came around to opening night.

In between time, said friend read the rest of the play and decided she would feel rather uncomfortable performing some of the material in front of people she would have to look in the eye.

This was a very wise decision.

Billington described Woyzeck as a “bleeding torso left incomplete by Buchner’s death” at the age of 23. In place a definitive version of the text, we have 24 scenes of various length which broadly tell the story of a young soldier tormented by his own demons and the cruelties of society, who murders his own wife.

The incompleteness of the play leaves it open to constant reinterpretation. To draw on Billington again, it has “been claimed by everyone” and “provides open season for experimental directors”. Indeed, the Old Vic gave almost equal billing to its director as to its star. The posters boasted of John Boyega in the title role “in a new version by Jack Thorne.”

Boyega played his part well, spanning the spectrum from terrifying rage and babbling insanity at one extreme, through street philosopher in the scenes with his senior officer, all the way to sweet-hearted young lover trying to keep hold of his wife as much as his own mind.

The problem with the production as a whole was that there were so shocking moments, they started to lose impact. A scene of Woyzeck being abused mentally as a child is shortly followed by one in which he was the subject of medical experimentation (also featuring animal cruelty) as an adult.

We have full-front male nudity (oddly, I have now seen the same actor naked twice and this is only play 22 – if things continue at the same rate by the time I’ve seen all 101…), domestic violence, drug abuse, implied threat against a baby in a cot and, of course, the murder of Marie.

Theatre should always have the power to disturb, to make things strange you are forced to look at things again. Woyzeck sought to shock with almost every scene, I was rather inured to the effect by the end and unlike The Goat or The Homecoming have given the play little thought since.

 

 

The Homecoming

WEB IMAGE - THE HOMECOMING_0

The Homecoming

Yvonne Arnaud Theatre, Guilford, Saturday 29th April 2017

Image – Yvonne Arnaud theare

We seem to have entered a dark and dirty period in the #theatre101 run, with each disturbing performance leaving me want to shower in bleach to wash off the sleaze. After Damian Lewis acting the goat, and indulging in some light incest, today’s play was Harold Pinter’s The Homecoming.

Pinter’s work is invariably disorienting. So much is left half-said or hinted at, but there is permanent sense of dread, of being carried inescapably toward a dark ending.

The Homecoming is no exception. As with so much of Pinter’s work, the setting is small and oppressive in its banality; the front room of a typical 1960s working class family. Yet such a familiar scene is the setting for a strange adventure beyond social and sexual boundaries.

The house is occupied by four related men (a father, his brother, and two grown-up sons) who are locked in a pattern of resentful competitiveness and stale grudge matches. Yet from the off, this familiar scene of men locking horns is queered. The father, Max, implies he himself gave birth to his children, while constantly putting them down because he fears being made into “the bitch”.

The pattern is disrupted by the arrival of the third son and his wife. Teddy is an academic, living in America, and writing papers which, he explains with open disdain, his relatives would not understand.

The son is welcomed back, but it is Ruth who becomes the centre of attention. The ‘homecoming’ journey is hers, rather than her husband’s.

In the way of men who are starved of female attention and / or emotionally stunted, Max and his sons variously see Ruth in crudely sexual terms – “She’s wide open!” – or as a symbol of ladylike purity. They seem incapable of dealing with her as person of the opposite gender, rather than as a whore or the embodiment of the Virgin Mary.

Ruth responds by seducing the younger brother and, while they make love upstairs, the other family members develop a plan to put her to work as a prostitute. Returning to the front room, Ruth seems far from put out by the proposal, and makes only certain demands before acceding. Teddy returns to America and their two children.

There is a feminist interpretation of The Homecoming, which places Ruth in charge of the action, the manipulator of these pathetic men. Even her decision to start work as a prostitute can be seen as an escape from the tedium of suburban domesticity, a form of homecoming to a version of herself that is openly sexual and alive to new adventures.

While Ruth is certainly the strongest character on display, it is wrong to think she or any other character emerges from The Homecoming having learned and improved. This would be insufficiently Pinteresque.

Before her arrival, Max and his family are locked in a cycle of abuse. The combination of imaginative impotence and the threat of punishment, even murder, keeps them all in tortured stasis. Ruth does not exploit this situation; she simply accommodates it. Her emotional fragility and heavily implied sexual frustration means she is just as (un)happy to be manipulate and be manipulated.

As the walls of the front-room seemed to close in, I found myself hoping the next play would be a little lighter and airier than this masterpiece of bleakness.

 

Do Not Pass Goat

ChupacabraThe Goat, Theatre Royal Haymarket, London, Saturday 8th April 2017

El Chupacabra is a legendary, Latin-American creature. It is said to prowl the countryside at night looking to suck (‘chupar’) unsuspecting goats (‘cabra’) of their blood.

The anti-hero of Edward Albee’s ‘The Goat’ would identify closely with the mythical beast. Although Martin Gray is interested in bodily fluids other than the red stuff.

Martin may be a married man, a wildly successful architect, and the father of a seemingly well-adjusted and happily-out gay son.

He is also conducting a passionate physical and emotional love affair with Sylvia, the titular goat of the title.

That’s right, friends. This is a play about a man making love to a farm animal. Oh, yes, before I forget, he and his son get it on too, albeit briefly.

The Goat was easily, the most shocking, disturbing and disorienting play of the challenge.

It was also the one which triggered the most amount of discussion and debate with a friend immediately afterward. For Albee’s work does much more than shock and repulse, just as it ‘about’ much more than an inter-species hook-up.

‘The Goat’ is a modern deconstruction of the tragedy. Its title is a reference to the etymological roots of the word tragedy; goat-song, for reasons theorised about but not conclusively understood. Indeed, its alternative title is “Sylvia: Notes toward a definition of tragedy”.

Its hero has a fundamental flaw which will ultimately bring ruin and disgrace (sorry, that’s not a spoiler – you think it could possibly end well???), yet which he cannot bring himself to recognise as a problem.

From this premise, Albee spins a wonderful web of words, playing with repetition, grammatical pedantry, and allusions to other tragic and comic works.

Many descriptions of the play and specific reviews of this performance seem unsatisfied with ‘The Goat’ as a glorious, meta-textual ‘play’ on words. Critics have interpreted Martin’s obsession and the destruction of his family (again – not a spoiler – see above!) as metaphors for the crisis of liberalism, the limits of individuality, the brittle nature of social norms and much else besides.

I’m not convinced. I think The Goat is a brilliantly sustained exercise in linguistic playfulness and genre re-defining artistry. That’s what makes it great.

Dancing for joy

DancingDancing at Lughnasa, South London Theatre, Tuesday 21st March

Another play about an oddly-shaped family, with dancing and questions of belonging at its heart. There, the comparisons between Jerusalem and Dancing at Lughnasa largely end; though both are, in their own ways, wickedly funny.

From England in early-2000s we travel back to rural Ireland in 1936. While the former is set on St. George’s Day, Lughnasa (pronounced loo-nassa) is the Gaelic day of celebration to mark the start of the late-summer harvest.

The play follows the five sisters of the working-class Mundy family, as they struggle to keep their household and maintain a decent standard of living. Living in a small and conservative village, their task is made all the more difficult by the controversy of one sister having a child out of marriage and the return home of their older brother from a long posting as a missionary priest in Africa.

Instead of being welcomed back a hero for spreading the word of God, Father Jack is politely shunned by the rest of the village. It becomes clear to the Mundys, and to the audience, that Jack was sent home. Instead of converting the indigenous population to the path Christianity, he ventured out on his own spiritual safari and became obsessed with the earth-worshipping pagan rituals of the peoples he encountered.

The writer Brian Friel based the play loosely on his own childhood in rural Ireland. He once asked himself, in a written dialogue, what the play was ‘about’. “The play is about dancing in the 30s” was his deadpan reply.

In one sense, that response is correct. The play is small. All the action takes place in the kitchen of the house and the yard. Only one other character from outside the family appear; the otherwise absent father, Gerry Evans, of the ‘lovechild’ Michael. Within the confines of the onstage drama, very little happens beyond one of the sisters going missing for a few hours (to catch a squeeze with a suitor) and the sudden appearance of Gerry.

Yet the mere act of “dancing in the 1930s” is an expression of celebration, hope and joy. As the play progresses, we learn about the fate of the characters through the occasional appearance of Michael, now a grown-up, as an on-stage narrator.

Spoiler alert.

We learn from Michael’s narration that Jack dies very shortly after the play ends, while two of the sisters end up drunk and destitute in London. The other family members avoid such bleak fates, but none are blessed with lives of comfort or ease.

All the important then, the older Michael points out, to enjoy those times like his childhood summer of 1936 when the people you love are alive, close by and can sing, dance and play with you.

“Dancing at Lughnasa” is a beautiful celebration of life.

A final point, away from the drama, and another comparison with Jerusalem, to return to my original theme. Dancing with Lughnasa was another high-quality amateur / semi-professional production in a great venue run and maintained by volunteers. We’re blessed to have people like them.