Nicked: the musical

My dear friend Sam Hodges is playing our esteemed Prime Minister in a new 'urban' musical political satire, NICKED,which premiered at the HighTide theatre festival a few weeks ago. I'm off to see it this week with existing enthusiasm buoyed by this you tube trailer which is hilarious. political rapping: bring it.  

Wastwater

I came out of Wastwater, a series of three short, tangentially linked plays (an elliptical triptych is what the Royal Court call it), having very much enjoyed them, but really quite foggy about what their point was. which was a bit strange. for some reason beforehand i though they had an eco link. but while watching, nothing of that nature particularly struck a cord. Each story takes place in the immediate environs of Heathrow airport - were the plays about the intimate, minor dramas lost in the roar of international activity? or the flightpath as metaphor for something - emotional journeys? the noise and fear and fright and excitement of takeoff and landing as one chapter closes and another opens? who knows. i'm still wondering. still, all of the above said, it was strangely compelling... 

I am fan of both Simon Stephens (playwright) and Katie Mitchell (Director), and I loved the claustrophobic intensity of each of the two-handers - the dialogue is pacey and has no pre-amble;  thrown into scenes dripping with drama from the get-go you must work to catch on to what's happening in them: who are the characters? where are they? what's their connection to one another? how well do they know each other?

Within each section, one of the characters is pushed to (and beyond) a significant, and potentially life-changing point by the other,  in a situation that is (one presumes) all too familiar to the latter. is it a good  thing? or darkly sinister? the tension is almost unbearable at points (in the best way, as oppose to a boring way) - the mystery being unravelled is teasingly, tantalisingly drawn out even as the dialogue races along.

weird. but in a good way.

Rocket to the Moon

At last, a play at the National Theatre that I've actually enjoyed this year. Huzzah. Clifford Odette's play, set in New York, in the sweltering summer of 1938, in a dentist's waiting room to be precise, is a hothouse of anaesthetised emotion... trapped in a stuffy, humid, small, soulless room the atmosphere is claustrophobic, constrained, stale, uncomfortable - much like the life of dentist Ben Stark, a man pushed one way by his haranguing wife (Keeley Hawes), and pulled another by her exuberant father, with whom she is at loggerheads.It's tiring to watch, let alone experience.

Everyone is bursting with opinions and passion but Stark himself. In sweeps the beautiful Cleo Singer, a pert, zingy, smiling breath of fresh air oozing energetic, excited youthfulness. The men go crazy, the women - ach, less so. The waiting room is the perfect setting for the waiting game that subsequently unfolds - what we're waiting for is less certain... is this an office romance or something altogether bigger, grander, more interesting...? They both must escape the claustrophobia, but what's the best way? with each other? or through some kind of self revelation?

It's cleverly played out - sinewy with emotion and  beautifully acted - Jessica Raine as Cleo is all  fidgety nubile sexuality,Joseph Millson Stark all twisted, manipulated confusion, Keely Hawes as his wife, strident, pose striking, looking-down-her-nose posturing while her father is a bouncing ball of rebellion and wit. I also especially loved the rather down-on-his-luck second dentist played by Peter Sullivan (so excellent in the Donmar's the Late Middle Classes with Helen McRory last year), who brought out the tragi-comic direness of his lacklustre life with glorious brio.

A tad long, but otherwise A1.

Kneehigh's The Red Shoes

Kneehigh's darkly unnerving subversion of the fairy tale The Red Shoes by Hans Christian Andersen was one of their first productions, and given how much of a fan of theirs i've become over the years, it was interesting to see a revival of play (at the BAC) that 10 years ago catapulted them from bucolic creative exile in Cornwall into the mainstream cultural throng of the capital - this year sees their latest production, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, open in the heart of the west end.

The Red Shoes as presented by Kneehigh takes the Christian moral of the original story, which condemns vanity, moral turpitude and self interest and praises religious subservience,  and tweaks it slightly but significantly. In the original the heroine is a vain girl besotted with her red shoes; she wears them continually, shamelessly flouting social and religious convention; she becomes demonically possessed by the shoes, which cause her to dance all the time, never giving her pause for breath so she is forced to have her feet amputated - only in death does she find religious salvation and relief. In this production the heroine is a much more sympathetic figure, a rescued waif who once possessed by her scarlet demon dancing clogs is categorically rejected by the church when she asks for help - the prospect of death after her physical mutilation is less a relief than the ultimate punishment for her sins. God (in a flying cap) seems to drag her kicking and screming into the afterlife. there's no sense this is a good outcome and so she flees - it's an escape that seems to suggest that being different and doing your own thing should not be condemned.

What initially rocks the moral boat is the cast of outcasts who tell the story. The tale is narrated by a flamboyant tranny standing on high - prancing about on a platform above the stage. He's confident, wry, cocky - no morelising authority in the traditional sense. Down below the 'puppet' actors who act out the tranny's words are dressed like members of the lunatic asylum in grubby underwear and with shaved heads - they silently act out the story, accompanied by stirring music, and sporadically don accessories which give a hint of a costume - a pair of glasses and a cape, or a floral headpiece and and an apron. you're never allowed to forget that these characters are really madmen - lost, confused and controlled by a puppet master. Their mime-style performances contribute to a haunting, eerie and unsettlingly dark message, but flashes of humour  light up the stage like strobe lights - it's mesmerising, sinister, disturbing.

The tricks of performance are what maks it so special though - the fishing rod which whips the amputated red shoes about the herione's head, the dances and songs which are links in the chapters of the story, the sound effects which inject the fairy story with real horror (the sawing and crunching of bone as the butcher amputates the feet set your teeth on edge). It's magically sewn together - stitched with invisible thread, you easily follow the episodes of story, but they only really come together towards the end, when forgotten elements suddenly glow with relevance. It's no surprise it's been such a hit.

The Children's Hour

You may know this play as the film The Loudest Whisper with Audrey Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine. I didn't, so went along to the Comedy Theatre's current production starring Keria Knightley, Elizabeth Moss and Ellen Burstyn, happily unaware of the shocking plot twists in store. It's a fantastic play, which, in brief and without the major revelations, tells the story of two female teachers who have worked long and hard to establish a girl's boarding school, but whose efforts are viciously undone by the spreading of a malicious rumour fabricated by one of the girls to avoid punishment after running away, purporting that they are lesbians.

Although the lesbian aspect of the story is less shocking now than when the play was first staged in 1934, much of the story's emotional cut and thrust still resonates deeply with contemporary audiences - well with me at least. What affected me most was the darkly potent power of gossip and here say. The wily cruelty of bullying manipulation. The tragedy and harm that can be done when acting from panic rather than with rational consideration. The agony of being in love with someone you can't have. Not quite understanding the emotions behind your own actions. The agonising oppression of guilt. Wavering loyalty, faltering courage, abject betrayal. I gasped with disbelief on several occasion, mouthed 'no!' too and hid my face in my hands. not in a panto way, in a genuinely physically moved way. It's a great play if you ask me.

I very much liked the blue washed wooden board of the set and the shabby chic decor. i loved the school girls' 1930s maroon tunic uniforms and the teachers' mid-calf skirts, tucked in blouses and neat little bobs and sensible-heeled Mary Janes. Aesthetically the decor and costumes were unobtrusive, elegant and effective, adding to the atmosphere without scene stealing.  The performances were wonderful too, from all the leads, but i was especially entranced by Bryony Hannah as the liar Mary - a loathsome, detestable, evil witch disguised as a little girl.  Ellen Burstyn was perfect as her soft-touch alarmist grandmother who, while poised and elegant, isn't poised or elegant enough to stop her wild panic from causing havoc. Elizabeth Moss brought a quietly tragic resplendence to the role of Martha, the unfortunate subject of the most cruel dramatic irony in that she doesn't understand about her character what the audience can see only too clearly. Keira Knightly, initially outshone by Elizabeth Moss (whose part is, in truth, the more interesting one), admirably holds her own, i think (jutting jaw and ridiculous poise aside - she needs to relax, big time - she's always such an actress rather than an actual person), a perfect schoolmarm whith whom you might very well fall a little bit in love with and later a nervy shadow undone by those she tried to help. All in all a great play, wonderfully performed.

As a minor addendum, it playwright Lillian Hellman has a long relationship with the author of the hard boiled detective novel The Maltese Falcon, Dashiell Hammett. Not only is this an utterly fabulous book, but Dashiell is the name of my new godson, born not three weeks ago...

The Children's Hour is at the Comedy Theatre, booking until April 30th.

Fitzrovia Radio Hour

The Fitzrovia Radio Hour combines two of my obsessions, theatre and all things vintage. The troupe of writer-performers stage original 1940s-style  radio shows which are performed as if being broadcast live, accompanied by riotously funny sound effects using household implements and otherwise mundane items, creatively deployed... the banging and squelching of cabbages and watermelons simulate the bloody and gory end of one character's life while a melody of small jars and pots accurately convey the (rather inept as it turns out) playing of a game of pool. the ways and means of making the sounds are just as entertaining as the plays themselves. Not to feel left out, the audience are invited to 'cheer' and 'educatedly mumble' etc to enhance the all round atmosphere of the performances. 

Pastiche, parody, whatever, the three plays that are performed during the 75 minute show (each read in two parts, and broken up by supposed adverts of the period), hilariously send up the more un-PC and preposterous elements of 1940s attitudes and views on romance, adventure, and world events. In one play, poor Frank the Leeds lathe worker comes to a sticky end because he 'should have known his place', while in another, during a feisty hunt for treasure in the backwaters of Europe, fey Nazis frolic about, before getting their just, and brutal comeuppance.

An utter delight from beginning to end.

The Firzrovia radio Hour runs until 5 Feb at The Trafalgar Studios, tickets £15. 

Accomplice

Quest, mystery, theatre, adventure, treasure hunt. Accomplice is all of these things – an immersive theatrical experience which summons participants to a location revealed mere hours before the show/adventure begins and thrusts them headfirst into a mystery in which they must play a role. From the initial location, you are given the backstory to the shady situation by the first character, and given a clue which leads to the unveiling of both the next location and narrative mystery as a whole. With each location, new character and more information, the pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together. 

Because you never know where you are supposed to be, everything and everyone (even passersby – especially passersby in fact) becomes suspicious. It’s clever, unusual, ingenious and original, with actors who completely inhabit their roles feeding you information, blurring the lines between theatre and reality. It’s simultaneously funny, and intriguing while inspiring paranoia, curiosity, and a mania for discovery, revelation and explanation.

Weirdly, even though it's such a fabulous and inventive idea, I'm not sure it worked as well as it could have done - the story quite often got lost in all of the hunting for clues, and the relevance of the characters to the plot sometimes felt tenuous, or at least seemed that way because their performances were bigger than the content of what they were actually saying.  i also had a few cerebrally challenged people in my group who insisted on hogging the clues and not explaining them to the rest of the group, which made me want to throw a strop, but which actually resulted in me having a good old gossip away from the action while the men bickered about whose take on the clue would lead us to the next destination. a scene that's not hard to imagine. 

Still, all that aside it's exciting to be part of an adventure like this. Go and make up your mind for yourself, I say.

Accomplice runs until October 2011

Hansel and Gretel

I'm really sad to say that i was terribly disappointed by Kneehigh's production of Hansel and Gretel at the Southbank. I'm a huge fan of the Cornish theatre company, whose inventively interpretative productions of plays including Brief Encounter and A Matter of Life and Death have captured my heart and imagination in a way like few other plays over the last few years. Perhaps it was because this was most definitely for children, perhaps because i secretly wanted to be at a Christmas party across town, who knows, but the songs failed to excite and the story never seemed scaled the heights of innovative daring and surprise i was expecting, acrobatically flying between the familiar and fantastical with gravity-defying elegance as with former productions i've seen. I kept thinking it should have been like Told by an Idiot's production of Michel Faber's short story The Fahrenheit Twins, weird, wonderful, funny and deliciously dark, but it wasn't. sitting somewhere between awkward and deflating instead.

Still, i've booked tickets for Kneehigh's adaptation of Powell and Pressburger's classic film The Red Shoes, starring Moira Shearer, about a fatally passionate ballet dancer, which opens at the BAC in March. so fingers crossed that'll more than make up for this disappointment.

The Animals and Children Took to the Streets

I'm not sure what it would be like to be in a graphic novel, as in to actually see events unfold in 2D animated life, but i imagine it'd be something like 1927's production of The Animals and Children Took to the Streets at the BAC. the story concerns an insalubrious, dilapidated, cockroach and weirdo ridden tenement block staffed by a melancholic caretaker, called the Bayou Mansions. We learn that residents include "a 21 year old... granny" and "a man with a horse... as a room-mate". it's all about unexpected twists, as we learn from these statements, which are delivered with a suspenseful pause midway through so as to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary. Renegade child vagabonds terrorise the building; theft, larceny, peddling of illegal wares and prostitution are the local trade. the area is in the Mayor's blind spot. but not for long. Into this condemned malaise enter Agnes and Evie Eaves who come to help transform the fates of the children with Blue Peter-esque gung ho. They have no idea what they are getting themselves into... What unfurls is a sardonic satire on fairytales, morality, heroism, adventure, love stories and moral triumph. Here happy endings are uncertain and good may not necessarily win out. if that is to make it sound depressing at all, be sure that it isn't. it's caprivatingly magical, hilarious and pacey. but for the opposite reasons you'd expect.

The production is part animation, part cabaret, part theatre, part art creation, part silent cinema and part macabre fairytale that confounds expectation with droll chutzpah, fizzes with deadpan black humour and is brought to life through screen projections which provide scenery, supporting characters and soviet-esque printed script revelations. Its deliciously dark magic is completely enchanting, the songs are witty, funny and utterly original. i've never seen anything like it. but i hope to again.

see a teaser for what to expect here

The Animals and Children Took to the Streets by 1927 at The Battersea Arts Centre, £16, running until January 08, 2011 7.30pm & 3pm.

A Dog's Heart

Hmmm. where to start when trying to describe the Complicite/ENO collaborative adaptation of Bulgakov's story, A Dog's Heart? Frankenstein meets War Horse meets Quentin Crisp's Gothic fantasy Chog? possibly. Frankenstein because it's a Gothic fable that sees the scientific creation of a monster symbolising the proletariat (more or less), War Horse because the eponymous dog is a puppet manually operated by 3-4 puppetmasters, and Chog because it's a seriously disturbing tale involving a weird dog/man hybrid. 

In short, it's a deliciously dark Soviet political polemic that sees a stray dog fall prey to the scientific experimentation of a bourgeois intellectual doctor who swaps the dog's testicles and pituitary gland for those of a recently deceased man. the experiment is the 'natural' continuation of the doctor's commercial practice involving human/animal transplants  - whereby he gives men dogs' genitals to make them virile, and women monkeys' uteri to repair the ravages of sexual promiscuity. After this latest transplant, however, the dog actually physically transforms into a man - and proves himself to be the worst combination of man and beast. But he is readily embraced by the soviet authorities, who award him a government post, despite his sexually rapacious tendencies, scatological nature, and permanent state of inebriation. havoc ensues. After he denounces the doctor to the authorities (amongst other things) the doctor forcibly restrains him and reverses the procedure - but the damage is done.

All that and it's an opera. But not any old opera, no, no; one whose foundations are dissonant chords, cacophonous clashes, and dog howling sopranos. no joke. set to the jarring, jagged score is contemporary dialogue - abrasive, course, witty - at times hilarious, even - poignant and curious.

It is, quite simply, brilliant. Shocking, arresting and thought-provoking obviously, but also so cleverly realised - from the delicate precision of the puppetry and the ingenious deployment of numerous projections which blast out messages in soviet font, to the use of silhouette, and gory, gory on-stage antics (blood, there's rivers of it). It's also funny, very funny (with a libretto which includes 'fuck you, motherfucker' you'd be hard pressed to remain po-faced).

After the MASSIVE disappointment that saw ENO collaborate with promenade theatre kings Punchdrunk, on The Duchess of Malfi, in a vast disused warehouse space somewhere at the end of the Dockland's Light Railway during the summer (completely non-sensical and a bizarre re-apportioning of dramatic focus to completely irrelevant themes) i was apprehensive, but this production brought all the experimentation, courage, chutzpah and energy of Complicite to opera without sacrificing its integrity. AMAZING.

Beautiful Burnout

When i was about 18 or so I went to a dinner party and found myself sitting next to a guy (a bit older, quite hot), who worked for Shell Oil (the bureaucratic side of things). I literally had to clasp my mouth shut to stifle the groan that rumbled from the depths of my consciousness, and pretty much wanted to gauge my eyes out of my head, but resigned myself to enduring what i thought would be a long, tedious night. Strangely though, it was anything but, as this boy was so enthusiastic, excited and eloquent when talking about what he did. Major lesson learned... even things which can seem interminably dull can become vividly entertaining and fascinating if in the hands of someone interesting.

And so we come to boxing. A play about boxing to be exact, which i saw on Sunday night at the end of a very long weekend, and which, despite my misgivings,  pumped me full of energy, excitement, tremulous emotion, wonder, amazement and heartbreak. Beautiful Burnout was the toast of this year's Edinburgh Festival, a play that seemingly got everyone talking excitedly; in the papers, on television, by word of mouth. And the talk wasn't just talk, it materialised into action too, and  its follow up national tour began last week at York Hall, in Bethnal Green - a beautifully restored 1920s gymnasium (that now plays host to bona fide boxing matches), how apt.  the stage that had been set up for this play was a rotating boxing ring round which the audience sat, and which was the scene for five young wannabe boxers who were each propelled into boxing for different reasons - fame, money, glory, revenge, status, acknowledgement, anger - and who wanted to make their name with their fists, but who each travelled down different paths on their individual quests. It's also about motherhood - and the animal protectiveness that is challenged so sharply when boxing comes into play. It's also about nurture in a broader sense of the word, and fairness (or unfairness) of fate, sex, rules and chance, and lastly it's about love. It's a complex mix of issues explored with a deft lightness of touch and that feels anything but confusing - it's funny, above all, even though the sucker punch hits you square on with shocking, and unexpected seriousness.

It's incredibly intense a theatrical experience; yes, it's crammed into 90 mins but it's not only that. there's a frenetic, jagged edge to the dialogue - a sort of jilted flow to the language, like boxing jabs coming thick and fast. It's also very physical, as you'd expect, but this is translated into a theatre friendly form by creating intricately choreographed dance routines from the boxing moves and training exercises, which are set to music by dance legends Underworld. Strobe lights and flashing scenes projected from TV screens add to the hot, sweaty, frantic, heady nightclub-cum-fight atmosphere. It's truly intoxicating. and thought provoking, and moving - it knocks you out as you could only hope for. if you can, you must see it.

Here's where it on in the coming weeks...

York Hall Leisure Centre, London

16/09/2010 - 02/10/2010

Rothes Halls, Glenrothes

13/10/2010 - 16/10/2010

Crucible, Sheffield

03/11/2010 - 13/11/2010

Minerva Theatre, Chichester

16/11/2010 - 27/11/2010

St Ann's Warehouse, New York

25/02/2011 - 27/03/2011

The Prince of Homburg

There was a moment, after we read the first few paragraphs of The Prince of Homburg programme, when we seriously considered getting the fuck out of the Donmar and nipping round the corner to the newly opened Jamie's Italian on Upper St Martin's Lane. Something to do with Heinrich von Kleist committing suicide shortly after writing it, aged 34, possibly, or it being about the Prussian Cavalry and the battle between dreams and the rigid strictures of order; ambition and enthusiasm clashing with institution and formality.
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But THANK GOD WE DIDN'T because it was utterly, unexpectedly, captivating and brilliant. Sure it's about all those things, but it's such a punchy story, dynamically delivered and swiftly dealt with - there's no posturing, drawn out scenes, long tedious soliloquies or anything i basically thought i was going to have to endure whilst reading the bumph with bug-eyed horror. All the performances were smart, assured and sparky - the dialogue nippy, witty, incisive, direct. the play literally sped from beginning to end with the pace of a match or game - the prize being the Prince of Homburg's life which hangs in the balance as punishment after his overexcited, preemptive charge during battle. Sounds boring? It's NOT. strange, but true.

Apects of Love

Ok, so i thought it was about time that a pair of pneumatic, grossly inflated breasts were no longer the first thing anyone clapped eyes on when they clicked on my blog... it's time to finally post something new after AEONS.

And so to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Aspects of Love, currently showing at The Menier Chocolate Factory, on Southwark High Street. a few things we should probably clarify. i was brought up on Andrew Lloyd Webber. Starlight Express, Phantom, Cats, Jesus Christ Superstar - the lot. if you'd ever like anyone to break out into an impromptu out-of-tune rendition of Jacob and Sons (from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat), I'm your woman. Whilst other, cooler parents, were playing Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen to their sprogs, my sisters and i had Don't Cry for Me Argentina blaring out of the car stereo thanks to my mother's involvement with 'The Really Useful Group', a financial team behind ALW. Secondly, after several years of trying to deny my love of all things musical (which clearly i deemed an affliction forced upon me), i surrendered to the inevitable, and now wholeheartedly love them. Fiddler on the Roof, Oklahoma!, My Fair Lady - the whole raft. not all of them, it has to be said, but lots. most. arguably too many. Still, Aspects of Love is a corker if you ask me. It's much more operatic than a usual musical - it's definitely not made up of pizazzy show tune numbers or huge song and dance extravaganzas in the way something that Guys and Dolls is. And the story is exceptional.

Based on the novel by David Garnett, it tells the story of young and impressionable Alex, a coltish lad who, at 19, falls in love with Rose - a beautiful French actress - older, brazen, wild, ballsy, impetuous, demanding and with a taste for the theatrical - as much off stage as on. His puppyish adoration sweeps her off her feet (eventually) and they decamp to his guardian's house in Avignon where they spend a few blissful days basking in the golden, melifluous, summery rays of love. Hearing of Alex's occupation of his home, Alex's guardian leaves his lover Julietta in Venice and hotfoots it back to Avignon... and so begins a 'love quintet' that weaves between generations and propels the story forward with its sexual vigour and lusty voraciousness. Literally not more than five minutes go buy without somebody unexpectedly jumping into bed with an entirely unsuitable lover, or generally behaving in a lunatic way that can only be attributed to being driven mad by love. It's completely compelling, even more so when you know the story behind the novel/musical.

David Garnett was part of the Bloomsbury set, and as a young man was the lover of Duncan Grant. Grant later went on to have an affair with Vanessa Bell, sister of Virgina Woolf and married to Clive Bell. They had a child, Angelica, over whose cot David Garnett stood and vowed to marry her. 20 years later he did. Aspects of Love is a thinly veiled dramatisation of this history, with a few gender switches. It's nothing if not histrionic. in the best possible way. as if there was any other way.

Trevor Nunn's production at this former chocolate factory (such a cool venue, both for plays and dinner... despite permanently Saharan temperatures; every time you go it's sweltering and you see audience members pealing off layers like stars of the Burlesque stage) is truly wonderful. Despite universally terrible wigs and the chronic misjudgement of a scene-stealing dress (think of a dress that has the significance of Rebecca's dress that the new Mrs de Winter wears by mistake), which was more belly dancer than belle of the ball (totally extraordinary) - it was pacey, moving, wholeheartedly emotional - the song 'Seeing is Believing' literally made my hair stand on end. Loved the whole thing.

Set in the inter war years, the fashion was utterly glorious, and given my penchant for 1940s/50s clothes, i sat there desperately wanting to rip the clothes of Rose - fabulous 1950s dresses, plus a rather cool high waisted-turn up-trousers-and-braces look on one of the extras.

But what really made the show was the chemistry between all the leads - it crackled between each one, but was totally different depending on who was involved - playful and naughty, sensual and artistic, puppyish and devotional - there really were languages of love spoken through their bodies as well as in the songs they sang. and also the singing was superb - none of the OTT 1980s stuff; thoughtful, moving, intense - but not ridiculous. cringe factor was low, in other words. the Menier is so intimate, cosy and unflashy, it was perfect for a toned down production of what up until now has been a bells and whistles West End musical. I'm not sure it'll wholly convert a non-musical lover - but at £35, it's worth a try, I'd say. the two people who i invited (read partially dragged) - one of whom edited Angelica Garnett's most recent book, The Unspoken Truth - loved it, despite one of them jokingly (only half i suspect) threatening to walk out at half time even before curtain up.

High Tide

Apparently not quite satisfied with cramming as much theatre as i can afford/make time for in my working week, I went up to Halesworth, Suffolk for the annual High Tide theatre festival this Bank Holiday weekend, a festival that trailblazingly provides a platform for emerging theatrical talent, especially for dramatists.

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This year saw three plays being performed, alongside associated talks, free film screenings and rehearsed readings. The two plays i saw were outstanding (the third, Ditch, I'm seeing at its London transfer in a few weeks). Admittedly I'm biased about one, Moscow Live, as it was written by my friend Serge Cartwright, but I've never been one to wax enthusiastic about things i loathed, and I'm not about to start anytime soon. The play is set in the news room of TV station Moscow Live, a State-run, English-speaking 24hour news station staffed rather unevenly by over-paid young British ex-pats and idiosyncratic Russians - a team who spend most of their time twiddling their thumbs and the rest of the time drip feeding hilariously bizarre fluff features and regurgitated headlines to negligible viewers. Things are suddenly shaken up by the death of Slobodan Milosevic (in UN custody awaiting trial for crimes against humanity at the time of his death); an event of clear international significance but which the Moscow Live staff fail to notice while busy playing word games, and to which they are only alerted to via CNN and BBC headlines. it's furious action stations but then a crisis: how exactly to report the death? How to cast the central character, Milosevic, when the state funds the news report, but the report is written by Westerners, and ill-informed ones at that? Western villain or victim of the West? as arguments rage, staff relationships and personal interests come to influence decision making, journalistic integrity bristling against personal agendas and private grievances. Creating a narrative proves a personal quest as well as a problem in terms of news reportage - how the central characters cast themselves and each other in their own stories proves as pivotal to events and the impact of teh play as how they chose to vilify, victimise or canonise global historical figures. What begins as a lightweight comedy develops into play with a meaty dramatic thrust, where provocative questions that resonate on a multitude of levels (personal and political) are coaxed from the central narrative premise with a deftness that never feels forced or heavy-handed and leaves you questioning, questioning, questioning - long after the applause fades.

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I had spotted the rather elegant playwright Frances Ya-Chu Cowhig slinking around Halesworth as she was wearing the most chic yellow Oriental-inspired quilted jacked; i was in awe of her even before i had seen the jaw-droppingly spectacular Lidless (which she wrote) - a play that i had feared might be eye-stabbingly heavy-going as it was about Guantanamo, but which was anything but. A role reversal of the relationships central to films like the Night Porter (which was showing for free at the festival), the play saw the reunion of a female interrogator at Guantanamo and male detainee, a Pakistani Muslim picked up in Afghanistan. Fifteen years after she shamelessly used her feminine wiles as a weapon, her detainee tracks her down to Texas to claim half her liver - he is dying and wants her to save him. She, however, has taken pills to forget her time at Guantanamo and remembers nothing. This premise is merely the beginning of a play that is onion-like in the myriad layers it peels away and explores. Performed in a white-washed bunker-like building, with the actors wearing black and white - there's only a fleeting pop of bright orange (in the form of a 'Gitmo' suit and sari), lighting that varies between spotlights, hanging industrial lights and strip garish bulbs, and being staged in the round, the effect is stark to say the least. you can't look away - you are forced to digest all of the unsavory events as they unfurl. it's an incredibly intense experience; just as you register one thunderclap of information, another rumbles behind - it's like being slapped constantly round the face, and you sit there, palms sweaty, mouth agog, virtually unable to digest the emotional weight of everything that's being thrown at you. if there is one criticism, it would be that there could have been a little more fluff, some downtime to let the dust settle before the next dramatic revelation or development. but this it to make it sound too much, which it certainly wasn't, it was brilliant - clear and powerful; complex without being complicated. You emerge feeling wrung out, wholly spent, but it's worth it. If you're going to the Edinburgh festival YOU MUST SEE IT. for everyone else, it's sure to get a London transfer, so book early.

The Real Thing

With love, how do you know when it's 'the real thing'? when it's not an affectation, a performance? When the people involved aren't acting a part, or secretly doing something to undermine the intimacy, or wanting to feel something so badly they almost make it true, or being willfully blind so they don't see a reality they might not like. Tom Stoppard's 1982 play skips around these issues, of performance, emotion and being genuine - it's insightful, and wry, and true, and cruel, and complex, and funny, and moving and confusing, and before you know it you're cheering the actors like billy-o as they take a bow. i think you'd have to try pretty hard to fuck up a production of this play - it's quite simply brilliant. Still, this production at The Old Vic is definitely not a fuck up - performances are pert, persuasive, buoyant, and character evolutions arc with precision and grace - from beginning to end it's completely absorbing and wittily played out.

Henry and Annie are having an adulterous affair, despite the fact that their spouses and they are all friends. After risque liaisons, they run off together. but blissfully smug love soon gives way to jealousy, confidence to insecurity, and jealousy to indifference and betrayal. A meaty segueing of emotions indeed, but such issues are turned on their head by the fact the central character, Henry (Toby Stephens channelling his smugness to perfection, yet revealing the character's flaws and insecurities with beautiful sensitivity) is a playwright, and the women he juggles actresses. You are thrown off course from the off by the opening scene - a scene from his play, about adultery, which stars characters who later appear not in his play, but in Stoppard's. with reality thrown in (that this is a play being performed), it's like a hall of mirrors with infinitely repeating images. reflections bounce around so you're never sure what is genuine, true or false. apart from the idea of sentiment, that is. conceptual notions of love, jealousy, betrayal - which become real when they are recognised. the stage is set within a giant picture frame, for god's sake - there's no sense that this is reality - just a version of it hoping to explore 'the real thing' in a way that you could ever quite perceive in life. the irony is delicious. it's great.

Compagnie XY: Le Grand C

European Art House cheer leading: is such a thing imaginable? Possible, even? If it is, this was it: Cheer leading without the cheer, so to speak, a more sombre affair minus the smiles and chants, with less synchronised routines and more abstract dashing hither and thither; instead of Colgate brilliant smiles, blonde ponytails, rippling pecs, pop-tastic tunes and letter-emblazoned tight tees, imagine french plaits, German woodcutter sideburns, trousers held up with braces, vintage leotards and sporadic bursts of French Cafe music.

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Compagnie XY's production of Le Grand C on the circular stage of The Roundhouse begins in the half light, in silence; each of the acrobats walks on stage slowly, deliberately, only to climb upon one another shoulders to create a human wall. men and women stand three people high, scaling each other like cliff faces to get into position - elegantly, neatly, confidently, calmly, unshowily. and so the performance continues - soberly in the main, with what can only be described as art house humour... for example, at one point each member of the company walks on stage alone to climb and stand atop a narrow, circular column of wood. yes, that's the comedy. there's also some weird staged falling over. odd.

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But in the main i rather enjoyed myself. The women are thrown about with inventive, agile, feisty gusto - upside down, side to side, like a cannon ball... with the men catching them on their upstretched hands. yikes. i spent much of the hour-long show taking in sharp breaths and muttering 'i can't bear it', but loving the tension in truth, obvs.

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The bodies of the gymnasts were utterly transfixing - thighs made of steel, rippling backs like a mountain range with deep ridges and crevices; both the women and the men with incredible poise, posture, elegance and grace - they made every human juggling act look like they were balancing, throwing and playing with merely fruit rather than an entirely breakable body.

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Still, call me crass, unsubtle and cheap, but i would have liked a bit more pizazz - a bit more 'here's our fantastic final number - huzzah!' and maybe some kind of narrative thread which would have elevated it from a something which seemed more like a polished rehearsal warm up into something really to write home about.

Enchanted Palace

Enchanted Palace is a sweet, magical adventure of an exhibition. Housed in the sumptuous State Apartments of Kensington Palace, where royal personages have lived for centuries, it takes up the stories of 7 princesses (whose names you discover as you weave through the labyrinth of rooms) and explores key elements of their history in imaginative displays (a ferocious fall out with a friend, a broken heart, wild rebelliousness, a dramatic accession to the throne etc).

It begins with a room of tears - a dark, melancholy bedchamber where a princess clad in a blue dress is suspended under the canopy of a blue four poster bed, surrounded by bottles of glass tears, shed for her marriage to an older man who she didn't love, and for whom she was unable to bear a much-longed for heir. Another room sees two dancing princesses, their glittering party frocks displayed in cases hidden in a whitewashed wood. The playroom sees the fairytale of the princess and the pea come to life - and a windswept dress by William Tempest appears to sweep from the walls, while down the corridor a rebellious princess in a dress by Vivienne Westwood attempts to make a controversial escape. In the grandness of the King's Drawing Room is a fabulous cabinet of curiosities - open the drawers, cupboards, flaps and slides of the magnificent 4 sided cupboard to discover eccentric curios - shell collections, severed heads, jewellery made from objects trouve, delicate paintings.

I loved the slide projections in the last room where silhouetted figures dance on the ceiling, and also the fur-lined glass cabinet - the secret den of a feral child. Look out for secrets hidden in fireplaces, behind doors, and in unexpected nooks and crannies.

So many displays were beautifully poetic - Stephen Jones hats hanging in the room of thinking, Boudicca armour hanging in the Cupola room where the centre piece is a magnificent gilt clock - like an indoor sun dial.

It's such a imaginatively thought out project, by Cornish theatre company Wildworks, definitely worth making time for - take a picnic and saunter round Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park too. Completely glorious. Late night openings 21 May, 18 June, 16 July and 20 August 2010
(Open until 21.00, last entry 20.00).

Polar Bears

The reviews of this play about a woman with extreme bipolar disorder, by Mark Haddon, were mixed, leaning towards the not great, and although i can see why (possibly it's quite gimmicky, and a little overwrought), I have to say that I for one really enjoyed it.

Funnily enough i'm not sure it really is about a woman with bipolar disorder - although she's the lead character (Kay). For me, what the play explores with more insight, sensitivity and indeed curiosity is the weight of responsibility (and of love, protection and control) that those in relationships with people with such extreme mental health issues, have to carry, deal with and constantly re-negotiate the boundaries of. the surprising mutual dependence of the characters in this play is fascinating - Kay's mother needs her daughter to be dependent upon her and give her a purpose, John's (Kay's husband's) grounded normalcy is made special through his relationship with Kay, while Kay herself relies on them both to 'love her while it's dark'.

The play opens with Kay's husband and brother in a state of frenzied panic. John (Richard Coyle - i have BIG LOVE for him of old) has killed Kay (Jodhi May), his wife, out of hopeless, desperate, concentrated, exasperation. The situation is handled with a comic mania and is indeed darkly, blackly (but not mockingly) funny. for the remaining 90 minutes the play continues to juggle humour, tenderness and desperate hopelessness with confidence and ease, darting about with hyperactive alacrity - jumping through key moments in the past like a child playing hopscotch and landing on different squares of time. It's erratic, but it never fails to make sense. on occasion there are also rather bizarre imaginary character projections - Kay talks to a Geordie Jesus, John to a young girl (possibly imaginary or a version of Kay), and we hear Kay's telephone call from Oslo when we know she cannot possibly have been there... yet the fantasy/reality schism never jars.

One criticism repeatedly levelled against the play is that it's too much of an extreme situation... Kay is an artist whose periods of frenzied creativity, which match her emotional highs, result in a series of artworks which are initially thought great, but which turn out to be embarrassingly inept. it's a shame, because such a dramatic revelation simply isn't necessary when the thrust of the play is more subtle and powerful.

Prima Donna

I'm really pleased i went to see Rufus Wainwright's opera Prima Donna last night - although much pleasure was arguably derived from several things rather unconnected to the actual opera itself, it has to be said - Wainwright, clad in a Tartan suit was there with mustachioed boyfriend, plus the sort of famous people you might want to be friends with... Bella Freud for eg, which created a grand sense of occasion, plus the completely bonkers crowd of all ages, fashion sensibilities, and general walks of life were thoroughly over-excited, which contributed to a frenzied buzz that fizzed around the auditorium and foyer of Saddler's Wells, and finally, i had a much longed for kiss-and-make-up with a dear friend before curtain up - always guaranteed to lift one's spirits to the point of enjoying something desperately dire. This wasn't dire, but it certainly wasn't La Boheme, as aforementioned dear friend was quick to note.


The Opera, Prima Donna, tells the story of a Norma Desmond-esque opera diva, Regine Saint Laurent (Yves, no relation, je pense), who is living in faded elegance (what else?) in Paris (where else?) with her controlling, Mrs Danvers style butler and flimsy maid (who stole some of the best tunes if you ask me). the last time she sang was over six years ago, when she had a vocal breakdown, but she's set to make a triumphant comeback, in the same role she crashed and burned performing last time. But then she's visited by a young journalist (who also happened to train as a tenor, handy for duets) and who flatters her ego and encourages her to sing with him. caught up in the moment, they end up in a heady embrace. Strangely though, he's forgotten to mention he has a girlfriend (that old trick) and after Regina has been left to moon over him for a while and remember her glory days, he then returns to the apartment with girlfriend in tow to ask Regina to sign a record for him (yes, it's seems totally mad on stage too). RSL is less than happy as you might imagine and has another breakdown, at which point her long suffering, draconian butler walks out and she's left alone, bereft, with no voice, no hope, nothing.

My main problem, really, was having an opera about a singer who can't sing. she obviously has to sing even when she's supposed not to be able to. and when she finally sings her major number, it makes less of an impact as she's been, well, singing the whole time.

Also, however the plot grabs you, it really isn't punchy enough to be eeked out over 2 1/2 hours. Pacey it ain't. by the end i was so desperate for some drama i way baying for blood and kept wishing someone would kill someone - the butler kill the diva with a spoon? (no, just putting it back on the table) murder with keys? (no, just returning them). maybe she'd kill herself? (no, just left a tragic wreck).


And so to the music... Many of the melodies I loved, and was happily swept along by the choppy passions of the alternately rumbling, haunted, wispy, melancholy and furious strains which darted throughout. What i was never really swept off my feet by, however, were the really moving, strong, passionate, heartbreaking or loving arias. where were they? please excuse the completely technically inept explanations which'll follow, but there was much singing-talking and not much singing-singing if you know what i mean. where was the OPERA? who knows. and we couldn't help thinking that the libretto was in French simply to hide the fact that not much of note was being said.

Which sound like i hated it, which i didn't. but it was a tiny bit like Rufus himself was the Prima Donna (or the main attraction, certainly), the audience were the spectacle and the opera itself was a slightly forgettable chorus girl.

Trash City

I think my favourite moment of Trash City, the aerial acrobatics-meets-rock concert-meets-freak-burlesque show that punched its way into public consciousness at Glastonbury in 2007 and whose current show is part of The Roundhouse's Circusfest, wasn't quite when the silver Lycra-clad tranny flew through the air singing Alice Cooper's Poison, nor even when a giant robotised bull charged into the crowd seemingly ridden by a lost Bon Jovi band member, nor when the sexy rock-chic angels fell from the sky on bungy-cords only to grab an audience member and simulate tearing their throats out - rising to the heavens again with bloodied mouths. No, it was when a near naked woman (modesty barely preserved by Matthew Barney-esque bloody cones on her breasts and a red sequined fig leaf on her bajingo), suspended from a giant cobweb-shrouded chandelier and twisting, flipping and contorting with acrobatic splendour, reached a crescendo by pulling a ruby necklace out of her pussy. amazing.