One Man Two Guvnors at West Walls Theatre
Written by Richard Bean
Directed by Lexie Ward
To my left sits a gaggle of octogenarians seemingly rendered utterly dumbstruck and capable only of muttering the same non-committal slightly reworded comment back and forth; 'It's very modern, isn't it?'.
Somewhere behind me exists a woman who surely must possess the lung capacity of a blue whale, pausing not once during her hysterical laughter which has continued without cessation for some 15 minutes.
To my right there's a face frozen in shock, though if I listen I can hear the cogs frantically whirring as the brain struggles to catch up with the recent frantic assault on the senses it has recently endured.
Surrounding this tableaux appears an ocean of beaming faces, though I'm certain our little scene is repeated in some variation in other pockets around the theatre.
And this was just the close of Act One.
It's fair to say that One Man Two Guvnors was perhaps not quite what everyone was expecting.
Based on the old Italian classic 'A Servant of Two Masters', writer Richard Bean translates the action to 1960's Brighton in which our 'man' Francis Henshall (Pauley Heron), a failed skiffle player, finds himself working for two 'guvnors'. One, Rachel Crabbe (Sarah Coyle), is disguised as her dead gangster brother Roscoe and the other, Stanley Stubbers (Ben Bason) actually killed the brother and is also Rachel's lover. In classic farce style Francis must keep one from ever learning about the other in order to protect his dual position whilst never knowing that both are in reality simply trying to find each other.
Confused yet? That's just the tip of the iceberg.
Roscoe was engaged to dodgy scrap dealer Charlie Clench's (Stewart Grant) daughter Pauline (Emma Norgate), who has now instead become engaged to aspiring actor Alan Dangle (Michael Spencer), but Rachel (as Roscoe) intends for the original marriage to go ahead in order that she receives money from Charlie which will allow her to escape to Australia with Stanley to avoid him going to prison for her brothers death.
Meanwhile in addition to keeping his two Guvnors apart, Francis must find the time to feed himself, leading to a traditional piece of high farce wherein he finds himself serving both bosses dinner in the same establishment, hindered by the two waiters Gareth (Seb Coombe) and Alfie (Joe Desborough). And once fed, Francis moves on to tackling the second of his desires - finding love, in this instance in the arms of Charlie's bookkeeping 'feminist' Dolly (Caroline Robertson).
And this is without mentioning former Parkhurst inhabitant and now chef Lloyd (James Spark), Solicitor and Alan's father Harry Dangle (Andy Wright), and Paddy - Francis' monozygotic Irish twin.
Some ninety-five percent of this plot is launched in the very first scene of the play which, even for a farce aficionado as myself, makes it extremely difficult to follow. Despite being so top heavy though, the core themes are solid enough that by the close of the first act the vast majority of the audience had picked up who meant what to who, and by the close of the show even the octogenarians to my left understood the Rachel/Roscoe Stanley triangle. (Love one, pretending to be one, killed one. In case you didn't follow).
James Cordon, the originator of the Francis Henshall role, leaves large shoes to fill both figuratively and literally for not only for those who were lucky enough to enjoy the original National Theatre/West End/Broadway run of the production, but also anyone who had likely even heard of the play. It launched him almost singlehandedly from British sitcom fodder to conquerer of America, gathering awards all the way.
Whilst it'd be optimistic of me in the extreme to suggest the same could happen to the Green Room's leading man Pauley Heron, there is no doubt in my mind that he absolutely deserves similar success.
In perhaps the most physically demanding role ever to appear on the West Walls stage, Heron throws himself around with wanton abandon, hurling himself over trunks, eating letters out of a desperate hunger and, most impressively of all, giving himself a thorough hiding during the plays famous 'I've got two jobs...' monologue. But even aside from the superb physicality, Heron brings a great deal of warmth and heart to the role. For all his double dealing and conniving, Francis is never less than a sympathetic character imbued with desires the audience can understand and share. In a production chock full of audience asides and forth wall breaking, Heron gets the bulk of the heavy lifting (again, both literally and figuratively), and he handles the interaction with a loveable charm and consummate ease. He imbues Francis with not only the sense of the clown, but also an everyman, at once full of a deep desperation yet a willingness to please. He's the cheeky bulldog who begs for food, humps your leg, falls over playing fetch and pees on the carpet, but when he looks at you with his big sad eyes and eager wagging tail, you can't help but love him. He's magnificent.
Francis aside, the production is very much an ensemble piece in which director Lexie Ward has impressively managed to gather a cast entirely devoid of weak links and crafted a production in which every character has a moment to shine.
Newcomer Ben Bason impresses as snooty toff Stanley, carrying a thoroughly convincing upper class swagger and delivering hilariously puerile lines 'Wrap his nuts in bacon and send him to the nurse.', 'I spent all my time in the radiation cupboard trying to make my penis glow.' 'Wineorama!' with absolute aplomb.
Sarah Coyle in stark contrast to her previous role as Blanche Du Bois appears to relish playing the 'tough guy' Roscoe, her every gesture and movement positively screaming 'I am a man!' in a manner so gloriously unsubtle that no one thinks to question it.
And, speaking of unsubtle, Michael Spencer's portrayal of 'actor' Alan is so beautifully hammy as to worry any watching vegetarians. Every gesture and head turn is an awkwardly deliberate performance in itself and every word so oddly over enunciated make watching a cringeworthy delight.
As his 'nice-but-dim' betrothed Pauline, Emma Norgate crafts a character so assuredly thick while sickeningly sweet as to be enduringly lovable. I wanted to give her a hug throughout.
Meanwhile audience favourite Caroline Robertson waits patiently until the second act to make her presence felt, delivering a confident, sexy Dollly, able to instigate a wave of laughter through a silly walk alone and with a Thatcher alluding speech that brought the house down.
If Francis is the most physically demanding role the Green Room has ever seen, then Alfie, exquisitely played by youngster Joe Desborough must surely be the second. As an eager octogenarian waiter, thick Irish accent, pacemaker and all, Desborough is a triumph of physicality and flair.
Veering from high farce via pure slapstick all the way through to practically pantomime, One Man will clearly not be everyone's cup of tea. Director Lexie Ward has created a production that is completely unapologetic in being larger than life and downright silly, exactly as it should be. The characters are all well crafted, wound up and let loose to do their thing.
The set design by Sarah Waters as will by now come as no surprise is exquisite. Seemingly taking its inspiration from the pages of a comic book, its stark black and white lines bolstered by simple vibrant colour make it appear the characters are literally leaping out of a page, mirroring the characterisations perfectly.
To avoid lengthy scene changes overdubbed by tedious music, the production utilises video vignettes telling the story of how Francis was fired from his Skiffle Band featuring members of the cast. While they add nothing to the plot these are clever and well crafted distractions and provide a welcome break from the pace of the action on stage.
While I suspect One Man may perhaps veer just a little too much toward the pantomime end of the spectrum for some tastes - Closing with a rhyming couplet song while the cast dance about on stage as a final closing declaration of intent - this in no way diminishes its success. It's a bold and ridiculous play served expertly by an equally bold and ridiculous production. It's a brave step into relatively uncharted waters for the Green Room club and judging by the mixed demographic surrounding me may just bring with it an entirely new audience to sit alongside the existing octogenarians.
As the closing song said; 'Tomorrow looks good from here..."
Thursday 12 May 2016
Thursday 4 February 2016
A Streetcar Named Desire - Carlisle Green Room Club - February 2016
A Streetcar Named Desire at West Walls Theatre
Written by Tennessee Williams
Directed by Stewart Grant
Tackling 'the classics' is always going to be something of a risky move for an amateur society. More often than not the weight of audience expectation, absolute reverence to the text or compulsion to reproduce what has successfully gone before hangs around a production's throat. A noose poised to kill, while the metaphorical hangman of the inevitable 'talent ceiling' waits in the wings ready to strike. They're called classics for a reason. Everyone knows them. Everyone loves them. Muck them up, and folk will be out for blood.
This time last year the Green Room Club opened their season with an equally ambitious take on a classic and smashed the troublesome gallows to pieces. The Importance of Being Earnest was in every conceivable fashion a roaring success. But Earnest is a light and witty soufflé, the stuff of larks and whimsy, delicate and refined, playing very much to the Green Room's strengths. In stark contrast, A Streetcar Named Desire is a slab of red meat. Stark, uncompromising and all too easy to render either bloodied and undigestible, or overdone and unbearable. Streetcar isn't just a classic, it's arguably the classic. As I noted before the play got underway that it shared a director with last years extremely disappointing Death of an Anarchist, I erected the gibbet and my mind and prepared to don the black hood.
Ninety minutes later, act one ended. The hangman was told to step down.
As act two drew to a close, and I realised I'd been holding my breath for the vast majority of it (not, I hasten to add, due to the use of cigarettes on stage. If you have reached the stage in your life where you are mortally offended by the use of a herbal cigarette in a play when you are clearly of sufficient maturity to have lived through over half a century of people smoking in restaurants, on public transport, in planes and wherever else they pleased, then may I kindly suggest your priorities are in desperate need of considerable realignment. It's neither big, clever, nor in any way justified to take such a righteous stance on something so utterly innocuous. Those so quick to offend are invariably the most ignorant. And if any of you are reading this post and take offence at that comment; good. It was thoroughly intended.), I finally exhaled, wiped a tear from my eye and erupted into an applause so furious I actually frightened the person seated beside me.
Lets get the quibbles out of the way first. No-one, least of all Williams himself, has even the slightest interest in any of the characters in Streetcar outside of the big three. They exist to further the plot or give time for a costume change, nothing more. As such, time in their company feels like time wasted- No disrespect intended to the actors filling these cameo roles. Drawing the most focus as the only character outside the triumvirate who is allowed to utter more than eight lines is Jason Munn as Mitch. It's a thankless role, part mummies boy, part love interest, part chauvinist, and Munn struggles to latch on to any particular aspect, instead offering a slightly awkward, stiff, squinting, occasionally 'Noo Yoik' accented vacuum it's difficult to find any affection for. Characters occasionally take the long way round the dinner table for no other reason than seemingly to 'give them a bit more movement', which never fails to look odd. Another minor gripe is the soundscape used for Blanche's recollections. The haunting, subtle echo of memory is instead replaced by a less than nuanced ON or OFF honky tonk, sounding more like a passing marching band than the whispered frailties of a woman on the edge.
But these are niggles, the tiniest of smudges on an otherwise flawless canvas lovingly painted by Streetcar's big three players. Stella is beautifully underplayed by newcomer Robin Laliberte, husky voiced, world weary and yet thoroughly knowing. Surrounded by mania, Laliberte provides a solid core to keep the audience grounded, a passive presence but impossible to overlook.
Seb Coombe is a revelation, utterly succeeding in perhaps the rarest of phenomena in amateur dramatics: Playing against type. I've watched Coombe in dozens of roles over the years and they've all possessed a certain similarity. A wry charm. A knowing twinkle. This isn't a criticism, indeed far from it. It's a definite skill to be able to draw these aspects out of any given character and to make the most of a seemingly natural gift. But in Streetcar, Coombe manages to find the off switch. Stanley Kowalski is not a nice man, and to so completely disengage the natural twinkle was thoroughly unnerving to watch - absolutely the state of mind an audience should be in while witnessing a man crush a deluded woman's spirit. That Coombe went from a magnificent Richard Hannay to such a deplorable skin crawling Stanley Kowalski is an absolute testament to his talent.
I noted in my review for the Theatre Downstairs production of Unholy Congregation that Sarah Coyle might just be the Green Room's secret weapon. I may have underestimated. It turns out she's the nuclear option. Never on the amateur stage have I seen a performance as powerful as Sarah Coyle playing Blanche DuBois. In equal parts delicately nuanced as it was painfully raw, Coyle peeled back the layers of Blanche over the course of the production, living every moment of the character's utter destruction. I keep wanting to call the performance effortless as means of a compliment, but in fact the opposite is true. Every effort in the world is being used to put Blanche through the emotional wringer, and Coyle captures every single moment and presents it to an audience with an unwavering truth. A nervous breakdown can not be an easy thing for an actor to portray, and Blanche's horrific screams as the doctor tries to calm her down are so painfully real I found myself moved to tears. There isn't enough praise on this earth for me to usher in Sarah Coyle's direction. It was a thing of beauty. Sheer perfection.
It almost goes without saying these days that the set design was superb, making full use of the limited space by ingeniously removing an entire wing of the stage and using using the stage balcony to full effect. The lighting in particular is worthy of considerable praise, particularly for the truly beautiful moments it created where a broken Blanche stepped out of the pure white light of the bathroom, her only place of serenity and peace, into the dingy apartment inhabited by the darkness that ultimately destroyed her.
The pace of the piece holds you on the very edge of your seat, particularly in the wholly uncompromising nerve shredder that is act two, and full credit to director Stewart Grant for assembling a production that in every sense of the word deserves the title of a true classic.
Written by Tennessee Williams
Directed by Stewart Grant
Tackling 'the classics' is always going to be something of a risky move for an amateur society. More often than not the weight of audience expectation, absolute reverence to the text or compulsion to reproduce what has successfully gone before hangs around a production's throat. A noose poised to kill, while the metaphorical hangman of the inevitable 'talent ceiling' waits in the wings ready to strike. They're called classics for a reason. Everyone knows them. Everyone loves them. Muck them up, and folk will be out for blood.
This time last year the Green Room Club opened their season with an equally ambitious take on a classic and smashed the troublesome gallows to pieces. The Importance of Being Earnest was in every conceivable fashion a roaring success. But Earnest is a light and witty soufflé, the stuff of larks and whimsy, delicate and refined, playing very much to the Green Room's strengths. In stark contrast, A Streetcar Named Desire is a slab of red meat. Stark, uncompromising and all too easy to render either bloodied and undigestible, or overdone and unbearable. Streetcar isn't just a classic, it's arguably the classic. As I noted before the play got underway that it shared a director with last years extremely disappointing Death of an Anarchist, I erected the gibbet and my mind and prepared to don the black hood.
Ninety minutes later, act one ended. The hangman was told to step down.
As act two drew to a close, and I realised I'd been holding my breath for the vast majority of it (not, I hasten to add, due to the use of cigarettes on stage. If you have reached the stage in your life where you are mortally offended by the use of a herbal cigarette in a play when you are clearly of sufficient maturity to have lived through over half a century of people smoking in restaurants, on public transport, in planes and wherever else they pleased, then may I kindly suggest your priorities are in desperate need of considerable realignment. It's neither big, clever, nor in any way justified to take such a righteous stance on something so utterly innocuous. Those so quick to offend are invariably the most ignorant. And if any of you are reading this post and take offence at that comment; good. It was thoroughly intended.), I finally exhaled, wiped a tear from my eye and erupted into an applause so furious I actually frightened the person seated beside me.
Lets get the quibbles out of the way first. No-one, least of all Williams himself, has even the slightest interest in any of the characters in Streetcar outside of the big three. They exist to further the plot or give time for a costume change, nothing more. As such, time in their company feels like time wasted- No disrespect intended to the actors filling these cameo roles. Drawing the most focus as the only character outside the triumvirate who is allowed to utter more than eight lines is Jason Munn as Mitch. It's a thankless role, part mummies boy, part love interest, part chauvinist, and Munn struggles to latch on to any particular aspect, instead offering a slightly awkward, stiff, squinting, occasionally 'Noo Yoik' accented vacuum it's difficult to find any affection for. Characters occasionally take the long way round the dinner table for no other reason than seemingly to 'give them a bit more movement', which never fails to look odd. Another minor gripe is the soundscape used for Blanche's recollections. The haunting, subtle echo of memory is instead replaced by a less than nuanced ON or OFF honky tonk, sounding more like a passing marching band than the whispered frailties of a woman on the edge.
But these are niggles, the tiniest of smudges on an otherwise flawless canvas lovingly painted by Streetcar's big three players. Stella is beautifully underplayed by newcomer Robin Laliberte, husky voiced, world weary and yet thoroughly knowing. Surrounded by mania, Laliberte provides a solid core to keep the audience grounded, a passive presence but impossible to overlook.
Seb Coombe is a revelation, utterly succeeding in perhaps the rarest of phenomena in amateur dramatics: Playing against type. I've watched Coombe in dozens of roles over the years and they've all possessed a certain similarity. A wry charm. A knowing twinkle. This isn't a criticism, indeed far from it. It's a definite skill to be able to draw these aspects out of any given character and to make the most of a seemingly natural gift. But in Streetcar, Coombe manages to find the off switch. Stanley Kowalski is not a nice man, and to so completely disengage the natural twinkle was thoroughly unnerving to watch - absolutely the state of mind an audience should be in while witnessing a man crush a deluded woman's spirit. That Coombe went from a magnificent Richard Hannay to such a deplorable skin crawling Stanley Kowalski is an absolute testament to his talent.
I noted in my review for the Theatre Downstairs production of Unholy Congregation that Sarah Coyle might just be the Green Room's secret weapon. I may have underestimated. It turns out she's the nuclear option. Never on the amateur stage have I seen a performance as powerful as Sarah Coyle playing Blanche DuBois. In equal parts delicately nuanced as it was painfully raw, Coyle peeled back the layers of Blanche over the course of the production, living every moment of the character's utter destruction. I keep wanting to call the performance effortless as means of a compliment, but in fact the opposite is true. Every effort in the world is being used to put Blanche through the emotional wringer, and Coyle captures every single moment and presents it to an audience with an unwavering truth. A nervous breakdown can not be an easy thing for an actor to portray, and Blanche's horrific screams as the doctor tries to calm her down are so painfully real I found myself moved to tears. There isn't enough praise on this earth for me to usher in Sarah Coyle's direction. It was a thing of beauty. Sheer perfection.
It almost goes without saying these days that the set design was superb, making full use of the limited space by ingeniously removing an entire wing of the stage and using using the stage balcony to full effect. The lighting in particular is worthy of considerable praise, particularly for the truly beautiful moments it created where a broken Blanche stepped out of the pure white light of the bathroom, her only place of serenity and peace, into the dingy apartment inhabited by the darkness that ultimately destroyed her.
The pace of the piece holds you on the very edge of your seat, particularly in the wholly uncompromising nerve shredder that is act two, and full credit to director Stewart Grant for assembling a production that in every sense of the word deserves the title of a true classic.
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