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.
Showing posts with label Review. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Review. Show all posts
Thursday, 4 February 2016
Thursday, 22 October 2015
Benchmark - Theatre Downstairs - October 2015
Benchmark at West Walls Theatre Bar
A Bench Under the Eiffel Tower
Written by Molly Edgar
Directed by Jack Lester
&
Wigs and Knickers
Written and Directed by Nigel Banks
Carlisle Green Room Club's Theatre Downstairs programme continues with two new plays facing the unenviable task of following the roaring success of 'Unholy Congregation'. Either by design or coincidence both Benchmark plays share a commonality with the previous triumphant production; both examining an unlikely relationship spawned from a random encounter utilising only two actors, poignancy and great dollops of humour.
Wigs and Knickers written and directed by Nigel Banks survives the comparison very well indeed. Set in a Oncology waiting room, Wigs had the potential to be a very dark and miserable affair with its chosen subject matter, but Banks wisely instead makes the focus of the drama the differing attitudes and coping mechanisms of its characters - upbeat Melissa and ostrich Catherine. For all the dialogue occasionally slips into a wikipedia entry or NHS information leaflet, the characters never for a moment feel anything less than real. The humour shines through and offers a very touching insight into a 20 minute snapshot of two women struggling through a very difficult and raw part of their lives. It's impossible not to be moved by Catherine's 'ignorance is bliss' response to her first screening result, or roar with laughter at Melissa's carefree retelling of the hospital's 'BOGOFF' policy to a pre-emptive mastectomy. A random 'class warfare' moment in the middle diverts attention momentarily - there's an odd feeling that this particular posh vs poor development was a thread from an entirely different script as it felt strangely out of place here - but otherwise the focus remains strong and clear. The characters have depth, substance and a story to tell and it is a pleasure to spend time in their company.
Lisa Moffatt dominates with her performance as 'been there, done that, got the one-boob-bra' Melissa and embodies the character with every fibre of her being. Every line is pitched perfectly to either wring out every drop of humour from the material or to land a perfect gut punch with an emotionally charged but never overplayed moment of poignancy. Jo King also impresses with her perfectly understated Catherine. Alongside such a force of nature as Moffatt it would have been easy to deliver an ordinary 'straight [wo]man' performance and get away with it, but King paces the piece perfectly. Hopefully she'll make a move to the main West Walls stage sometime soon.
Funny, moving, original and with two great performances, Wigs and Knickers is very much a success, tackling a difficult subject with a wry and light touch.
A Bench Under the Eiffel Tower written by Molly Edgar and directed by Jack Lester is a different kettle of fish entirely. In almost every respect Wigs succeeds, Bench fails, principally due to a script written by someone who has seemingly never actually listened to two people having a conversation. Edgar's dialogue is nothing short of woeful. Characters speak only in stilted question and answers or strangely prosaic garbles of melodrama, impossible to make convincing. Characters Jennifer and Daniel manage to be both crudely drawn and one dimensional yet still strangely inconsistent, existing only to sulk about their own lives, emote angrily and eventually, without rhyme nor reason, apparently fall for each other despite neither of them being in any way likeable or endearing. Neither is remotely believable as a real person and the 'will they won't they' that should be driving the play is instead rendered at best inconsequential and at worst thoroughly tedious.
Given such vacuous roles there is little poor actors Matthew Wood and Lisa Dykes can do other than deliver the lines and hope the end arrives quickly. Dykes in particular was trying hard to wring something from the script, successfully portraying the bewildering array of emotions the text insisted upon and is clearly a talented performer when not hampered with a thankless part. Wood, despite his extensive CV listed in the programme struggles to rise above the material, delivering a pedestrian 'awkward young man' and little else.
As Jack Lester's first piece of direction outside of university, hopefully A Bench Under the Eiffel Tower will have illustrated some valuable lessons to take forward. Chiefly that play selection is everything and no matter how much sugar is added a rotten core will never be made to taste sweet. Also that, if a piece is entirely about tourists at the Eiffel Tower, surely they'd choose a bench where they could actually see the famous landmark and not sit facing away...
A Bench Under the Eiffel Tower
Written by Molly Edgar
Directed by Jack Lester
&
Wigs and Knickers
Written and Directed by Nigel Banks
Carlisle Green Room Club's Theatre Downstairs programme continues with two new plays facing the unenviable task of following the roaring success of 'Unholy Congregation'. Either by design or coincidence both Benchmark plays share a commonality with the previous triumphant production; both examining an unlikely relationship spawned from a random encounter utilising only two actors, poignancy and great dollops of humour.
Wigs and Knickers written and directed by Nigel Banks survives the comparison very well indeed. Set in a Oncology waiting room, Wigs had the potential to be a very dark and miserable affair with its chosen subject matter, but Banks wisely instead makes the focus of the drama the differing attitudes and coping mechanisms of its characters - upbeat Melissa and ostrich Catherine. For all the dialogue occasionally slips into a wikipedia entry or NHS information leaflet, the characters never for a moment feel anything less than real. The humour shines through and offers a very touching insight into a 20 minute snapshot of two women struggling through a very difficult and raw part of their lives. It's impossible not to be moved by Catherine's 'ignorance is bliss' response to her first screening result, or roar with laughter at Melissa's carefree retelling of the hospital's 'BOGOFF' policy to a pre-emptive mastectomy. A random 'class warfare' moment in the middle diverts attention momentarily - there's an odd feeling that this particular posh vs poor development was a thread from an entirely different script as it felt strangely out of place here - but otherwise the focus remains strong and clear. The characters have depth, substance and a story to tell and it is a pleasure to spend time in their company.
Lisa Moffatt dominates with her performance as 'been there, done that, got the one-boob-bra' Melissa and embodies the character with every fibre of her being. Every line is pitched perfectly to either wring out every drop of humour from the material or to land a perfect gut punch with an emotionally charged but never overplayed moment of poignancy. Jo King also impresses with her perfectly understated Catherine. Alongside such a force of nature as Moffatt it would have been easy to deliver an ordinary 'straight [wo]man' performance and get away with it, but King paces the piece perfectly. Hopefully she'll make a move to the main West Walls stage sometime soon.
Funny, moving, original and with two great performances, Wigs and Knickers is very much a success, tackling a difficult subject with a wry and light touch.
A Bench Under the Eiffel Tower written by Molly Edgar and directed by Jack Lester is a different kettle of fish entirely. In almost every respect Wigs succeeds, Bench fails, principally due to a script written by someone who has seemingly never actually listened to two people having a conversation. Edgar's dialogue is nothing short of woeful. Characters speak only in stilted question and answers or strangely prosaic garbles of melodrama, impossible to make convincing. Characters Jennifer and Daniel manage to be both crudely drawn and one dimensional yet still strangely inconsistent, existing only to sulk about their own lives, emote angrily and eventually, without rhyme nor reason, apparently fall for each other despite neither of them being in any way likeable or endearing. Neither is remotely believable as a real person and the 'will they won't they' that should be driving the play is instead rendered at best inconsequential and at worst thoroughly tedious.
Given such vacuous roles there is little poor actors Matthew Wood and Lisa Dykes can do other than deliver the lines and hope the end arrives quickly. Dykes in particular was trying hard to wring something from the script, successfully portraying the bewildering array of emotions the text insisted upon and is clearly a talented performer when not hampered with a thankless part. Wood, despite his extensive CV listed in the programme struggles to rise above the material, delivering a pedestrian 'awkward young man' and little else.
As Jack Lester's first piece of direction outside of university, hopefully A Bench Under the Eiffel Tower will have illustrated some valuable lessons to take forward. Chiefly that play selection is everything and no matter how much sugar is added a rotten core will never be made to taste sweet. Also that, if a piece is entirely about tourists at the Eiffel Tower, surely they'd choose a bench where they could actually see the famous landmark and not sit facing away...
Monday, 12 October 2015
Playhouse Creatures - Carlisle Green Room Club - October 2015
Playhouse Creatures at West Walls Theatre
Written by April De Angelis
Directed by Eva Cook
My pen floated over my diary page for many minutes while I pondered and collected by thoughts on Playhouse Creatures, the latest production in an excellent season from Carlisle Green Room Club. Under normal circumstances I find opinions almost worryingly easy to settle upon. Rarely a fence sitter, I will merrily leap to one side of a divide over another supremely argent in my confidence that 'sod what everyone else thinks, I'm almost certainly right'. Certainly when it comes to the theatre, it's almost unheard of for me not to rise from my seat at the end of a performance with a definitive critique already forming in my mind. Playhouse Creatures however has me stumped. Which isn't to say I haven't plenty of opinions regarding individual aspects of the production, simply that for the first time in years when my friend asked me as we were leaving what I thought about the play I was forced to use a phrase rarely uttered in my vocabulary; 'I don't know'.
The play follows five actresses - Nell Gwyn, Elizabeth Farley, Rebecca Marshall, Doll Common and Mary Betterton - as they struggle to maintain a life in the theatre as first of their kind. Principally a character driven piece, the plot veers from 'light' to 'absent', returning only when writer April De Angelis feels it necessary to remove a player (quite literally) from the stage via spontaneous use of witchcraft, pregnancy or age. This would be fine - a great many plays have succeeded with far less story to work with - but unfortunately as a character piece Playhouse Creatures also largely falls flat. Each of the actresses occupies the role of a acrhetype and sadly little else - Nell is young, pretty and ambitious, Mrs Marshall is seasoned, cynical and vicious, Mrs Betterton is an old pro, well spoken and wise, and as such despite the clear talents of the real actresses portraying these characters, none are given the space to develop into anything other than their initial character description.
Instead of fleshing out our pioneering heroines, De Angelis devotes great chunks of the play to seeing the characters performing other plays. I'd approximate that in total around a quarter of the run time was dedicated to these shows within shows, a technique that works well in comedies but feels out of place here - particularly as, in this instance, they were largely being played for laughs.
Which brings me to, in my opinion, perhaps the biggest failing of the play. Its tone.
I'm not suggesting for a moment here that all dramas should be nothing but serious and all comedies should be nothing but funny. Far from it, the best plays always use aspects of both in order to feel in any way realistic. I find dramas without any humour as tiresome as comedies that spare no time for moments of character. Meanwhile the tone in Playhouse Creatures veers so wildly and behaves so erratically as to render the audience almost uncomfortable. On the one hand we have a play more than happy to get a cheap laugh out of a well placed swear word (which, when used in context and within reason is a perfectly justified and effective ploy - even if it does become somewhat overused in this case), using ridiculous rubber snakes to raise laughs out of outrageous melodrama and, most effectively of all, almost every line uttered by the sublime Doll Common, to scenes of a DIY abortion, a woman fleeing from inevitable burning at the stake and a general undercurrent of all manner of suffering and woe. This shouldn't be read as a criticism of this production - both sides of the coin are well portrayed, the notable void between the two being more a fault of the script than of director Eva Cook.
Despite this inconsistency there was much to enjoy in Playhouse Creatures, not least the scene stealing performance by Jenny Pike as Doll Common. Her deadpan delivery of almost every genuinely funny line in the show had the audience in hysterics time after time whilst also managing the difficult transition from humour to bleak with consummate ease as she told the tale of her father and bear-pits. Sarah Waters also impressed with a beautifully underplayed Mrs Marshall, allowing her moments of righteous anger hit all the harder when they bubbled to the surface. Kath Paterson for the most part successfully channelled Patricia Routledge as Hyacinth Bucket in her portrayal of Mrs Betterton and clearly relished the scene describing the art of acting via the medium of a clock face. Michelle Crangle I feel perhaps suffered from a misprint in her copy of the script as for the majority of the play I was convinced I was watching her play the role of Nancy from the musical Oliver!, her "Cor blimey guv'na!" mockney accent certainly originating from a wholly different show the rest of the cast. Thankfully this didn't detract from her well captured more poignant scenes toward the end of the play.
As seems to be par for the course with Green Room productions this season, the set provided a sumptuous feast for the eyes. Few other amateur societies can boast a period set as intricately detailed with little flourishes as the dressing room, or as beautifully designed as the mural adorning the back section of the stage. In this case though the permanent set did provide a few difficulties. By effectively halving the stage space both areas soon felt crowded when all five characters were present which, especially in the dressing room, was often the case. Entire scenes would be played out with almost no movement or changes of position. A line early in the play remarked about how crucial 'stillness' was to acting - perhaps in this case Cook took the line a little too much to heart.
Even having put all of these thoughts to paper I'd still struggle to answer my friend's question as to what I thought about Playhouse Creatures. Which, perhaps, is no bad thing. Whether good or bad, theatre should always get you thinking and, despite the failures of the play itself, this production has certainly had me scratching my head more than any other in quite some time.
Written by April De Angelis
Directed by Eva Cook
My pen floated over my diary page for many minutes while I pondered and collected by thoughts on Playhouse Creatures, the latest production in an excellent season from Carlisle Green Room Club. Under normal circumstances I find opinions almost worryingly easy to settle upon. Rarely a fence sitter, I will merrily leap to one side of a divide over another supremely argent in my confidence that 'sod what everyone else thinks, I'm almost certainly right'. Certainly when it comes to the theatre, it's almost unheard of for me not to rise from my seat at the end of a performance with a definitive critique already forming in my mind. Playhouse Creatures however has me stumped. Which isn't to say I haven't plenty of opinions regarding individual aspects of the production, simply that for the first time in years when my friend asked me as we were leaving what I thought about the play I was forced to use a phrase rarely uttered in my vocabulary; 'I don't know'.
The play follows five actresses - Nell Gwyn, Elizabeth Farley, Rebecca Marshall, Doll Common and Mary Betterton - as they struggle to maintain a life in the theatre as first of their kind. Principally a character driven piece, the plot veers from 'light' to 'absent', returning only when writer April De Angelis feels it necessary to remove a player (quite literally) from the stage via spontaneous use of witchcraft, pregnancy or age. This would be fine - a great many plays have succeeded with far less story to work with - but unfortunately as a character piece Playhouse Creatures also largely falls flat. Each of the actresses occupies the role of a acrhetype and sadly little else - Nell is young, pretty and ambitious, Mrs Marshall is seasoned, cynical and vicious, Mrs Betterton is an old pro, well spoken and wise, and as such despite the clear talents of the real actresses portraying these characters, none are given the space to develop into anything other than their initial character description.
Instead of fleshing out our pioneering heroines, De Angelis devotes great chunks of the play to seeing the characters performing other plays. I'd approximate that in total around a quarter of the run time was dedicated to these shows within shows, a technique that works well in comedies but feels out of place here - particularly as, in this instance, they were largely being played for laughs.
Which brings me to, in my opinion, perhaps the biggest failing of the play. Its tone.
I'm not suggesting for a moment here that all dramas should be nothing but serious and all comedies should be nothing but funny. Far from it, the best plays always use aspects of both in order to feel in any way realistic. I find dramas without any humour as tiresome as comedies that spare no time for moments of character. Meanwhile the tone in Playhouse Creatures veers so wildly and behaves so erratically as to render the audience almost uncomfortable. On the one hand we have a play more than happy to get a cheap laugh out of a well placed swear word (which, when used in context and within reason is a perfectly justified and effective ploy - even if it does become somewhat overused in this case), using ridiculous rubber snakes to raise laughs out of outrageous melodrama and, most effectively of all, almost every line uttered by the sublime Doll Common, to scenes of a DIY abortion, a woman fleeing from inevitable burning at the stake and a general undercurrent of all manner of suffering and woe. This shouldn't be read as a criticism of this production - both sides of the coin are well portrayed, the notable void between the two being more a fault of the script than of director Eva Cook.
Despite this inconsistency there was much to enjoy in Playhouse Creatures, not least the scene stealing performance by Jenny Pike as Doll Common. Her deadpan delivery of almost every genuinely funny line in the show had the audience in hysterics time after time whilst also managing the difficult transition from humour to bleak with consummate ease as she told the tale of her father and bear-pits. Sarah Waters also impressed with a beautifully underplayed Mrs Marshall, allowing her moments of righteous anger hit all the harder when they bubbled to the surface. Kath Paterson for the most part successfully channelled Patricia Routledge as Hyacinth Bucket in her portrayal of Mrs Betterton and clearly relished the scene describing the art of acting via the medium of a clock face. Michelle Crangle I feel perhaps suffered from a misprint in her copy of the script as for the majority of the play I was convinced I was watching her play the role of Nancy from the musical Oliver!, her "Cor blimey guv'na!" mockney accent certainly originating from a wholly different show the rest of the cast. Thankfully this didn't detract from her well captured more poignant scenes toward the end of the play.
As seems to be par for the course with Green Room productions this season, the set provided a sumptuous feast for the eyes. Few other amateur societies can boast a period set as intricately detailed with little flourishes as the dressing room, or as beautifully designed as the mural adorning the back section of the stage. In this case though the permanent set did provide a few difficulties. By effectively halving the stage space both areas soon felt crowded when all five characters were present which, especially in the dressing room, was often the case. Entire scenes would be played out with almost no movement or changes of position. A line early in the play remarked about how crucial 'stillness' was to acting - perhaps in this case Cook took the line a little too much to heart.
Even having put all of these thoughts to paper I'd still struggle to answer my friend's question as to what I thought about Playhouse Creatures. Which, perhaps, is no bad thing. Whether good or bad, theatre should always get you thinking and, despite the failures of the play itself, this production has certainly had me scratching my head more than any other in quite some time.
Monday, 21 September 2015
Boeing Boeing - Carlisle Green Room Club - August 2013
Boeing Boeing at West Walls Theatre from August 2013
Written by Marc Camoletti
Directed by Lexie Ward
"One of the best nights out I've had in a long time."
"My sides are literally aching for laughing."
"You'd never know it wasn't professional."
"Best thing I've seen."
These were just some of the comments I overheard in the foyer after the hysterically brilliant Boeing Boeing came to a close. And I can't find myself disagreeing with any off them.
Boeing Boeing by Marc Camoletti is farce at it's most traditional. There's a man; Bernard (in farce it's always a man it seems. I'd love to see a female-led script one of these days) burdened by a gigantic lie that he will do anything to cover up. In this instance it's his three fiances; American Janet, French Jacqueline, and German Judith, all airline stewardesses enabling him to cunningly organise his life around their respective timetables ably assisted and equally hindered by his butler Thomas and the arrival of his best friend Robert. When a storm grounds all planes farcical high-jinks ensue as Bernard and Robert do everything in their power to prevent the women from ever meeting - a clever trick if you can pull it off in an apartment with no fewer than six doors.
A traditional farce needs a strong, constantly on the ball cast and a director with the knowledge and confidence to keep the action tight, pacey and smooth. Fortunately the Green Room production had both in spades. Director Lexie Ward didn't miss a single beat of action, the rhythm of each scene was full of pace to keep the action moving but had the space where necessary to ebb and flow allowing each character room to make their presence felt.
The cast were superb and all had individual moments to shine. Michael Spencer as Bernard started out all charm and charisma, effortlessly explaining his 'flawless system', only to veer toward a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown when the glass house around him began to shatter. As his accomplice, James Sparks delivered the performance of a lifetime, the explosive energy and pace brought to Robert kept the wheels of the plot turning without any shred of hesitation on the audiences' part. As butler Thomas (a part very effectively gender swapped for this production) Seb Coombe brought a dry wit and wry eye to proceedings, his one liners always finding their mark.
The three stewardesses, while only being fleshed out by the writer as far as the international stereotypes will extend; an earnest but ambitious American, a sensual and sultry Parisian and a scarily efficient German, were each given strong, memorable performances by Alison Hellings, Lexie Ward and Caroline Robertson respectively. Hellings was sweet with a ruthless edge as Janet, Ward sexy and manipulative as Jacqueline and Robertson absolutely hilarious as subtle-as-a-brick Germanic Judith, the somewhat Allo' Allo' Esq accents of the latter two only adding to the general hysteria.
As the old cliche states comedy is all a matter of timing and this production is perhaps one of the slickest shows I have ever been fortunate enough to watch. A sublime treat for not only fans of farce, but for fans of theatre full stop.
Written by Marc Camoletti
Directed by Lexie Ward
"One of the best nights out I've had in a long time."
"My sides are literally aching for laughing."
"You'd never know it wasn't professional."
"Best thing I've seen."
These were just some of the comments I overheard in the foyer after the hysterically brilliant Boeing Boeing came to a close. And I can't find myself disagreeing with any off them.
Boeing Boeing by Marc Camoletti is farce at it's most traditional. There's a man; Bernard (in farce it's always a man it seems. I'd love to see a female-led script one of these days) burdened by a gigantic lie that he will do anything to cover up. In this instance it's his three fiances; American Janet, French Jacqueline, and German Judith, all airline stewardesses enabling him to cunningly organise his life around their respective timetables ably assisted and equally hindered by his butler Thomas and the arrival of his best friend Robert. When a storm grounds all planes farcical high-jinks ensue as Bernard and Robert do everything in their power to prevent the women from ever meeting - a clever trick if you can pull it off in an apartment with no fewer than six doors.
A traditional farce needs a strong, constantly on the ball cast and a director with the knowledge and confidence to keep the action tight, pacey and smooth. Fortunately the Green Room production had both in spades. Director Lexie Ward didn't miss a single beat of action, the rhythm of each scene was full of pace to keep the action moving but had the space where necessary to ebb and flow allowing each character room to make their presence felt.
The cast were superb and all had individual moments to shine. Michael Spencer as Bernard started out all charm and charisma, effortlessly explaining his 'flawless system', only to veer toward a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown when the glass house around him began to shatter. As his accomplice, James Sparks delivered the performance of a lifetime, the explosive energy and pace brought to Robert kept the wheels of the plot turning without any shred of hesitation on the audiences' part. As butler Thomas (a part very effectively gender swapped for this production) Seb Coombe brought a dry wit and wry eye to proceedings, his one liners always finding their mark.
The three stewardesses, while only being fleshed out by the writer as far as the international stereotypes will extend; an earnest but ambitious American, a sensual and sultry Parisian and a scarily efficient German, were each given strong, memorable performances by Alison Hellings, Lexie Ward and Caroline Robertson respectively. Hellings was sweet with a ruthless edge as Janet, Ward sexy and manipulative as Jacqueline and Robertson absolutely hilarious as subtle-as-a-brick Germanic Judith, the somewhat Allo' Allo' Esq accents of the latter two only adding to the general hysteria.
As the old cliche states comedy is all a matter of timing and this production is perhaps one of the slickest shows I have ever been fortunate enough to watch. A sublime treat for not only fans of farce, but for fans of theatre full stop.
Friday, 29 May 2015
Tom, Dick and Harry - Carlisle Green Room Club - August 2014
Tom, Dick and Harry at West Walls Theatre
Written by Ray and Michael Cooney
Directed by Lexie Ward
Farce is extremely difficult to get right. To do farce well requires pace and precision. There are no fluffy edges, short-cuts or gently rounded safety corners, it's very much an exact science. A complex structure that hangs together by a thread that, if broken, brings the whole experience crashing down.
Which is why my heart sank when, before the show was even underway, a dreaded announcement was made. "Due to illness the part of Tom will be played tonight by the director."
In professional theatre stand-ins and understudies are commonplace. They're well rehearsed and ready at a moments notice to fill the gap created by the absence of any member of the cast. Nine times out of ten you'd be hard pressed to spot the odd one out at all had you not been told as much by an announcement or a slip of paper surreptitiously stapled to the programme. Amateur theatre is a different kettle of fish entirely. Rarely are shows able to afford the the luxury of understudies and it's completely understandable to see why - It's a pretty thankless ask to expect someone to go to the lengths of learning an entire role when everyone in the company is hoping and praying that they will never get to utter a word and, unlike the professional world, there's no financial incentive to soften the blow. As a result, stand-ins in amateur productions are almost always uniformly awful. Invariably it's some poor soul who clearly doesn't want to be there fumbling around the stage with a script in their hand, trying their hardest to say the right lines and avoid reading out loud any stage directions. While audiences may start with sympathy in their souls, it's rare for it to last until the end of the first act. It's distracting, it's immersion breaking and, like watching England in the World Cup, falls perfectly in the gutter between frustration and disappointment.
What was most galling was that I had been looking forward to this production since it first appeared on my radar. Directed by Lexie Ward who's Boeing Boeing had been the slickest farce I had ever seen on an amateur stage, here seemingly using a much of the same cast, I had very high hopes for Tom, Dick and Harry indeed. Instead, I was now all but sulking in my seat as the realisation struck that not only were we burdened with a stand-in but it was for the main role. With suitably revised expectations, I gritted my teeth as the curtains opened.
Plot wise, Tom, Dick and Harry is perhaps Cooney at his most farcical. Tom (Seb Coombe, but here played by Lexie Ward) and wife Linda (Sarah Coyle) are in the process of adopting a baby, with the final adoption interview due any minute. Things are complicated as wheeler-dealer brother Dick (James Sparks) arrives from a Calais run (in typical Cooney style he naturally lives in the upstairs flat) with a van full of cigarettes and booze. Meanwhile other brother Harry (Pauley Heron), arrives at the house festooned with body parts, mindful of some plan to bury limbs in the back garden in order to reduce the house price. Constable Downs (Daniel Mason) is following up on Dick's escapades, when we discover that he brought more than contraband back from France as two Albanian immigrants appear on the scene (Michael Spencer and Caroline Robertson). With these pieces set in place it becomes the usual runaround business of building lie upon lie trying to keep the truth from Linda and, in the second act, adoption interviewer Mrs Potter (Emma Norgate), before things finally come to a head with the arrival of Russian Gangster Boris (Ben Jansz).
First things first. Despite my reservations and extremely low expectations, Ward was exceptional in covering the role. Were it not for the gender swap and the script in hand you could quite readily believe she had always been playing Tom. To even mention the script in hand is, frankly, a disservice. So confident was Ward you soon stopped noticing she was reading the lines at all. There was not a shred of hesitation, dubious inflection or break in character. An almost audible sigh of relief errupted when, only a few minutes in, the audience realised they were not going to suffer some horrendous cut and paste version of the production. The surge of applause and goodwill when Ward took her bow at the close of the show was one of the most remarkable noises I have heard from a theatre and I am quite happy to admit I was whooping and cheering with the rest.
All of which is not to say that the circumstances and Ward's extraordinary performance detracted in any way from what is probably the strongest cast the Green Room has assembled since, well, since Boeing Boeing, especially given that a large chunk of the cast was largely new to the West Walls stage. Sparks and Heron were perfect foils for both each other and for Ward, Sparks cheeky and confident, Heron dim, inventive and endearing. All three maintained the breathless pace of the narrative in very physically demanding roles with Sparks mimed explanation of the plight of the immigrants being a highlight. Coyle performed well in the largely thankless role of the 'straight [wo]man' in a Cooney farce, largely there to startle and get in the way of the antics of the men. Mason, Norgate and Jansz all had their moment in the spotlight with Norgate in particular impressing as the stern and severe Mrs Potter. How she managed to keep a straight face with the surrounding mania was quite an achievement, albeit one that Mason wasn't quite able to share. Watching him strain to hide his smirk was almost as funny as the material itself.
Finally, we come to the two most unusual characters in a script packed with oddballs; Andreas and Katerina, the Albanian immigrants. I've commented before that Robertson seems capable of stealing any scene she features in. Her presence on stage is almost magnetic with her ability to draw the eye and hang off her every word. She manages to achieve the same here and is equally matched by Spencer despite the handicap of not getting any English dialogue in the entire script. Every line uttered by the duo is in Albanian save for the occasional break into almost indistinguishable pigeon English and their performance is relentlessly hilarious. From their first appearance the already electric pace seems to kick up a gear, their presence magnifying and heightening everything that goes on around them. Spencer in particular seems to be in his element, stripped of humorous dialogue he makes the most of the physicality of the part throwing himself into pratfalls, Cossack dancing and, perhaps funniest of all, being squeezed into a sofa communicating only through cunning use of a kazoo.
Tom, Dick and Harry is certainly the silliest play I have seen in a very long time and stretches the limits of exactly how far a farce can be pushed, but director Lexie Ward always keeps the nonsense believable by setting such a lightening fast pace that the audience is never given the opportunity to think things through. It struck all the right notes throughout, the audience hooting with every new ridiculous plot development, while all the while emphasising with the plight of poor Tom who just wants the day to end. Character and pace in perfect unison. The Green Room has always had a reputation for being excellent at comedy but, if the current trend continues, it may well soon be known as the best venue for farce this side of the West End.
Written by Ray and Michael Cooney
Directed by Lexie Ward
Farce is extremely difficult to get right. To do farce well requires pace and precision. There are no fluffy edges, short-cuts or gently rounded safety corners, it's very much an exact science. A complex structure that hangs together by a thread that, if broken, brings the whole experience crashing down.
Which is why my heart sank when, before the show was even underway, a dreaded announcement was made. "Due to illness the part of Tom will be played tonight by the director."
In professional theatre stand-ins and understudies are commonplace. They're well rehearsed and ready at a moments notice to fill the gap created by the absence of any member of the cast. Nine times out of ten you'd be hard pressed to spot the odd one out at all had you not been told as much by an announcement or a slip of paper surreptitiously stapled to the programme. Amateur theatre is a different kettle of fish entirely. Rarely are shows able to afford the the luxury of understudies and it's completely understandable to see why - It's a pretty thankless ask to expect someone to go to the lengths of learning an entire role when everyone in the company is hoping and praying that they will never get to utter a word and, unlike the professional world, there's no financial incentive to soften the blow. As a result, stand-ins in amateur productions are almost always uniformly awful. Invariably it's some poor soul who clearly doesn't want to be there fumbling around the stage with a script in their hand, trying their hardest to say the right lines and avoid reading out loud any stage directions. While audiences may start with sympathy in their souls, it's rare for it to last until the end of the first act. It's distracting, it's immersion breaking and, like watching England in the World Cup, falls perfectly in the gutter between frustration and disappointment.
What was most galling was that I had been looking forward to this production since it first appeared on my radar. Directed by Lexie Ward who's Boeing Boeing had been the slickest farce I had ever seen on an amateur stage, here seemingly using a much of the same cast, I had very high hopes for Tom, Dick and Harry indeed. Instead, I was now all but sulking in my seat as the realisation struck that not only were we burdened with a stand-in but it was for the main role. With suitably revised expectations, I gritted my teeth as the curtains opened.
Plot wise, Tom, Dick and Harry is perhaps Cooney at his most farcical. Tom (Seb Coombe, but here played by Lexie Ward) and wife Linda (Sarah Coyle) are in the process of adopting a baby, with the final adoption interview due any minute. Things are complicated as wheeler-dealer brother Dick (James Sparks) arrives from a Calais run (in typical Cooney style he naturally lives in the upstairs flat) with a van full of cigarettes and booze. Meanwhile other brother Harry (Pauley Heron), arrives at the house festooned with body parts, mindful of some plan to bury limbs in the back garden in order to reduce the house price. Constable Downs (Daniel Mason) is following up on Dick's escapades, when we discover that he brought more than contraband back from France as two Albanian immigrants appear on the scene (Michael Spencer and Caroline Robertson). With these pieces set in place it becomes the usual runaround business of building lie upon lie trying to keep the truth from Linda and, in the second act, adoption interviewer Mrs Potter (Emma Norgate), before things finally come to a head with the arrival of Russian Gangster Boris (Ben Jansz).
First things first. Despite my reservations and extremely low expectations, Ward was exceptional in covering the role. Were it not for the gender swap and the script in hand you could quite readily believe she had always been playing Tom. To even mention the script in hand is, frankly, a disservice. So confident was Ward you soon stopped noticing she was reading the lines at all. There was not a shred of hesitation, dubious inflection or break in character. An almost audible sigh of relief errupted when, only a few minutes in, the audience realised they were not going to suffer some horrendous cut and paste version of the production. The surge of applause and goodwill when Ward took her bow at the close of the show was one of the most remarkable noises I have heard from a theatre and I am quite happy to admit I was whooping and cheering with the rest.
All of which is not to say that the circumstances and Ward's extraordinary performance detracted in any way from what is probably the strongest cast the Green Room has assembled since, well, since Boeing Boeing, especially given that a large chunk of the cast was largely new to the West Walls stage. Sparks and Heron were perfect foils for both each other and for Ward, Sparks cheeky and confident, Heron dim, inventive and endearing. All three maintained the breathless pace of the narrative in very physically demanding roles with Sparks mimed explanation of the plight of the immigrants being a highlight. Coyle performed well in the largely thankless role of the 'straight [wo]man' in a Cooney farce, largely there to startle and get in the way of the antics of the men. Mason, Norgate and Jansz all had their moment in the spotlight with Norgate in particular impressing as the stern and severe Mrs Potter. How she managed to keep a straight face with the surrounding mania was quite an achievement, albeit one that Mason wasn't quite able to share. Watching him strain to hide his smirk was almost as funny as the material itself.
Finally, we come to the two most unusual characters in a script packed with oddballs; Andreas and Katerina, the Albanian immigrants. I've commented before that Robertson seems capable of stealing any scene she features in. Her presence on stage is almost magnetic with her ability to draw the eye and hang off her every word. She manages to achieve the same here and is equally matched by Spencer despite the handicap of not getting any English dialogue in the entire script. Every line uttered by the duo is in Albanian save for the occasional break into almost indistinguishable pigeon English and their performance is relentlessly hilarious. From their first appearance the already electric pace seems to kick up a gear, their presence magnifying and heightening everything that goes on around them. Spencer in particular seems to be in his element, stripped of humorous dialogue he makes the most of the physicality of the part throwing himself into pratfalls, Cossack dancing and, perhaps funniest of all, being squeezed into a sofa communicating only through cunning use of a kazoo.
Tom, Dick and Harry is certainly the silliest play I have seen in a very long time and stretches the limits of exactly how far a farce can be pushed, but director Lexie Ward always keeps the nonsense believable by setting such a lightening fast pace that the audience is never given the opportunity to think things through. It struck all the right notes throughout, the audience hooting with every new ridiculous plot development, while all the while emphasising with the plight of poor Tom who just wants the day to end. Character and pace in perfect unison. The Green Room has always had a reputation for being excellent at comedy but, if the current trend continues, it may well soon be known as the best venue for farce this side of the West End.
Wednesday, 27 May 2015
The 39 Steps - Theatre By The Lake - May 2015
The 39 Steps at Theatre by the Lake
Written by Patrick Barlow
Directed by Abigail Anderson
Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
I've been lucky enough to see a lot of theatre in my life both amateur and professional and, as a serial consumer, it's inevitable that a degree of repetition will be involved somewhere down the line. I've lost count of the number of 'Oliver!'s' I've seen but can tell you off the top of my head exactly how many 'Oompah's appear in that infernal song. I've born witness to so many iterations of Aykbourn's 'Time of your Life' I could happily play all seven versions of the waiter character without needing a script and feel I'm a veteran racing expert despite never visiting a racetrack thanks to endless performances of the relentlessly flogged 'Ladies Day'.
As much as I try to view each show with an open mind and to assess it purely on its own merits and flaws it's near to impossible to completely disregard any other versions I carry with me. It's human nature to compare like with like and, loathe though I may be to admit it, I'm only human after all.
This temptation to compare and contrast is thrown into even sharper focus when comparing amateur with professional productions. Amateur theatre with all its endless enthusiasm, energy, spirit and ambition can all too easily be overshadowed and made to look small or insignificant when considered against the big, slick, seemingly effortless professional affairs. This isn't a criticism. Amateur theatre (when done well at least) strives for the same standards and only falls short because of its own unique limitations; usually the overwhelming burdens of budget and space. And yet, despite knowing all of this to be true, despite making a mental note to judge a production uniquely on its own merits, I'll invariably find myself sat in a theatre having watched a professional show only for my first thought to be 'It was so much better...'
Why all this preamble? The very first review I posted on this blog was of Carlisle Green Room's production of The 39 Steps. It's fair to say I raved about it, going so far as to call it 'one of the finest productions I have ever seen, amateur or professional.' Not wanting to have to so quickly eat those words, I tried to banish any such thoughts from my head as I took my seat to enjoy Theatre by the Lake's interpretation. The stage was festooned with beautiful vintage props, knick-knacks and doo-dads. It took several minutes to take in every delicious detail of the set - on the surface Richard Hannay's flat mid decoration - but I couldn't resist jumping ahead and imagining how the scaffolding tower would be used in situ to represent the fourth bridge, how the chairs and piles of wooden planks would fit together to spontaneously produce a train or a plane and how locations from the length of the country would be woven from the adorning trinkets. Six white boxes this was not.
Curiously, rather than getting stuck into the story, director Abigail Anderson chooses to add an inventive framing device to the narrative. The flat is in fact not Hannay's at all, but belongs to a man and wife who have two decorators in. The Hitchcock film The 39 Steps is currently all the rage; all over the newspapers and on the radio, and with a little encouragement all four begin to act out scenes from the book which, in turn, morphs into the show itself. It's a sweet enough introduction but is ultimately unnecessary. The play is more than strong enough to stand on its own without needing propping up with extra material to justify its existence.
Johnny McPherson leads from the front as the charismatic and cool Richard Hannay. Suave and charming, he makes the part seem effortless. Even when surrounded by the larger than life characters of John Buchan's spy story, it's almost impossible to take your eyes off him for a second. Frances Marshall's turn as Hannay's trio of love interests is sadly less successful. While she certainly looks the part as beautiful English rose Pamela, her barely Germanic Anabella and quietly Scottish Margaret fail to leave much of an impression. Patrick Bridgman and Richard Earl fare better as the duo tasked with filling every other role in the plot. Both are clearly very skilled actors as they manage to create 20+ readily identifiable characters each and both are clearly having a ball with their clowning but, similar to Marshall's performance, I felt they could have pushed it a lot further. Certain characters were played with an almost subtle, nuanced eye and, in a farce as ridiculous as The 39 Steps it's a case of go big or go home. I wonder if this was a deliberate move on the part of Anderson. By adding a framing device and having these characters deliberately played by actual people rather than simply revelling in the meta nature having two poor actors play dozens of characters, was the point to produce a more subtle, justified interpretation? Is this a delicate souffle version of a usually hard and fast farce? If this is indeed the case then I can't help but feel that Anderson has very much missed the point.
This is compounded by the fact that the silliest bits of the production that are by far the most effective. Using miniature train and plane models to sell the ludicrous chase sequences, having the actors move through and interact with the audience during the Palladium scenes, the ludicrous Producers-Esq 'Hop-Clop' dance routine that merges into a Goosestep and, perhaps most hysterically of all, having an actor stand on stage for no other reason than to 'Moo' for the duration of the Crofter's scene. It's silly, it's stupid and it's what makes it spectacular. It's this silliness that should be the heart of the show. To worry about justification and subtlety meanwhile is a waste of time.
Which brings me to the elephant in the room.
As I said at the opening of this review, hindsight it a wonderful thing. If I had seen the Theatre by the Lake's production before I had seen Carlisle Green Room's, I would have written something very different. I tried not to compare the shows. I didn't think it would be fair. And it isn't.
Because Carlisle Green Room's was far, far superior.
It's not just the way the production approached its characters, though it would be remiss of me not to explicitly state that Robertson, Spencer and Sparks presented far and away more memorable and amusing interpretations and, excellent though McPherson was, I could not claim him to be 'better' than Coombe.
No, the reason for my thinking can be summed up in just one word: PACE.
Carlisle Green Room's production didn't pause for breath. From the moment Hannay encountered Anabella in the Theatre, to the closing snowy moments at the end, the pace was relentless. Not a single moment or heartbeat was wasted. In stark contrast, TbtL's production moved at a saunter. There was no sense of urgency, no frenzied hysterical mania pulling you forward through the story. Everything apologetically took as long as it took. Minutes at a time would be spent shifting props, constructs and costumes killing stone dead any sense of pace. Had I not so recently seen such a relentlessly speedy version of the show I'd likely have known no better and thought nothing of it, but here I found myself actually looking at my watch wondering how long it would take to move on. By my estimations, the TbtL production lasted some 25 minutes longer than the Green Room's. Allowing perhaps 10 minutes for the unnecessary bolted on beginning and end, that's 15 whole minutes of watching scenery move around. Having beautifully constructed scenery is all well and good, but if that's the price you pay I'll watch painted white boxes any day.
I read an article in The Stage recently that claimed the gap between amateur and professional theatre is rapidly closing. Now more than ever I can see that to be true. TbtL may offer style over substance, but Carlisle Green Room has both in spades.
Written by Patrick Barlow
Directed by Abigail Anderson
Hindsight is a wonderful thing.
I've been lucky enough to see a lot of theatre in my life both amateur and professional and, as a serial consumer, it's inevitable that a degree of repetition will be involved somewhere down the line. I've lost count of the number of 'Oliver!'s' I've seen but can tell you off the top of my head exactly how many 'Oompah's appear in that infernal song. I've born witness to so many iterations of Aykbourn's 'Time of your Life' I could happily play all seven versions of the waiter character without needing a script and feel I'm a veteran racing expert despite never visiting a racetrack thanks to endless performances of the relentlessly flogged 'Ladies Day'.
As much as I try to view each show with an open mind and to assess it purely on its own merits and flaws it's near to impossible to completely disregard any other versions I carry with me. It's human nature to compare like with like and, loathe though I may be to admit it, I'm only human after all.
This temptation to compare and contrast is thrown into even sharper focus when comparing amateur with professional productions. Amateur theatre with all its endless enthusiasm, energy, spirit and ambition can all too easily be overshadowed and made to look small or insignificant when considered against the big, slick, seemingly effortless professional affairs. This isn't a criticism. Amateur theatre (when done well at least) strives for the same standards and only falls short because of its own unique limitations; usually the overwhelming burdens of budget and space. And yet, despite knowing all of this to be true, despite making a mental note to judge a production uniquely on its own merits, I'll invariably find myself sat in a theatre having watched a professional show only for my first thought to be 'It was so much better...'
Why all this preamble? The very first review I posted on this blog was of Carlisle Green Room's production of The 39 Steps. It's fair to say I raved about it, going so far as to call it 'one of the finest productions I have ever seen, amateur or professional.' Not wanting to have to so quickly eat those words, I tried to banish any such thoughts from my head as I took my seat to enjoy Theatre by the Lake's interpretation. The stage was festooned with beautiful vintage props, knick-knacks and doo-dads. It took several minutes to take in every delicious detail of the set - on the surface Richard Hannay's flat mid decoration - but I couldn't resist jumping ahead and imagining how the scaffolding tower would be used in situ to represent the fourth bridge, how the chairs and piles of wooden planks would fit together to spontaneously produce a train or a plane and how locations from the length of the country would be woven from the adorning trinkets. Six white boxes this was not.
Curiously, rather than getting stuck into the story, director Abigail Anderson chooses to add an inventive framing device to the narrative. The flat is in fact not Hannay's at all, but belongs to a man and wife who have two decorators in. The Hitchcock film The 39 Steps is currently all the rage; all over the newspapers and on the radio, and with a little encouragement all four begin to act out scenes from the book which, in turn, morphs into the show itself. It's a sweet enough introduction but is ultimately unnecessary. The play is more than strong enough to stand on its own without needing propping up with extra material to justify its existence.
Johnny McPherson leads from the front as the charismatic and cool Richard Hannay. Suave and charming, he makes the part seem effortless. Even when surrounded by the larger than life characters of John Buchan's spy story, it's almost impossible to take your eyes off him for a second. Frances Marshall's turn as Hannay's trio of love interests is sadly less successful. While she certainly looks the part as beautiful English rose Pamela, her barely Germanic Anabella and quietly Scottish Margaret fail to leave much of an impression. Patrick Bridgman and Richard Earl fare better as the duo tasked with filling every other role in the plot. Both are clearly very skilled actors as they manage to create 20+ readily identifiable characters each and both are clearly having a ball with their clowning but, similar to Marshall's performance, I felt they could have pushed it a lot further. Certain characters were played with an almost subtle, nuanced eye and, in a farce as ridiculous as The 39 Steps it's a case of go big or go home. I wonder if this was a deliberate move on the part of Anderson. By adding a framing device and having these characters deliberately played by actual people rather than simply revelling in the meta nature having two poor actors play dozens of characters, was the point to produce a more subtle, justified interpretation? Is this a delicate souffle version of a usually hard and fast farce? If this is indeed the case then I can't help but feel that Anderson has very much missed the point.
This is compounded by the fact that the silliest bits of the production that are by far the most effective. Using miniature train and plane models to sell the ludicrous chase sequences, having the actors move through and interact with the audience during the Palladium scenes, the ludicrous Producers-Esq 'Hop-Clop' dance routine that merges into a Goosestep and, perhaps most hysterically of all, having an actor stand on stage for no other reason than to 'Moo' for the duration of the Crofter's scene. It's silly, it's stupid and it's what makes it spectacular. It's this silliness that should be the heart of the show. To worry about justification and subtlety meanwhile is a waste of time.
Which brings me to the elephant in the room.
As I said at the opening of this review, hindsight it a wonderful thing. If I had seen the Theatre by the Lake's production before I had seen Carlisle Green Room's, I would have written something very different. I tried not to compare the shows. I didn't think it would be fair. And it isn't.
Because Carlisle Green Room's was far, far superior.
It's not just the way the production approached its characters, though it would be remiss of me not to explicitly state that Robertson, Spencer and Sparks presented far and away more memorable and amusing interpretations and, excellent though McPherson was, I could not claim him to be 'better' than Coombe.
No, the reason for my thinking can be summed up in just one word: PACE.
Carlisle Green Room's production didn't pause for breath. From the moment Hannay encountered Anabella in the Theatre, to the closing snowy moments at the end, the pace was relentless. Not a single moment or heartbeat was wasted. In stark contrast, TbtL's production moved at a saunter. There was no sense of urgency, no frenzied hysterical mania pulling you forward through the story. Everything apologetically took as long as it took. Minutes at a time would be spent shifting props, constructs and costumes killing stone dead any sense of pace. Had I not so recently seen such a relentlessly speedy version of the show I'd likely have known no better and thought nothing of it, but here I found myself actually looking at my watch wondering how long it would take to move on. By my estimations, the TbtL production lasted some 25 minutes longer than the Green Room's. Allowing perhaps 10 minutes for the unnecessary bolted on beginning and end, that's 15 whole minutes of watching scenery move around. Having beautifully constructed scenery is all well and good, but if that's the price you pay I'll watch painted white boxes any day.
I read an article in The Stage recently that claimed the gap between amateur and professional theatre is rapidly closing. Now more than ever I can see that to be true. TbtL may offer style over substance, but Carlisle Green Room has both in spades.
Monday, 18 May 2015
The 39 Steps - Carlisle Green Club - May 2015
The 39 Steps performed at West Walls Theatre
Written by Patrick Barlow
Directed by Lexie Ward
Full disclosure: Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps is one of my favourite ever films. For that reason alone I have always avoided going to see the play whenever it has been staged. I'd heard vague mentions of it being some hideous pastiche version. A cannibalised mockery of the original Hitchcock classic, and that was something I had no wish to see. There's nothing funny about watching the good old days ripped apart by a modern eye's lampooning.
As per most things in life, I was proven to be completely and totally wrong.
When I read in the Green Room Club's season brochure earlier this year that they would be staging the play I was my usual cynical self and planned my usual avoidance tactic. This held firm until just a few weeks ago when the inevitable media kicked in about the production. The play was being directed by Lexie Ward - the same director of the brilliant Tom, Dick And Harry last year and the sublime Boeing Boeing the year before. The cast was also to be made up of regulars from those very shows including the never less than exceptional Caroline Robertson and, perhaps bravely, the chap who fell ill during the run of Tom, Dick and Harry and had to be replaced on the evening I saw the play by the director herself.
With this collection of reliable hands I felt that even if I was unable to enjoy the show, I would at least be able to take something from the performances and so swallowed my pride and booked a ticket.
The plot follows Richard Hannay, something of a charming everyman as he becomes embroiled in a sinister spy network after a chance encounter with a foreign agent while enjoying a night at the theatre. How I've often wished to be so fortunate! When the agent is killed, Hannay must traverse the length of the country hotly persuaded by the law to find a contact in Scotland in the hope of uncovering the truth behind the mysterious '39 Steps'. The contact proves to be the very spy that ordered the death of the original agent so Hannay is forced to track back to London where he discovers the source of the plot was in the very show he was watching in the first place.
If this makes the plot sound ridiculous quite simply this is because it is. It is however also an exact duplicate of Hitchcock's film version. While I was worried the story would be ripped to pieces for humorous ridicule, in fact it proved to be a lovingly accurate telling of the original plot. So much so that I'm reasonably sure great chunks of the dialogue are lifted directly from the original film. Certainly I felt myself mouthing along with certain scenes!
So, if this was a faithful re-telling of the original film where does the 'high octane humour' come in? Simple. Despite the enormous collection of characters met by Hannay on his quest, the cast comprised of only four members.
As a result, as the story licked on at an extraordinary pace, three members of the cast dashed in and out at breathtaking speed playing every single individual our hero encountered. All 50+ of them.
Seb Coombe played Richard Hannay from beginning to end and despite almost never leaving the stage for the entire duration you couldn't help but feel that he had the easiest job up there. Not that his performance isn't worthy of the highest possible praise. From the moment he strode purposefully on stage as Big Ben struck the hour (more on Big Ben later) to his final kiss with his third love interest of the evening, Coombe exuded a debonair charm that one can only assume must come from a lifetime of being one of the most handsome men in any given room. His performance was sharp and crisp, poised and heroic yet all the while never less than charismatic. I believe I commented in my review of The Importance of Being Earnest that Algernon must surely have been the role Coombe was born to play. I was wrong. I can't believe I'd have found a more perfect Richard Hannay if I'd have trekked the length of the country to see a show at the West End.
Hannay's three love interests over the course of the play, the sly and sexy Germanic Anabella, timid and lovelorn Scottish Margaret and stiff and uptight English rose Pamela were all played with barely disguised relish by Caroline Robertson. Playing three such contrasting characters, Robertson imbued each and every one with a distinct voice, tone, and physical presence that seared each of the individuals into the mind of the audience so there was never any chance of forgetting the trail our hero left in his wake. Despite only appearing in the first two scenes, you could never forget witnessing the stern tones of the raven haired Anabella seduce Hannay only to die in his arms moments later, or the ever so sweet pigtailed Margaret lose herself in talk of Hannay's life and allow herself to be swept off her feet. (At what cost I wonder? The play wisely chooses to ignore poor Margaret's likely unpleasant face at the hands of her fearsome husband). For me, it was uppity Pamela that stole my heart, not least thanks to two pieces of superbly choreographed japes involving handcuffs and a field gate, followed by handcuffs and the removal of stockings. Out of context this probably says more about me than it does the performance, but suffice to say the expressions on Robertson and Coombe's face as Hannay's hand slapped against Pamela's thing only to seductively be dragged down her leg almost brought the house down.
Now, I've written all this and mentioned only four characters. There's a simple reason. Every other character in the production is played by just two men. Referred to as 'Clowns' in the programme, which might be the most apt description of the duo I've come across. If that sounds insulting, it really isn't meant to. I mean clown's in the most traditional sense - people who are quite literally born to entertain. Michael Spencer and James Sparks play, over the course of two hours, what must be 40+ characters and every single one of them was unique. Each had a different costume - or at the very least a different hat! - as well as a different voice and a different personality. They'd switch accents in a heartbeat - most impressively during a hilarious scene where Hannay is accosted by two underwear salesmen on a train to Scotland, only to arrive to find a newspaper boy, porter and policeman on the platform all practically talking at once. That this was achieved by the pair simply moving a few steps around the stage and swapping hats was like watching a perfectly constructed army drill, with each peace slotting seamlessly together and the pace not slowing for a single breath. It has become easy to assume Spencer and Sparks can turn their hand to any accent, over the last few years alone they've been Albanian, Cockney, Yorkshire, and Geordie to name just a few, but to see them flit so effortlessly through such a cavalcade of voices was undoubtedly impressive all the same. As we've come to expect, their comic timing throughout was flawless, riding a crest of energy that surged from their first appearance until their hysterical snow scene at the end.
I understand director Lexie Ward was recently awarded for her direction of last years Tom, Dick and Harry. Watching The 39 Steps it is no mystery as to why. I've tried desperately to find some aspect of this production with which to pick fault, having nothing but relentless praise feels so unlike me. And yet, I can't. Two moments particularly worthy of praise were the remarkable effectiveness of the Fourth Bridge scene - our hero Hannay is left hanging from the bridge in question having jumped from a train, cunningly constructed with just a few painted boxes that only moments before hand been the very train itself - only to be followed by an ingenious aeroplane chase in which Hannay is fleeing from a fighter plane, brought to life simply by Coombe running hell for leather in a spotlight, while Spencer and Sparks done pilots attire and waggle around on a vintage bicycle. The resulting crash in which they practically launch themselves into the audience produced such hysterical applause it was impossible not to be swept up by the sheer ambition of it all. The lighting was inventive, sharp and used to enhance the production to its fullest effect. The sound effects were so precise there was never even the slightest doubt in the audiences mind that the 'slip ups' were ever anything less than deliberate, and the sound scape itself effectively filled in the blanks of creating the lost and empty moors or rushing intensity of a train carriage. Several sound cues were so effective as to produce laughs all by themselves whether they be subtle as a brick murder stings or hilariously upbeat party music playing from the villain's house.
Finally, I must mention the set itself. The Green Room sets have been going from strength to strength recently, and The 39 Steps must surely be the icing on the cake. On one side of stage is a beautifully drawn express train with, unless I was very much mistaken, the profile of Hitchcock himself lovingly rendered in the smoke, while on the other stood a painting of Big Ben - impressive enough a piece of design on its own - but as the play opened and the clock chimed, its face lit up and the hands began manically spinning. Even if they remainder of the audience didn't join me, I applauded right there and then. With the ensuing production that followed I'd haven been quite happy to continue until I had nothing left but gristly stumps.
All in all, an absolute triumph of a production that stands tall amongst the very best shows I have ever been privileged enough to see be they amateur or professional. The fact that I had no intention of ever seeing it in the first place simply stands as irrefutable proof that I truly know nothing about anything.
Written by Patrick Barlow
Directed by Lexie Ward
Full disclosure: Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps is one of my favourite ever films. For that reason alone I have always avoided going to see the play whenever it has been staged. I'd heard vague mentions of it being some hideous pastiche version. A cannibalised mockery of the original Hitchcock classic, and that was something I had no wish to see. There's nothing funny about watching the good old days ripped apart by a modern eye's lampooning.
As per most things in life, I was proven to be completely and totally wrong.
When I read in the Green Room Club's season brochure earlier this year that they would be staging the play I was my usual cynical self and planned my usual avoidance tactic. This held firm until just a few weeks ago when the inevitable media kicked in about the production. The play was being directed by Lexie Ward - the same director of the brilliant Tom, Dick And Harry last year and the sublime Boeing Boeing the year before. The cast was also to be made up of regulars from those very shows including the never less than exceptional Caroline Robertson and, perhaps bravely, the chap who fell ill during the run of Tom, Dick and Harry and had to be replaced on the evening I saw the play by the director herself.
With this collection of reliable hands I felt that even if I was unable to enjoy the show, I would at least be able to take something from the performances and so swallowed my pride and booked a ticket.
The plot follows Richard Hannay, something of a charming everyman as he becomes embroiled in a sinister spy network after a chance encounter with a foreign agent while enjoying a night at the theatre. How I've often wished to be so fortunate! When the agent is killed, Hannay must traverse the length of the country hotly persuaded by the law to find a contact in Scotland in the hope of uncovering the truth behind the mysterious '39 Steps'. The contact proves to be the very spy that ordered the death of the original agent so Hannay is forced to track back to London where he discovers the source of the plot was in the very show he was watching in the first place.
If this makes the plot sound ridiculous quite simply this is because it is. It is however also an exact duplicate of Hitchcock's film version. While I was worried the story would be ripped to pieces for humorous ridicule, in fact it proved to be a lovingly accurate telling of the original plot. So much so that I'm reasonably sure great chunks of the dialogue are lifted directly from the original film. Certainly I felt myself mouthing along with certain scenes!
So, if this was a faithful re-telling of the original film where does the 'high octane humour' come in? Simple. Despite the enormous collection of characters met by Hannay on his quest, the cast comprised of only four members.
As a result, as the story licked on at an extraordinary pace, three members of the cast dashed in and out at breathtaking speed playing every single individual our hero encountered. All 50+ of them.
Seb Coombe played Richard Hannay from beginning to end and despite almost never leaving the stage for the entire duration you couldn't help but feel that he had the easiest job up there. Not that his performance isn't worthy of the highest possible praise. From the moment he strode purposefully on stage as Big Ben struck the hour (more on Big Ben later) to his final kiss with his third love interest of the evening, Coombe exuded a debonair charm that one can only assume must come from a lifetime of being one of the most handsome men in any given room. His performance was sharp and crisp, poised and heroic yet all the while never less than charismatic. I believe I commented in my review of The Importance of Being Earnest that Algernon must surely have been the role Coombe was born to play. I was wrong. I can't believe I'd have found a more perfect Richard Hannay if I'd have trekked the length of the country to see a show at the West End.
Hannay's three love interests over the course of the play, the sly and sexy Germanic Anabella, timid and lovelorn Scottish Margaret and stiff and uptight English rose Pamela were all played with barely disguised relish by Caroline Robertson. Playing three such contrasting characters, Robertson imbued each and every one with a distinct voice, tone, and physical presence that seared each of the individuals into the mind of the audience so there was never any chance of forgetting the trail our hero left in his wake. Despite only appearing in the first two scenes, you could never forget witnessing the stern tones of the raven haired Anabella seduce Hannay only to die in his arms moments later, or the ever so sweet pigtailed Margaret lose herself in talk of Hannay's life and allow herself to be swept off her feet. (At what cost I wonder? The play wisely chooses to ignore poor Margaret's likely unpleasant face at the hands of her fearsome husband). For me, it was uppity Pamela that stole my heart, not least thanks to two pieces of superbly choreographed japes involving handcuffs and a field gate, followed by handcuffs and the removal of stockings. Out of context this probably says more about me than it does the performance, but suffice to say the expressions on Robertson and Coombe's face as Hannay's hand slapped against Pamela's thing only to seductively be dragged down her leg almost brought the house down.
Now, I've written all this and mentioned only four characters. There's a simple reason. Every other character in the production is played by just two men. Referred to as 'Clowns' in the programme, which might be the most apt description of the duo I've come across. If that sounds insulting, it really isn't meant to. I mean clown's in the most traditional sense - people who are quite literally born to entertain. Michael Spencer and James Sparks play, over the course of two hours, what must be 40+ characters and every single one of them was unique. Each had a different costume - or at the very least a different hat! - as well as a different voice and a different personality. They'd switch accents in a heartbeat - most impressively during a hilarious scene where Hannay is accosted by two underwear salesmen on a train to Scotland, only to arrive to find a newspaper boy, porter and policeman on the platform all practically talking at once. That this was achieved by the pair simply moving a few steps around the stage and swapping hats was like watching a perfectly constructed army drill, with each peace slotting seamlessly together and the pace not slowing for a single breath. It has become easy to assume Spencer and Sparks can turn their hand to any accent, over the last few years alone they've been Albanian, Cockney, Yorkshire, and Geordie to name just a few, but to see them flit so effortlessly through such a cavalcade of voices was undoubtedly impressive all the same. As we've come to expect, their comic timing throughout was flawless, riding a crest of energy that surged from their first appearance until their hysterical snow scene at the end.
I understand director Lexie Ward was recently awarded for her direction of last years Tom, Dick and Harry. Watching The 39 Steps it is no mystery as to why. I've tried desperately to find some aspect of this production with which to pick fault, having nothing but relentless praise feels so unlike me. And yet, I can't. Two moments particularly worthy of praise were the remarkable effectiveness of the Fourth Bridge scene - our hero Hannay is left hanging from the bridge in question having jumped from a train, cunningly constructed with just a few painted boxes that only moments before hand been the very train itself - only to be followed by an ingenious aeroplane chase in which Hannay is fleeing from a fighter plane, brought to life simply by Coombe running hell for leather in a spotlight, while Spencer and Sparks done pilots attire and waggle around on a vintage bicycle. The resulting crash in which they practically launch themselves into the audience produced such hysterical applause it was impossible not to be swept up by the sheer ambition of it all. The lighting was inventive, sharp and used to enhance the production to its fullest effect. The sound effects were so precise there was never even the slightest doubt in the audiences mind that the 'slip ups' were ever anything less than deliberate, and the sound scape itself effectively filled in the blanks of creating the lost and empty moors or rushing intensity of a train carriage. Several sound cues were so effective as to produce laughs all by themselves whether they be subtle as a brick murder stings or hilariously upbeat party music playing from the villain's house.
Finally, I must mention the set itself. The Green Room sets have been going from strength to strength recently, and The 39 Steps must surely be the icing on the cake. On one side of stage is a beautifully drawn express train with, unless I was very much mistaken, the profile of Hitchcock himself lovingly rendered in the smoke, while on the other stood a painting of Big Ben - impressive enough a piece of design on its own - but as the play opened and the clock chimed, its face lit up and the hands began manically spinning. Even if they remainder of the audience didn't join me, I applauded right there and then. With the ensuing production that followed I'd haven been quite happy to continue until I had nothing left but gristly stumps.
All in all, an absolute triumph of a production that stands tall amongst the very best shows I have ever been privileged enough to see be they amateur or professional. The fact that I had no intention of ever seeing it in the first place simply stands as irrefutable proof that I truly know nothing about anything.
Why this blog is here
Hello Internet. My name's William, I'm in my mid sixties and hail from the windswept land of Cumbria.
I'm also, much to my surprise, apparently a serial theatre reviewer.
I love the theatre. Always have done. One of my earliest memories as a child is my parents taking me to see our local amateur group perform a production of a musical, and it's fair to say I've been hooked ever since.
I call myself an enthusiastic amateur not because I've ever dared 'tread the boards' myself, but because I've always been surrounded by am-dram. I'm lucky enough to live in a part of the world where there is a keen theatrical vein and I always support it in the best way I know how - By turning up to watch.
More recently, since I hit my 60's, I've been keeping a diary. Apparently it's good for the grey cells. I've yet to see any improvement in my ability to solve crosswords, but I find it quite therapeutic all the same. What I'd also started doing, quite without realising it, is writing reviews of every show I went to see. Not with the intention for anybody to ever read them, just for my own satisfaction.
Jump forward a few years and a delightfully nosey daughter is caught reading my diary and laughing heartily. When I query what part of my general bemoaning all that is life has caused her such amusement she shows me the page. One of my reviews.
"Dad," she says, "You've got to let people read these. They're brilliant!"
Now, I'm no fool. I know she was probably sucking up to me because I caught her red handed. But the idea was now in my head.
The following week I was discussing this breach of privacy with a friend. Much to my surprise, he suggested the very same thing.
"Amateurs get so little feedback other than from the people they know. I'm sure they'd love to read a genuine, amusing and insightful critique of their work."
He'd know. He's an am-dram performer himself. He'll also remain nameless as, much to his surprise, he'll actually turn up in some reviews!
And so, here I am. My plan is to transcribe old reviews as and when I can be bothered - I have at least 5 years worth of shows in my diaries to get through so I can't promise a schedule - but, unless a new whim overtakes me sometime in the future my aim is certainly to get through them all. Meanwhile I'll also now post any new shows I see straight on here, rather than writing them out longhand first only to transcribe later. That's the plan. We'll see if I stick to it.
I'll post my first review soon. If anyone is actually reading this, please let me know. I'm used to my words not being read, but it'll be interesting to see if anyone genuinely grasps the opportunity!
William.
An Enthusiastic Amateur.
I'm also, much to my surprise, apparently a serial theatre reviewer.
I love the theatre. Always have done. One of my earliest memories as a child is my parents taking me to see our local amateur group perform a production of a musical, and it's fair to say I've been hooked ever since.
I call myself an enthusiastic amateur not because I've ever dared 'tread the boards' myself, but because I've always been surrounded by am-dram. I'm lucky enough to live in a part of the world where there is a keen theatrical vein and I always support it in the best way I know how - By turning up to watch.
More recently, since I hit my 60's, I've been keeping a diary. Apparently it's good for the grey cells. I've yet to see any improvement in my ability to solve crosswords, but I find it quite therapeutic all the same. What I'd also started doing, quite without realising it, is writing reviews of every show I went to see. Not with the intention for anybody to ever read them, just for my own satisfaction.
Jump forward a few years and a delightfully nosey daughter is caught reading my diary and laughing heartily. When I query what part of my general bemoaning all that is life has caused her such amusement she shows me the page. One of my reviews.
"Dad," she says, "You've got to let people read these. They're brilliant!"
Now, I'm no fool. I know she was probably sucking up to me because I caught her red handed. But the idea was now in my head.
The following week I was discussing this breach of privacy with a friend. Much to my surprise, he suggested the very same thing.
"Amateurs get so little feedback other than from the people they know. I'm sure they'd love to read a genuine, amusing and insightful critique of their work."
He'd know. He's an am-dram performer himself. He'll also remain nameless as, much to his surprise, he'll actually turn up in some reviews!
And so, here I am. My plan is to transcribe old reviews as and when I can be bothered - I have at least 5 years worth of shows in my diaries to get through so I can't promise a schedule - but, unless a new whim overtakes me sometime in the future my aim is certainly to get through them all. Meanwhile I'll also now post any new shows I see straight on here, rather than writing them out longhand first only to transcribe later. That's the plan. We'll see if I stick to it.
I'll post my first review soon. If anyone is actually reading this, please let me know. I'm used to my words not being read, but it'll be interesting to see if anyone genuinely grasps the opportunity!
William.
An Enthusiastic Amateur.
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