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 Stage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stage. Show all posts
Thursday, 4 February 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
Accidental Death of an Anarchist - Carlisle Green Room Club - March 2015
Accidental Death of an Anarchist at West Walls Theatre
Written by Dario Fo
Directed by Stewart Grant
Being fortunate enough to see two great shows on the run is a very rare and special thing indeed. For an amateur club or society to be able to maintain the energy, enthusiasm and goodwill from one production to the next which can be anything from six weeks to six months later requires a very dedicated team, a strong sense of vision and, I'd imagine, a certain level of ambition.
While I don't doubt these qualities were all present in spades, I can't say I was in any way surprised when the Green Room's second show of the year, tasked with the unenviable job of trying to follow the feast of delight that was The Importance of Being Earnest, failed to hit the mark.
This I must stress is in no part due to a lack of effort from the cast. I have no doubt that the vague sense of boredom that radiated from the principle policemen involved in attempting to cover up the suspicious death of an anarchist in their custody was a deliberate character trait and not simply generated from being unfortunate enough to be burdened with such thankless parts in a thoroughly tedious script.
Despite spedning most of the play in their company, Author Dario Fo makes little to no effort to flesh out these characters. You can easily imagine the only note that featured in their biographies was the single word 'Corrupt'; Not much for the poor Seb Coombe, Nigel Banks, Jason Munn or Paul Hayton to go on. Cursed with such one dimensional characters, there was little else to do for the foursome but shout when shouting seemed appropriate and look either concerned or conniving for the remainder. A waste of talent that have proven themselves of far better things elsewhere.
Perhaps the principle reason for such uninspired supporting characters is that Anarchist is largely a one man show. 'The Maniac' is the driving force behind everything that happens. A force of nature that, for his own amusement, takes control and alters everything and everyone around him. A character that grabs you kicking and screaming by the lapels from his first moment on stage and doesn't let go until the curtains close, never for a moment allowing you a moment to question what on earth is going on, happy to break the fourth wall all the way.
At least, that's how it was intended. Unfortunately, Andrew Keogh falls somewhere short of this in his performance. Again, it's not due to a lack of enthusiasm. From the moment he appears he's brimming with energy and he manages to maintain the level throughout which, rarely leaving the stage, cannot have been easy. But the Maniac has more to him than that wide eyed energetic mania. For all he comes across as an insane lunatic, the character jumps at every opportunity to take control of every satiation he finds himself in, usually via means of a disguise. This element of cunning and control was completely absent from Keogh's performance. The perceived change of character was rarely matched with much of a change of vocal tone or personality. Had the costume not changed on every occasion you'd have almost no way of telling he was supposedly impersonating someone else. The sum effect of this lack of variety was that, rather than keeping the audience on their toes, the performance soon became boring and, towards the end, almost wearisome. A tremendous shame when it was abundantly clear how much energy was being expended.
The production was not entirely without merit however, thanks to some ingenious fourth wall breaking moments - the cast singing an Italian ditty playing ukuleles while the words appeared on a screen sing-along style was a particular highlight, as was the brilliantly realised destruction scene when the bomb explodes in the second half. Rarely has a Green Room production used technology to such great effect.
Accidental Death of an Anarchist was unlikely to ever become one of my favourite plays, and the Green Room production did little to change my opinion. I can only praise the cast for trying their hardest with largely thankless material but in this case no amount of enthusiasm could disguise that anarchy doesn't equal entertainment.
Written by Dario Fo
Directed by Stewart Grant
Being fortunate enough to see two great shows on the run is a very rare and special thing indeed. For an amateur club or society to be able to maintain the energy, enthusiasm and goodwill from one production to the next which can be anything from six weeks to six months later requires a very dedicated team, a strong sense of vision and, I'd imagine, a certain level of ambition.
While I don't doubt these qualities were all present in spades, I can't say I was in any way surprised when the Green Room's second show of the year, tasked with the unenviable job of trying to follow the feast of delight that was The Importance of Being Earnest, failed to hit the mark.
This I must stress is in no part due to a lack of effort from the cast. I have no doubt that the vague sense of boredom that radiated from the principle policemen involved in attempting to cover up the suspicious death of an anarchist in their custody was a deliberate character trait and not simply generated from being unfortunate enough to be burdened with such thankless parts in a thoroughly tedious script.
Despite spedning most of the play in their company, Author Dario Fo makes little to no effort to flesh out these characters. You can easily imagine the only note that featured in their biographies was the single word 'Corrupt'; Not much for the poor Seb Coombe, Nigel Banks, Jason Munn or Paul Hayton to go on. Cursed with such one dimensional characters, there was little else to do for the foursome but shout when shouting seemed appropriate and look either concerned or conniving for the remainder. A waste of talent that have proven themselves of far better things elsewhere.
Perhaps the principle reason for such uninspired supporting characters is that Anarchist is largely a one man show. 'The Maniac' is the driving force behind everything that happens. A force of nature that, for his own amusement, takes control and alters everything and everyone around him. A character that grabs you kicking and screaming by the lapels from his first moment on stage and doesn't let go until the curtains close, never for a moment allowing you a moment to question what on earth is going on, happy to break the fourth wall all the way.
At least, that's how it was intended. Unfortunately, Andrew Keogh falls somewhere short of this in his performance. Again, it's not due to a lack of enthusiasm. From the moment he appears he's brimming with energy and he manages to maintain the level throughout which, rarely leaving the stage, cannot have been easy. But the Maniac has more to him than that wide eyed energetic mania. For all he comes across as an insane lunatic, the character jumps at every opportunity to take control of every satiation he finds himself in, usually via means of a disguise. This element of cunning and control was completely absent from Keogh's performance. The perceived change of character was rarely matched with much of a change of vocal tone or personality. Had the costume not changed on every occasion you'd have almost no way of telling he was supposedly impersonating someone else. The sum effect of this lack of variety was that, rather than keeping the audience on their toes, the performance soon became boring and, towards the end, almost wearisome. A tremendous shame when it was abundantly clear how much energy was being expended.
The production was not entirely without merit however, thanks to some ingenious fourth wall breaking moments - the cast singing an Italian ditty playing ukuleles while the words appeared on a screen sing-along style was a particular highlight, as was the brilliantly realised destruction scene when the bomb explodes in the second half. Rarely has a Green Room production used technology to such great effect.
Accidental Death of an Anarchist was unlikely to ever become one of my favourite plays, and the Green Room production did little to change my opinion. I can only praise the cast for trying their hardest with largely thankless material but in this case no amount of enthusiasm could disguise that anarchy doesn't equal entertainment.
Monday, 18 May 2015
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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