LONDON TRIP REVIEWS

Mar 97

Lady in the Dark at the Lyttleton (National Theatre)

Is it possible for a play to be both ahead of its time and hopelessly outdated? That's my assessment of the National Theatre's production of the seldom-seen Moss Hart/Ira Gershwin/Kurt Weill musical "Lady in the Dark." The play's construction, with fully-integrated songs and its exploration of psychoanalysis must have seemed avant garde to a 1940's audience. Now that we're used to that kind of thing in a musical, the broad humor and typically flat and cliched depiction of some of the minor characters is unfashionable. Still, this is a very enjoyable trip to the theatre, especially for those who want an escape from the bloated productions and pyrotechnics of other West End musicals.

The production values, particularly in the dream sequences, are often stunning. The costumes and lighting give the sequences an appropriately surrealistic and eerie feeling. The deceptively simple set, with its translucent triangular panels are both functional and suggestive of the ship motif that haunts Liza's dreams.

The performance level varies. The cast seem to be actors rather than singers. Perhaps it is because I am an actor, but I prefer an actor who can't sing to a singer who can't act. Accordingly, I preferred Adrian Dunbar as Liza's cantankerous advertisment manager, Charley Johnson, to Stephen Edward Moore as the heartthrob actor Randy Curtis, though neither one of them embarrasses himself! Moore sings thrillingly and does well as the toothy and somewhat plastic matinee idol. Dunbar, fast becoming one of my favorite actors, commits himself well during his musical numbers. Despite a somewhat wobbly accent, he carries himself most like an American apart from the real American actors in the cast, with an appropriate loose-limbed cynicism and cockiness. I also enjoyed James Dreyfus as the bitchy photographer. The star of the show, however, is Maria Friedman in a star turn as Liza Elliott. She seems more hard edges than soft ones, but she is vulnerable when recalling the pain of her childhood. She shines in the showstopping "The Saga of Jenny," and her chemistry with Adrian Dunbar is just right. She takes full advantage of the Gershwin/Weill score. Her rendition of the haunting "My Ship" is beautifully touching.

Hart, Gershwin, and Weill created a musical very much a part of, and yet ahead of, its time. With a little dusting down and spiffing up, the musical should grow beyond its current space at the Lyttelton to become deservedly familiar to a new generation of theatre fans and musical buffs.

Martin Guerre

Before writing this review, I read through the other reviews. It seems that this production is a vast improvement over the one which opened in July '96, which I did not see. Most of the other reviewers seemed to enjoy it. But I have to say I was disappointed. I agree that the musical is well-intentioned and heart-felt with many strong points. Particularly the often soaring score, sets and costumes and the joyous, foot-stomping choreography. I also found a lot of it incredibly trite and flat. It may not be fair to compare this Martin Guerre with other incarnations, but I found the plot changes in this version unnecessary. One of the things that made the French movie "The Return of Martin Guerre" so compelling was it left the question of the stranger's i dentity hanging so long in Bertrande's mind. Was this really her husband? Does she care? Even in the American "Sommersby," updated to the Civil War presented the stranger's moral dilemma. Say he is the man he pretends to be, he is executed for murder. Admit that he is a fake, the people in his care lose their land. These are the kind of conflicts that make for great story-telling. Instead, the backdrop of this "Martin Guerre" is the Protestant-Catholic conflict in France. A compelling subject for sure, but handled fairly simplistically with saintly Protestants and evil, greedy Catholics who, of course, all learn their lesson by the final rousing chorus.

The characters are also underdeveloped for the most part. Bertrande seems the only flesh and blood character, and Rebecca Lock's portrayal is lovely. Iain Glen is a charismatic presence as Arnaud du Thil, and he tries gamely, but the character is sorely underwritten. Arnaud, a confessed murderer and trickster, is too good to be true. All he lacks is a halo. Why does he choose to remain in Artigat? What motivates this man? We are told the answers to these questions rather than shown, and sometimes not told at all. Jerome Pradon sings well as the villainous Guillaume, but again, the character comes across as rather flat. Instead of the complex and tormented Javert of Boublil/Schonberg's Les Miz, we get Guillaume who seems straight out of a silent movie melodrama: if all Arnaud lacks is a halo, then all Guillaume lacks is a waxed moustache to twirl.

Still, "Martin Guerre" does have the beginnings of a very good musical. With some more work on its book and characterisations, it could be a great one. Some people are being criticized for comparing "Martin Guerre" to "Les Miz" and "Miss Saigon." In some ways, the comparisons are unfair. This seems a small, intimate musical only slightly overproduced by Cameron Mackintosh. However, the comparison shows that we have come to expect more from Boublil and Schonberg. We, and they, deserve a tighter, fuller musical than "Martin Guerre."

Oliver at the London Palladium

I have to say that my feelings about this production of "Oliver" are not so very different from the other reviewers. However, I wanted to put in a special mention of the children that I saw. I have seen several amateur and professional productions of Oliver, and I think Lee Honey Jones finally hit the nail on the head in the title role. Usually, Oliver is played as a colorless waif in the Mark Lester mold, singing in a tremulous boy soprano voice. This belies the script. He is the one who memorably asks for more of that not so glorious food, fights back when Noah Claypoole insults his mother, and generally gives as good as he gets. Instead of being played as a pint-sized Candide, wandering blithely through life, this Oliver is one spunky, resourceful, and resilient kid. Honey Jones plays and sings him as such, and he's still cute as a button. Bronson Webb also excelled as the Artful Dodger. The songs seemed a bit low for him at times, but this 14 year old is already quite a performer with boundless energy and charm.

Sure, the scenery is often too much and the performers (particularly a still-enjoyable Robert Lindsay) chew the scenery mercilessly. This is one fun evening, showing once more that Lionel Bart is still one of the cleverest lyricists around. I've never been a fan of the way the musical whitewashes the slum conditions of Victorian London, or makes Fagin seem a benevolent if misguided caretaker of the orphaned boys. But, hey, its a musical. A thoroughly enjoyable family musical from the tightly choreographed and well-executed opening number, to the curtain call, complete with a boos and hisses from the audience as Stephen Hartley gave his sneering bow as Bill Sikes. Only then did he break into smile. If you go, you will be smiling from the very beginning.

Cloud Nine at the Old Vic

Appearances can be deceiving, and we are seldom what we seem at first blush. This is part of the message of the Caryl Churchill's 1979 play "Cloud Nine" now being played in rep at the Old Vic. Act I involves the extended family of a colonial administrator in 1879 Africa. They are all British stereotype of old: the patriarch with the stiff upper lip (Tim McInnerny), the dutiful Victorian wife, the macho great white hunter (Andrew Woodall), the subservient native. The twist is that wife Betty is played by a man (Dominic West), son Edward by a woman (Janine Duvitski), and the black family servant by a white actor (Stephen Noonan). And while the sight of a strapping 6-footer in a delicate white dress invokes laughter from the audience, the device underlines the fact that outward appearance and behavior are often desperately at odds with what is inside. Act I is played as a twisted farce: lightning entrances and exits, witty, fast-paced dialogue, everyone trying to seduce everyone else: the family governess is trying to seduce the administrator's wife, who is after her husband's best friend, who is also (reluctantly) fighting the advances of the family's 9 year old son.

One hundred years later in modern London, the Act I characters have grown more comfortable with their roles and identies. The characters (who have only aged 25 years) are now played by actors of their own sex and the humor is more gentle and recognizably human to reflect the growing comfort the characters have with each other and themselves. Edward (now played by Dominic West) is a gardner living with his promiscuous lover Gerry. Edward's sister Vicky (who was played in Act I by a dummy--Victorian children were truly seen and not heard!) becomes a single mum struggling to balance work and her homelife with her lesbian lover Lin (Marion Bailey). Even Betty (Janine Duvitski) becomes liberated as she takes her first unsteady and sweetly humorous steps toward self-discovery.

The performances are top notch all the way around, especially Tim McInnerny and Janine Duvitiski who excel in each of their two wildly different characterisations. Marion Bailey comes on strong as Lin in Act II, and Stephen Noonan is something of a revelation as the servant Joshua and Edward's lover Gerry: cool, sinister, with a barely concealed contempt and rage. He is a young actor to watch.

Churchill explores the hypocrisy of Victorian mores, and modern gender and social roles with incisiveness and humour, and the play is directed with a light hand. However, the evening is not for the faint of heart. Beside the recurrent exploration of homosexuality, there is strong language, incest and brief onstage nudity. If your constitution is of tougher stuff, by all means rush to see "Cloud Nine," a wonderfully played and often hysterically funny piece of modern theatre.

Waste at the Old Vic

A doomed affair, a ruined political career, a woman's death, and a suicide: all refer to title of "Waste," now being played in repertory by the Peter Hall Company at the Old Vic. Harley Granville Barker's biting look at politics in the '20's still makes perfect viewing for this election year, as the play plots the inevitable downfall of independent MP Trebell. As played by Michael Pennington, Trebell is something of a cold fish, a 50ish bachelor whose only passion is a bill to disestablish the Church of England which he is trying to steer through parliament. The Conservatives have craftily coopted the bill in a bid to upstage the ascending Labour party. Trebell is (seemingly) distracted momentarily when he becomes involved with the unhappily married Amy O'Connell (Felicity Kendal) at a house party. To Trebell, the affair is forgotten as soon as the weekend is over. However, Amy comes back into his life revealing she is pregnant. An abortion and her resulting death follow. In the face of scandal, the Conservatives quickly and cleanly break their ties with Trebell.

The supporting performances are fine, particularly David Yelland and Denis Quilley as the party leader. Pennington and Kendal are fire and ice in their final confrontational scene together. Kendal's Amy O'Connell is a wonderful creation, strong-willed yet vulnerable in her desperate and fatal attempts to control her destiny. Pennington, somewhat resembling an underweight Churchill, shows that underneath that flinty gaze and steely exterior, there is...a steely interior. Trebell remains a rather unsympathetic character. This is a talky evening, but the dialogue fairly crackles and director Peter Hall keeps things at a nice clip. The machinations of the party bosses are fascinating as they coldly determine Trebell's fate over cigars. Not much emotion here apart from Kendal's moving ouburst at in Act I. It is all an insightful look at politics, scandal, and the press, but rather clinical.

Macbeth RSC at the Barbican

"Waste" at the Old Vic concerns the downfall of an ambitious 20th century politician, not that dissimilar a tale from that of "Macbeth" as staged by the Royal Shakespeare Company at the Barbican. "Macbeth," of course, is the ancient story of a Scottish noble who is told by three witches that he will become King of Scotland. The problem is, the current King is very much alive with two healthy sons. With encouragement by his equally ambitious wife, Macbeth plots to hasten fate by removing all obstacles to the throne. Guilt as a way of rearing its ugly head, and in Shakesperean fashion, all is set right before the final curtain.

"Macbeth" is one of Shakespeare's shortest plays, with a little of something for everyone contained in its brief acts: the occult, ghosts, madness, swordfights, and enough blood and violence for several plays before Macbeth's final and satisfying demise at the hands of his nemesis, Macduff. This is a rather cold and barren production with little display of emotion. This would be fine if the tone of the production was to reflect the play's chilly Northern locale, but it does not. This production seemingly has no fixed locale or time. The men are dressed in unmatched modernish military uniforms, the women in shapeless colored tunics and Doc Martens. No one expends much effort in working up a passion, either. The witches seem more like Victorian housekeep ers, and there is not a cauldron in sight. Macduff seems meerly peevish rather than a vengeful husband and father. Roger Allam broods rather nicely as Macbeth, but we want more to show a man's moral and mental disintegration than mussed hair and beard stubble. Only Sebastian Harcombe as the king's son Malcolm shows any hint of passion that motivates these characters. Harcombe plots his character's development into a military and political leader convincingly, the actor's fiery Welsh accent becoming more noticable as Malcolm's resolve grows.

In the final moments of the play, the minor character Siward is told of the battle death of his young son. He takes the news without a hint of grief. Only Malcolm seems flabbergasted at the man's lack of emotion. A young man has fallen. There is no shame in mourning; indeed, it is proper. Old Siward remains stony. That, in a nutshell, is the RSC's "Macbeth."

Nancy A Phillips
Email Nancy_A_Phillips@sbphrd.com