(April 25-May 4, 2005)

The weather was cool but the election campaign was hot.  Also hot were several of the shows I took in during my recent trip.  The following capsule commentaries are in alphabetical order and I’ve highlighted the names of various actors whose performances I particularly enjoyed.

The Birthday Party (Duchess)

Pinter’s now classic depiction of the visit to a seaside boarding house of a couple of very sinister-seeming guys is a hoot.  First we meet the proprietress of the inn, Meg (played by the incomparable Eileen Atkins), a flibbertigibbet who another character compares to a gladiolus.  Then there’s her monosyllabic husband Petey (Geoffrey Hutchings).  And there’s Stanley (Paul Ritter), their nerdy seemingly permanent houseguest.  Into the fray come the mysterious Goldberg (Henry Goodman) and McCann (Finbar Lynch), along with their pulchritudinous friend Lulu (Sinead Matthews).  I’m not sure what it all meant but it was a pleasure watching Atkins flounce around, and the absurd dialogue where Goldberg and McCann viciously attack creepy Stanley for God knows what was truly hilarious.  It’s all beautifully acted and smoothly directed by Lindsay Posner on a very brown set.  Go and enjoy.

Bloody Sunday (Tricycle)

It is truly mind-bending to see a presentation in 2005—a fine example of the phenomenon known as verbatim drama drawn directly from the transcripts of public hearings—based on inquiries held between 2000 and 2004 about events that took place in 1972 from which a report is expected to be published in 2006.  But, as edited by Richard Norton-Taylor, directed by Nicolas Kent with Charlotte Westenra, and acted by a terrific cast headed by Nick Sampson, Michael Cochrane, Sorcha Cusack and Jeremy Clyde, it was a gripping evening where mere dry words brought terrible events to life.  I have to add that the overall effect was greatly enhanced by the skillful use of news videos and projections of key documents, also by the especially meaty programme which contained appropriate maps, pictures, contemporary news accounts, a chronology, excerpts from previous inquiries and even the words of one Tony Blair from Hansard.  All of which proved once again that in the theatre you don’t have to see violence to feel its appalling consequences.

The Cosmonaut’s Last Message to the Woman He Once Loved in the Former Soviet Union (Donmar)

I should have known.  Almost every time I’ve been to see a show at the Donmar, the place (despite its small armless uncomfortable seats) has been packed.  Not so this time.  I had a couple of spaces on the padded benches all to myself.  And after seeing this winner of the longest-name contest by David Greig which was directed by Tim Supple, I can understand why.  This production again proves that one of my basic Rules of Theatre—“If you don’t understand what the title says, then you won’t understand what the show is all about.”--is spot on.  From what I was able to glean, this show is about communications, or the lack thereof.  Not very original.  On the ground level, we have Brid Brennan and Michael Pennington as a dysfunctional couple.  Also Anna Madeley as his extramarital love interest who is the daughter of one of the two cosmonauts (Paul Higgins and Sean Campion) who are suspended via harnesses in midair throughout the show, apparently unable to reach the groundlings.  I’m sure it was all very deep and allegorical but, frankly, I just didn’t get it.  And I’ve had quite enough now of seeing Pennington strip.  Last year, he was in a two-hander at the Hampstead where he spent most of the time shirtless.  Here he went farther and, although he clearly has a good body for a man of his age, who cares? 

The Far Pavilions (Shaftesbury)

Most of the critics seem to be having a hard time deciding whether this gaudy extravaganza is one of that good kind of terrible shows that are so bad they’re funny and thus worth seeing.  Or whether it is only moderately terrible, so you don’t want to bother.  Like them, I am of two minds about it.  There are many truly terrible aspects to the show.  First, there’s an absurdly complex plot based on the famous novel—an exotic soap opera—by M. M. Kaye.  (But give director Gale Edwards credit, all of the many complications are neatly resolved in the end.)  Second, although he can sing and dance, Hadley Fraser, who plays the lead role of Ashton Pelham-Martyn around whom the whole plot revolves, is not attractive enough to command the attention of an audience.  My frame of reference here is Hugh Jackman, the gorgeous hunk who single-handedly made another terrible show (The Boy from Oz) a must-see.  Third, the intricate and beautiful production values were marred by instances where things were allowed to absurdly over the top.  For example, the omnipresent angled turntable spun so many times during the elaborate dinner scene at the start of the second act that, just watching it, I nearly lost my dinner.

The music and lyrics were, for the most part, forgettable though I did rather enjoy the obvious number where the riffraff make fun of the snooty memsahibs.  Also the number where Ashton’s two loves--Belinda (Diane Pilkington) and Princess Anjuli (Gayatri Iyer)--compare themselves and their love for him.  Blond Simon Gleeson who played Ashton’s tragic English buddy, Lt. Walter Hamilton, is very striking and sang well.

It’s strange how similar some of the dances and costumes in this show which is set in the Raj-period of the late 19^th century were to those in Bombay Dreams, the other elaborate India-based musical that flitted through the West End and Broadway a couple of years ago.  That show was about Bollywood in the 1990s.  In both shows, far more emphasis seems to have been placed on glittering production values than on anything else. 

Julius Caesar (Barbican)

Despite what I wrote above about the virtues of violence described rather than displayed, staging violence can make for good theatre too, as Deborah Warner’s production of Shakespeare’s famous tale of Roman political wars (with a cast of more than 100) illustrated.  In the first half of this note-complete modern dress version, the setting was a series of platforms in a huge plexiglas courtyard where crowd control was accomplished with the use of typical metal sawhorses.  Into this arena came a starry cast headed by Ralph Fiennes (Mark Antony), Anton Lesser (Brutus), Simon Russell Beale (Cassius), John Shrapnel (Julius Caesar) and Fiona Shaw (in the small role of Portia, Brutus’ wife).  It was mostly a pleasure watching these pros plotting, executing and then following up on the assassination of the leader.  It was good to see the great Russell Beale looking and moving better than he did when last seen (as Macbeth at the Almeida last autumn), though he is still seems far from “lean and hungry”.  Fiennes (sporting a baldy haircut) made less of an impression as Antony (who is supposed to be charismatic but here seemed awfully blah) than one would have supposed.  In the second half of the show, staged in the empty cavernous reaches of the Barbican stage, the smoke-filled battle scenes were greatly aided by the use of projections and thundering loud music.  The more intimate scenes like the verbal sparring matches between Brutus and Cassius were somewhat overwhelmed by all that space.  Nevertheless, the unusual scale and the overall high quality of the production as well as innumerable intelligent touches by Warner (like having the slain body of the innocent Cinna the poet remain visibly sprawled beneath the curtain as the embarrassed audience skulked out for intermission drinks) made for an exciting evening.

Though it was far from perfect, one can’t help comparing Warner’s Julius Caesar with the dreadful production of the same play (starring Denzel Washington as Brutus) now playing on Broadway.  The difference is in the basic competence of those involved, based on appropriate training, to understand and handle Shakespeare’s language and their experience in growing up with and working with the plays.  The Brits (and Colm Feore, the Canadian playing Cassius in the Broadway run) have what it takes; the Americans don’t.

Hedda Gabler (Almeida)

I will never forget Fiona Shaw’s mesmerizing performance as Hedda in the Abbey Theatre’s production that played in London in 1991.  She was so compelling you simply couldn’t take your eyes off of her.  Eve Best’s Hedda, in this new production directed by Richard Eyre that is about to transfer to the West End, comes awfully close to that gold standard.  And, since the rest of the cast is almost equally excellent, the overall effect of this Hedda Gabler is of a better-balanced show.  While not as gorgeous to look at as he once was, the newly craggy-faced Iain Glen seems finally to have found his métier as the smooth but conniving and insidious Judge Brack.  (The last time I saw Glen, he was grievously miscast as the crude Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire at the National.)  And sweet, sunny Thea Elvsted as played by Lisa Dillon is a perfect foil for the Best’s dark brooding about the boredom of bourgeois respectability.  It may be his vast experience at the National and elsewhere, but Eyre sure knows how to stage violence and the climax of this domestic drama at the Almeida was just as harrowing as the massive battles at the Barbican.  Not to be missed.

Henry IV Parts One and Two (NT Olivier)

Back to the Shakespearean front at the National.  It’s Nicholas Hytner’s production of the epic Henry IV that stretches over two plays and six hours.  With a cast of about 30 on a set consisting of a massive ramp, some trees and narrow projections on the back wall of the enormous Olivier stage, we become immersed in the lives of the high and the low and those like Prince Hal who try to live between those poles of experience.  This is a skillful presentation where all that’s needed to suggest the King’s bedroom or a tavern in Eastcheap is a change of a few sticks of furniture, a wallhanging and a light fixture.  The presentation of the battle of Shrewsbury in Part One is exciting and I especially liked the swaggering skirts on the jackets worn by Hal and Hotspur during their dance-like duel.  Also the dead bodies arrayed along the edges of the ramp at various appropriate moments.  The highlight of Part Two for me was the scene in which the great John Wood (as Justice Shallow), ably abetted by Adrian Scarborough (as Justice Silence), does a number on the word “accommodated”.  Hilarious.

I’ve seen varying reviews of the long-awaited Falstaff of Michael Gambon.  To me, it was a role he was born to play and, besides his powerful voice and gorgeous diction, he really is a master of the contradictions of that famous character—his light-footed dance of joy, his charm with the ladies Mrs. Quickly and Doll Tearsheet, also his vile stabbing of the dead Hotspur’s body and his theft of anything not tied down.  His surprise at being rejected in the end by Hal, his former protégé in debauchery, was really touching.  Kudos also to David Bradley in the title role, David Harewood as Hotspur (what a voice!), John Carlisle as Scroop, as well as Wood and Scarborough (also a fine Ned Poins) mentioned above.  My single reservation about the acting is with Matthew MacFayden’s Prince Hal.  Though great to look at and clearly an audience favorite (so many screaming girls!), I think that his way with the poetry and ability to project to the upper reaches of the Olivier still needs work.

The House of Bernarda Alba (NT Lyttleton)

Howard Davies’ new production of Lorca’s 1936 play with an all female cast is totally engrossing.  Played on a gorgeous detailed set of a crumbling Iberian manse by Vicky Mortimer, a terrific cast headed by Penelope Wilton and Deborah Findlay, takes us to a world where an imperious matriarch and her dutiful and rebellious progeny mix it up over the dregs of a vanishing world where the plain daughters of this upper crust household were totally employed in finding “suitable” husbands, while being carefully observed by mocking servants.  Wilton has a tall, commanding presence that is just right for her part as Bernarda, head of this crazy household.  You should see her wield a bullwhip!  As Poncia, the know-it-all head housekeeper, Findlay was wonderfully wry and amusing.  The young actors who played the five Alba daughters—Sandy McDade, Justine Mitchell, Katherine Manners, Jo McInnes and Sally Hawkins—were all fine but I have to single out Mitchell as Magdelena, the vicious sister with a brain, and Hawkins as Adela, the youngest and an unstable rebel.  The icing on the cake, however, was the appearance of veteran Cherry Morris as Maria Josefa, Bernarda’s mother, a vision in virginal white who was usually kept locked up and only allowed out for special family occasions.  Though the play is steeped in violence and cynical commentary on the role of the Catholic Church in Spanish society, it also has long stretches of situation comedy.  An enjoyable though harrowing blend.

The Last Waltz Season (Arcola)

This was a series of three plays from Mitteleuropa at the turn of the 20^th century I saw in one day at the Arcola Theatre in NE London.  The Arcola is a low-ceilinged space with seats on two sides of a square stage punctuated by structural pillars.  With sparse but clever staging, the space became several homes, a prison, a country dale and a hospital.  The Arcola is a very welcoming environment. The whole experience in this heretofore unknown to me part of town—full of inexpensive and delicious Turkish restaurants and pastry shops—was quite a treat.

Set in Berlin the first play. Musik, was the story of a young Swiss music student who had become pregnant by her married music teacher with whose family she lived.  She then became embroiled in a public court case when her abortionist was arrested, from which the teacher’s wife tried to extricate her in order to save face.  The teacher, however, was more intent on his own selfish desires with ultimately disastrous consequences for the music student.  Complicated but strangely modern.  The production, directed by Deborah Bruce with members of the Arcola’s repertory company, was just fine and I have to single out the luminous young Marian Gale who was terrific in the lead role.  It is truly amazing what can be done with a bit of string—here used to suggest a bedroom wall, also prison bars.

The second of the three plays I saw at the Arcola, with the weakest story, was Rose Bernd about a sexually active young woman who gets tragically caught up in the hypocritical mores of a small town in Silesia in 1903.  Pregnant by the town magistrate whose wife is a cripple, Rose is torn between her stern father, her simpleton of a fiancé, a group of her “friends” and the town bully who is set on exposing her affair.  Perhaps a bit less modern in its impact than the other two plays, but gripping nonetheless.  The production, directed by Gari Jones, featured Caroline Hayes as Rose and John Dougall as the magistrate.  They, and all the rest of the ensemble, were fine.

The third play, Professor Bernhardi, was the piéce de résistance of the trio and the theatre was packed.  I guess the audience members thought they were coming to see an exposé of anti-Semitism in the pre-Nazi period and it was that.  But what they saw that is far more rare was a brilliant early depiction of the same sort of slimy corporate (here hospital) politics we often read about in today’s newspapers.  When the respected but arrogant head doctor of a medical institute in Vienna in 1900, who is Jewish, refuses to let a priest administer the last rites to a patient who is dying of a botched abortion but doesn’t know it, the doctor’s adversaries at the institute manage to make it into a criminal case and he is sent to jail.  Having suffered the chaos and the loss of prestige that the internecine warfare at the institute has caused, the former head doctor is urged to appeal his case upon his release from jail.  As ever, too proud to compromise, he refuses.  This production, directed by Mark Rosenblatt, was more elaborate than those of the two earlier plays.  It featured a white scrim, some chairs and a black-and-white checked floor.  All of the acting was energetic and direct.  Praise goes all around, especially to Christopher Godwin as the embattled doctor, Dale Rapley as his primary nemesis, and Deka Walmsley in various pompous roles.  A truly fine show.

The Last Waltz season at the Arcola grew out of Mark Rosenblatt’s discovery of copies of the three plays that had not been recently or previously produced in London at the British Library.  The new translations that he commissioned and these productions at the Arcola, which were presented by the Oxford Stage Company in collaboration with the Dumbfounded Theatre, were a massive undertaking that was viewed by a relatively small number of people.  It is one of the glories of British theatre that they could be done at all and so well.

Tristan & Yseult (NT Cottesloe)

I often worry that in an appropriate effort to attract young audiences big institutions like the National will begin to sacrifice standard theatrical conventions for the conventions of the rock world, i.e. loud amplified music, smoke and mirrors, audience participation and an orgy of other gimmicks.  As I approached the Cottesloe for the Kneehigh Theatre’s production of Tristan & Yseult and noticed that white flags bearing the words “trust”, “honor” and “duty” had been raised outside the door, I began to suspect the worst.  My fears were only increased when I bought the programme that was packaged with a balloon and a roll of heart-shaped candies.  Finally, when I saw the guys in hoods and black windbreakers patrolling the aisles of the Cottesloe before the show calling themselves “love sponsors”, I almost ripped up my ticket and left.

Maybe it was the Doo Wop music that the terrific band (Martin and the Mystics) was playing (I really love “Can’t Get Used to Losing You”) but I decided to stay and, despite many misgivings about what was going on, I enjoyed the show.  Let’s just say that there were too many examples of the kinds of things that I hate about the rock world to mention, but since the story was set in a 1950s disco called the Club of the Unloved and not in a 1970s disco, it wasn’t quite so offensive.  I could have lived without the hors d’oeuvres served to parts of the audience or the arcade games mounted on stage, but lots of the teenagers in the audience seemed to eat that stuff up.  The actual presentation of the famous legend was fairly straightforward—if having substitute bride Brangean played by a man or lengthy love scenes performed on bungee cords or in hammocks does not bother you.  And let if be noted that when some really powerful music was required to accompany the climaxes in the plot, it wasn’t “Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps” or “Fever” or “Shaking All Over” that pealed out of the speakers, it was Wagner!  So I guess that director Emma Rice and her crew really know what great music drama is all about.

The youthful cast headed by Tristan Sturrock (amazingly back from a broken neck suffered earlier in the run), Eva Magyar and Amanda Lawrence was athletic and very appealing.  And the show didn’t end with the curtain calls.  Outside the Cottesloe they had set out fire pots and the lettered flags were now black.

For me, a little of this stuff, however energetically performed, goes a long way. 

In you are interested in what’s going on in theatre in my hometown—New York City—check out the companion website:
www.newyorktheatreguide.com.