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NEW JERSEY NIGHTS: Congress, Eastbourne: Review

Three stars

There’s a big shadow looming over New Jersey Nights, a touring show featuring the hits of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, and that shadow has four Tonys and an Olivier Award to its name. But if you take yourself down to the Congress in the next few days thinking you’re going to get another Jersey Boys, think again as rather than being a musical biog, New Jersey Nights is much more of a straight concert with a bit of banter in between the hits.

NewJerseyNights_Title2

Nothing wrong with that, although there are some niggling things wrong with this show which add up to quite a big problem.

The evening kicks off in a bar that looks more Calais than New Jersey, with three female and three male dancers high kicking as the Seasons do their stuff next to them or on a raised platform which also houses the live four piece band.

It’s a little disconcerting that when the boys speak it’s not in a New Jersey drawl but in a variety of British accents. But that’s bearable and soon ceases to sound strange. Vocally, there’s a nice variety of tones, with Damion Scarcella being the stand out, easily able to hit the high notes and easy on the eye too, while Ricki Rojas provides the low, strong base of the group with his rich, fruity voice.

Simon Schofield is more musical theatre than 60’s pop but squeaks through, although Jon Hawkins misses too many important solo notes. In harmony though, they’re perfect, especially when singing Blue Moon and Silence is Golden a cappella.

In between songs we’re fed snippets of the history of the band, exhorted to kiss our neighbour, and are treated to a carefully choreographed bit of ‘fluffing’ which the audience adored, and the first half is brought to a storming conclusion with the triple whammy of Sherry, Big Girls Don’t Cry and Walk Like a Man.

It’s all very twinkly, all very glittery, and all slightly cruise shippy, and it came as no shock to read in the programme that most of the cast have recently worked the seas. This isn’t inherently bad, of course, but when the production values are also a bit shonky, it doesn’t bode well.

Director/choreographer Emma Rogers‘ decision to include the backing dancers is a mystery as they look cheap and clutter up the place: she should have had more faith in her leads to be able to fill the stage. There’s also a cringe-inducing moment when the girls do a couple of Phil Spector songs and mime. That’s just unacceptable in a ‘live’ show such as this. They also wear some of the worst wigs I’ve ever seen on a professional stage.

New Jersey cast

The real problem with this production is it’s lack of class in all but the four leads. They’re small things, but they add up: the gold curtain that doesn’t quite reach the floor, the steps that look like they need a paint, the platform plastered with gold paper that hasn’t gone on properly and has puckered. And it’s a real pity. It almost feels like there are two shows going on: the smart one with the boys in their natty blazers and with their lovely harmonies, and the not so smart one with the sub-standard set and below-par dancers.

That said, the Congress audience were on their feet at the end, singing and swaying like they couldn’t get enough. And it’s difficult, despite all its faults, to not enjoy this show, simply because the music of Bob Gaudio is so wonderful and uplifting. Just don’t go expecting anything like as slick a show as Jersey Nights and I’m sure you’ll have a fantastic night of classic pop.

WHAT: New Jersey Nights

WHERE: Congress Theatre, Eastbourne

WHEN: Until August 31, 7.30pm, Thurs & Sat mats 2.30pm

TICKETS: £14.50 – £26.50

MORE INFO: here

RUNNING TIME: Two hours including 20 min interval

WOULD I GO AGAIN: Yep, for the music

 

 

 

 

 

THARK: Park Theatre, Finsbury Park, London: Review

Three stars:

Classic farce seems to sort the men from the….women, as during the press night of the revival of Ben Traver‘s 1925 celebrated Aldwich Farce, all I heard were bellows and snorts from the men and nothing much from the female members of the audience at all. I also had a peek at the assembled faces during the ‘funny bits’ and saw the men cracking up while the women sat, stony-faced.

As, last time I looked, I was still female, it may explain why Thark left me a little chilly.

PRINT-thark-press-096 Clive Francis and James Dutton photocredit Ben Broomfield

Director Eleanor Rhode certainly hasn’t done a bad job with this old groaner from the time when an audience loved to laugh at people dropping their aitches, and the cast all do sterling work. It’s just that it really is, a bit like Count Arthur, one of those things you either love or hate.

Adapted by Clive Francis (who also plays Sir Hector Benbow), Thark is populated by upper class twerps, their put upon servants, and some of those horrible, horrible nouveau riche types. Eek. The women don’t fare well, being either popsies or dragons, but then neither do the men, as none are exactly blessed in the old brains department.

The plot is as creaky as Cherry Truluck‘s mostly wooden, sparse yet effective set. Sir Hector is an old letch who’s come across a pretty shop girl and has invited her to his London home for supper. Meanwhile, Warner the maid (played perfectly by Sarah-Jayne Butler) has mixed up her instructions and also invited Mrs Frush (Joanna Wake), the old lady who’s just bought Thark, a haunted pile in the country, from Sir Hector, along at the same time.

Then, guess what. Sir Hector’s wife only blooming turns up too! Lawks, the laughs!

In the second half we’re all transported to Thark as Sir Hector’s ward and his son’s fiance, Kitty (Joanna Wake), wants to get to the bottom of this haunting business. Sir Hector and son Ronny (James Dutton) end up in a tiny bed together in a thunderstorm, while the trees outside groan and tap on the window, and the butler, Jones (Andrew Jarvis), stalks about menacingly.

Francis plays Sir Hector with great relish, one eye glinting at the audacity of his plans, the other from the obligatory monocle, while James Dutton as Ronnie is all rosy-cheeked affability and vacuous charm (although when he had his back turned, I could have sworn it was Jack Whitehall in the role, so much does he sound like him).

Lucy May Barker plays the beautifully monickered Cherry Buck sweetly, and John Wark as Butler Hook is excellent in his lower class fawning. Jarvis‘s Jones (Thark’s butler’s alias – but I won’t tell you his real name as it’s one of the best bits of the play) is all beard, rolling r’s, and deathly stares, plus some very strange involuntary noises which puts the willies up everyone.

There are some lovely little turns too, the best being Richard Beanland‘s Lionel Frush (“son of the larger Frush”) who’s so needy it hurts. With his big smile plastered permanently on his face, and his habit of asking every woman he meets out – and getting rather too close to them in the process – he’s a comic delight straight out of Wodehouse.

PRINT-thark-press-191 May Keegan, Joanna Wake, Clive Francis, Andrew Jarvis, James Dutton, Sarah-Jayne Butler, John Wark photocredit Ben Broomfield

And there are some cracking lines too (“Unleash the sherry”), although whether Francis‘ or Travers‘ I’ve no idea, but there are also some stinkers as in the clash between Lionel and his mum as to whether it’s a vase or a vaise which ages the play terribly. Some of the aging process is fascinating though, as in Cherry’s use of the word ‘strong!’ when she hears something she likes, which I presume is the 1920’s version of our ‘fierce’.

The spooky aspects of the play are handled well considering how difficult it is to do ‘scary’ when the actors are practically on your lap as they are at the Park. Apparently, in the original 1925 production (which ran for nearly a year), actor-manager Tom Walls decided he wanted the loudest thunderclaps ever to have been heard on stage, so two dozen cannonballs he’d inveigled from the Tower were deployed to roll down a flight of stairs in the flies. That would certainly be a feat and a half if tried in the tiny Park.

I had warmed to Thark by its abrupt ending, due only to the lovely acting on show, but if you’re not a lover or farce, better to steer clear. If, however, you love it, you’ll adore this accomplished production.

And I must mention that the Park Theatre is wonderful. This was my first visit and it’s a lovely little place, with reasonably priced proper food (including some nice veggie options), really lovely staff, nice seating, fantastic air con, and a big old dog who seems to wander the place. It’s also literally 10 seconds from the tube and on the Victoria Line. Couldn’t be easier.

WHAT: Thark

WHERE: Park Theatre, Finsbury Park, London

WHEN: Until September 22, various times

TICKETS: £12 – £19.50

MORE INFO: here

RUNNING TIME: 2 hours

WOULD I GO AGAIN: It’s a lark so probably yes, if the ticket were free

 

 

PRIVATES ON PARADE: Theatre Royal Brighton: Review

Miss Jason aka Jason Sutton
Miss Jason aka Jason Sutton

In Peter Nichols’s 1977 review-style play with music, we follow the story of an incongruous group of men who entertain the soldiers, sailors and airman stationed overseas in Malaysia in 1948 during the Communist insurgency.

A motley bunch of naïfs and strays, the privates here on parade are mostly gay or ‘gay while abroad’, with the story revolving around the arrival of Private Flowers (Samuel Holmes), a straight man who’s come to join in the fun and games of SADUSEA – Song and Dance Unit South East Asia.

He’s soon taken under the wing of the troupe’s leader, the deliciously waspish female impersonator Terri, played here by Brighton’s own Jason Sutton – better known as Miss Jason – who embraces his part with utter relish and charm.

All swims along as well as it can in a war zone, until the porky Major Flack (Corrie’s erstwhile baker, Eric Potts) decides to set his flock up for a mighty big fall when he sends them into the jungles of the Peninsula ostensibly on a tour of duty, but he and an increasingly distant Flowers have something else planned for them entirely.

Along the way we meet the men who serve their National Service time by donning high heels, wigs, perfume and some very odd dresses all in the name of entertainment. There’s Len (Richard Colvin), a soft Geordie with a Tourettes-like need to swear every third word, and his Medical Corp boyfriend Charlie, who together do a very touching Flanagan and Allen tribute act. Then there’s the butch but slightly dim Kevin (Richard Hadfield), and the sensitive Eric played by promising newcomer Izaak Cainer, who pines for his Susan left at home, only to see his hopes dashed when she runs off to marry someone else.

The only woman in the piece is Sylvia (played by a confident Harveen Mann), the battered and bruised ‘half-caste’ concubine of the drunk Sergeant Major Drummond (Tobey Nicholls), a nasty piece of work who gets his comeuppance even before the end of the first act. She seeks solace with virgin Flowers, who’s only too happy to comfort her to begin with.

Privates is a piece that relies on strong ‘turns’, each character getting his or her time in the limelight, with a highlight of the piece being the revue show – Jungle Jamboree – that the troupe put on in the second half.

Each performance here shines with the requisite brightness, some more than others, all revolving around the 100 watt bulb that is Miss Jason.

He dominates with his camp innuendoes and hilarious impressions of Dietrich, Coward, Vera Lynn and, of course, half woman-half fruit, Carmen Miranda. But he also provides the heart of the piece – he’s the mummy figure, always there to pick up the pieces when things go wrong (and boy, do they go wrong).

His Brazilian turn is made all the funnier by Holmes as Flowers, deadpanning it beautifully by his side, looking mightily bored and shaking his maracas as if by numbers. The eye doesn’t quite know whether to watch his daft comedic performance, or Sutton’s colourful, cheery shimmying. Mine stayed firmly on Holmes but I never could resist a bit of silly hamming.

The biggest turn, in terms of size and booming voice, comes from Potts as the Major, a blustering colonial figure with a disquieting presence and an all too pragmatic approach to war.

His lines get the most laughs

(every time he almost sneezes the Malaya world for jungle – Ulu – he brings the house down), although they also bring the most chills.

This isn’t a play for the faint of heart. Slang words that aren’t used in polite (or even impolite) company these days abound, but see it as a period piece and you’ll be fine. The one thing that did jar was the use of the word ‘gay’ in the homosexual sense which I just couldn’t see being in common currency in the 1940’s even amongst gay men themselves.

Queerness itself is seen as a matter-of-fact way of life,

but don’t forget that this is a 1977 play looking back to the 40’s. I was also left wondering if this was in any way an accurate portrait of life in the British Army then, even in an outré ents division. Seeing as the play is based on the author’s own National Serivce experience, one can only conclude that it must go some way to being so.

There are some things that don’t quite hit the mark in Privates. The scenes of violence are played too quickly and too clumsily, thus not being given the weight they need to give the necessary seriousness to the piece. And it is a serious piece, despite its light and frothy exterior, exploring issues of colonialism, imperialism, racism, and the way soldiers lives can be seen as being so easily expendable. The script here gives us that, but the direction from Carole Todd doesn’t quite.

It’s also a bit slow to get going – the first half could be a bit snappier, the second half a bit more considered, but it’s a difficult judgement call.

Being rather sparse, the scenery does seem a bit skimpy until you think of the period and place being dealt with, and Damien Delaney’s choreography could have done with a little more zip and a little less clunkiness.

That said, Privates is a lovely little show with some nice, rounded performances

and some big, shouty ones too (I sat where the Major comes to sit in the audience to boom at the stage and realised just how much actors have to project their voices!) There’s also some nice arses on show, as well as some very big knickers and some teeny, tiny, barely-there ones, all belonging to the same person – I shall let you guess who!

WHAT: Privates on Parade

WHERE: Theatre Royal Brighton

WHEN: Until August 31, 7.30pm, with Thurs and Sat mats at 2pm

TICKETS: All seats £27.40 (booking fees apply) to book telephone: 0844 871 7650 (£23.50 if booked in person at the Theatre Royal box office)

Private on Parade company and producers
Private on Parade company and producers

MORE INFO: CLICK HERE: http://www.privatesonparade.com/

RUNNING TIME: 2 hours 20 minutes

WOULD I GO AGAIN: Yes and take a gang of mates along next time

 

ICE ICE BABY : Robin Cousins talks to Kat Pope

Robin Cousins ICE

It’s not often that you find yourself comparing scars with an Olympic champion but that’s just what I found myself doing at the launch of Robin Cousins’ ICE, a brand new ice dance show which will be filling the Brighton Centre in that awkward period just after Christmas.

“I had another knee reconstruction last winter. That makes, oooh, nine I think,” he says with startling nonchalance in response to my question about whether he still keeps fit.

It turns out that Robin had already gone through two lots of knee surgery before he’d even got to the 1980 Lake Placid Olympics where he won the coveted gold medal. “My physio said to me ‘You were a second class athlete before you even got to be an Olympic champion.’ I was always being told that I was too skinny, that I wasn’t strong enough, that I was too tall.”

But Robin didn’t let this put him off (“There’s nothing like someone telling you that, to make you want to push even harder”), and the Bristol-born lad who was bitten by the ice skating bug aged nine when he happened upon a rink on a family holiday, won numerous British, European and World Championship titles both before and after his Olympic triumph.

Famous for his beautifully airy but marvellously controlled triple jumps and his daring backflip move which was banned from all competitions as soon as it was perfected, Robin was a perfect young man on the ice, and if you watch his performances on YouTube, you’ll be captivated by his grace, boldness, athleticism, and sheer bloody gorgeousness.

After problems with both his back and knees, Robin retired from competitive skating to branch out in a new direction – ice dancing and choreography – and from that he’s since expanded into acting, having appeared as Billy Flynn in the London production of Chicago and Frank’n’furter in the Rocky Horror Show among other roles.

The first shows he choreographed – and appeared in himself – were instant hits, due in no small part to how big ice skating had become in the 1980’s thanks to both his own success and Torvill and Dean’s, who won gold at the Olympics after his.

Electric Ice and Ice Majesty are now a distant memory from over 30 years ago, but it was photographs from his first sold-out show at London’s Victoria Palace Theatre that producer Jamie Wilson used to entice Robin into this new venture.

Mind you, you couldn’t exactly accuse Robin of ice-idleness between then and now. Along with his successful forays into acting, he’s kept the choreography going with ten productions of Holiday on Ice, that perennial Brighton Centre favourite.

And of course, younger TV viewers will know him as the popular head judge on ITV’s Dancing on Ice which has introduced a whole new generation to the joys of expressive ice skating.

Robin Cousins ICERobin won’t be performing himself in this new venture having retired from the ice back in 2000. “I can still get out on the ice perfectly to choreograph and I can still cut a figure, but I certainly wouldn’t put it out there again in public,” he laughs. “Been there, done that. But I’ve got these creative ideas for all the things I would be doing if I could still skate in public – but I just get to do them on other people now.”

I ask him how Ice is going to be different to Holiday on Ice.

“Well, it’s got a much more adult feel to it, in that it’s got more ‘chamber’ moments, more intimate moments on the ice. We use an international cast of 14 hand-picked skaters but sometimes there will only be, say, three on the ice. I’m approaching it like a contemporary dance piece, rather like a Matthew Bourne or someone like that. Our lighting designer actually works with Matthew Bourne. There’ll still be terrific patterns made out on the ice and I still love my ‘birding’ as I call it, where I plan it from above, but it’ll be more lyrical than Holiday on Ice, more intimate.”

Is there a theme?

” No, well, the theme is just movement itself. There’s no narrative. The skating will speak for itself really. I don’t want people coming expecting a Holiday on Ice production, although it’s certainly not going to be highbrow and only geared towards an elite. It’s still going to be fast and fun and there’s going to be humour in there, but it will have more of a dance feel. I still want people to sit and have a great time with it, a fun time, of course.”

As we sit sipping our special Robin Cousins Smoothies, obviously dreamt up by the PR people on a boiling hot day, as the rain batters the windows of the Brighton Centre Hospitality Suite, I try to get to grips with the diagram Robin’s drawn me of the stage set-up and I fail miserably. Mind you, let’s just say he’s an awfully lot better at skating than he is at drawing. It just looks like a wonky rectangle to me.

Robins Cousins Ice

He laughs at my bewilderment. “David (Shields) has designed this set, and most of it’s in the back as people need to see the skating in the main rink part, but the look-through to the set……” but I’m lost, not having seen an ice show for years. All I can say is that the photos looked fabulous but as to what will go where, your guess is as good as mine.

We get on to a seemingly easier subject and one which Robin’s just as passionate about – the music.

“Electro swing. I love it!” Oh bum. I’m back in the dunce’s corner again. What’s electro swing when it’s at its gran’s?

“It’s that sort of, well, there’s this great band called Club Des Belugas who have these new songs that sound like they’ve come out of the 50’s, but they’ve got this great modern feel.”

More examples please, Mr Cousins?

 “Brian Setzer, who did the Dirty Boogie? A sort of rockabilly feel with a bit of tech thrown in?”

Nope.

“What about burlesque type shows? They’ve had a bit of a renaissance lately. They have an old feel to them but sound really modern. It’s just fun, really fun.”

Now I’m sort of getting it.

“The music is really eclectic,” he enthuses. “There’s Elton, Lady Gaga, some electro swing, and some from this really great Icelandic composer I found about five years ago on Spotify. Ólafur Arnalds. He’s now done the theme to Broadchurch but I found him first! There’re eight numbers in all with a terrific finale. Oh, and there’s a bit of flying too!”

“It’s a show where the choreography is driven by the music, where the movement has room to breathe, and the skaters can let their blades do the talking. This is me taking the history of what I’ve done since winning the gold and putting it out there in this wonderful space.”

Talking of wonderful spaces, I grab the opportunity to ask one of our best known skaters and one of the city’s favourite residents about the possibility of having a permanent ice rink in Brighton & Hove.

He doesn’t just roll his eyes: his whole body slumps back and a massive groan deflates his chest.

“It’s ongoing, it’s ongoing,” he sighs. “Black Rock is still the preferred site, I know that much. It’s the budgets, it’s the funding, it’s everything.”

I suggest it’s also something in the Brighton air that stops large projects ever getting off the ground. He nods, but I feel he’s not going to be drawn on the politics of the subject. “I would love, love, love for a rink to show it’s face again in Brighton somewhen very soon, as Brighton has such a huge skating history. We have the Pavilion in the winter months which does really well, but there just aren’t enough people who would go to an ice rink to sustain it all year round,” he sighs again.

Lastly, I ask Robin why gay peeps should come to see Ice.

“Well, Brighton has a fantastic gay community and they’ve always been supportive and have loved their Holiday on Ice. Anyone who loves dance, movement, and having a fun evening out will adore this show. So all I can really say is, come on down!”

WHAT: Robin Cousin’s ICE: The Skating Stage Experience

WHERE: The Brighton Centre (and on tour)

WHEN: January 22 – February 2

TICKETS: £22.50 – £42.50

MORE INFO: CLICK HERE:

Robin COusins Ice

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GLENN MILLER WITH STRINGS ATTACHED!

On Sunday some of Glenn Miller‘s rarer arrangements will be heard in Eastbourne when Ray McVay, Musical Director of the original BBC Come Dancing series, brings the world’s greatest big band to the Congress Theatre.

Glenn Miller Orchestra

Keeping the show fresh, this year the Glenn Miller Orchestra will be joined by a string section, the first time this has happened since the great man himself brought his orchestra over here in 1944.

It’s a rare chance to hear all the usual hits – In the Mood, Tuxedo Junction, Chattanooga Choo Choo – performed in an unusual way, with help from The Moonlight Serenaders, and vocalists Catherine Sykes and Colin Anthony. Swinging jazz band, The Uptown Hall Gang, will also be standing to attention.

WHAT: The Glenn Miller Orchestra – Strings Attached!

WHERE: The Congress Theatre, Eastbourne

WHEN: Sunday August 25, 3pm

TICKETS COST: from £18.50

MORE INFO: http://www.eastbournetheatres.co.uk/What%27s_On/show.asp?showID=2708

GROOVE ON DOWN THE ROAD: ZooNation at Southbank Centre: Review

Groove on down the road

Will we ever tire of Dorothy and her motley crew’s journey along the Yellow Brick Road to Oz? I doubt it as it’s a story that’s perfect for reinvention and investment with new meanings and messages, and Kate Prince has done just that with Groove on Down the Road.

Prince is artistic director of the fabulous ZooNation whose Into the Hoods and Some Like It Hip Hop delighted audiences young and old, and she now brings the youngsters in the group to the fore with all the dancers in this piece being aged 9 to 19.

On our way in to the Queen Elizabeth Hall we follow the yellow brick road of empty schoolbooks strewn across our path. School, education, and creativity are the motifs for Groove, and Dorothy (Portia Oti) and friends first appear in a classroom, bored and listless, forced to do maths when they want to draw, to paint, and most of all, to dance.

Soon – although why is never quite explained – they’re in Oz and the adventure begins. And what an adventure it is with spectacular dancing, fantastic music (from Stevie Wonder, Justin Timberlake, various Jacksons, plus the soundtrack to The Wiz, all mashed together by DJ Walde), and a dialogue-free story that’s easily accessible to even the very young.

Most of the familiar aspects are there, although it took me ages to work out that one of the boys was supposed to be Toto (Michael McNeish)! There’s Tyrese Man (Michael Ureta), the school bully, transformed by a quick squirt of oil from a can marked ‘compassion’ from Dorothy into the Tin Man; Simon Crow (Jaih Betote Dipito Akwa) becomes a bendy, wobbly Scarecrow who can backflip like he has no blood and bones in him at all; and Lionel (a gorgeous Corey Culverwell), when he’s pulled out of the bin he’s been shoved in, becomes the Cowardly Lion, all sinuous moves and silent growls.

Off they trot with Dot, up and down the steps in the auditorium (a perfect way to hide scene changes on stage), meeting various creatures on their way. I say trot, but they bodypop, hop (and hip), flip, spin, stand on one hand, twist, vogue – just about every dance move you can think of, they do it. Oh and don’t be put off by the ‘hip hop’ label: the dancing and music is a lot more varied than those two words at first convey. There were toddlers and grandparents alike in the QEH, all enjoying the show.

Ben Stone‘s set is simple and effective with walls as the theme (did he have Pink Floyd‘s anti-educational The Wall album in mind, I wonder?) Above is a screen, taking up about a third of the stage, flashing images complimenting the action, or sometimes bringing it on a little.

But it’s the dancing that’s the star in every ZooNation piece, and here the troupe of young dancers’ skills are so amazing that you have to remind yourselves that some are as young as 9 or 10.

GODTR_364_©EdMiller

Oti‘s Dorothy, in her pair of sparkly ruby red hi-tops, is all long-limbed elegance, and this is a girl who knows how to strike an iconic pose or two. She’s on stage for all 75 minutes of the show and is dancing for most of it, yet she never flags. And it’s the energy of the whole cast that’s ridiculously infectious and will have even the most reluctant of toes tapping (yes, even mine).

On their journey, the gang encounter some scary stuff: the Poppy Heads, beautiful clones who lure them into sleep with their somnolent blooms, a murder of heckling crows and, of course, the Wicked Witch of the West or W.W.W. to her (probably non-existent) friends (played by Annie Edwards, a little person with a big personality). The ‘don’t do drugs’ message is easy to spot, but I’m not so sure what the crows were meant to represent. And does the witch warn of the dangers of the internet I wonder? She’s pretty darned frightening, with her sweetness and light smile to the audience snapping to a look of murderous thunder whenever she glances at her troupe of flying monkeys, and the simple trick used to bring about her demise is perfectly realised.

The ending brings closure along with a message that Michael Gove could do with heeding (although the fish-faced idiot wouldn’t get it in a million years) – that kids need creativity in their lives and that without it everything seems dully monochrome. And nothing proves that more than this fabulously engaging, fresh, and joyous show from a creative, lively, hard-working and dedicated ‘bunch of kids’. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Gove.

WHAT: Groove on Down the Road

WHERE: Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank Centre, London

WHEN: Until September 1, various times

TICKETS: £10 – £32

MORE INFO: CLICK HERE:    

RUNNING TIME: 75 minutes

WOULD I SEE IT AGAIN: Yes, I’m taking my mum and my son. I could sit and watch it over and over

THE THEBAN SEASON: The Scoop, London: Review

The Scoop

Free theatre in London? What, absolutely free? And running throughout the rest of the summer? Yep, that’s exactly what you get down at The Scoop, right next to Tower Bridge and City Hall, the one catch being that, boy, aren’t those paving slabs hard on the arse!

Now in its 11th season, More London this year offers up an early evening play for families, followed by two heavy-hitters for adults, all based on the story of Oedipus, that most dysfunctional of fellas.

First up is Prince of Thebes, an interactive romp that kids will love although adults might find a little jarring. The piece introduces us to Oedipus by showing us his adventurous (and happily non-mother-loving) journey to become king. Accompanied by a prince who’s been turned into a wisecracking talking bear (a cheeky Joseph Wicks), Oedipus (Philip Scott-Wallace) becomes a ‘hero for hire’ and the audience gets a lot of joking around and a bevy of modern songs with updated lyrics which, although well-written, might be a touch too cheesy for some.

The choreography by the wonderfully named Racky Plews is good in this part of the show, lending the cast a useful dynamism. They dart through the audience, puns rat-a-tatting from Archie’s mouth, while Pandora (Charlotte Whitaker) scurries about looking like a steampunk Minnie the Minx.

the scoop

It’s ultimately all good fun and the kids in the audience obviously adored the hour’s entertainment and the parents were, of course, happy that it was all free.

An hour’s interval done and dusted, and with a mostly new audience intake, we settled down to the more harrowing part of the show, the intense double feature of Oedipus and Antigone, both adapted by Lisa Kuma which – the programme teases us – is a pen name of a well-known academic and playwright.

The story is probably familiar to most but if you’re new to the details I’m not doing spoilers as it’s a shocking, rum old affair which will have you sitting there going ‘Eh?’ and ‘You’re kidding me!”

Scott-Wallace reprises his role of Oedipus, now king of Thebes, and is called on to do some pretty intense emoting which he’s passable at, although it’s all a little ‘one-note’ after the first half hour.

Stand out is Robert Donald as blind Teiresias, a careful performance of power and assurance which cuts through all the histrionics with ease.

As the sun goes down over the Thames, the tragedies really begin to rack up leaving you emotionally and physically wrung out. It’s not an easy two hours to swallow with belief having to be suspended somewhere near the top of the Shard, and if you make it through the whole four hours (including interval) without getting a numb bum and serious bone-ache, well, you’re probably much younger and fitter than me. This venue is certainly a bit of a challenge in the old comfort department. Yes, you can rent a cushion pad thing for a quid but it only softens the blow a little.

So I’d recommend that you either go for the first hour if you have younger members you want to entertain, or the concentrated second half if you fancy a hefty Greek emotional punch.

And don’t forget to get there early: they close the amphitheatre to newcomers once the plays have begun.

WHAT: The Theban Season

WHERE: The Scoop, Tower Bridge, London

WHEN: Until September 1, Weds to Sun 6pm for Prince of Thebes and 8pm for Oedipus and Antigone

TICKETS: Free!!

MORE INFO: CLICK HERE: 

RUNNING TIME: An hour for each part

WOULD I SEE IT AGAIN: No. Too bum-numbing and too hysterical for me, but hey, it’s free so go see!

 

 

 

HOME: The Shed, National Theatre: Review

In Nadia Fall‘s new production at the National Theatre’s pop-up space, The Shed, she weaves together a narrative from 48 hours of interviews conducted with young people living in a large interim homeless shelter in East London.

Listening to these voices could have made for a grim, dispiriting evening of theatre, and sure, there is a good deal of misery and awfulness in these lives, but the overwhelming emotion turns out to be one of hope. It’s truly amazing what, especially young, people can get through and still come out the other side with a cheery optimism.

The Shed

Target East is a fictional institution overseen by the stern but caring manager, Sharon (a confident and nuanced performance from Ashley McGuire), and her not quite so effective colleague played by Trevor Michael Georges. Sharon turned the place around when she arrived and believes in her ability to help such troubled youngsters although she also has a healthy streak of cynicism (“We’re just benefits experts these days – we don’t to social work no more”).

Her (in the horrible parlance of today) clientele are a mix of older teenagers, all made homeless, mostly from abuse or neglect from their parents. Some are pregnant or young mums, and most of the boys have kids themselves that they no longer see.

Rather than a straight narrative, Home is a patchwork of these stories, intertwining, meeting, and sometimes clashing in the clinical surroundings of Target East, Ruth Sutcliffe‘s stark but effective design spilling out into the lobby of The Shed, made into an institutional room full of anti-STD posters and whiteboards, and upwards to the balcony of a high rise.

The conceit is that it’s us, the audience, who are the ones conducting the interviews, and we sit passively as the cast catch our eye and hold our gaze as they tell us their tales of being chucked out by mum’s new boyfriend, or entering Britain in the back of a lorry, or of having to care for parents and snapping under the strain.

Music is used beautifully throughout, with Beyonce and Rihanna songs given a surprising poignancy in the mouths of such lost souls, and there’s also original music from Tom Green, including a haunting spiritual that you’ll be humming throughout the interval.

Jade, a heavily pregnant girl, speaks only in ‘beatbox’ but her phone conversation to some nameless official translates very easily in the mind, while her vocal stylings accompany the rest of the cast superbly, all of whom can sing and rap wonderfully.

Two parts of the evening crackle in particular. The first is Eritrean Girl’s (yes, names would have been more helpful) terror as she’s made to lie in the back of a lorry while being brought into the country, and the other is Tattoo Boy’s rant, a particularly angry version of “I’m not racist but….” which made some of the audience visibly discomfited.

Home: The Shed

At times the production feels a little directionless, but then so are the lives of the people depicted and that’s possibly the point. Characters come in and out of focus as the cast cross on stage, sometimes dancing, joshing with each other, sometimes running at full pelt around the smallish Shed. It’s lively, it’s textured, and a little chaotic, but that’s its charm.

I was also gratified that politics weren’t left out totally, and if you come to this piece with a pre-conceived idea that somehow it’s easy to get a council house by being an immigrant, or by getting yourself knocked up, or by being kicked out of the parental home, you’ll walk away thinking perhaps things aren’t quite that Daily Mail simple.

 

WHAT: Home

WHERE: The Shed, National Theatre, London

WHEN: Until September 7, various times

TICKETS: £12 and £20

MORE INFO: CLICK HERE:

RUNNING TIME: 2 hours 20 minutes

WOULD I SEE IT AGAIN: Yes, but perhaps in a month

 

 

 

 

 

 

KAT CALLS

Well, I’m now nearly two months behind with my ‘weekly’ column which shows you either a) how busy I’ve been or b) how deep my suntan is. The answer is a) FYI – I’m no sun-lover and my legs still look like under-cooked Cornish pasties.

In fact the only reason I’m sitting here writing this at all is because we have a power cut and therefore I can’t faff about online.

So where was I? Oh yes, I was….

GOING ON A BEAR HUNT…with Mel C and Les Dennis

It may seem a bit odd to a lot of you that I’m spending my time reviewing kids’ shows for a gay mag. If so, then shame on you. We live in the days of Elton and David having nippers, and turkey basters selling out as soon as they hit the shelves of Poundland.

Gays have kids! Yay!

Of course, we always have had, but it was a bit of a secret back in the bad old days. And if you haven’t sprogged yet in any of the new ways possible, then I’m sure you’re an auntie, uncle, fairy godfather or mother, or just a big brother or sister to a theatre-hungry nipper. And there are always brownie points on offer for taking the kids off the hands of time-short parents.

Mel CAnyway, so I was reviewing We’re Going on a Bear Hunt at the Lyric and was invited to the party afterwards.

Never having been able to resist the lure of tiny sandwiches and plastic cups of squash I jumped at the chance, which is how I found myself sitting next to a Spice Girl.

Did I chat to her? It’s a sticky situation. Do you chat to the famous person beside you and seem like a fame-hag, or do you ignore them and then seem too-cool-for-school (as they know that you know who they are – or they should do when they were in the most famous girlband of all time)?

No, I didn’t chat. I exchanged a few words about cake and stared hard at the tattoos on her leg. Then I went and got some more teeny sandwiches and squash and a huge slab of cake with thick green icing that tasted of wallpaper paste and I became engrossed in picking that off the sponge hidden below. I looked up and Les Dennis flashed before my eyes. I didn’t want to talk to him.

Partly because of the amount of green icing I’d consumed and partly because of the stupidly hot London weather, I managed to fall completely asleep at the next play I was meant to be reviewing. I’m lucky that I don’t snore. The previous day I’d been sitting in a very sparse audience when a guy two rows behind me had started to grunt and snuffle.

He was on his own with no one near him, so I quietly took my crutch, swung it over my head and gave him a gentle poke.

He woke up with that classic ‘What the fuck?!’ start to see my crutch swinging back over to me. Nothing was said and no more snoring was heard. I was inordinately proud of myself for some reason.

On one of the hottest days in London for years I headed off on a new Boris Bus to the St James Theatre. Have you been on one of these? You’d think there’d be a through breeze but there isn’t. Neither are there windows. A guy sat on the next seat and proceeded to fall asleep on me (this snooziness must have been down to the heat and us Brits just not being used to it). His forehead was touching my bare arm where it was lying in a pool of mixed sweat. Then I saw him start to drool. Enough was enough. A finger rather than a crutch was all that was needed this time. The same ‘What the fuck?!’ start as he looked at me with sleepy, heat-addled eyes. “Does the window open?” he said. I told him no but it didn’t stop him reaching past me to try, so now I had his armpit in my face. Oh the joy of London travel….

KAT CALLS

When I got to the St James’s I too succumbed to sleep.

I blew up my inflatable pillow, hid in a comfy chair behind a big, handily-placed sign, and dropped off.

For an hour and a half. When I woke up the play was due to start in 2 minutes, so I shot in to the auditorium like a lame Roadrunner and just about made it.

I liked the play, The American Plan, and although I was now bright as a button after such a good kip, I couldn’t get comfy due to their stupid, stupid, stupid seats. It’s a new theatre: they should have done much better. Like wooden pews, they sit you bolt upright and with about as much padding. The rake is so acute that if you stand at the top of the theatre you get vertigo (no balcony – it’s an all-in-one), and because of this, yes, everyone can see, but it means there’s no room for feet to go under the seats in front as your floor level is level to the person in front’s middle back (try to explain that better and I guarantee you’ll fail).

This would be fine if they’d left any amount of legroom but they haven’t.

I’m convinced that theatre designers design with children in mind. Or perhaps all theatre designers are Japanese.

The seat width is sometimes so ridiculous that you’re perched on it with your feet taking all your weight. Place any kind of average size man in these sort of seats and he looks like he’s drunk the Drink Me bottle from Alice in Wonderland. They just hurt, and you have to sit on them for a good couple of hours. It’s nuts.

And when you’re a crip like me, imagine what it’s like. I’ve often sat in a theatre dosed with enough Tramadol and Co-dydramol to kill a large horse and I’ve still been in so much pain that I’ve hardly been able to concentrate on the play. Surely there’s got to be a better way? And I don’t mean forcing people to pay more for a comfy seat: there’s enough silly premium seating going on in the West End as it is at the minute. If you say you’re disabled for instance, but don’t need a wheelchair, how about shoving us in a normal chair at the side. Oh no, pardon me. Health and safety.

I did mean to look at where the wheelies would go at the St James’s but didn’t get a chance due to my sprint/hobble in, but I will have a good squizz around next time and get back to you. My money’s on them being asked to perch at the top of the Eiger.

AT THE WORLD’S END

A couple of days later I found myself in an HMV store. Yes, I too was bloody surprised.

Didn’t you all go down, down, down into the pits of retail hell taking everyone’s Christmas vouchers with you, I asked the manager. He looked miffed.

It was rather nice to step back into a record store after such a long time even if it was full of CDs (yuk). I was in Oxford Street, a place I would usually rather bite my own ear off than set foot in, but I was meeting friend James to go to the press night of The Ladykillers and he’d stipulated the meeting point as there was some sort of signing going on (you’ll remember James is the autograph addict).

When I got there I couldn’t see him anywhere in the queue so I walked down to the front where I saw a lot of my London disabled friends. I waved and stepped around a barrier to say hi. The next thing I knew, a huge film poster was thrust into my hand and I was told I could sit down in that seat there. Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, and Edgar Wright then materialised through a door and so I now have a nice The World’s End quad signed by two of the stars and the director, completely by accident. I wish all life was like that….

KAT CALLS

I did manage to find James who was still in the queue and we tubed it to the Strand where he insisted on standing outside the theatre while I went to the sweltering bar upstairs and shouted down to him out of the window. No decorum. He was, of course, standing waiting with his other autograph mates to try to catch famous people which seemed a bit silly as he had a ticket to go in and could just as well catch them inside. Old habits die hard though.

I managed to coax him in eventually and we sat down, doing our best meerkat impressions, trying to spot famous peeps James hasn’t yet got – or has already got, but you can’t have enough can you James?

A couple of Inbetweeners were spotted, a brace of Easties, and a pair of Fast Show faves, Paul Whitehouse and Charlie Higson.

WEB.300.dBoy, has Charlie Higson grown, but only in one way – outwards. His stomach now surpasses a Clarkson and is fast approaching a Pickles. Soon, he’ll have to use a whole two balls of string as a belt, but his face looks, well, like it’s always looked – like Charlie Higson. That’s always odd isn’t it, when someone gets huge but their face stays the same size. They don’t look fat at all, rather more as if they’ve been swimming in a big vat of puffing up liquid while managing not to get their hair wet.

Last time I’d seen Charlie was at a Young James Bond reading some five years ago when he could have contained his girth with one ball of string. I was thinking I’d seen him on Harry and Paul too, but that was HARRY and Paul, you silly cow Kat, not Charlie and Paul. Harry Enfield. Charlie Higson. What’s the difference? A 60 inch stomach so it would seem.

 

I mean, look at the sex god Charlie was in The Higsons. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-DWlwo2IIo

Well, a sex god in an 80’s sort of way (so no way at all really). Now I’ll have that bloody ‘Ooh ahh bedubby dubby dubby’ in my head for the next month or two. It’s already one of those annoying tropes that kicks around my bonce, appearing at disconcerting times. I can’t think of another one at the mo, but I’m sure one will kick in between now and the next Kat Calls and I’ll let you know even more about the inside of my head.

Please feel free to email me yours at kat@gcene.com and I’ll add it to my collection.

Also hiding in the audience was Victoria Wood who we managed to miss completely, and Mel Giedroyc who sat a couple of rows from us with a boy young enough to be her son (which is what he probably was).

To read my review of  The Ladykillers CLICK HERE:

We both rather liked it, but of course seeing it wasn’t good enough for James. His autograph mate had managed to blag a ticket in at the last minute (the box office staff just came out and offered him one – you’d be surprised at how often this happens), so we all trotted round to the stage door and waited. I felt a bit of a dick to be honest when the cast started to trickle out and sign for the only people who were there – us – but I did end up with a programme signed by the whole cast (minus the one I really wanted to see – John Gordon Sinclair. Gregory himself! Oh woes!)

IT’S OUTSIDE MY AREA OF EXPERTISE: I’M AFRAID!!

(That, my dears, is a classic line from Count Arthur Strong which your children, nephews and nieces will be quoting in 40 years time in the manner of “Don’t panic!”

If you don’t know what I’m on about, shame on you, you comedy philistine.

More of the Count next week).

Bracken Moor at the Tricycle was a production I’d heard a lot about so I was pleased when I got the chance to see it but disappointed to discover it was a bog standard Victorian melodrama. Right up until the very last five seconds that is, when something happened that gave me the fright of my life.

WEB.300.eThe last time I’d experienced fear like this was when I’d made the mistake of going on an observation big wheel at Goodwood Festival of Speed, a bit like the London Eye but smaller. Smaller, but high enough to make me freak out to the nth degree. Not being good with heights usually only impacts me when I want to get cheap tickets to the theatre and they’re all in the gods. I just can’t do it.

I once got so blind drunk at the BAFTA’s as I had a seat right in the gods at the Royal Opera House that I can’t remember any of the ceremony at all. And I love Stephen Fry.

I was mortified, but it was the only way my mate could actually get me up there.

So I’d seen the wheel and asked (for the life of me I have no idea why) how much it cost and when I got the answer ‘it’s free’, I jumped into a capsule with abandon. I now look back on that moment as one of the stupidest decisions of my life (and I’ve made some spectacularly stupid ones, more of which later).

Two men then jumped in beside son Sid and me, and off we creaked. It was only really then that I realised my mistake. And oh shit was it an oh shit mistake. As we rose, and the ground slowly became a lovely memory, I realised I couldn’t look out of the window at all. I say window, but we were in a see-through bubble, so my only options were to shut my eyes totally and for some reason that seemed worse than what I eventually did: I got a paper out of my bag, put my nose about 3 inches above it as if I was a short-sighted news addict, and I stared at the newsprint and I hummed. I didn’t hum anything you’d recognise; it was just a generic humming sound that occasionally went up and down but mostly stayed on one note.

Sid was revelling in my discomfort. “Cor, look how high we are mummy! Those people look like ants!” but even he, after a while, realised that I was in some real distress and shut the fuck up.

Meanwhile, the two blokes who were sitting in this transparent hellhole with us were being as lovely as lovely could be. They’d also realised I wasn’t exactly happy and said nothing at all for the whole 180 degree journey (oh god, it makes me ill even thinking about that bit at the top when you go from going up to going down).

Anyway, I’ve not been quite as scared as that until Bracken Moor. It’s a cheap theatrical trick really, and I didn’t come out thinking anything more of the play than I had when watching the bulk of it, but it certainly made it bloody memorable (although I’m not going to give it away here, just in case you ever see it).

SO I SAID TO JOHNNY….

I was going to say I’ve lost count of the times I’ve met Johnny Depp but that would be a big bulging lie.

It’s five, but that sounds a lot grander than it really is as they’ve only been brief premiere hello’s rather than convos about his….well, I don’t know. What would you have a conversation with Depp about, if you got past the film he was promoting? We’ll see….

He signed the photo of his own face that my mate Val had given me (I never come prepared) which is odd in itself. I mean, writing your own name on a picture of your own face. Must feel surreal the first few hundred times you do it, but think how many autographs Depp has signed in his life. Millions, d’you reckon? Perhaps when he’s flicking through a magazine and sees a photo of himself his first instinct now is to grab a pen and scrawl on it.

So our convo went like this:

Johnny: Well, hello there. How are you today?

Me: I’m fine thank you. And how are you?

Johnny: I’m fine too thank you

Me: That’s nice

And that was it. Never, ever give me an interviewing job no matter how hard I may beg.

I had more or less the same convo with The Lone Ranger himself, Armie Hammer (no, he’s not a toothpaste), who is a LOT better looking in the flesh than on screen which is saying quite a bit.

I was most taken with his tight red suit. Meowwww….

WEB.F.300I was also pleased to meet the other Treadaway twin, Harry. Luke is currently in The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time at the Apollo. Actually, he probably isn’t by now as I think they’ve had a cast change, but he was the first in the role at the National and stayed with it for a while when it transfered.

I was hobbling down the steps at Leicester Square tube with James the other day when he said as we got to the bottom ‘That’s Luke Treadaway isn’t it?’ I’d missed him as I’d been so concentrating on the steps (as you have to when your legs are shonky), but

I looked up and there he was, disappearing upwards in a very 70’s lime green t-shirt and looking gorgeous.

Harry’s not a patch on Luke, looks-wise, which is strange as they’re identical twins. Ah, but that’s just my opinion. It’s the teeth, you see.

Enough wittering about twins. Where was I? Oh yep, at The Lone Ranger premiere. We walked the white carpet. Oh those wacky PR peeps at Disney. “Having a red carpet is so passé. How about white? Yeah, cos his horse, whadayacallit, is white isn’t it!”

Some other bright spark had then added to the mix by suggesting bringing the ACTUAL HORSE that played Silver over from America to be at the prem. That’s what the loud speaker told us anyway. Horseshit, I said.

They’ve just got a horse from the nearest…..horse place, and got someone dressed as the Lone Ranger to drive it (drive?!) along the white carpet, thus in very quick smart time making the white carpet a brown carpet.

Honestly. Even I could have seen that one coming and as you can see, I’m no equine expert.

So with the mix of horse shit and London dirt carried on people’s feet, by the time we got to walk it (late, as we’d wanted to meet the stars), it was the colour of the Thames on a bad sewer day.

We took our front row (I dunno how I did it either) seats and watched footage of the last hour in Leicester Square on the big screen. Thus, I saw my scintillating Depp convo played out on a 30 foot screen and so did the other 800 people sat in the cinema with me. Thank god there was no mic near us is all I can say.

At premieres, the director, producer and actors always come on stage to introduce the film, so I managed to take some rotten pictures of them in a row before the film started. Now, I’d already managed to see the film at an advanced screening so I put my earplugs in, blew up my pillow and nestled down into the very comfy Odeon seats. I woke up to see the chase scene at the end.

It’s not a great film and it’s now reckoned to be a bit of a turkey, losing Disney millions. I could have told them that for nothing.

WEB.G.600

Depp always seems a most overrated actor to me. He’s got tics and shtick that get him through a film still looking cool, but there isn’t much behind that mask. It’s the cheekbones that make him eternally popular though. I’ve seen grown women and men simply melt in his presence. I just become rather mundane and chat about nothing.

SO I SAID TO BRUCE….

Actually, I said nothing to Bruce Willis as he’s a bit of a meanie when it comes to meeting people. I was at the Red 2 premiere the next day, and did meet Helen Mirren. I was tempted to look closely at the back of her head to see if I could see the pegs holding her face taut, but refrained. I do hate to be horrid to her as she’s always lovely and gracious and sweet, but I did wonder why I’d never noticed how much work she’s had done when watching her on screen. Does she now eschew close-ups? I can’t remember but will try to remember to look next time.

Her cleavage, of course, gives the age game away. It looks like a leather purse that’s been left out in the rain (as does mine).

Getting into the building on the proper red carpet proved a bit of a challenge as they’d built a bridge from the square to the cinema, so as not to impede the flow of tourist feet from the tube station to M&M World (honestly, the amount of bags I see in London from that place!)

This meant I had to hike up two flights to get up there, then another two to get down, but it was worth it just to stand on the top looking down at the people in the Square looking up at me.

I wasn’t allowed to fall asleep at this one as my mate Cathy sat next to me and nudged me whenever there was a ‘funny’ bit in the film just to make sure I was still awake. I sat there grumpily. It is a dire, dire film. Dreadful. And a waste of all the talents involved.

If I’d have seen the film before the director got on the stage to introduce it, I’d have booed him off.

Why do they make films like these? Well, presumably because the first one made money, but still…..

WEB.H.600

What I’ll never understand is that there’s a huge market out there that goes largely untapped – us oldies who’d not go to see a film involving car chases if you paid us. And when a film does come aong that we like – say, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel – we go to the cinema in our droves and make it number one just like that. Perhaps it’s simply easier to make the likes of Red 2, although I can’t see how. Those cars being crunched must cost, and Helen Mirren’s cosmetic surgeon can’t come cheap.

Righto, well, that’s enough for today methinks. Loads more to catch up on but that can wait for another bloody power cut (living in the country they’re more regular than village buses so I expect you won’t have to wait long).

 

THE PRIDE: Trafalgar Studios, London: Review

Four stars

After the clipped 1950’s tones of the first scene of Alexi Kaye Campbell‘s 2008 Olivier award-winning debut, it’s a bit of a shock when the lights go up again to find Mathew Horne standing there in full Nazi regalia.

But The Pride is a shocking play all round.

the pride top

During it’s two and a half hour duration I kept thinking about the excellent programme notes I’d just read regarding the ‘monstrous martyrdoms’ leading to gay and lesbian equality.

How far we’ve come, I thought, from 1958 when half the play is set, how far, from the ‘gross indecency’ trials that frightened all gay men into silence and a world of fear and recriminations, and a theatre that couldn’t even use the word ‘homosexual’, let alone depict it.

But this is the repressed world that Oliver (a terrific Al Weaver), a writer of children’s books, Philip (Harry Hadden-Paton), an estate agent, and Sylvia (Hayley Atwell), a book illustrator, inhabit.

Philip and Sylvia are in a marriage they both know is a brittle sham (although it’s not without its real affection), when Sylvia introduces the shy, intelligent Oliver to her bluff husband, not realising and realising what’s very likely to occur.

What does occur is not often seen – apart from the explosive conclusion of their relationship – but is discussed in the clipped tones of the time, so reminiscent of Rattigan or Coward. Oliver and Philip have ‘an understanding,’ and when the dreaded ‘H’ word is mentioned, by Sylvia talking about her theatre friend who killed himself (“I think he must have been a……homosexual, Philip”) in an attempt to get her husband to open up, the air freezes in the room.

Running parallel, and skillfully interwoven, is the story of three more lives, the lives of very similar people – Oliver, Philip and Sylvia again – living in a freer age, half a century on.

the pride middle

The same actors play the same parts in the different ages, sometimes leaping from one to the other whilst on stage, creating two narratives that interweave, echo, clash and compliment. This isn’t a simple ‘compare and contrast’ of the eras though: the characters in each age are too well-defined and believable in themselves for that, and the play itself far too layered. The device never feels tricksy and the piece never contrived.

The modern characters are preparing for Pride. Philip has left Oliver over the latter’s addiction to casual sex, leaving best friend Sylvia to pick up the pieces. Oliver hears voices, he says. They call his name, and on Soutra Gilmour’s wonderfully dark, sparkling set, we see Philip (whether it’s his past or present incarnation isn’t made clear) calling out to Oliver, in a spine-tingling moment of connection.

Kay Campbell has a fine ear for both period and modern dialogue and the staccato rhythm of the 50’s scenes are wonderfully complimented by the sprawl and comparative sloppiness of the modern ones. Everything appears so neat, so tidy, so….so, in the former, like a jagged, glittering surface hiding a deep, dark abyss of turmoil, whereas the latter is casual, louche, knowing, but this time hiding a different sort of turmoil: the angst behind the ‘we can have it all now but we’re still not happy’ generation. Is Oliver happier in the present day than the past? Is Philip? Sylvia, the straight character, is ironically the only one who seems in any way liberated.

Al Weaver is the stand out as the two Olivers, his lithe frame managing to make the past Oliver look delicate and intellectual, and the present one kittenish and needy. It’s difficult to take your eyes off him when he’s on stage, while Harry Hadden-Paton makes you still feel for past Philip even after the despicable thing he ends up doing. Hayley Atwell is assured in both her parts, not losing her grip on either for a second.

The one gripe I have is Mathew Horne. Playing three minor but essential parts – a rent boy, an editor of a lads’ mag, and a psychiatrist – he’s just not got the depth to quite pull the acting feat off in such company. When his ‘editor’ suddenly switches gear in a rant about how things have changed in the lads’ mag business, to talk about his uncle who died of AIDS, the shift is too abrupt and he only just squeaks through.

The others carry out these very abrupt changes and transformations with aplomb on the marvellous, sparse set, made up of a huge square mirror with the silver rubbed through at the back to give a ghostly, gilded, period feel. The different ‘ages’ pass by each other on stage, in the gloom, as if ghosts brushing past one another. But which one is real and which the ghost? It’s these super evocative echoes that make this play so special, and that are superbly handled by Jamie Lloyd who also directed its debut at the Royal Court five years ago.

Kaye Campbell‘s writing mixes with ease the banal and the profound, and he injects enough humour to balance out the extremely tense moments that run through the play. It’s a sensitively handled piece as you’d imagine, but there are no kid gloves on show either: it pulls its punches hard and grabs your throat with a tenacious grip when it wants.

the pride end

Go see, if only for the excellent and moving protest against what’s happening in Russia presently, that the cast display at the curtain call. A standing ovation was richly deserved for both the play and the sentiments.

WHAT: The Pride

WHERE: Trafalgar Studios, Whitehall, London

WHEN: Until November 9

TICKETS: £24.50 – £65

MORE INFO: view: http://www.trafalgar-studios.co.uk/The-Pride.html

RUNNING TIME: 2 hours 20 (with interval)

WOULD I GO AGAIN: Yep. Fab acting, fab cast, fab writing, fab directing, fab protest

 

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