Reviews

2010

Liverpool Unity, Where the Solitary Eagle Flies

May 20-22
3* Reviewed for Whatsonstage

Not just policemen…playwrights seem to be getting younger these days. David Hutchinson looks to be in his early 20s yet already has six plays to his credit, plus the Everyman and LIPA and theatre company Sell A Door on his CV. So imagine, as he says, ‘The excitement of seeing your work come alive on the stage.’ And that the audience could be witnessing the start of a brilliant career, since he has quite a gift for creating dialogue, particularly humour, and characters.

You could be forgiven for thinking oh, here we go again: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, but there’s a considerable twist. Problem is, there’s also too much twisting and turning in an ambitious, untidy plot, with inconsistency and non sequiteurs. All this robs it of the opportunity to be truly moving, with relying heavily on coincidence and contrivance, such as the reason for the offputtingly portentous title. Things get pretty confusing; had I not overheard somebody’s explanation, it would have been difficult to tell how the first half ended.

It’s also a set of two halves, basically: Rachel’s home versus Afghanistan, for Jake joins the Army after they break up. And some interesting touches though they remain just that rather than being put to greater use, eg, dance, which is her occupation. However, scenes are not always differentiated clearly enough, nor the time-line; worse still, the ending rushes up, more like Tardis trickery than deus ex machine. Jake’s Army colleague unexpectedly takes on a crucially different role, Lee McPherson having presented Michael with great  relish, the kind of hard man who has it running right through him like a stick of rock, and probably tattooed (and mispelt) as well. Unfortunately, the Glasgow accent is undecipherable at times, likewise some of Army scenes, more chaos than action.

Back home, Rachel takes up with Saul; Herman Gambhir does well with little to play with, more understudy than a serious rival to Jake, though Sarah Wolff is appealing as the cute Charlotte, employee turned quietly desperate girlfriend. But Jack Cosgrove and Jessica Spalis are splendid as Jake, an endearingly complex hero, matched by the delightful Rachel: partners in crime but genuinely sympathetic characters.

Fail better, said Beckett. Flaws notwithstanding, this is a filmic, engrossing play so it’d be shame if you felt it’s not one to watch. Because as a playwright, David Hutchinson certainly is.

Liverpool Everyman
Kursk

May 12-15

3* Reviewed for Whatsonstage

Talk about suffering for your art, or art imitating life; this eerie play, written by Bryony Lavery, is the closest most of us are likely to get to being inside a submarine.
Having to leave behind coats, bags etc before entering the auditorium immediately makes you think of security risks, so tension sets in from the start. It rarely lets up, though interspersed with the boring minutiae of everyday routine on a British sub’s covert journey north. The men constantly reiterate instructions and actions, passing the time with repeated games, japes etc. Amongst other things, which provides an amusing subplot; a genuine anticlimax.
Earnest coxswain, Donnie Mac (Jonah Russell), is studying poetry, and learning about haiku provides a useful metaphor: maximum impact via few words and constraint of form. Laurence Mitchell produces an effective portrayal of a not altogether effective commander, particularly when faced with dilemma, counterpointed by Keir Charles as Casanova Ken. There’s an excellent performance from Ian Ashpitel as the other Donnie (Black), as well as Tom Espiner, touching New Dad Mike.
Dialogue is occasionally inaudible, but we learn more about the men through voiceovers: messages from the folks at home. While some of these back stories seem painfully obvious, the outcome is more unexpected, if seemingly contrived. Unfortunately, it ends up reminiscent of those headlines ‘Millions dead in earthquake; British man breaks ankle’. Thus with novelty at times drowning out nuance, the plot is in danger of being overwhelmed by the intricate set and the amazing effects (take your place on the upper level and you’d swear it’s actually moving). Sophisticated use of sound in particular recreates a claustrophobic and intense experience.
However, the title is a misnomer with the production taking the form of Greek Chorus, though writ large, say, Oh What a Lovely War narrated by a member of the audience. It limits understanding and ultimately, engagement. The most dramatic part of the play may involve the doomed sub and its horrifying tragedy but takes up a fraction of the running time. Worse still, the most harrowing scene seemed out of place, when it would have made a stunning conclusion.
That said, worth attending because Sound&Fury have come up with an astonishing theatrical experience. But some may feel it’s a shame about the play.

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Liverpool Playhouse, Canary

April 23 - May 15; touring

3*, reviewed for Whatsonstage

So many skeletons in the closet here, every gay in the village is out of it. The play centres (le mot juste; every character seems completely self-obsessed) on two sets of star-crossed lovers, Russell the Saturday night chat show host being the main one. He and Mickey date back to the 1980s, while Tom and Billy are growing up Liverpool in the 1960s. We are also treated to modern day drama, including a prologue, would you believe, with Mary Whitehouse.

The set is splendidly dramatic: two halves of a globe set back to back, like a huge brooding moon floating overhead but also a dangerous backdrop where people perch, and a raked stage (makes remarks about going upstairs rather daft). Back and forth we go, props and furniture whizzed on and off, from posh sitting room to stark cell, nightclub to hospital room.

Ben Allen (Mickey) could hardly be more prickly if coloured green but garners most of the sympathy, matched by the terrific Kevin Trainor, a winning Billy, young and old; he may appear a bit of a loser, but emerges as one of the stronger characters. Philip McGinley is perhaps more convincing as the young, troubled Tom, Philip Voss coming into his own more in the scenes with Mickey than those in the family home. Ryan Sampson is a vibrant Russell in his younger days, so over the top you’d think he’ll never come up again; Sean Gallagher plays him sadder and a wee bit wiser in his heyday. And two ladies to single out: Tom’s daughter and his wife, with Jodie McNee a poignant Melanie, nervously wrecked. The splendid Paula Wilcox is excellent as Ellie, but it’s as if the playwright didn’t quite know what to do with her other than grant a triumphant finish.

Whilst this epic story of the evolution of Gay Rights and life is fascinating and horrifying by turn, in some parts there seemed a lot of messing about, though much of the audience relished the hefty symbolism, flights of fancy, Pythonesque interludes and magic realism.

‘History repeats itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce’; Jonathan Harvey has got that right in riveting fashion, particularly the comedy. The love which dare not speak its name? Shouts it out, loud and proud, and pretty damn graphically at times. But in the main, ‘Canary’ hits all the right notes, and oh yes, it sings.

Liverpool Everyman
Ghost Boy

April 20-24
4*
When a list of words is reeled out: community; violence; bad language, you may start adding your own: preaching; obvious; boring. That would be a mistake. Just mix in some like: music, dance, rap, yes, even graffiti-style art, mime and puppets, and - result: a most original piece of theatre. Top marks to 20 Stories High and Birmingham Repetory Theatre, and to everybody involved in bringing this to life.

When somebody loses a child, they would give anything – anything, to see them again. But Jamal, who had had Michael constantly pestering him, is haunted by the Ghost Boy and ends up at the mercy of all his demons. And although his gang run riot through the Lemonade Estate, he eventually turns to the vigilante, Dennis.

The basic staging of a bridge with one set of steps is enhanced by a video screen, with a range of surreal props. Just as bizarre is the gang, represented by cardboard cutouts à la Gorillaz, never mind the outfit Dennis sports as ‘Fly Man’, determined not just to clean up the estate but transform it into paradise. Much of the dialogue gives rise to considerable comedy,  but in best Shakespearian tradition, there is tragedy to deal with and the inevitability of dilemma. Although the second half is a little long winded in places, it builds up into poignant resolution.

The use of language gives the play magical powers, from authentic dialogue and astonishing metaphor to lyrics, expertly rapped. All complemented superbly by Hannah Marshall on the cello and Hobbit as Beatboxer, an incredible one man band of sound effects.

Everal A. Walsh as the Narrator tells us about Michael, then masterfully turns Dennis into an unlikely hero; we are laughing more with him, not at him, for all his batty ideas. As for Tachia Newall, exuding lethal bad boy cool and never apologizing, explaining or showing gratitude, he does a sterling job in making Jamal sympathetic. Courtney Hayles, stuck with a head which makes him look like the bastard offspring of Frank Sidebottom and Crazy Frog, is quite incredible. Purely through dance and gesture, he evokes pathos in Michael and menace in the Ghost Boy.

An enthralling, fantastic production, in every respect. The enthusiastic audience may have largely comprised fans, friends and family but that first will soon expand once news gets out: the kind of drama which should appear in every theatre, in every town.

Liverpool Playhouse
Oh What A Lovely War

March 30-April 3
Touring til May 22

More déjà vu… the first time I saw this play was at Chester, staged in a big top. I still remember the shock of the new; the ferocity of the satire, the horror of the statistics. But comparisons are odious, and as the tickertape remorselessly rattles past on the backdrop, those colossal figures are still hard to take in: lives lost in a matter of hours; all the men who went missing.

On a ramshackle stage covered in odds and ends, back and forth we go, from the end of the pier show all set to entertain us to the scenes of war which appal us. Past or present, it’s all chaotic and noisy. The cast are jumbled in a bizarre mix of clothing, dressed to the nines in one scene then changing to uniform to be blown to smithereens in another. Likewise, they take on multifarious roles and are equally accomplished on a wide variety of instruments, and with the cast list being based on their musical abilities, let’s just say that if it was Gary Kitching as the mc, he was excellent at rousing the audience and holding the whole thing together.

Interestingly, dialogue in French and German was not always translated; unfortunate that the translator’s accent was far better than the French General’s. However, to a man…and a woman, the cast did a terrific job, whether dealing with comedy or tragedy, rousing anthems or plaintive ballads. But such excellence is to be expected when you have actors of the calibre of Propeller’s Robert Hands.

Memorable scenes included the one showing Christmas spirit shared by the two sides in No Man’s Land, in contrast with their arrogant, callous leaders. And grouse shooting back in Blighty revealed the extent of the despicable profiteering: they say you can’t get blood from a stone but you can certainly make millions out of blood and guts.

One can only imagine the impact this remarkable play first had, back in 1963 - and a pity that it’s impossible to imagine a time when it will no longer be relevant.

Liverpool Everyman
Medea

February 23-27
touring til April

If we are to beware of Greeks bearing gifts, what are we to make of productions which appear to add very little to the original play? Having seen this done so magnificently back in 1993 with Diana Rigg, I had my doubts whether it could be bettered. It wasn’t. And those who have never seen Medea may be doomed to end up very disappointed.

Many people know the story about the witch who slaughtered her children for revenge when her husband betrayed her. More likely, they know, generations on, that this harrowing deed is unbelievably so often still being done.

This may be meant to be an unsentimental version. Far from showing any remorse, she glories in her vengeance, but it borders more on ramshackle pantomime than stark tragedy. Medea, Jason and Creon all so over the top, they are caricatures at best, monsters at worst while other cast members make distinctly uneasy efforts. Nina Kristofferson is magnificently wicked but inhumanly so, with Andrew Pollard almost outdoing her as the loathsome Jason. In fact, only Fine Time Fontayne lives up to his name, and passes muster as the Tutor and Aegeus. However, Barrie Rutter does make a wonderful job of the Messenger. Perhaps it is because the dialogue soars in a few scenes, like this one, or when Medea is torn between being mother or murderess, that elsewhere it jars the ear, right from the start.

Costume at least is generally impressive, Medea being stunningly gowned and the toffs smart, if incongruous, in pale suits. The set is pretty magnificent: all earth colours, from terracotta to blazing red, dominated by a platform bearing a massive chariot built like a collision between a crown and a skeleton. But some effects are distractingly odd; eventually it is possible to make out it’s children’s sandals dangling from her hands at the end (no, not scalps – or was that the idea?). And in some scenes, the music works well, when evoking magic rituals or the discord of the unholy, but oh dear Lord, so disruptive when aiming for ‘My woman done me wrong’ type blues, and as for the Chorus whipping out mouth organs…

And we know plays have to sell, as was made clear in the after show discussion. Maybe the packed audience largely felt they had got their money’s worth. But too much bathos all round, and considering this is meant to be a horrifying play, sadly, it was mostly for all the wrong reasons; all that passion, gone to waste when it is something with which it feels impossible to engage emotionally.

A palpable miss? Adventurous take on the traditional? Or a plunge into self-indulgence – you’ll just have to make your own mind up. Still, as Beckett said, ‘fail better’ and Northern Broadsides will no doubt come storming back.

Liverpool Everyman

February 11-13
The Dreadful Hours; Tmesis Theatre

Reviewed for whatsonstage:

It’s the oldest story we know – or the most obvious; all together now: boy meets girl, boy loses girl… but what happens once boy gets girl?

The clue is in the title, perhaps too obviously, but fortunately it is not a self-fulfilling prophecy since Chris Fittock has come up with an inventive exploration of one couple’s relationship, craftily aided and abetted by director Javier Marzan from Peepolykus.

And talk about ups and downs. Given that the stage is set only with a table, set for dinner, it is quite amazing what can be done with that single piece of furniture, particularly since throughout, whatever they are doing or wherever they are, it is, quite clearly, a dinner table. So other than the two chairs and a kind of large scale mosaic of mirrors on the backdrop, it is all down to Elinor Randle and Yorgos Karamelgos, and they fare brilliantly. And make a meal of it, whether dancing, shouting, eating, making love or fighting. Everything is carried out with skill and passion, interspersed with silent pauses to do Pinter proud. Right from the start, you’re thrown into the deep end as the scene switches rapidly back and forth between the two of them getting ready to go out.

One could be picky; it is very noisy at times, and almost as if human failings have been evenly doled out: she nags; he is stubborn; she drinks; he is obsessive.  You also wonder which came first, his character or the fact that he is not English, since that may have a bearing on the dialogue; at one point, his speech is constantly corrected yet clichés must be one of the first things you get the hang of, through sheer repetition. However, the play is well structured, flashbacks being cleverly interposed with the depiction of an anniversary meal, and the humour, particularly the timing and control in the clowning and the acrobatics, is marvelous.

They say good things come in small parcels and this hour long production is lovingly presented; the audience lapped it up. So does it all end in tears or happily ever after? Only one way to find out.
Ghost Stories

Liverpool Playhouse, February 4-20

Upon bumping into my always argumentative, always right ex-husband for the first time in months, he suddenly said, ‘I owe you an apology – you were right and I was wrong.’ Umpteen possibilities there, but got it one: ‘John and David Suchet are not twins.’  Pure coincidence? Certainly, far stranger things have happened, and this play has to be one of them because most attempts at staging horror are dreadfully difficult. And usually, just dreadful.

Relax, you are in the safe hands of two of the chaps from the League of Gentlemen. What could possibly go wrong? Well, we are politely requested not to give the game away… but the cast has to come in for praise: Andy Nyman (Professor Philip Goodman); David Cardy (Tony Matthews); Ryan Gage (Simon Rifkind); Nicholas Burns (Mike Priddle).

What I can tell you is that the acting, setting, effects and plot are compelling, convincing and very clever for the main part, all the more so since there are mundane explanations for the ghostly goings on. The main problem with this genre is that when people get nervous, they cannot help giggling which has a disastrous effect on the atmosphere. However, humour, and very dark it is too, is most artfully deployed, precisely to lull the audience into a false sense of security. Above all, particularly through use of menacing sounds and lighting, it is horribly realistic, playing on that out of the corner of your eye frisson and building up to a chilling climax. It even subverts that notorious conclusion: ‘Then I woke up and it was all a dream’.

Sure, depending on your favourite reading matter/film, there are echoes of things like ‘Don’t Look Now’ and ‘Quatermass and the Pit’. And there are some surreal touches, confusing bits, and even a little trickery involved, which may distract slightly from the sinister, and you do have to suspend disbelief; cars that have broken down don’t usually move or have half the interior on show. But oh yes, it works. The tension is almost unbearable in some scenes. Your imagination is going to be working overtime, and for quite a while afterwards too.

With tragedy, we expect to be moved to tears while comedy should make us split our side laughing. With the supernatural, of course, we are expecting the impossible. So does this play do what it says on the can - can it live up to the publicity of the sinister brand? Do you really want to know what it’s all about? I dare say you do, and there’s only one way to find out…

The Circus of Horrors: The Day of the Dead

Floral Pavilion, New Brighton: January 31
Touring

Reviewed for whatsonstage:  http://www.whatsonstage.com/reviews/theatre/northwest/E88312651977/Circus+of+Horrors+%28Tour+%96+Wirral%29.htmlhttp://www.whatsonstage.com/reviews/theatre/northwest/E8831265197740/Circus+of+Horrors+%28Tour+%96+Wirral%29.html

Lucky you’re in a theatre and not a dark alley, but - does it do what it says on the can? Probably, for the Politically Correct/Health & Safety fraternity (or were you anticipating chainsaws?). However, it doesn’t quite live up to what it says in the programme (some of it in Spanish): duels to the death, star-crossed lovers, etc. And who exactly was Sante Muerte? So, a somewhat pick and mix plot, basically the vehicle for circus acts, and those involving blades with no proof of sharpness, seemed fake, yet, ironically, traditional stunts, eg, using hula hoops, received the biggest ovation.

Early 1900, allegedly, and following a brief respite in a fairly realistic sanatorium (I imagine), it’s off to a former Aztec Warriors’ burial ground and Day of the Dead rituals to bring leader Dr Haze back to life. And… well, that’s it. Still, The Interceptors from Hell are an excellent band, and if music (and special effects) are not quite up to the standard of the average Empire of the Sun video, make-up and costume are a close run. And the lighting zig zagged a bit too much, but hell, circuses are the epitome of tacky, chaotic charm. Bit creepy though, and gruesome in parts (kindly displayed on video) – definitely don’t try this at home, unless you plan to become the stuff of Urban Legend and the talk of the local A & E.

The cast list is also odd; hard sometimes to tell performer and role apart. Or to believe the spiel, eg what continent the Aztec Warriors are from. Nor any idea who was the mc - though probably turned down for ‘Cabaret’, while the narrator, the good Doktor himself may have auditioned for a few bands in his time; Kiss, perhaps. But they both niftily stir things up, and the ladies were pretty spectacular, modelling the top shelf/top price Anne Summers range, while playing saxophone upside down, roller-skating, or cracking the whip and living on the edge, like Anastasia IV (Paseante de Hoja), a name which implies royalty, or a Spinal Tap drummer.

A company proud of being a Freak Show may have met its match with a packed cosplay audience whose members scrambled over the seats to examine Hannibal Helmerto at close range.  Floats your boat? Well, this sort of terrestrial Flying Dutchman will be at Liverpool and Manchester shortly. Hasta la vista.

Liverpool Empire, April 21-25
Riverdance
On tour – probably for ever

Well, it’s been a long time coming, being the first visit to a show which was created back in 1995 – tho clearly surrounded by longterm aficianados. I’m not such a huge fan of dance in any shape or form either, nor had much idea of what the production involved, but this turned out to be an amazing experience.

At first, it seemed a little portentous, but skilfully skirted pomposity as any of the dancers, so that the result was powerfully moving. If examined closely, it’s a little contrived, though well put together enough for the joins to be nigh invisible in providing not just variety but startling originality. The wonderfully judged balance of old and new was fascinating, from ‘Shivna’, almost classical ballet portraying the myth of Mad Sweeney, right up to date with ‘Trading Tap’s. Other highlights included ‘Firedance’ and ‘Andalucia’, and the incredible prowess of the dancers in ‘The Russian Dervish’.

The imposing set has a gigantic video screen fronted by steps and flanked by megaliths, with the band to one side, and it has to be said, each component: music, singing and dance, fit together with exquisite smoothness. Costume admittedly is dazzling in every sense of the word; yellow, blue, orange and red, to give one example, is better suited to a flower bed (and what’s with the black woolly school tights?). And the female singers are sternly clad in offputtingly futurist outfits. On the other hand, the female dancers seem to have the advantage for the men sometimes seem to be graduates of the Academy of Silly Walks (and maybe just me, but reminiscent of Kenneth in ’30 Rock’). Plus the Duelling Banjos theme was maybe too heavy an influence throughout but clearly established fiddler Niamh Fahy as the outright winner.

Unfortunately, it’s not possible to single out the soloists but quite, quite sure any one of them would perform with equal expertise. However, brilliant as each of them is, it’s when the entire troupe take to the stage, the chorus line really does come into its own, Busby Berkley on speed, damn near bringing the house down.

Such an exhilarating evening deserved the tumultuous reception; the applause, need I tell you, was thunderous.