2009
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: Floral Pavilion, New Brighton
www.floralpavilion.co.uk
See also, Regional Reviews section:
www.whatsonstage.com/index.php?pg=207&story=E8831261476210
December 19-January 10
3*
Even at this time of year, you can have too much of a good thing; three hours for a panto is asking a lot of an audience. And the show is packed with all kinds of goodies, with guest appearances from the Honey Monster and Ken Dodd (the Mirror), plus some pretty clever ideas. But it’s atmosphere which makes a panto, and a shame this particular performance turned out at best a draw for audience participation and the hard working cast.
Unfortunately, songs and singing, though pretty good, were occasionally defeated by sound and music, the dialogue hindered by crackling microphones. And while Steve Coughlin and the Pantomime Store’s staging, if not technically sophisticated, was simply effective, lighting design (Dave Sherlock & Sarah Reedman) was not altogether spot on. But let’s concentrate on the good bits, for instance, the Seven Dwarves/Garden Gnomes themselves, cleverly updated (oh yes they were; see for yourself), with a craftily Tardis like cottage interior. The traditional Transformation finale as splendid as the scene where the Wicked Queen casts her evil spell: hum along to ‘Carmina Burana’ (though it rather drowned her out), imagine a Heavy Metal video, and you’ll get the picture, thanks to Musical Director Eric White.
Puppetry in the Haunted Forest was nicely done, enhanced by cute kiddies in even cuter costumes, with the cast in general well dressed by Pat Watts, Marie & Eve & Splitz: Snow White, naturally, Fairy Snowflake (Caroline Barnes, as lively as she was lovely), and Queen Grizelda’s surprisingly tasteful outfits; Pauline Daniels doing a first class job as usual. The Royal Tax Collector, Adam Curtis, was clad in well designed black togs making him even more sinister - Prince Rupert had to contend with boots more like waders; would have fitted a mountain lion, never mind Puss. But Russ Spencer dispatched all his problems with panache, to win over Kate Mellors’ delightful Snow White. And finally, comedy is of course the mainspring of pantomime; Pete Price (Muddles) and Roy Brandon (Nurse Glucose) are so adept, they could do this in their sleep.
As there don’t seem to be that many productions of Snow White, if you’ve lost count of Cinders and don’t fancy yet another Aladdin, why not try this for size? Particularly since it’s set in a beautifully restored theatre, and one with a fantastic view - a match hopefully, for future reviews.
December 1 -January 23
The Snow Queen: Unity, Liverpool
www.unitytheatreliverpool.co.uk
See also, Regional Reviews section:
www.whatsonstage.com/index.php?pg=207&story=E8831261137730
4*
The best pantomimes are all about getting in touch with your inner child, and in many ways, this succeeds, thanks to the adaptation by Patrick Dineen with dramaturg Mike Kenny. However, that’s down to the stylish setting, atmospheric lighting (Phil Saunders), music (Dineen again) and sound (Mary Cummings), gorgeous costumes and the acting.
Unfortunately, it has gone and lost the plot somewhat, almost completely with a sanitised ending which seems to peter out. And we all know this story, don’t we, boys and girls? Oh yes we do: basically, boy and girl are friends, boy vanishes, girl searches everywhere and eventually rescues him. And there’s the wicked Snow Queen, who captivates and captures Kai after he takes to heart a piece of glass. And there’s the wizard whose broken mirror causes all the trouble, and there’s a polar bear (a spritely Lucy Fiori - all in grey). No, I don’t remember those bits either and some felt as if tacked on for comic effect. And yes, this is how bitty it was. Confusion all round and a restless young audience.
However, Graeme Skingle’s set is cunningly designed with a stairway leading to a mysterious, screened corridor which conveys a sense of space and enhances the main action, particularly when the Snow Queen slinks on. Props are simple but effective; you can almost see the snow and feel the cold. Plus full credit for the use of trailing drapery, which must be a Health and Safety nightmare, likewise, Laura Hollowell’s splendid costumes. All look most authentic with rich colours and fabrics, although hard to picture a bright green Primark style satin dressing gown going to a ball.
Singing (though occasionally drowned out by the music) and dancing was folksy cum traditional, while acting was occasionally on the valiant side; there’s more to being a grandmother than a pair of spectacles. But Lauren Silver was excellent as Gerda, who after all, must be one of the original feisty heroines, well matched by Jamie Stuart as Kai. As for their evil counterparts, Rosie McLaughlin with her elegant almost balletic gestures was an exquisitely wicked Queen, while Filippo Fiori is so good as a wizard you suspect it must be his day job.
To be honest, this should be 3 stars but it has clearly been lovingly produced with its heart in the right place. And it is Christmas after all.
Dick Whittington
Liverpool Everyman, November 28-January 23
‘Adopt, adapt, improve’ is a motto which this pantomime lives up to, wholeheartedly as ever. OK, the only characters you’re likely to recognise are the hero, his cat and King Rat, and the plot has been dragged kicking and screaming (with laughter of course) from 14th to 20th century but what a lot of fun on the way. Actually, the plot is that convoluted, I’ll leave you the joy of fathoming it out, but suffice it to say that rather than Dick’s rags to riches tale, he’s now on an Indiana Jones type quest to save the world by defeating the dastardly rodent and finding a sacred rock with the help of a former Egyptian goddess… I did say it was complicated. And hilarious. And entertaining. And the usual marvellous mix of the traditional with the right up-to-date.
As for the format, like they say, if it ain’t broke… and this Panto fix is as addictive as ever with the usual running gags, like the vehicle which refuses to run, and cunning extras such as the use of puppetry plus inventive props and scenery. The cast are just as adept as a band; interesting how some songs seem made for Panto, like the Kaiser Chief’s ditties. And all the actors always seems to be enjoying themselves as much as the audience, even getting the giggles, particularly with the rivalry/romance between toothsome twosome, Adam Keating (Warren) and Francis Tucker (Dottie Doolittle), aka Alderman Fitzwarren, now a museum owner and Sarah the Cook, upgraded to housekeeper – both of them evidently using Ugly Betty’s stylist. Never mind having the audience eat out of the palm of their respective hands, they can have everybody in an uproar with a mere twitch of eyebrow or lip.
New boy Joseph Attenborough is a cut above the usual soppy hero, and he can hold a tune, and the audience with his excellent comic timing. Just as good, well, bad: Matthew Quinn, another upgrade from last year’s gosling to this year’s rat, somehow manages to combine being rather silly with a shot of charisma, capturing that dangerous appeal which makes a first class villain.
It has to be said that with some of the minor roles, it’s a matter of blink and you’ll miss them, but there’s certainly a Christmassy feel with the bevy of beauties: Nicky Swift, ever popular Good Fairy as the delightful Fairy Lights, Karen Paullada as lively heroine Scout and Sarah Vezmar vamping it up like a Cat-for-Lashes. What’s more, not only can they dance and act, all three are fantastic singers, with wonderful renditions of such classics as ‘You don’t have to say you love me’.
Oh yes: roll up, roll up to The Everyman where as always, pantomime really rocks.
Liverpool Playhouse, December 3 -January 16
The 39 Steps
If your idea of a Christmas show is all singing, all dancing, what about going in for something which is all action - something which really is completely different? This production is so fast paced, you’ll feel that no sooner have you sat down than the play, alas, is all over. Possibly not as exhausted as the four actors though, who play over 100 characters; talk about swapping hats, and yes, that is one of the running jokes. An adaptation of Buchan’s novel, filmed by Hitchcock, it would have both of them turning over in their grave: doubled up laughing.
When handsome hero Richard Hannay visits the theatre one night, he has a brief encounter with the mysterious Annabella Schmidt who is mysteriously murdered but not before she imparts some vital clues about the mysterious 39 steps. On the run from the police, Hannay heads North where he braves umpteen hazards, encounters all sorts of strange events and characters, and many more mysteries before returning to London where everything is solved, and they all live happily ever after. Apart from Annabella, and the villain of the piece of course.
There’s a lot of different scene setting, from Highland cottage to mansion; rented flat to theatre. As for the exterior, this includes up hill and down dale and the mystical escape across the top of a train and the bottom of a bridge. Actual scene shifting has to be seen to be believed; no discreet tiptoeing around in dimmed light with the props –furniture is even whistled onto stage like a large, bouncy hound invited to go walkies. How this is all accomplished is most inventive, particularly in truly worst case scenarios, where the cast blithely make very little attempt at all to be convincing, eg crowd scenes. At best, this is hilarious tho eventually perhaps not quite that funny with being a bit too knowing in places, rather too pleased with itself; it becomes obvious that every single little mishap eg phones not ringing on time, is very carefully contrived.
That said, the cast are simply spiffing. Dugald Bruce-Lockhart has such a stiff upper lip, it’s a wonder he can get his words out, and he could give James Bond a run for his money, although that kind of misogyny does not go down too well these days. Or perhaps it’s the way heroine Pamela ends up swapping feisty so easily for housewifely; Katherine Kingsley (trebling up as the mysterious Annabella and Margaret who tries to help Hannay out in the Highlands) is just as splendid. However though sparks fly between the two, not quite enough chemistry to be credible, and a somewhat static bedroom scene is more awkward juxtaposition rather than effective contrast with all the mayhem.
But when it comes to double acts, none better than Richard Braine and Dan Starkey (each very helpfully labelled as ‘Man’ in the programme), absolutely the making of this play. Not just as foils for the deadly serious Hannay, but a joy in every scene, whether reminiscent of Clouseau or that sinister couple out of League of Gentlemen. From ultra swift change artists to their most innovative use of props, almost anthropomorphic in being transformed into virtually anything, they even manage to make mime wholly intriguing.
It’s all very tongue in cheek and laughter in abundance; such enthusiasm and energy make it one of the most entertaining plays ever. Jolly good show in fact.
Liverpool Playhouse, October 27-31
On tour until November 28
The Black Album
Oh Lord, not terribly keen on the look of this one, let alone writing a review… all that political stuff, even if it is by a writer like Hanif Kureishi. Still, set in 1989, at least the music should be pretty good (how could it not be, with somebody called Sister Bliss in charge). So not all bad.
In fact, it is pretty good. When Shahid Hasan sets off for the big wide world, from Sevenoaks, his mother worries about him falling in with a bad crowd; as if older brother Chili isn’t trouble enough. But at first, Shahid, a talented writer (and avid Prince fan) seems to make plenty of friends, led by (and there’s a clue) Riaz al Hassain, who even entrusts him to type up his poems. Duly inspired by lecturer Deedee, Shahid gets a bit carried away. Perhaps he has more in common with Salman Rushdie than he could possibly have imagined.
Although the setting appears not much bigger than a shoebox, lighting and video effects are cunningly employed to create different scenes and atmosphere, chillingly effective for the no holds barred ending. And in keeping with the music, people bounce in and out to rearrange the props, evoking Shahid’s digs, Deedee’s house, the college etc.
The cast employed quite a range of accents, and it was interesting to see such a cultural mix, particularly since names do not always reveal origins, or beliefs, come to that. Jonathan Bonnici, passionate and brave, is a most sympathetic hero, in contrast to the equally passionate but rather creepy Riaz (Alexander Andreou), whose followers are a right mixed bunch, since he is largely preaching to the converted. There’s well-meaning Hat (Beruce Khan), whose ambitions stretch dangerously further than accountancy and Deedee’s husband, Andrew Brownlow, a former Marxist Communist; Sean Gallagher pulls off the difficult task of being pretty damn infuriating: when he persists in calling Shahid ‘Tariq’, it’s never clear whether this is convenience or compliment.
Add to this volatile mix, hotheaded Geordie Chad, formerly Trevor (Nitin Kundra), plus Shereen Martineau, excellent both as the devout, devoted Tahira and the shockingly sophisticated, Zulma. Now, the latter has the misfortune to be married to Chili, and Robert Mountford, appropriately enough, steals the show as a sort of Johnny Deptford, a regular Flash Harry in his violet suit. Complete with Beemer and habit. And very curious sidekick, the punk, Strapper, energetically portrayed by Glyn Pritchard).
There are serious issues under discussion here, racism and religion for starters, thought chatted about may be a more accurate description. However, a neat balance is maintained throughout with plenty of comedy, much of it farce; Kureishi has the knack of knowing how and when to make an audience gasp out loud. And talking of free speech, just imagine the uproar if a white writer tackled a subject like this? Ah, but would they make a good job of it? Twice as good, even, because you can go along and watch an intriguing show and read the book.
Liverpool Everyman, October 2-31
www.everymanplayhouse.com
The Caretaker by Harold Pinter
Well, I waited long enough for Godot, and this is the first time I’ve seen anything by Pinter. It’s curious thing attending a play with nothing more than a mixture of vague information and expectations. In the event, it was neither as violent nor as abstract as anticipated, even if the Chekhovian aspect came as a surprise: all the unrealised plans for improvement, though those mythical pauses seemed quite in keeping. It’s not even that easy to sum up: when Aston rescues an old tramp from a fracas, he offers him a place to stay, and a job. But what will brother Mick make of that, and what does the future hold for any of them?
I like the irony of the lovingly prepared set displaying the grubbiest of bedsits crammed with rubbishy flotsam and jetsam. Even more, that title, since none of the three characters seem capable of looking after themselves, although Aston somehow manages to maintain his dapper standards. Quietly obsessive, and very impressive, too, Peter McDonald delivers the most poignant speech which goes some way to explaining his odd behaviour. Mick is just as strange in his own peculiar way: bad cop and good cop all rolled into one, and Tom Brooke deftly garnishes his performance with both an air of menace and some joviality. And talk about like father, like son, because when it comes to attitude and behaviour, Jonathan Pryce could almost be related to him. He is dreadfully convincing as the irascible, garrulous, volatile Davies, constantly swapping allegiance.
But if he tops the triangle, it is sturdily enough supported to form a triumvirate – a credit to all three, particularly for managing to wring out every bit of humour; that the play is at all comical was yet another surprise. However, it could be very hard going with such unsympathetic people, and although the dialogue appears meticulously observed, again, with all the repetition yet so much trailing off or left unsaid, it tends to be alienating. No getting away from it, this is an odd play which is maybe what gives it the power to keep you riveted.
During the interval, I overheard one theatregoer challenge another: ‘So what’s your take on it, then?’ Perhaps I should have waited for an answer, being still myself not fully certain what mine would be. All I can tell you is that it is superbly acted and a piece of theatre history.
Liverpool Playhouse, September 22- October 10
www.everymanplayhouse.com
Kes
A day in the life of Billy Caspar, a typical bolshy adolescent, who has an unexpected and extraordinary passion.
And what a long day it is; some of the scenes, particularly those set in school, seem never-ending. When the headmaster demands rhetorically:
‘ You’re not listening to a word I say.’, sadly, he could be addressing some of the audience, as well as the quartet of miscreants.
Conversely, though it came as a surprise to realise that the play was adhering to one of the three unities, the set spreads its wings to encompass Billy’s house (’home’ would never be the correct description); school; the town; the countryside. And the basic staging is most evocative, from cramped bedroom to open moor but whilst desks could naturally stand in for woods, not the best props, even if convenient, for containing all manner of thing, from shoes to a bird’s nest. More of a distraction than an imaginative leap, as were the dance sequences, tho beautifully executed, particularly by (I think) Oliver Watton, presumably symbolizing Billy’s alter ego, if not the bird herself.
For those of a certain age, of course, there is a pretty deep layer of fascination with something set in the late 60s. And a moot point, since we now seem to have endless cause for complaint - were they really the good old days? The one cheering thought is that a lad like Billy must somehow manage to make something of himself.
Ah, Billy - what a marvellous, marvellous performance from Stefan Butler. Scruffy, surly, apathetic, ignorant (half his dialogue is restricted to the word ‘Dunno’), he tames the audience as painstakingly as he does his beloved Kes, and completely wins us over. An underdog who is hounded by his bemused classmates, his brute of an older brother, Jud, and a mother who clearly puts the ‘feck’ in fecklessness.
In contrast, there’s the glimmer of a rare kind deed in a cruel world: the butcher, the farmer, the librarian, plus of course, the sympathetic teacher, Mr Farthing. Daniel Casey is excellent, as passionate in his own way as Billy, training his pupils by encouraging and inspiring them. A stereotype, perhaps, as are most of the characters but credit where it’s due with a book 30 years old: cliches are a strange combination of familiarity breeding contempt and imitation being the sincerest form of flattery.
Katherine Dow Blyton successfully portrays the mother from hell, ensuring all our sympathy goes to Billy, not least in her somewhat sinister relationship with Jud, whom she seems to fear, despise and adore in equal measure. Oliver Farnsworth paints him almost unremittingly black, even if his accent kept veering south (as far as Wales in one speech), but is very convincing at the end in his struggle with unaccustomed guilt. A pair of ugly characters but well pitched when it could have been risking pantomime villainy.
David Crellin and Oliver Watton, similarly, make effective partners in crime, bullying gym teacher (you’d think this must be a sport in itself, it’s so prevalent) and pupil respectively. And a delightful performance from Peter McGovern as well-meaning pupil, Tibbut, while Mike Burnside as Mr Gryce the headmaster undoubtedly brings back many memories, and not in a good way.
I have to tell you, even the programme made for uncomfortable reading: stinging eyes. So be prepared for this poignant play - and be sure not to miss it: a genuine classic.
Liverpool Playhouse, June 19-July 18
The Hypochondriac, adapted by Roger McGough.
English Touring Theatre; on tour until November 14
www.ett.org.uk
It was during this play, or shortly afterwards rather, hèlas, that Molière died the death. No danger of that happening here, with this adaptation, aka extremely loose translation, from Roger McGough.
Argan, though fit as a fiddle, is so obsessed with matters medical he fails to notice that his beloved wife is not exactly good for his health. Indeed, she’s the one doing the fiddling, as bad for his bank balance as are all the doctors he is forever summoning. What a stroke of luck, for her, when he decides to marry off his daughter to a medicine man, to have his own doctor on call, or if she disobeys, pack her off to a convent, leaving Madame all that lovely argent. That is, until loyal, loquacious maidservant Toinette, the epitome of quick-witted, decides things need sorting out.
Admittedly, the staging seemed innovative at first: working backwards so the bare set was furnished, if scantily. Three walls solidly filled with doors (one of them with a will of its own), handy though that may be for farce, but if the feeling was to create a sense of claustrophobia, it was catching and rather offputting. As for the costumes, lovingly recreated, sumptuous for Madame and M’selle, Toinette’s, while necessarily plainer, was gaudy as a cartoon, if appropriate for such an animated character. So busy, she is barely off the stage for a moment, Leanne Best struggled a little bit in the first half, as if concentrating more on the language and accent. But by gum, she comes into her own after the interval, filled with sparkling intelligence and bright ideas which save the day, in one of the funniest displays of frantic farce you are likely to see. By which point, you are convinced she was made for this part.
Brigid Zengeni, in one sense, definitely Argan’s better half, Béline, is brisk and business-like, mastering the role of conniving wife and stepmother. Clive Francis is a splendidly silly, or solemn, or splenetic valetudinarian, as required, whilst Simon Coates, brother Béralde, provides the same voice of reason as he did in ‘ Tartuffe’; above all, he is excellent in doing full justice in delivering dialogue. The star-crossed lovers provide more comedy maybe than poignance, particularly with a right song and dance in a crafty ‘play-upon-words’ within the play. Cléante (Jake Harders) almost makes a pig of himself hamming it up, but Lucinda Raikes’s Angélique, while occasionally a croissant short of a buffet, is touchingly torn between duty and desire. And the quartet of quacks - ah, there’s only three of them; pity. Anyway, able support from this trio, and much of the comedy. Chris Porter is the dreaded Dr Purgeon (and Bonnefoi, the slimy notary who does not live up to his name), while Neil Caple’s is a first class cameo as Diaforius, making the most of the opportunity, and, again, the dialogue: vocal but deadly, displaying more impatience than affection towards his affected son, Thomas (Toby Dantzic), who could bore for Britain: in Latin as well as Greek.
So here we have a wonderful, witty cast working with wonderful, witty words – and it’s not just the doctors of old who get away with murder. Poetic licence indeed, for enormous liberties are taken, not just the dodgiest of rhymes (‘Padua’ and ‘sad you are’?) but references to ‘Tartuffe’, even ‘Lily the Pink’, and Knock, knock jokes thrown in for good measure. In French, s’il vous plaît.
Maybe a bit of a carry on here and there but over all, for excellent entertainment, this is just what the doctor ordered – ‘most efficacious in every way’ as the song, and indeed, the play, says.
Brick up the Mersey Tunnels, Royal Court, July 10-August 22
We’re all together again, we’re here, we’re here… And quite clearly, very, very pleased about it, at this, the fourth production. Over 100,000 people have been there, done that and nicked the T shirt probably - I’m beginning to think I must be the only person hereabouts who has not seen this play. There again, as some of the best lines (evidently) were lost in gales of laughter, you can see the advantage of déjà vu.
So, the Wirral versus the City of Culture, and in fairness, whilst the audience was most amused by the former’s airs and graces, the other side seemed to be represented largely by scallies, nutters and mercenary wenches. A rather convoluted plot takes in the posh Twackys: Mrs T lookalike and John Wayne wannabee on the one hand; on the other, the Kingsway Three: postal worker, Nick Walton, pining for Greasy Spoon owner, Maggie, plus a real life cowboy who really is living in a dream world, and a disaffected tunnel engineer.
No prizes for guessing the plot, tho structurally, it would have made more sense if the first half ended a little further down that road, rather than almost petering out with vaguely muttered threats. Similarly, the ending is rather abrupt; it seems pretty certain the Wirral is cut off for good and all but the fate of most of the characters remains unresolved.
Several scenes descended rapidly into sheer mayhem but the rapport between cast and audience made it even more hilarious; be warned though, parts are exceedingly crass. Still, fair play to the cast who could hardly be bettered, even if some of the dialogue, spoken or sung, was not quite audible. The swear words always were of course; definitely a case where less is more. There were plenty of excellent jokes without desperately seeking cheap laughs, not least in the clever song parodies: ‘9 stone cowboy’ indeed.
Eithne Brown makes a magnificent monster with Roy Brandon a first class foil (or fool, as she sees him); he garners, deservedly, most of the sympathy, along with Carl Chase as the former soldier and forlorn lover. Andrew Schofield was, needless to say, his usual brilliant self. Davy Edge’s transformation from alcoholic to man of action may not have been entirely convincing but his performance as the latter was. Garnished, delightfully for the most part, with Suzanne Collins (Maggie), plus a dash of Adam Keast as her suitor (Elliot Neston), and the inimitable touch of the Francis Tuckers (Miss Liz Card)
This may well be one of those plays that will run and run, particularly as it has clearly been updated with some very topical observations. However, that jars slightly, since one scene appears to be celebrating the 2nd anniversary of the amended Wirral postcode, placing it back in 2002. Maybe not vintage comedy in that it won’t travel too well, unlike good wine because there are so many in jokes, if excellent, and sometimes unbelievably outrageous. Nevertheless, an evening fizzing with entertainment.
Liverpool Playhouse, January 22-31
(both plays touring until July 12, UK and Overseas)
The Merchant of Venice
It cannot be denied that Propeller seem ready and willing to give anything a whirl, so perhaps this is not a surprising choice, following last year’s ‘Taming of the Shrew’; there are also links with ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ in some of the descriptive dialogue. But it’s an even more unsettling production than the Dream, with some disturbing scenes.
One can reasonably assume there’s no need for a synopsis with Shakespeare since the audience is mainly familiar with the plot. The interpretation however is another thing altogether and may send you back to the original, if only to decipher the nature of the relationship between Antonio and Bassanio, though Portia appears none too happy about it. And whilst setting the play inside a jail in general works well, for example, symbolizing the way she is trapped by the dictates of her father’s will, it can be distracting when behaviour seems to adhere more to the demands of prison than to plot.
The music is suitably jarring, and the setting makes costume simple enough, until we come to the ladies - all of them, amusingly, required to don male attire at some point. Jon Trenchard’s moving portrayal of Leah is matched by her modest dress (though undermined by such extravagance: buying a monkey), while Kelsey Brookfield makes a heroic Portia, rather more flamboyant than expected, indeed, positively sexed up. But nothing in comparison to Nerissa ( Chris Myles), who looks to have nipped out from a S&M parlour. Still, that suits the rather grating, ingratiating Gratiano, gamely pulled off by Richard Frame, though he can sing beautifully for his supper, and probably anything else he fancies.
Humour is devoutly to be wished for, and speedily delivered in the main by John Dougall as Lancelot Gobbo and an entertaining Salerio from Sam Swainsbury, plus a couple of glittering turns in the casket scene: Jonathan Livingstone as Morocco and Thomas Padden, a grand Aragon. Jack Tarlton however comes across as somewhat subdued, considering Bassanio is meant to be beloved all round, but Babou Ceesay is a dignified Duke of Venice, and Richard Dempsey excels as a suitably grounded Lorenzo.
Richard Clothier is a remarkable Shylock - Propeller do not shirk from playing Devil’s advocate: the balance swings constantly, from his being betrayed and bullied to his brutality. Despite his desire for revenge being so great that he will forego a small fortune, having already been robbed of all his money, he remains somehow a sympathetic figure. But this is done at a cost, partly by making Antonio less so, which tends to contradicts the favourable comments about the latter. Bob Barrett is a worthy merchant, if a bit stolid to appear that heroic, but you have to admire his abilities: inspiring distaste through his disgust for his opponent, pity for his anguish over Bassanio.
Shylock appears as much sinned against mainly because of the way the racism is played up, even when tempered to a certain extent by stressing that we are all ‘hurt with the same weapons’. It makes for uncomfortably compelling viewing, though many would say that attending this production ought to be compulsory. But everyone will agree that once again, Liverpool Everyman and Playhouse have got the new season off to an amazing start.
Liverpool Playhouse, January 22-31
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
You can have too much of a good thing, even if there’s no denying things do not come much better than Shakespeare. I’m not saying I had to be dragged along to this, kicking and screaming, but another ‘Dream’, what a nightmare….
What a surprise, for this production is as much a master stroke as Richard Dadd’s famous painting of ‘The Fairy-Feller’, particularly as the fairies are not just a pretty name, but sinister and unfamiliar, almost as grotesque. Indeed, the staging (fragile white lace and scaffolding) the androgynous costumes of codpieces and corsets (complimented by crewcuts and Geisha make-up) the effects, and the music especially, are as otherworldly and unsettling as Rhianna’s ‘Disturbia’ video. But it’s all magically balanced by the humour. To bring us bang up to date, the list of proposed wedding entertainment which Theseus reads out sounds remarkably like a sketch from a modern day satire (only better, it has to be said).
You may feel that with this all-male company, the ladies turn out something of a travesty, a bit too girly, though Hermia (Richard Frame) and Helena (Babou Ceesay) end up having a splendidly entertaining catfight. And yes, there’s a soupçon of Graham Norton, a pinch of Baldrick, a touch of Frank Spencer, a hint of Little Britain, but each and every cast member deserves a dish overflowing with praise. While the spirits and sprites are occasionally worryingly human, the mortals appear to be away with the fairies.
We’ll start at the top with Theseus (Thomas Padden), name-dropping away, and his imperious, unimpressed bride, Hippolyta (Emmanuel Idowu), dragging her tail behind her (what looked like a collection of real fur coats –a dilemma for the politically correct). Oberon (Richard Clothier) is disdainfully magisterial yet vulnerable, with a most exotic Titania as his Queen (Richard Dempsey). The other two couples are neatly matched, whether friends or foes, and both Demetrius (Sam Swainsbury) and Lysander (Jack Tarlton) play excellent comic foils. As for Jon Trenchard as Robin Goodfellow, you could not wish for a more Puckish portrayal.
But oh, the mechanicals – never mind Titania, everybody must have fallen in love with Bob Barrett’s Bottom, especially when he appeared with the biggest – pair of ass’s ears you have ever seen. The play what they stumble through is absolutely fabulous, all the drama of a bunch of amateurs, complete with complaints and flouncing rivalry: Chris Myles’ frustrated Quince, Jon Trenchard’s petulant Starveling, John Dougall’s Flute (aka Britney Spears), Kelsey Brookfield as Snout, the conscientious Wall and Richard Frame’s Snug, the cowardly lion.
So I reckon you can bank on Propeller undertaking their next play, ‘The Merchant of Venice’, to as high a standard. Heaven knows how many productions there have been since Shakespeare first penned ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’, but you are unlikely to ever see it done better. Some enchanted evening this really is. Pick an adjective, any adjective: spellbinding, bewitching, enthralling – ah, here’s the one: unmissable.
Liverpool Empire, May 4-9
Little Shop of Horrors
On tour until May 23
Is it a B movie? Is it a play? One thing’s for sure, this is a musical like no other. Rags to riches, overnight success…planting a flower shop in Skid Row is hardly likely to flourish, particularly when staffed by losers like Mushnik, orphaned Seymour and the ditzy Audrey. Then Seymour, as green as his fingers, produces a rather unusual plant, and their fortunes seem bound to change. But always remember: be careful what you ask for – it’s liable to turn right round and bite you in the …
Back to the B movie, which originally came out in 1959 (with Jack Nicholson as Seymour? Not Orin? That needs looking up), then scored a huge hit as the 1986 remake. This production is apparently set in the 60s, viz the costumes, though a lot of dialogue is more 50ish;The Lucy Show, for example, ended in 1957.
However, the staging is excellently done with the interior of the eponymous shop opening out into the mean streets, which evoke all the doom and gloom necessary. Perhaps a bit too much so since the lightening was erratic. And some bright ideas didn’t quite come off: sticking the all singing, all dancing trio (Cathryn Davis as Crystal, Nadia Di Mambro’s Chiffon and Donna Hines: Ronette) behind windows where they could not always be seen, let alone heard. This was a major drawback with the whole production, since far too much of the dialogue could not be made out, particularly the ghastly Orin’s. So no danger of giving the game away, for you could only guess at the ghastly outcome. Attractively funky these girls might be, likewise their voices, but sometimes the words were completely inaudible.
As for Sylvester McCoy’s way over the top caricature of Mushnik, this may come close to upsetting the pc brigade; as much a thorny problem as Audrey II itself, whose voice and attitude is reminiscent of the Chef in ‘South Park’. Indeed, since the characters are to a man pretty unsympathetic, you may feel they get their just deserts – never mind the plant’s. Alex Ferns is horribly funny as Orin Scrivello, mainly through his manic physicality, but Damian Humbley, appropriately or not, is a weed. Fortunately, they can both sing, but it’s Audrey, delightfully portrayed by Clare Buckfield, who is the star of the show, outshining the lot of them in comedy and acting, and infusing her songs with considerable poignancy.
Still, quite a gripping evening, particularly for fans of film and spoof. And ample bouquets from the packed audience, not surprisingly the loudest applause being for the quite fantastic Audrey II. That at least came across loud and clear.
Liverpool Playhouse, June 9-13
DruidSynge: The Playboy of the Western World
On tour until June 18
The luck of the Irish maybe but for Christy Mahon, it’s more a case of if it weren’t for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all. A fugitive tumbling into a remote community, he is excitedly hailed as a hero for killing his father, only for events, and them, to turn against them.
Admittedly, the production excelled in the passion of each member of the cast, particularly in the way that they brought the offstage action so vividly to life. But although the ramshackle public house setting with a few sticks of furniture is in keeping, the sheer walls seem too palatial, distinctly out of place. A low ceiling would have presumably been customary, and added to the claustrophobic atmosphere.
The main problem is, however, given that the characters are mostly grotesque, it is hard to feel for any of them. There is plenty of comedy to be had, to be sure, from Michael James (James Olohan), the blustering, ebullient landlord and his counterpart, Old Mahon (Andrew Bennett), and most of all from the whinings and twistings of Marcus Lamb’s portrayal of the long, craven streak, Shawn Keogh. But Aaron Monagham as Mahon, though admirably energetic and intense, is somehow too creepy and fails to engage much sympathy, neither to be pitied for his plight nor admired for his sporting achievements, let alone encouraged in his wooing of Pegeen Mike.
Clare Dunne, barmaid daughter of Michael James, is the heroine of the piece and does a wonderful job; even the hellish temper of a scornful woman does not detract from her tragic situation, not least since the two suitors are neither one any better than the other. The trio of giddy girls, Sara Tansey, Susan Brady and Honor Blake (Gemma Reeves; Seona Tully and Christiane O’Mahony) are also excellent. But the plum of a part goes to Derbhle Crotty (who as a matter of interest, once played Pegeen), fully savouring the role of the enigmatic, manipulative Widow Quinn.
It is rare nowadays to experience a production which does not rely at all on special effects; this is right down to the bone, and with such a very thin line between comedy and tragedy, due to the excellent cast. Unfortunately, some of the audience were also unlucky in that much of the dialogue was difficult to follow, what with the actual language, the strong accents and far more shouting ( indeed, screeching like a banshee) than conversation. Nonetheless, it is good to have the opportunity of seeing a play long renowned as a classic.
Liverpool Everyman, May 22-June 13
Lost Monsters by Laurence Wilson
Joe McGann once said in an interview that acting was just a job, not something which required a talent. Well, he’s certainly been worked really hard during a long career (one of the highlights being ‘One Fine Day’ – at the Playhouse), and you could say that the role of Richard is just the job, particularly as it requires a honed sense of comic timing.
An eccentric recluse, he suddenly has to deal with the outside world crashing into his virtually derelict house, in the shape of escape artists, Mickey and his heavily pregnant girlfriend, Sian. Then there’s Jonesy. If your idea of autistic is Dustin Hoffman, we’re looking right at the other end of the spectrum here, from manic physicality to torrents of savant information: a walking A-Z, though mostly Bees.
Kevin Trainor is fantastic in an immensely complex role. At first, he appears to be a bit player, simply comic relief, but the play revolves around his story. Herein however lies a problem for though each character has a tale to tell, not only is it as if the title came first, but ‘Lost’ passes more as a synonym for ‘Obsessed’. Basically, just one person’s behaviour appears truly monstrous, only for it to be excused for a variety of reasons. The play, much of it fascinatingly bizarre, also seems unusual in that the first half is the better. Then two major revelations take place almost at the same time, splitting the focus while the denouement pivots on a not entirely convincing change of mind, so the ending seems contrived and hastily cobbled together. Very interesting to see in the programme that the script comes to a different conclusion to that seen on the stage.
Rebecca Ryan is a natural as Sian, but it’s a shame she appears stuck with such a cliché as a middle class Goth, with childish delusions about art. It leaves her at the mercy of being the least interesting character. Meanwhile, Nick Moss (Mickey), suspicious in every sense of the word, manages in accomplishing an uphill struggle to engage any sympathy at all with his shoot first, don’t bother asking questions at all attitude.
The set is grittily eye-catching, all the more so with the accompaniment of discordant music. The almost ruined house, inside and out, is as full of surprises as the characters mostly are themselves, and Gemma Bodinetz is surely right when she describes the play as being an unusual mix of poetry, drama and the political. The dialogue raises many topical questions, if not answering them all, while the plot in general is a neat fit; there’s even a sprinkling of magical realism.
Add the exemplary cast and there’s something to keep an entire audience engrossed. But it’s good to be able to recommend a play by a local writer, and applaud the theatres once more for showcasing unusual work and talented writers – on this showing, no need for Lawrence Wilson to stick to the day job.
Liverpool Playhouse, April 30-May 23
When We Are Married
by J.B. Priestley
On tour until June 6
Tis better to marry than burn – and what the hell will people say when they discover that the three couples gathered together to celebrate their Silver Anniversary, Alderman and Councillor amongst them, are not in fact wed at all…
On this momentous occasion, these upstanding citizens and stalwarts of Clecklewyke’s Lane End Chapel, also have to contend with the Helliwells’ lively niece, Nancy Holmes (Claire Redcliffe) and her shenanigans with Forbes, the new organist and a la-di-da Southerner (Tom Lawrence, a bit too smug to be true). Then there’s the unctuous Reverend Mercer (a polished performance from Richard Braine), a drunk and disorderly press photographer, Ormonroyd (the excellent Tom Georgeson), not to mention a buxom skeleton out of t’closet (Julie Higginson as the vivacious tart-with-a-heart, Lottie Grady). Add to that little lot: Ruby, pert housemaid and obstreperous Mrs Northrop, the cook.
Now, we know you can’t get the staff these days (even Virginia Woolf found them troublesome) but these two would surely have been sacked for insubordination long since. Eileen O’Brien is splendid as ever as Mrs N., whether triumphantly spiteful or drunkenly obsequious, and usefully sheds light on the ladies’ humble beginnings. But since maids should know their place from the start, logically, Ruby would rise up only after her elders and betters seem to have lost their standing. However, both servants earn their keep in comic value, even if that seems to be the sole purpose in some of Ruby’s scenes, particularly with Ormonroyd, where her witty skittishness almost outmanoeuvres his crafty stumblings. And considering the rest of the cast mostly has a CV the length of your arm, Jodie McNee should soon be up there with the best of them.
So while the feline runs amuk in the aviary, Graham Turner as head of the household, Joseph Helliwell, if perhaps more of a caricature than the other affronted husbands, dashes about like a whole load of beheaded poultry, squawking hilariously. Quite a contrast to wife, Maria (Tricia Kelly), as likeable as she is respectable. Paul Bown (and hasn’t he come a long way from ‘Watching’) is quite brilliant as the unpleasant Albert Parker, so full of himself and so lacking in self-awareness, he would obviously take any insult as a back-handed compliment. Stingy and overbearing, he magnaminously and unconsciously bestows the adjective ‘long-suffering’ on his wife Annie, subtly played with quiet mischievous by Gabrielle Lloyd.
What with him and Clara Soppitt, it brings to mind the saying about marriage saving other people from being unhappy. As the latter, Polly Hemingway, for all that her spiteful words make her the most unpleasant of a bad lot, does not put a foot wrong; left to her own devices in one scene, with lovely irony, she had the audience right there, gestures proving far more eloquent than words. So poor old Les Dennis (Herbert Soppitt), henpecked again. But once this worm turns, my, does he have a sting in his tail. More than biter bit, or bully bullied, his success is deserved, as the most decent of the gentleman, virtually cheered on by the entire audience.
It did seem rather odd to be presented with a trio of soberly clad matrons – three old grannies when women were considered on the shelf if not married off by 18. And the deux ex machine proved a sentimental lot, borrowing a rather outrageous coincidence to provide a solution then wrapping things up a bit too swiftly and nearly. Still, such minor quibbles should not spoil your fun, though this audience indulgently and obediently roared with laughter at every blessed thing: a mere word or raised eyebrow as appreciated as the most exquisite turn of phrase or twist of the plot.
After all, this production is a magnificent marriage in itself: farcical plot and actions happily co-habiting with satire and quick witted dialogue. Last but far from least, what a splendid set, somehow fitting onto the stage the beautifully detailed and furnished parlour fronting a hallway and grand staircase, with even a dining room behind. All the little touches the Playhouse always does so well, right up to serving up delicious cake and displaying embroidered samplers.
So well done yet again – a well made play, and so well played. And well, nay, excellently received.
Liverpool Playhouse, April 6-11
Sign of the Times
by Tim Firth
On tour until June 6
Listen carefully, for I will say this only once: Alan Ayckbourn. Right, that’s that out of the way; just to point out, Tim Firth also has the knack of selecting le mot juste when it comes to titles. On the other hand, this is a pretty difficult play to review, without giving the game away and spoil the pleasures in store. Let’s just say, it lives up to excellence of the title (and then some, in an age where ambition and the pursuit of happiness are not always quite the same thing), and comes complete with happy ending.
So what can I tell you? Well, Frank, pedantic gaffer, has been responsible to putting up signs on buildings for quarter of a century, and now he’s saddled with a sullen hoodie on work experience. But though Alan has a lot to learn, it turns out that he can teach Frank a thing or two.
Starting off on the windy roof of a building, they painstakingly put a new sign together; the second half takes place in a scruffy office behind a company’s sign – and watch out for that logo. The clue by the way is in the reversal, the change in outlook. And although not much happens, to the extent that the point of high drama at first seems literally farcical, it’s Tim Firth’s wondrous way with words, the wit and drollery and sharp observations which capture your attention.
Plus, and what a plus, the amazing double act which holds it and keeps things going. Stephen Tompkinson, a delicious mix of pomposity and knowingness, draws every ounce of sympathy for the kind of man who initially seems the type who makes you hold your breath and silently utter a prayer that he isn’t headed your way. Similarly, Tom Shaw is the lad you would cross the street to avoid, if you didn’t suspect he could be a bit of a nerd. There is so much more to both of them, gradually and craftily revealed. Frank is that cursed creatures, a would be thriller writer but aware that he is gifted with ambition though not talent. This not quite Salieri however generously encourages Alan’s considerable abilities, not just in music but art as well. And by gum, Tom Shaw is an ingenious foil, with hidden depths allowed to surface; plenty of evidence that he should be at the start of a career path every bit as lofty as his partner’s.
A 5* p through and through. Yes, that’s ‘p’ as in ‘production’. And ‘u’ as in ‘unmissable’.
Liverpool Playhouse, March 31-April 4
Where There’s a Will
English Touring Theatre; on tour until April 11
www.ett.org.uk
Farce, basically, boils down to being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and saying and/or doing the wrong thing. Not that it’s ever that simple of course, and here, there was a strong sense of déjà vu, after seeing ‘Boeing, Boeing’, though that was clearly inspired by Georges Feydeau: cynicism; philandering; pert maid; obtuse friend; umpteen doors etc. In fact, there were only four here, including a splendid French window, as it were, opening onto a balcony though the superb set, chaise longues, consoles et al, did justice to an expensive Parisian apartment. Pity it was dominated by a massive portrait which could never be mistaken for a Manet, and probably made by the same person who produced Madame’s stringy wig.
Yes, Angèle’s first husband watches haughtily over all the comings and goings. After his death, she remarried but having suffered his illicit liaisons, becomes highly suspicious, which cramps her spouse’s style. Enter Thommereux, who had decamped to Saigon to avoid the temptation of seducing his ‘brother’s’ wife, back to claim her for his own. On discovering he is too late, he pronounces the usurper’s name in thoroughly Bracknellian tones: ‘Ribadier?’ The latter’s shenanigans however, cause his hopes to rise, particularly with a duel in the offing. But when Angèle finally works everything out, she decides to take her revenge.
I do not believe I have ever seen a play with so many asides, although that’s a misnomer with the cast constantly addressing the audience, whether confession or tantrum. Sara Stewart does this beautifully and her acting throughout is as exquisite as her costumes; she is a pleasure to watch. Similarly, Nelly Harker as the maid, Sophie, though more ornament than use, whose every pronunciation is to first rate comic effect. Perfectly natural, this does however make her appear far too modern for a period piece. There were also a couple of anachronistic comments but otherwise the translation was first rate, and could be forgiven anything for the felicitous concoction, ‘The Vintner’s Tale’, which Ribadier hastily dreams up to explain away Savinet’s intrusion.
Teddy Kempner as said cuckold and Jason Thorpe as Sophie’s lover, Gusman, put in enjoyably humorous performances, while Tony Gardner’s hilarious Thommereux is not a million miles away from his oddball role in ‘Lead Balloon’, plus an extra large helping of mugging and striking attitudes. Finally, Charles Edwards, though such a rogue, somehow does wonderfully well to remain sympathetic in every sense of the word. He rises magnificently to the challenge, considering that Ribadier’s method, as the play was originally titled, oddly enough seems so fool proof that it curtails opportunity. Yet this makes the unfolding of the plot even more interesting and complex.
So pardon my French, but this really is a bloody good evening’s entertainment.
Liverpool Playhouse, March 24-28
Great Expectations
Theatr Clwyd production; on tour until April 4
www.clwyd-theatre-cymru.co.uk
Which is what lovers of Dickens will have had, every time the book is adapted for stage and screen. I gradually realised that was the reason much of it seemed familiar, and I had not read it after all (but may well do now), so as this unfolded, some revelations came as quite a surprise. Anyhow, for those of you who don’t know: Pip seems destined to follow in his brother-in-law’s footsteps and become a blacksmith when all he yearns for is education and the life of a gentleman. A mysterious bequest brings this to pass, but not happiness, because he falls in love with his playmate, the cold-hearted Estella, the niece of the vindictive, jilted Miss Haversham.
So what have Theatr Clwyd made of it, considering, as Director Tim Baker explained in the after show discussion, they have used about one eighth of the original – and added a couple of scenes. For a start, it had somehow escaped me that this was a musical version. And although it enhanced the story at many points, in particular, adding considerable poignance to Miss Havisham’s role, having people burst into song now and again was occasionally distracting, perhaps because some of them seemed to go on for ages.
The setting however did look tailor made for the Playhouse stage, effectively atmospheric, whether cemetery, marshes, the smithy, Miss Havisham’s gloomy abode or London. However, having the characters sitting around at the back was reminiscent of a doctor’s waiting room – an incompetent doctor at that, when the deceased took their places. As for the old lady, bad enough her wedding dress was fresh off the press but for it to finally light up bright orange, like a crinoline toilet roll holder, was not the fate she deserved, for Vivien Parry brought her, and all her woes, magnificently to life.
Indeed, all the cast worked long and hard, even if some parts were limited to somebody at the back shouting out the answers. Graham Bickley’s Magwitch, even more sinister when he was being ingratiating, was courtesy of the Andrew Schofield School of Acting – none the worse for that, of course, and Robert Perkins certainly delivered in equal parts, brusque and brisk, as Compeyson and Jaggers respectively. Similarly, Rhiannon Oliver ran the gamut and came out ahead, from mean old Mrs Joe to that sweet young thing, Biddy, while Eleanor Howell beautifully realised Estella, from brittle to emotional.
Much of the comedy was courtesy of Simon Watts, who made Herbert fearfully amusing if more camp than foppish. However, although Steven Meo was striking as Pip throughout all his travails, hard to say why exactly but somehow less than wholly sympathetic. But honours must go to Steffan Rhodri, superbly natural and likeable as Joe and Wemmick. Not surprising, recalling his excellent performance as Norman in Ayckbourn’s trilogy, where having to step in at the last minute must have added unplumbed depths to the well worn phrase ‘in at the deep end’.
All in all, a very good evening’s entertainment, and good to be reminded of the quality of Theatr Clwyd – high time to go back there and find out what other delights they have planned.
Liverpool Playhouse, March 17-22
Spyski! (Or The Importance of Being Earnest)
Peepolykus and Lyric Hammersmith; on tour until April 18
http://www.peepolykus.com/home
We interrupt your programme to warn you that a group of actors putting on a production of ‘TIOBE’, was not ‘TIOBE’, as it were, when they get involved with a dastardly Russian plot. All the funnier for being, naturally, in deadly earnest.
Each character assumes different identities, dons various disguises – well, spies, you know. John Nicholson, who is meant to play Jack Worthing, ends up in hospital alongside a poisoned Russian (whose name you couldn’t begin to guess at spelling), and he has a very complicated tale to tell, which Javier Marzan does to great comic effect, vocally and physically. Meanwhile, doing his best to swap the role as Dr Chasuble to usurp his colleague, whilst the latter is trying to carry on where the Russian left off. Confused…I think most of the audience were most of the time as far as the plot went. And it went off, like a firecracker, in all directions.
Rhona Croker is spiffing as Nurse Miranda (and a diva of a Gwendolen), who goes along with Jack/John, although their efforts threaten to be thwarted by the splendid /Lady Bracknell/Mrs Nicholson (Flick Ferdinano). And to round it all off, Paul Mundell is a tetchy Algernon but mostly a gilded, bewigged, Boratian Russian, as well as a wildly exaggerated, villainous Chinese, blithely explaining away the accent as a Janet Street Porter impersonation.
Yes, you certainly do have to suspend belief, particularly as the set is a sumptuous Victorian parlour which then does duty as a hospital, railway station, and a variety of offices. Oh, and in the most entertaining section, a sleeper en route to Gleneagles; who knew that pushing a filing cabinet around, slamming drawers open and shut sounds exactly like an express train?
It’s that kind of inventiveness which enlivens the show, and there were a lot more quite dazzling ideas. However, at times some of it is pretty obvious; gags milked to death or opting for easy laughs. A strange, strange mixture of exuberantly over the top plus half arsed tedium, all done with a knowingness, almost self conscious, virtually daring you not to laugh.
Not quite my cup of tea: too busy, fizzy and never entirely certain just what was beneath the surface. The audience, however, loved it, roaring with laughter and applauding their favourite bits all through. ‘Are you a ship or a house?’ demands Marzan. Well, are you, sheep or horse, that is; you’ll have to see for yourself to find out.
Liverpool Empire, March 9-14
Thriller Live
Touring until July 11
At the Lyric Theatre, London until September 27
www.thrillerlive.com
Curiosity killed the cat, and I bet there’s a way of connecting said feline with being really, really cool… Anyhow, this evening fielded a dream team for all fans and anybody who went along out of mild interest will most certainly wander home whistling the amazing tunes, in an excellent frame of mind. Michael Jackson has been well served by a first class, professional production.
Truly ensemble, the singing and dancing is damn near flawless, the passion impressive as we are whisked through a whistle stop tour of his career, and the many highlights, enhanced by some technical wizardry. And fireworks. All the dancers were an absolute joy to behold, and to marvel at.
Nearly every one of those brilliant hit songs were excellently interpreted, with honours evenly divided between Hayley Evetts, Peter Murphy and the fabulously named Jag Soulsinger, who also smoothly operated the mcing. Plus Michael Anthony Duke, though I’m having to guess that it was he who wonderfully recreated the likes of Billie Jean; not only wearing a hat but keeping his head down. Similarly, MJ Mytton-Sanneh was simply incredible, following in the footsteps of the young Michael: he can sing, he can dance and no doubt somebody has acted now to ensure a great future lies ahead.
The stage is the classic bridge, if put to use with some unbelievable dance moves and sequences, and everything ran slickly, including the many costume changes. Maybe it’s just me, though, but any kind of uniformity (even for scenes set in the dreaded 70s) seems to complement complicated choreography more than the mishmash of modern dress. Apart from rags - the only thing which did not appear wholly successful was Thriller itself. However, a group of a dozen or so people after all can hardly be expected to emulate an army of zombies. Still, interesting to think that it takes so many to reproduce what just one man has managed to accomplish.
Yes indeed, it might be some time since Michael Jackson last had a hit but those sell out farewell concerts prove his popularity. And this show – what a tribute - demonstrates perfectly what a phenomenon the man is, adding a whole new dimension to the word ‘entertainment’
Liverpool Everyman, March 3-7
The Hounding of David Oluwale
On tour until April 4
The big issue here may come as news to many, and answers a mystery: did he jump or was he pushed - David Oluwale’s death being the result of the long arm of the law.
The ramshackle staging: steps, gates, building, platform, takes us from the riverside, to run down parts of Leeds, via hospital and police station. The space to the right: police cell or office, and all the way back to Nigeria. All of it brought to life by lighting, sound and music, whether ominous lapping, or joyous dance.
DCS Perkins from Scotland Yard is, literally, haunted by Oluwale as he painstakingly investigates the case, from optimistic arrival in the UK through 20 years of struggle to horrific end. As his story unfolds, so does that of a city seeking to be rid of the mean streets, with help from the police.
Steve Jackson is horrifically menacing as Kitching (while providing an amusing contrast as the Alderman sporting a variety of rosettes). That the more cultured Inspector Ellerker (Luke Jardine) should join forces with him is one unsolved mystery, but the two of them make Oluwale’s life hell. And all around them, good men do nothing. Until PC Jones speaks out, too late for the victim, though in time for some justice to be seen to be done.
Howard Charles also plays the lively Chike, Richard Pepple, the more sober Kayode, both friends of Oluwale, He himself, ambitious but irresponsible, is shown as a man more sinned against than sinning; even on the streets and amongst fly-by-nights, there is a harsh pecking order. Right to the end, down but never out, he is generally regarded as a troublemaker, feckless and violent, rarely managing to hold down a job. Daniel Francis could have his work cut out to properly engage our sympathy for somebody of whom even his mother despairs, whose friends find him infuriating. But he puts in a brilliant performance - see what befalls this charming man, so full of life and hope; diagnosed as schizophrenic and hospitalized for eight year, he is reduced to a shambling wreck.
Ryan Early works equally well as Perkins, obsessed with seeking out the truth. There’s a brave showing from Laura Power, bearing witness as the bullied WPC Harris, and also defying racists as Oluwale’s girlfriend Janet. And Clare Perkins shines in several small roles such as Nurse Patience, bursting fully into life as Alice, his beloved Maa’mi.
Such a play, so skilfully done that it is poignant not preachy, unfortunately did not have the packed audience it deserved. And how many of them passed a homeless person that night, every one of whom has a story to tell? There but for the grace of God… and there, so often, if it weren’t for theatre, so much which needs saying would remain silent.
Liverpool Playhouse, March 3-7
Othello
Take in two productions of ‘Othello’, in less than six months (with a third doing the rounds), and this one over three hours long. So was it worth it?
Well, the RSC version is on an epic scale. As is the set, enhanced by a vivid blue backdrop and the continual sight and sighing of sea. A massive bridge, in two halves, dominates, appropriately, serving also as ship and house. However, its manoeuvring was sometimes distracting (fatally so in the bedroom scene), that of the arched windows puzzling, tho vividly evoking waves. However, Music Director Akintayo Akinbode continues to work magic, from the celebratory to the quietly sinister, adding to an atmosphere which is often claustrophobic.
We are in a military zone - or 1950s Riviera, with the ladies looking good as new clad in glorious frocks of crimson, emerald, deep azure, à la Dior. Natalie Tena, a delightful Desdemona, duetting playfully and passionately with Othello, is aided and abetted by Emilia, skilfully portrayed by Tamzin Griffin, with her distinctive voice. And we are right up to date with photo shoots, plus displays to make the politically correct, indeed many of us, gasp.
But nothing compared to the effect of watching Iago get to work. Clamming up at the end, right from the start, he has plenty of motives: he hates the Moor; he is jealous of his relationship with Desdemona; he resents Cassio’s preferment. It is only when consoling Desdemona, in the one scene focusing on the two of them, that he appears to show any compassion, though long past the time for belief. But the reason for his behaviour, and he is thrice damned with his plotting, is presumably to see if he really can get away with it. For the sheer hell of it. A conniving bully, whom Michael Gould cunningly makes so ordinary, it is a constant reminder of the phrase about the banality of evil.
Almost as if to avoid being overshadowed, Patrice Naiambana creates Othello in the Donald Sinden mould: a full bodied performance with a resonating voice, if inclined to go over the top at times, spitting out ts and ds, hissing each susurration. Nor does he always have the whip hand, even before jealousy drives him mad. An exotic, almost eccentric outsider, even alienated, the only person who genuinely seems to like him is Cassio
And here we have the man of the match. And a scene which some may consider the play’s highlight these days: when he realises that folly has cost him his career - and his reputation. His anguish is almost unbearable, even compared with Othello’s. Looking like a cross between Will Young and Jude Law, the only flaw is a touch of Bertie Wooster: the posh gobsmacked expression tinkers with the idea of his being a good soldier. But in his dealings with others, from scorn for Bianca to admiration of Othello, Alex Hassell makes him as complex a character as the two leads.
So yes, it turned out an excellent way to pass the evening. A first class company doing justice to the genius of Shakespeare; this one is a marriage made in heaven.
Liverpool Everyman, February 17-21
Spike Theatre, The Sandman
Hmmm; Metallica lyrics spring to mind, yes, from their song ‘Sandman’: ‘Exit light, enter night’. And if ‘wilful obscurity’ seems a harsh criticism, even when dispensing with the adjective, there remains the noun. After most performances, the audience is frequently heard asking each other ‘What did you think of it?’; here, you suspect the questioner was reluctant to go first.
After Greta’s mother dies, the 12 year old is alone in a house of secrets with her alcoholic clock maker father, Edgar. Until a sinister stranger arrives, who turns out to be a former colleague, and another person having a bad hair day. With only her books to comfort her, Greta is plagued by bad dreams – or is she?
This is a strange kettle of fish; more of a bird’s nest soup concoction. We all know about the grim underside to fairy stories, and modern adaptations subverting them: the Sandman becomes a nightmare figure rather than the bringer of sweet dreams. But attempting to bring horror stories to life on stage fatally tends to result in nervous giggles, and I’m surely not the only one up to the eyeballs with all the unsightly scenes of late.
Set in a sort of Origami inspired giant sized doll’s house, the windows serving as screens, and dominated by a set of stairs, the constant furniture removal is distracting and contrived. At its best, and it usually is, the music is creepily atmospheric, but occasionally, fingernails and blackboard unbearable, and drowns out lyrics and dialogue.
Costume and make-up were intriguing, but the use of puppets and animation was a little rough and ready, though some of the effects were well-devised, such as the mimed altercations between Edgar (Steve Wallis) and Cornelius (Anthony Cairns). However, the two characters were quite hard to tell apart, though the latter owes something to David Walliams. Meanwhile, Kate Crossley, despite a Violet Elizabeth Bott tendency towards bossiness, pretty and pert, performed with considerable verve, coaxing out every little bit of comedy there is to be had.
Just as a visit to the circus may fascinate children but usually seems tawdry to adults, given caricatures rather than characters, and more than usually grotesque, with the extremely stylized Gothic nature of the play, it was not wholly engaging. Lovingly done, sadly, it was also amateurish in the sense of rather home-made. It’s almost as if some of the ideas seemed so good in theory, but they never finished practising them. And in all the confusion, the twist in the plot turns out to be fairly obvious early on.
Well, although a visit to the bizarre or a walk on the wild side in the Theatre may not be everybody’s cup of tea, for others, it is more like the Holy Grail. So it will be interesting to see what on earth this local company comes up with next.
Liverpool Playhouse, February 8-28
The Price, by Arthur Miller
‘Blimey’, said my companion (a great Arthur Miller fan). ‘And I thought our family was weird.’ Indeed, without families, where would Art be? Warring siblings are so often a given, usually because the grass always will seem greener. And lusher, and covered in daisies. Walter, wealthy respected doctor and Victor, a cop, have not spoken in nearly two decades, kept apart by shame on the one side and resentment on the other: career and carer. But with their father dead, the time has come to dispose of his belongings, and maybe get to know each other once more.
This production takes a few chances, getting off to an very slow start, sans dialogue; though the second act is longer, it seems to fly past by comparison, propelled by Miller’s amazing way with words. Carefully staged as a huge jumble (ironic that this for most of us comes naturally), it is a maze of wardrobes and tables, decorated by chiffoniers and chandeliers. There are even chairs suspended from the ceiling, which really does appear over the top although perhaps presaging their sale. Or else a hefty symbol: the sword of Damocles. For the slightest wrong word or move could see the brothers estranged for good, and slights are what each anticipates; the slings and arrows of Victor’s sacrifice and Walter’s selfishness. Yet inside those closets are plenty of skeletons. Both of them are convinced that whatever happened, they in fact had no choice.
The catalyst is Solomon, the sprightly elderly dealer Victor has called in, and Jon Rumney is a star turn, providing most of the comedy, along with a good deal of philosophy; canny, infuriating and charming in equal measure. Victor’s wife Esther (Elaine Claxton) is smart in every sense, but frustrated whenever pride rears its ugly head, and the duelling brothers, by and large, are excellent. But it is quite hard to imagine Victor (Robin Kingsland) coming from such a privileged background; the mention of fencing immediately conjures up thoughts of planks of wood rather than exquisite swordplay.
Since Miller’s brother gave up his University place to help support the family, perhaps the intention was for Walter (David Beames) to be as sympathetic a character. However, although generous to a fault, that doesn’t quite ring true either – he’s full of excuses, slicking trotting out what amounts to damn near psychobabble, so that, along with Victor, you tend to take everything he says with a cellar full of salt, not a pinch.
Above all, the play is still relevant in an age when most of us run the risking of knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing. But once again, a night at the theatre turns out to be an excellent bargain.
Liverpool Empire, January 26-31
Flashdance
When people think about the film, set on the mean streets of Pittsburgh, they may recall that times was hard in 1983, but I don’t expect they remember there was a recession on: plus ça change… Some irony there for those of you assuming this will be an evening of escapism.
It is a fairly grim fairytale yet we are fairly well assured of happy ever after for the two main leads; considering the obstacles they have already overcome, love in an attic, if not a steelworks, probably seems romantic.
Tough guy Alex, that’s our heroine, slaving away all day in a foundry. But enslaved by her love for dance, she finally concedes to her mother’s cunning plan and applies to audition at the prestigious Shipley Dance Academy. At night, she and her friends perform in a club which is one step up from a sleazejoint though as that is actually just up the street, it’s stealing away their customers, as well as Alex’s friend, Gloria. The latter’s cousin, Kaminsky, proves to be the fatal link between plot and sub plot; the choreography throughout is first class but the outcome here is a remarkable if disturbing dance sequence.
The staging starkly evokes the steelworks, appropriately the back ground for every scene. However, trying to work out exactly what the massive painted hoardings are meant to represent makes those taking place in domestic interiors somewhat confusing. The club interiors are well contrasted however; the cluttered backstage of the Steel Bar and the cold minimalism of Skindeep. And the music is marvellous though extremely loud, even piercing at one point.
Fair play to Bernie Nolan as Alex’s mother, Hannah, who appears in only a couple of scenes - she damn near steals the show with her fantastic voice and the poignance of her duets and conversations with her daughter. Victoria Hamilton-Barrit, technically, is superb where singing and dancing are concerned, yet despite this relationship and her friendship with Gloria, somehow, she does not come over as altogether sympathetic. Obviously we are gunning for her but it’s hard not to notice that the audition is a success even though she does not appear to have done any rehearsing or even exercised beforehand. But at least boyfriend Nick Hurley (Noel Sullivan) stands up to her, and to his uncle, the foundry boss, though otherwise he seems a bit of a spare part.
The girlfriends are all appealing with comical backchat between Jazmin (Djalenga Scott) and Keisha (Carryl Thomas) and an excellent cameo from Ruthie Stephens (Gloria) though she is a little too good to be true with her rapid recovery and her fate is a little too obvious with the constant nose rubbing and desire to be in the movies, or rather, to go straight to video. The great irony here is that such amazing dancers are meant to be no-hopers. Indeed, all the dancers were superb, particularly the young men who did their thing during the scene changes. And finally, the villains, starring Dr Kool, a man you certainly would not want to cross, not without crossing yourself first. Simon Harvey does this so well, he makes mincemeat of the opposition, but also his sidekicks; CC La Drue (Michael Conway) and unfortunately, Jimmy Kaminsky (Bruno Langley), pale by comparison.
So, a musical with a pretty good story. And the highly receptive audience were clapping and cheering from the start, rapturous at the end (which is surprisingly subdued for a musical). Part of the fun of course was trying to recollect just when breakdancing became a craze; exactly what did people wear; which were the most popular groups and music. But since life does tend to go by in a flash, better boogie on down.
2008
Liverpool Empire, December 11-January 4
Cinderella
A rose by any other name…would still run the risk of having less chance of being as much on the ascent (it’s Christmas; it’s catching) as Dandini (Julian Clary, a couple of years back), and now the Fairy Godmother: Cilla Black no less. So it would have been interesting to see how Jennifer Ellison stood up to the challenge. On this occasion, however, the role was taken by her understudy, Danielle Norman, who put on a very good show surrounded by such well known faces.
The staging was first class, sumptuously rivalling the costumes which looked perfectly detailed and stunningly evoked the pre-revolution French court (you do the googling: 17th or 18th century?). However, such traditional effects seemed to clash a bit with the modern music and choreography. Similarly, Stephen Fletcher was a very classy all rounder as Prince Charming in acting, singing and dancing (following his role as Joey in ‘Eric’s’ – onwards and upwards indeed) while Nick Pickard’s Dandini by comparison relied mostly on some merry quips, yet the latter seemed the more basked in limelight, courtesy of ‘Hollyoaks’. And for some reason, although Ted Robbins (Baron Hardup) was as accomplished as usual, his was a rollercoaster reaction from the audience, some gags working better than others.
Pete Price and Roy Brandon made a pretty pair of Ugly Sisters, their behaviour as outrageous as their towering costumes, particularly when updated to ‘Blind Date’ contestants. The third was Coronation Street’s Mavis, courtesy of Les Dennis (Buttons), and there were plenty of sly nods (and winks) throughout regarding his other TV appearances. Along with what seemed to be a considerable amount of improvisation, most of which worked so well it could have been written into the script. However, the funniest moment came as Buttons invited some children on stage, and when asked where he came from, one puzzled little boy gave the obvious answer: ‘Me Mum.’
Perhaps it’s a given that the more the cast enjoy themselves, the more fun it is for the audience. Cilla clearly felt herself at home, parading all her golden oldies, and she did a marvellous job as the Fairy Godmother. But it was Les Dennis who stole the show and makes off with all the kudos, effortlessly holding the whole thing together. Thanks mainly to him, aided and abetted by the Baron and Dandini, even the dreaded audience participation, more bombardment in fact, was a highlight, a very jolly rendition of the ‘12 Days of Christmas’.
It would be worth going for that one scene alone. As for those who feel they’ve watched Cinderella umpteen times already, well, you ain’t seen nothing yet – not until you’ve been to enjoy this sparkling version.
Liverpool Playhouse, December 11-January 17
Boeing, Boeing
Your mother should know (though probably not, in this instance) – if you remember those wise words: one on the go, one in the wash and one ready and waiting. Bernard has added his own little je ne sais quoi, and with the help of housekeeper Bertha and flight schedules, his trio of girlfriends are never going to find out about each other. No harm done, until the well-meaning but rather naïf Robert turns up from Aix, and so do all the ladies, thanks to airline updates, stormy weather and so on.. But maybe true love will conquer all – or is just a flight of fancy?
The setting is typical Playhouse splendour, a sumptuous Paris appartement, all gleaming white picked out in pink, yellow and blue, and the umpteen doors required for a farce. It still has a 60s air about it, however, and the play itself seems a little old fashioned, though it has been exquisitely translated. And the French have a name for farce (la farce…) but for the format to succeed, it needs balance delicately between idiocy and innocence - plot and cast. Here, it also depends considerably on the audience to completely suspend belief; for example, selective deafness on the part of the actors when the story at times depends on unexpected eruptions.
Martin Marquez, to his credit, makes a realistic Frenchman, but somehow the suave architect, Bernard, is not altogether sympathetique. Probably to do with being rather smug, and then somewhat silly. He is nonetheless a great foil to Robert (John Marquez): once he arrives, things really get going – wrong, mostly. Up from the sticks (or should that be staix?) complete with Welsh accent (interesting choice), this country mouse is by turn maladroit and macho; unfortunately, just clumsy towards the end, when the idea must be to have the audience wondering whether he might take a leaf out of Bernard’s little black book.
Likewise, grumpy Bertha makes a great comic role but although Susie Blake garnered laughs mostly with her skilful timing, her performance appeared a touch underwhelming, to the extent that you could not help thinking about Geraldine McNulty (Mrs Clackett in ‘Noises Off’). As for the trolley dollies, Thalia Zucchi rarely travelled out of the zone as a fiery Italian, Gabriella, while Sarah Jayne Dunn’s Gloria was more in the Twilight, rather too eccentric than free spirited American. And both of them paled by comparison with Gretchen, Josephine Butler’s Valkyrie maiden. Whether stalking across the stage, swooning over Bernard, chastising Robert, she pulls out all the stops with a full blooded assault on the English language, heavily accented yet still clearly audible
It would be corny, and to be honest, not 100% accurate to describe the production as so good, they named it twice, although the delightful curtain call was certainly a highlight. But in the spirit of Christmas, and the plethora of pantos, this production is lively enough to soar above any problems – let it whisk you away on a great night’s entertainment.
Liverpool Everyman, December 8-January 31
Mother Goose
Yes, the gang’s all here again (well, some of them, anyway), and so are their friends and fans, judging by the packed audience’s rapturous applause. Fun comes fast and furious, from traditional tale to topical gags and references. Helped along with costumes and effects which are especially amazing, fantastic singing, songs and music (as ever, thanks to Musical Director, Tayo Akinbode), and hilarious performances.
I always thought this particular pantomime was the one they made up as they went along, but the cast are past masters at that art of course. In a nutshell (eggshell?), if the Wicked Queen Narcissa gets her paws on Chuck and squeezes the juice from the goose, eternal life will be hers, which means a pretty nasty time for everybody else. So who better to keep an eye on Chuck than Mother Goose – don’t answer that (or question a reunion which seems to take place under a whole tree full of invisible mistletoe).
The show gets off to rather a scary start – ‘Carmina Burana’ at full belt would frighten the reindeer but then, so could the soppy bits. Princess Aurora (Tara Nelson) certainly is pretty as a princess, bold as a buccaneer, and by gum, she puts the ‘f’ in feisty. But her beloved Bruce Goose (Luke Kempner) somewhat pales by comparison with his cardie and manbag (or even with Chuck in his fright wig) though he comes into his own when rocking and rolling, belting them out. As ever, the virtuoso cast turn their hand to everything. And as ever, it is impossible to single anybody out of this marvellous ensemble.
Oh all right then: the Black Beauty of a Queen (Rebessa Bainbridge) and her twin Barbie doll assistants, Minxy (Sarah Vezmar) and Foxy, are far too sexy for their skirts (and like all the ladies, evidently rehearsing for next year’s ‘Puss in Boots’). As usual, the incomparable Adam Keast as King Bling is perfectly formed for joyously twisting everybody round his little finger, with every sublimely ridiculous gesture and noise, never ever lost for words whilst adding quite a few of his own. Likewise, Francis Tucker’s Ma Goose is a perfect match, and both of ’em dressed to the nines, if by somebody rampaging through wardrobe like a bull in a china shop. And as many laughs comes from the excellent performance by Matthew Quinn, who makes a darling Chuck. All supremely aided and abetted by Nicky Swift (Fairy Feathers) and Mike Neary (Igor).
So come on down for a glorious evening’s entertainment – and come on back next year as both theatres always provide such a rich variety for everybody to enjoy.
Liverpool Everyman, October 30-November 29
King Lear
There’s a Scotsman, a Welshman and an Irishman (two of ’em, in fact)… yes, it does sound like some kind of joke, and I’m afraid this production does seem funny-peculiar.
At least the grim setting, the stage dominated by a huge worn set of steps, is eerily evocative in various scenes:. But while some of the effects hit the mark, particularly sound and music and the use of film and video, not all of it worked. Furniture and props descend from above, are wheeled on and off, appear and disappear when they could have been put to better use. It really is teeming down but Lear’s plight when at the mercy of the elements is overwhelmed by a bizarre tableau vivant with the whole cast striking a pose in slow motion choreography.
In so far as its modern dress, the precise date is hazy though there is inevitable emphasis on the French invasion, with soldiers, guns and helicopters whirling around. Lear’s retinue appear to be football fans, Albany (Michael Colgan), a whiny new man, and the ugly sisters are almost indistinguishable at first except Goneril (Caroline Faber) is dowdy and pregnant, while Regan (Charlotte Randle) struts her stuff in killer heels. But these are not nice people, and given Lear says some dreadful things, fair play to Pete Postlethwaite for gaining any sympathy for his humiliation as madness takes over; he’s nifty enough with any opportunity for comedy, which makes his sorrow more poignant.
Amanda Hale as Cordelia gleams rather than shining like a good deed in a bad world, largely through contrast with her siblings and contact with her father. Hence, chez Gloucester where Edmund (Jonjo O’Neill) manages somehow to be as irritating as say, Johnny Borrell, or rather, Colin Farrell. He insidiously loses the plot, and adds a whole new meaning to the term ‘corpsing’. Clarence Smith makes a far more successful villain of Cornwall, viciously so, even in the appalling scene (in every sense of the word) where Gloucester is blinded. However, Forbes Masson stands out as Shakespeare’s most sinister Fool, forever playacting yet sometimes the only one who seems to make any kind of sense. And nobly done, Gloucester (John Shrapnel) and Kent (Nigel Cooke). Above all, Tobias Menzies, powerfully dignified as Edgar, painfully convincing as Poor Tom - although somebody ought to reinforce the elastic in his tracksuit bottoms.
So there we have it. The theatre was packed, the applause deafening, some of the audience upstanding, in particular for Pete Postlethwaite. Let’s just say that it wasn’t what I expected; hard to engage with such bleakness, not to mention the strong accents, and some strange means of approaching all the treachery and madness.
However, if occasionally Liverpool EverymanPlayhouse overshoot the mark, this is of epic proportions, and comes from their constant endeavours to aim high.
Eric’s
A play of two halves, you could say, and one inevitably turns out to be bigger than the other: history tends to outweigh personal history, albeit a tragic yet triumphant story.
When Joe (aka playwright Mark Davies Markham) is diagnosed with cancer, his fight for life runs in tandem with memories of his younger self, Joey, when his life revolved around Eric’s, the legendary club. So well is that fascination conveyed, the scenes in the legendary club with its legendary characters tend overwhelm the rest. The result is somewhat convoluted; in one instance, the hospital bed is hoisted up with a doctor’s coat left dangling in mid air, though that could of course have been a metaphor. In some scenes, characters past and present damn near bump into each other. Fortunately, the choreography somehow manages to avoid that, despite all the frenetic dancing and bouncing around which excellently portray the crowded club. As do the weird and wonderful costumes, some of which could be the height of fashion today. The songs and the singing, needless to say, could not be bettered.
There are so many nods to Liverpool’s past glories the effect is dizzying, and Markham seems to have had his favourites. Elvis Costello and Pete Burns, the latter in particular, are something of an understatement, while slapstick is reserved for Jayne Casey, later spotted holding court outside the theatre. And if Pete Wylie were in the audience, we’d surely have known about it. As a man who never quite had the greatness he deserved thrust upon him, he gets the sympathy vote (perhaps more so than Joe/Joey), though probably he’d tell you just where to stuff it.
Yes, they could be heroes, Wylie and Julian Cope and Ian McCulloch (Peter Caulfield) - who makes you think maybe there are too many syllables in the word ‘laconic’. Of course, it’s Liverpool so humour abounds though one potentially excellent joke about Reg falls flat with an all too obvious wait for the audience reaction. Much of the comedy comes from Sam Donovan as the posturing, grandiloquent Wylie, and Oliver Jackson as Cope. The latter, sportingly, gave his blessing to the show, but it’s all too easy to imagine that he took his initials to heart at an early age and swore always to live up to them.
Ciaran Kellgren makes a good sounding board/sidekick as best friend Colin, the fickle fan swamped by his Army greatcoat, with Dean Kelly as the doctor whose instruments hopefully are not as blunt as his tongue. Mark Moraghan (Reg) is something of a pinball wizard, cleverly ricocheting between boozy, ebullience and bullying whilst Lesley Nicol tiptoes marvellously between Eileen, down to earth wife and mother and Hilary the Punk Milkmaid, faring better than Katy Dean as Joey’s token, inevitably pregnant girlfriend, Karen. And last but not least, Stephen Fletcher (Joey) and Graham Buckley (Joe) were terrific, with the latter well matched by Rosalie Craig as Sally, in their valiant struggle.
So maybe in parts, it was a bit of a shambles but that serves well as a metaphor for punk, and life in general, after all. The theatre was absolutely packed, as if everybody who had ever been to Eric’s (or hadn’t, and wished they had) were there. And there was a standing ovation, maybe mostly for the sake of the good old days and golden oldies – once upon a time where we were all oh so young.
Liverpool Empire, September 22-27
Cabaret
Welcome indeed to an absolutely stunning production. And to think I nearly didn’t bother going, quite convinced I must have seen it before. I vaguely remember the film but this is presumably closer to the original, much simpler, much starker: a doomed romance taking place in a doomed world. No, two tragic stories, for the sub plot involving Fraulein Schneider and Herr Schultz is as poignant, if not more so, than the brief encounter between the self-absorbed artistes, Sally Bowles and Clifford Bradshaw.
Songs in many musicals sometimes appear to interrupt the plot or appear tacked on, but they have every business to be here; lyrics often rather devilish but always delivered angelically. The set was excellent, and cleverly devised, from the glitz of the Kitkat club, whose motto must be ‘Grin and Bare it’ (some of the performers certainly put the ‘bare’ in Cabaret), to Fraulein Schneider’s shabby lodging house. The routines were fantastically choreographed, particularly ‘Mein Herr’, as expertly glamorous as Busby Berkley, typically spiky and unsettling as Fosse.
As Sally, Samantha Barks sparkles so brightly, there’s no danger of being overshadowed by comparisons with the legendary Liza Minelli. Henry Luxemburg’s Bradshaw, torn between his love for her and his principles, is a good match, in acting, that is to say. Then there’s the elderly twosome in their cautious courtship: Jenny Logan is damn near perfect as the longsuffering hostess with the mostest, a good match for Matt Zimmerman, the fatally optimistic Schultz. And lodger and night shift worker Suanne Braun makes a bold yet embittered Fraulein Kost, while Karl Moffatt is affably sinister as the entrepreneurial Ernst Ludwig.
Now then, Wayne Sleep: quite as sleazy as the inimitable Joel Gray, if not quite as sinister, tho he certainly is enjoying himself. But this is Wayne Sleep, the man most of the audience turned up to see, and delighted they were too: he can sing and act as well as dance after all.
There are quite a few surprises in store, à la bare-faced cheek, notably a very broad interpretation of ‘Two ladies’. But more so, the stark tableau at the end. A grim reminder of what was to come, it echoes the finale of Act 1. ‘Tomorrow belongs to me’ is a beautiful song, sung beautifully; in this scene, it sends shivers down the backbone, straight into the heart.
This has to be one of the best musicals ever, if not the best. It should be on tour forever to ensure that everybody gets the opportunity to see it.
June 28-July 19
Liverpool Playhouse, Once Upon A Time at the Adelphi
Liverpool’s premier hotel is of course known far and wide, so it’s good they’ve named a musical after it: romance is budding between two of the Adelphi’s personnel, Jo and Neil. But is this destined to resemble that of Alice and crookedly charismatic Thompson back in the glamorous 1930s, when attending an influx of visitors from America? And War waiting in the wings…
Whereas the play’s the thing, musicals rather lose the plot, or rather, it loses out to the singing and dancing, and both are pretty nifty, with the snappy lyrics. But the story also contends with a most spectacular set, something for which the Playhouse has always pulled out the stops: ballroom with chandeliers, magnificent bedchamber and foyer, and from the kitchen bowels via a giddying staircase to the roof itself. Then there are the sumptuous costumes, and some other lovely details: when Thompson goes home to the Dingle, the washing on the line is huge sheets of old photographs. Then there’s the scene which had the audience oohing and ahhing, but you can enjoy discovering that for yourselves.
The acting’s not half bad either. Natasha Seale sings, dances and acts her heart out as Older Alice and Thompson’s mother, while much of the comedy comes from Nick Smithers’s American impersonations: movie star, cowboy, soldier, and Helen Carter, who is terrific as best friend Babs, for which the synonym is obviously bubbly, the inspiration, Margi Clarke.
Julie Atherton, who doubles up as Young Alice and Jo, shines like a good deed in a naughty world and although neither Tom Oakley as Neil and Simon Bailey as Thompson have quite her sparkle, all three excel when it comes to singing and dancing. And the latter manages to show how the way to hell is paved with good intentions. Unfortunately, with Alice being a young lady of common sense, the plot hinges on her jumping to a most peculiar conclusion, a devise so clumsy it deserves the name McGuffin. Likewise, in one bizarre scene, the two men apparently first meet up slaving away for the cook yet turn out to have been students together. In fact, their relationship evolves rather than developing: friends, enemies, then war heroes.
Nonetheless, although in need of a stitch or two, it’s a fairly polished product which the Playhouse has once again delivered, maybe their most ambitious project yet. And the audience was enthralled - jolly good show.
June 30-July 5
Liverpool Empire, Hello Dolly
Hello, hello, hello in fact – you could say that somebody ought to be arrested for letting this show go on the road; talk about the devil is in the detail…
So what attracted merry widow, Dolly Levy, matchmaker supreme, to half-millionaire Horace Vandergelder – and why does he keep addressing her as Dolly Gallagher? (see what I mean?) And how will she manage this time, when the plan is for him to marry Irene Molloy, who in turn has fallen for Vandergelder’s lowly assistant, Cornelius Hackl?
OK, by and large, the staging is excellent, particularly the interiors of the Harmonia Gardens and Mrs Molloy’s hat shop, and the railroad station. But in Vandergelder’s feed store, there’s a game of Sardines with Dolly, Vandergelder’s daughter Ermengarde (no wonder she spends the entire squealing like a little kid) and suitor Ambrose Kemper, squashed in one corner. The costumes, other than the final scene from Brides Are Us (and ‘That hat is so you’), are eye-blinkingly gaudy; one scene has a couple in mufti not quite cunningly concealed at the back. Likewise, the dancing seems curiously asymmetrical and the chaps even appear to have to put in considerable effort to hoist their partners, as my companion pointed out.
It’s interesting to note that originally, the focus was on Vandergelder, for Dolly is now centre stage and Anita Dobson, evidently having the time of her life, puts everything into the role. No stone is left unturned, nor grimace nor gesture left in peace. Or tone; pity she constantly deepens her voice for comic effect, which steals poignance from the speech where it occurs naturally. And although she’s fairly successful in the funny bits, otherwise most of them are downright peculiar; farcical but not in a good way. However, Louise English is delightful as Irene and David McAlister does a great job transforming Horace Vandergelder. Then we come to Darren Day, who, considering some of his other roles, is in the wrong production, surely; right from the start, you find yourself wondering if that is actually him. But the spirit of Michael Crawford lives though, transferred to Amanda Salmon, as Irene’s assistant, Minnie Fay, giving ditzy blondes a bad name, and probably a couple of adjectives too if that kind of thing gets on your nerves.
Still, this musical must have pleased many people most of the time, and the audience happily greeted Dolly.
June 13-July 5
Liverpool Everyman, Ten Tiny Toes
This review can also be seen at
www.whatsonstage.com/blogs/liverpool/?p=103#more-103
Dulce et decorum est…but can it truly be fine and fitting to die for one’s country? For a noble cause? If not, then soldiers are slain for nothing. And define a noble cause: toppling an evil dictator? Or protesting against War?
There’s a game of happy families as the Kent household welcome Michael back from Iraq, but they then have to face the consequences when younger brother, Chris, signs up. As for their parents, Mike also has to cope with dole and drink, whilst Gill, obsessed with the news, becomes involved with the group, Military Families Against the War.
A plain setting, sitting room to the fore, video projection on to the backdrop - warzone in the background, allows for many scenes to overlap. Similarly, that each character is haunted is symbolized by the physical presence of a ghost. But it is the dialogue which bring this powerful play to life, aimed straight at heart and mind. From comedy to tragedy, brilliantly authentic, it makes the initial family scenes hilariously convincing, though perhaps a little more so than the inevitable tragedies later on. The poignance of Mike’s fate is dimmed by comparison with that of his children, though Barry McCormick does a remarkable job of wrestling with the dichotomy of chin up whilst keeping your head down.
As for the Westons, so stiff upper lip, it’s a wonder they can speak, Paula Stockbridge is excellent as Olivia Weston, Army wife and mother to the bitter end. Likewise the ladies whom, she feels, doth protest too much: Fionnuala Dorrity, the determined, practical Lucy Cope, and Joanna Bacon, adding some nifty humorous touches to her portrayal of Maya Johnson. Above all, Lisa Parry is splendid as the stalwart Gill, if outshone by her two boys.
Joe Shipman is quite outstanding as stroppy Chris, one of those rare actors whose flair for comedy captures laughter with one look or gesture or word. And David Lyons miraculously retains some sympathy for Michael, a man whose dwindling conscience struggles to watch out whilst brutality threatens to overwhelm humanity… as if evolution is in retreat.
Fables and fairy tales have much more to tell us than may appear on the surface. And the imaginative fiction of Theatre comes a hell of a lot closer to the truth than anything you read in the media or hear from politicians. See for yourself.
June 14-July 5
Royal Court, Liverpool: Stephen King’s Misery
It makes for a curious situation where you have the film and the play of the book, from Les Liaisons Dangereuses to Trainspotting. Even more so in this instance, which also revolves around the book within the book. So which medium works best? As Irving Welch has said, each needs to be considered on its own merits.
And where does Stephen King get his ideas from, especially when his work ranges from sprawling, picaresque epic, like The Stand, to Cujo: with a rabid dog laying siege to a car. And Misery, where Annie Wilkes, no 1 fan of writer Paul Sheldon, keeps him as a bedridden captive following a car crash. Captivated she may be by his series of books, but he has to go with the formula ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’, and become Scheherazade in a desperate attempt to keep grisly fate at bay, to outwit a woman who in both senses, is mad as a bucket of frogs.
Something so claustrophobic is made for theatre, and none better than the Royal Court with its strange layout. The play is enhanced by Tayo Akinbode’s excellent atmospheric and chilling music, which is a match for the imaginatively sinister staging, memorably a gnarled tree which appear to be reaching out. to drag house and inhabitants down to the bowels of Hell. However, set on a revolve with a couple of interiors as well as the exterior, it gives a twirl every so often as if for no other reason than a brief change of scenery.
So, this spooky production examines a weird, perilous hostage situation, and the heart and soul, and role, of the writer. One would like to imagine that the ‘Misery’ series, if too mocking as a tribute, is at least an affectionate nod to the flood of historical novels which stormed the 1960s and 70s. However, eventually, inevitably, Sheldon, high on inspiration, but crazed by pain and drugs, looks as if he’s ended up as mad as Annie Wilkes.
A two-hander as tense and complex as this requires a couple of your finest actors: Joan Kempson and a grizzled Andrew Schofield, immaculate accents and all, will have been first on the list. As ever, he wrings out every little bit of black, black comedy, a portrayal all the more remarkable, since he is confined to bed or wheelchair for much of the play. Joan Kempson is almost more than match for him, largely because she’s such a bizarre character, veering from raving mad to somebody, perhaps even more dangerous, who comes up with startlingly lucid insights.
There are many heart in mouth moments to make this gripping, play one of the scariest things ever seen on stage. Unfortunately, talk about good play, shame about the audience - even allowing for the fact that a nervewracking production can make some people react with giggles, too many shrieked like kids at a funfair. At times, it made you jump more than the events on stage. And that does get on your nerves, particularly when what’s meant to be frightening, like Annie Wilkes’ ominous behaviour and language, for some strange reason, made people laugh.
But don’t be put off – don’t be a misery, in fact: hotfoot it to the Royal Court, for an evening of chills and thrills. After all, every night, and audience may be different, but not the quality of this production.
June 3-7
Liverpool Playhouse, London Assurance
Tartuffe would be a hard couple of acts to follow in any instance but fortunately, this play should still appeal to a wider audience than fans of bodice and breeches. But you don’t half have to concentrate on a plot which revolves, dizzingly, around mistaken identity, and there’s so many characters suddenly seeing the light, it’s incredibly dazzling.
Grace Harkaway is quite content to be betrothed to Sir Harcourt Courtley in order for their two estates to be united and her deceased father’s greatest wish fulfilled. But the course of true love makes for a bumpy ride, and the unexpected. Until her friend Lady Gay Spanker slaps some sense into her…no, no, of course, she doesn’t, but sounds so tame by comparison: comes up with a cunning plan.
We have an extremely lush and dainty Regency setting for this witty, uproarious romp. However, it cheats somewhat by having windows which appear to show a London residence across the road, then a country estate across the lawn, though later becoming more appropriate French windows. And no artfully contrived and choreographed furniture removal either, so much the vogue these days.
As for the cast, sterling they are, ah no, pure gold, positively extravagant in portraying an Age where Society, Fashion and Style were so important, and so ripe for lampooning. Gerard Murphy makes a pompous Pantomime Dame of Sir Harcourt, le dernier cri with his costume and cosmetics. By the end, like many of the characters, he has turned over many a new leaf, so much so, he’s nearly deciduous. However, fiancée Grace, though a delightful heroine, playing Feisty with a capital F is consequently a bit shrill. Ironically, asides are bellowed; annoyingly, it gives the impression that hoi polloi, ie the audience, is assumed to be rather thick.
Still, there’s plenty of bon mots and delicious comedy: Sir H’s down to earth foil, the bluff Max Harkaway (Mike Burnside), Nigel Hastings as the constantly foiled lawyer, Meddle, and Laurence Mitchell, reprobate son Charles come good - so realistic, he could have got away with ‘Doh!’ at moments of epiphany. Ken Bradshaw (Dazzle) is as crafty and manipulative as Mike from ‘The Young Ones’… but there’s Christopher Ryan himself, excellently droll as Mr Spanker. Most eagerly awaited, his better half, and how splendidly Geraldine McNulty plays a role which could have been created for her, not least with a delightful tribute to Wilde himself, tho with his bad habits, quite likely vice versa.
In case you have ever wondered, policies are taken out for Life Assurance not Insurance, because you cannot insure against the inevitable. But you can rest assured that this will be a lively and enjoyable evening.
June 3-7
Liverpool Everyman, Running the Silk Road
5000 miles is a long, long way, and anything can happen… Ken, a born librarian, is so upset when his girlfriend breaks off their engagement and goes to China to help disaster victims, he decides to win her back by raising funds via a world class marathon. And though his friends at first think him mad, they rally round.
It’s a worthy aim, and not surprisingly, the play incorporates a lot of information about troubled regions and races. The friends themselves of course have to contend with a variety of issues and obsessions (Ken’s minute listing of his daily timetable includes not a mention of his fiancée). As a result, the dialogue clunks in places, and the succession of episodes is somewhat bitty; there are inevitably boring bits, along with some charming interpretations. This does not allow the audience to engage fully; almost like staging something in a church hall and putting agnostics on the guest list. The fact that the subtitles were not altogether prompt did not help either.
Much more vibrant is the way the plot is interwoven with ancient legends, and the simple setting makes an excellent backdrop for exotic description. OK, the singing in Beijing Opera may not be to all tastes - so high pitched it’s a wonder the theatre was not besieged by every dog in Liverpool. However, much of it is pretty spectacular, utilising dance, fight sequences, lavish costume and some remarkable puppetry.
The three Opera memebers, Gongxin Lan, Shen Feng and Yanzhong Huang were ably supported by the remaining cast as spear carriers – well, flag bearers etc. And the former’s stylized movements contrasted with the realism of the quotidian undergone by the latter. Nick Chee Ping Kellington as Ken, metamorphoses from geek to hero; Chia-Keui Chen (Wei), matures from spoilt son to considerate lover; Dina (Betsabeth Emran) is a passionate eco-warrior; Saraj Chaudhry as Jahid, provides a much needed comic touch (and some ancient jokes)
Overall, the production makes for an unusual mixture of the personal, political and mythical, and something so adventurously different should pick up plenty of fans.
Tartuffe, adapted by Roger McGough
(at Liverpool Playhouse)
There’s an old French saying…oh, alright then, it’s a phrase but certainly les mots justes: ‘Succès fou’. What a brainwave - and how brave: a whole evening of poetry. So well done, whoever had the bright idea to resurrect Molière’s play and hand it over to Roger McGough to come up with this delightful adaptation. For how rarely do writer, all the actors and the entire audience have such fun that the atmosphere in the theatre is that of one big, happy family.
Unlike Orgon’s; despite all their efforts, after taking in the pious Tartuffe, veritably clasping him to his bosom, he will not believe the man is a charlatan. But with the future of his two children at stake, desperate measures are called for. Indeed, Molière’s comedy is dark at heart, his views scathing; no wonder the play was banned, for all his judiciously creating the King as the deux ex machina.
Here, with a script ranging from the wit of l’esprit d’escalier to cheeky Scouse humour, no pun is left unintended. It’s undeniably all the more comic because of the fun and games playing with the rhymes, where, never mind equality and fraternity, the most shocking liberties are taken. And bearing in mind that couplets can end up sounding as banal as a jingle, how well the cast mastered them, with impeccable timing and delivery.
Nor could the staging and costume be bettered; it seems no expense has been spared. The ladies are lavish in shades of ruby and gold, the chaps ravishing in pastel or sumptuous in black, and all play their part to perfection in a stately, panelled chamber complete with chandelier, fancy fauteuils and handy chests.
Off to a splendid start with Eithne Brown (years ahead of her time) formidable as Orgon’s imperious mother, Madame Pernelle, the other Tartuffe fan. Annabelle Dowler, if rather excitable, sparkles as Dorine, the ubiquitous maidservant who tries to sort out everybody’s problems, while Alan Stocks switches neatly between earthy bailiff and posh Officer. The rest are mostly caricatures, particularly the hilariously twittering lovebirds, Mariane and Valere (there must be a joke here about towhit towhoo but you leave that kind of thing to the Master). Robert Hastie, foppish popinjay of a son, Damis, earns one of the biggest laughs of the evening, while John Ramm produces a Tartuffe as loathsome and oleaginously cunning as Gollum. Orgon himself is nigh as hypocritical, completely bamboozled by the man of God, then blaming everybody else for being so deceived; Jospeh Alessi twists and turns most amusingly. All of which makes a nice contrast with the two most realistic characters: brother and sister, Cleante and Elmire. The former, masterfully played and sonorously voiced by Simon Coates, tries to talk sense into Orgon, but it is the latter’s charming, clever wife (Rebecca Lacey) who comes up with a plan.
French and poetry; how cultured can you get? Purists may say that Molière would be turning over in his grave – ‘Mais oui!’, say I - in order to clamber out and join the rest of us in a standing ovation.
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