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Sidmouth Manor Pavilion Theatre - An Inspector Calls (with James Pellow)

Folks who know me very well often say, kindly I think, that I should get out more. I’m a grumpy old sod at the best of times and in the ...

Wednesday, 26 February 2020

Love From A Stranger (Wheathampstead DS)


Love From A Stranger
Feb 20th - 22nd 2020
Wheathampstead

***

Cruising happily down my blogs I see that I have not thrown my incisive, or irritating, theatrical opinion through Wheathampstead’s ample doors for nigh on eighteen months. They gave us a cracker (My mother Said etc.), lovingly scribed, and a damp squib (The Herd), sensibly silent. I love to praise, or at least commend, and found little in the latter. But they clearly miss me, given all the get well/stuffed cards I never received. Wait Until Dark may have been good, I am told it was, but thrillers on stage do not do a lot for me. Explains why in over forty years of directing I have only ever done two. And one of those was the real life Rattenbury murder case. Much more fun. But you should support local theatre and they do not get much more local than WDS. On a dreary Saturday night I threw my twenty quid for two into their collecting tin and prayed that the only murders on stage would be welcome ones.

Love From A Stranger may have Agatha Christie’s illustrious name on it but it is no Gaslight or Shadow of a Doubt. The main character is clearly a killer, probably a serial one, but there the similarity ends. The others have tension and narrative thrusts in spades, this Stranger had little. Teasing clues should engender a growing awareness in the prospective victim to deliciously engage a breathless audience. It’s a given. I am blowed if I could sense much in this script, not a great help to actors, and what there was suffered from muted direction and prosaic presentation. Director Robin Langer’s first port of call with an old fashioned pot boiler should have been to create oodles of menace in which to immerse the characters. But lack of atmospheric music and unimaginative country cottage setting scuppered that particular trick.

So it says a lot that most of those on stage turned in more than passable offerings and one or two were exceptionally good. Given some fine and spooky packaging they were skilled enough to add a grip the play never delivered. Or so I thought whilst contemplating a few more of those get stuffed cards. Damon Pattison was skilled and confident in his creation of the mysterious stranger who wins the heart of gullible and nouveau riche Cecily Harrington      (Lisa Fitzgerald). Eminently watchable, Mr Pattison’s too good to be true Bruce Lovell hinted at menace and danger almost from his first entrance. But if there were any warning bells in Ms Fitzgerald’s portrayal of the innocent prey they were pretty well muffled. Clues, some of them clunky, abounded but it was only in a slightly overwritten last scene that pennies seemed to finally drop. A signalling of earlier doubt would have enhanced an otherwise competent performance.

Other than Mr Pattison the best bit of acting came from Julie Gough in the role of best friend and London flatmate Mavis Wilson. Ms Gough has impressed before and her crystal cut accent created a character with brains and poise. I reckon she would have soon sent an incipient American killer and his mysterious suitcase packing. Her warning bells were decidedly not muffled. Viv Fairley made for a very nice Auntie Loo-Loo, even if the sniffy critic in me sensed a requirement for a more comic portrayal, and Sheila Scull was a pleasing country cottage maid. If she wasn’t making Cumberland pies offstage, everything about her suggested she should be. Steve Leadbetter struggled with his posh accent in the thankless role of Ms Harrington’s ditched boy friend and John Simpson, looking every inch the benign country doctor, merely struggled. I have no wish to be unkind and if Mr Simpson had relaxed into his role it could have been an absolute scene stealer. Especially in the scene where notorious past murderers are lovingly regaled to the unbelieving Ms Harrington. Malcolm Hobbs did a splendid job as the curmudgeon country gardener Hodgson and created so many alarm bells, buried peroxide bottles and financial chicanery, the heroine should have been out on her bike long before the last scene.

But Love From A Stranger is not a logical play. It is a bit of 1950’s thriller nonsense, adapted from a Christie short story by Frank Vosper, and needs mixing up in sign posted menace and dangerous atmosphere to make it work. Mysterious suitcases, prohibited cellars, the sinister bottles, and books on notorious murderers, are all very fine. They can provide a solid and pleasingly vicarious base to the most prosaic of plots. Christie does it in spades in her books. Wheathampstead had a pretty good cast overall but rather than murder most foul we got murder most bland. I quite enjoyed my evening, they deserve my twenty quid. But I shall of course, given my less than enthusiastic review, look warily for the get stuffed letters and any number of peroxide bottles. I reckon Crippen had similar problems. Roy Hall














Wednesday, 29 January 2020

Alligators - Company of Ten



Studio,
Company of Ten,
St Albans
Sun 26th January 2020

****
Another top class stunner from Company of Ten.



Andrew Keatley’s ‘Alligators’ is a searingly good and topical play and St Albans Company of Ten were on top form with some cracking central performances. As readers of this blog can see I don’t review much these days. Laziness and an unwillingness to be unkind limit the temptation to scatter the old keyboard. But the Abbey studio on a rainy Sunday afternoon often appeals. And this one ticked a few of my dramatic boxes. And, boy, it did not disappoint. 
Daniel Turner is a typical thirty something schoolteacher, married to an engaging and sprightly wife, and father to two young children. Toys and games litter the sparse but cosy flat and husband, wife, and seven year old daughter briefly live their equally cosy and anonymous lives. I say briefly because early dark hints suggest that, as the old song goes, there may be trouble ahead. An unseen headmaster not being his usual friendly self, a summons to chat about his position at the school and, most tellingly, an indication in lightly played games with his wife that schoolgirls have sexual appeal. 
An accusation from the past brings Daniel’s world crashing down on his less than saintly head. Teachers and fourteen year old schoolgirls are a potent and dangerous mix when the finger is pointed, particularly in post Saville times, and Mr Keatley’s play graphically illustrates how fragile respectability can so readily crumble. Few of us are as white as driven snow and the sexual skeletons in Mr Turner’s cupboard are fuel to an all consuming fire. He may be innocent, indeed he is innocent, but any man who watches adult schoolgirl porn and once engaged in a drunken student orgy must be guilty. Besides the papers say so and they are never wrong. And it could be anyone of us. It just wants that wavering accusing finger to point in a different direction.
Matt Hughes-Short gives a riveting performance in the central role of schoolteacher Daniel Turner. Always watchable, his descent into rage and despair beautifully etched the gradual crumbling of an ordinary man consumed by events beyond his control. A forgotten offstage schoolgirl, seven years on, jumped on a strident bandwagon and destroyed his life. He wasn’t a saint, in fact his sexual devilry was slightly overegged in the writing, but he did not deserve that all consuming and pointing finger. If, in his final desperation, he thought of Arthur Miller’s magnificent Crucible, I would not blame him. 
Katherine Steed was equally convincing as his supportive and troubled wife Sally. The scenes between the two were as sharp as razors and you were drawn into a private domestic drama so realistic you, occasionally, felt like apologising for your presence. Ms Steed effectively created a wife who loved her man, was not blind to his faults, and expunged all doubts. Or you hoped she did. And Darcy Jones, the seven year old daughter Genevieve, was absolutely perfect in a controlled performance well beyond her years. Her confusion of allegations and alligators, hence the play’s title, was beautifully done. When she told the social worker, a strong and convincing Deborah Cole, you can’t be tickled without being touched I wanted, simultaneously, to kiss her and slap the social worker. That should get the police looking into my past life. Abbe Waghorn brought total believability to her sharp suited lawyer Rachel Horne, uncomfortable truths readily amplified, even if my ears yearned for stronger projection of key lines. 
But I put that down to my age. An age with a long and rollercoaster past. Do not look into it. Do not point the finger. That is the message of this riveting play. Beautifully acted, excellently directed by Tim Hoyle, and yet another stunner from the Company of Ten. I am rather glad it rained on Sunday.

Roy Hall 


Runs to Saturday 1st February - Box Office 01727 857861




Monday, 14 October 2019

Dealing with Clair (Company of Ten)



Company of Ten
Abbey Theatre Studio
Runs to Saturday 19th October 2019
01727 857861 (Tickets £13)

****
A cracking depiction of Thatcherism.
The first thing that strikes you in Martin Crimp’s excellent play, rich in staccato rhythms worthy of Pinter and David Mamet, is that many of the characters inhabit various stages of unpleasantness. Mike and Liz, the yuppie couple selling their house are, as dear old Oscar would say, knowing of the price of everything and the value of nothing. Or that was how it seemed to me. Naked ambition for house price gazumping eclipsed much else. We got a tantalising hint of sexual connection in a wine induced evening of introspection but elsewhere this Liz and Mike rated money far above relationships. Ditching their unseen prospective buyers for creepy cash buyer James, laced with dubious Faustian offerings, seemed to say it all. Money may not grow on trees but its entrails were everywhere, destroying normal human values. Dealing in tens of thousands on a house sale does not stop you fretting obsessively about your Italian au pairs secretive phone calls or covering up stains on a carpet that may knock off the odd one per cent.
And in the mix of this, as well as that creepy counter cash buyer, is the ingenuous estate agent Clair. On one level strong and assertive, as estate agents are, and yet in other respects completely out of her depth. She goes along with the yuppies upping the value of their house and seems to accept cash buyer James on his own terms, almost buying in to his prevarications. And if he makes her uncomfortable, as he does, she never totally loses that estate agent high street patina. If it had been me I would have told him to piss off or put up the money. Preferably both.
Even if the programme had not mentioned it you would readily pick up echoes of the Suzy Lamplugh case when, over thirty years ago, a young estate agent disappeared after meeting up with prospective buyer Mr Kipper. A case never resolved. And neither is it in Mr Crimp’s Dealing With Clair. This play is not about the ramifications of a 1980s real life mystery but more about the naked age of Thatcherism that was the background to it. We all want to better ourselves and if we can crawl over others whilst doing it so much the better. Money blinds to motives and allows exploitation.
Under Martin Goodman’s astute and spare direction we got some cracking performances. The cast, collectively, never missed a beat in regaling Mr Crimp’s insistent and percussive narrative. Every line delivered was as sharp as a razor and as precise as a bullet. We were rarely given time to indulge in emotional introspection. Not easy for the cast, as fleshing out characters with dramatic subtext in such a linguistic context is virtually impossible. What we know of the people, other than the coruscating words, must be suggested. I got Liz (Georgia Choudhuri) and Mike (Jack Kenward) in spades. A narcissistic couple more interested in selling a house than cementing a relationship that, to me, was fragmenting under money. Whenever the poor offstage baby cried, yes they produced one, it was the put upon au pair who dealt with the problem. Selfish buggers I thought. Georgia Choudhuri was exceptionally good as a wife seemingly to want status more than emotional satisfaction.
Lester Adams’ creepy buyer James could have been a bit creepier for my tastes, perhaps I wanted that mysterious Mr Kipper, but he nevertheless unnerved. Both of my female companions subscribed to this view so perhaps it is a male thing. But he clearly unnerved Lillie Prowse’s Clair. A ‘black suited’ waitress, the sellers sexist view, Miss Prowse oozed female confidence in a male dominated world and commanded the stage in all her scenes. If you got the feeling that this Clair was playing a role, the confident estate agent desperate for advancement, you would not be far wrong. All her instincts repelled against James the buyer but the commission percentage eclipsed everything. And that probably sums up most estate agents.
Louisa Bicknell was the cracking Italian au pair Anna, totally believable in everything she did, and Zodiac O’Neill particularly impressed in the third of his small roles. Estate agent Toby, full of all that bullshit that such folks are capable. Sitting where I was I could have hit his sharp suited persona in the face, and frankly I was tempted. I cannot pay the actor a higher compliment. Lighting and Sound were impressive and both Don Hayward and Ian Crawford are to be congratulated, especially for their combined efforts in creating the trains rushing by Clair’s small and claustrophobic bedsit. Very realistic.
A slight play in some respects but rich with beautiful dialogue delivered with consummate ease by a skilled cast. I expect nothing less from Company of Ten. And if they spread little light on the Suzy Lamplugh mystery, not their fault, they gave us an illuminating glimpse of old world Thatcherism. Roy Hall

 

 

 

Tuesday, 12 February 2019

Pagliacci - Irrational Theatre Company


Pagliacci
Irrational Theatre Company
Harpenden Park Hall
10th February 2019


****
An uplifting touch of small scale opera class

 

In my younger days, I did have some, I used to go to a lot of opera. Working in London had its compensations and the ENO Coliseum frequently beckoned as a change from my beloved straight theatre. I am no musical purist but boy could that lot sing. Tickets cost a fortune and you occasionally had to draw a veil over some iffy acting, but voices and music from a Verdi and Puccini heaven eclipsed all. Theatre in its purest form and no way could I do it. Which made it all the more enjoyable. Watching skills alien to your own theatrical comfort zone is a special pleasure. Sadly my days in the city of sin and smoke are long over and opera in the sticks are a rarefied beast. Musicals, Webber and Sondheim, abound, but opera is about as rare as turkey twizzlers in Waitrose.
So that is why I take off my extremely tatty old hat, yes I was wearing one, to Irrational Theatre’s small scale production of Leoncavallo’s masterpiece in the equally small scale but packed hall of my local town of Harpenden. A one off performance which gave us seventy five minutes of powerful acting and singing so close you could have re-arranged the buttons on the colourful and clownish costumes. The evening zinged and tingled and all we watchers could, inadequately, say at the end was ta muchly. And come again. You enriched a wet weekend.
Shan’t regale you with too much of the plot. In this Wikipedia age you can look it up for yourselves. Actors playing clowns and, tragically, bringing their real life drama to the stage. All ends in blood and tears. Bit like most operas I suppose, or at least them without consumptive women. But I will regale you with the performances. If they do not earn a living from their singing then this quintet bloody well ought to. Sadly there were no CV’s in the simple programme so I can only guess. Randy Nichol was a mesmerizingly powerful Canio/Pagliacci, he gave us a scorching dramatic rendering of the famous mid act aria, and created a convincingly troubled man you would not want to mess with. Samantha Green in the role of unfaithful Nedda/Columbina was absolutely delightful and coquettish and clearly relished her amorous duplicity in both roles. Katy Bingham Best counterpointed effortlessly as the ugly, unloved, fool and Joao Valido Vaz acted and sang superbly as Peppe/Arlechino. A fun harlequinade character you wanted to wrap in a chocolate box and take home. And rounding it all up was Alejandro Lopez-Montoya’s Silvio/Stage Manager. This baritone had a voice to die for and a presence to match it. Nedda’s lover, stabbed at the end, sadly missed. So I have given you some of the plot whether you wanted it or not.
This superb fivesome were well supported by Gergely Kaposi’s equally first class piano accompaniment, my untrained ear never heard a false note, and Peter Jones’ astute musical direction. I noticed how he cleverly picked up one slightly missed actor’s beat but if there were any others he masked them beautifully. In a performance of clowns that would be appropriate. Paula Chitty, director and designer and costumes amongst everything else, must be well pleased. I know I and my companions were. And one of them so Italian she never once glanced at the subtitles. I did, pedant that I am, but I did not need to. The passion and the power and the music were beautifully displayed. And no more than three feet in front of us. You did not get that at the Coliseum. Roy Hall

 

Monday, 3 December 2018

I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change (St Andrews Players)


****
I wasn’t going to review this one. I have a stinking cold, paracetamol and whisky to the fore, and dipped my toes into it when dress rehearsal audience were sparse. Means I did not have to sit close to anyone. Suits most folks who surprisingly sniff at my incisive opinions. And besides, spoiler alert, I go to bed with the director. Seems appropriate for I love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change. Sex, or the lack of it, drives this episodic piece. More of a revue than a full blown narrative story, diverse relationships eclipsing developing character, it strikes me as the American musical version of our own Alan Ayckbourn’s Confusions. He’s a national treasure, no idea if the creators of this are, but they tell the same coruscating story. Love denied, love consummated, love disappointed. Man and woman entwined til death in the dance that both teases and consumes. It’s sharp, it’s sassy, and it’s very straight and narrow. As it says, or sings, at the opening, this is man and woman and God created nothing else. Variations on the theme of the human condition are not an option.

It mattered not a jot. This show is pure fun. Rich in sexual politics a variety of characters in a variety of short scenes effortlessly progress from first tentative date to poignant waiting at the cemetery gates. And in between the skilled sextet of actors, never a critical sniff of a weak link, paint rich pictures of dreadful dinner dates, desperate singles, besotted new parents, and family outings. Every American’s personal and private dream and nightmare writ large for a smidgeon of entertainment and a dollop of recognition. Given such a show, nineteen short scenes, you naturally cherry pick your favourites. Two of them came early. Steve Peters (Stan) and Emma Orr (Pat) gave us a skilled representation of speed dating taken to absurdity in Busy,Busy,Busy, and Richard Alexander (Jason) and Jo Yirrell (Julie) were beautifully buttoned up folk in A Stud and a Babe. The critic in me smugly notes that I knew that, on paper, this was a good cast and this early promise underlines it. But then I remember that, on paper, a few Cheltenham Gold Cups are crackers. But horses run on turf and actors thrive on good scripts and astute direction. Early hopes are often dashed.

They weren’t. Okay I was not a big fan of Satisfaction Guaranteed, over aggressive Americanism, and Waiting left me a bit nonplussed. I got the point of the latter; one partner always waiting for the other, but one of the trio desperate for a pee seemed a joke shoe horned in for no particular purpose. Take nothing away from the incontinent Jenna Ryder-Oliver, superb in everything she did, but this scene did not illuminate the frailties of relationships like most of the others. Perhaps, showing my age, I just do not like lavatory jokes. But these are small points. So many of the quickly rolled out scenes were just hilariously fun and brilliantly sung with never a false accent in sight. Tear Jerk, Wedding Day, and The Baby Song, all zinged for different reasons. Jo Yirrell's (Jane) eyes enraptured in filmic schmaltz, Emma Orr’s Oscar winning bridesmaid dress, fantastically awful, and John O’Leary giving thanks for his sperm to an increasingly uncomfortable Steve Peters all struck theatrical gold.

A good night at the theatre. In spite of colds, me, and the odd technical glitch, them. It is allowed at a dress rehearsal. I reckon all of this impressive cast have got at least one mention in the above. Hope so, they deserve it for consummate ensemble playing.  But a couple of bits deserve more. Emma Orr’s monologue in Rose Ritz’s Dating Video and Jenna Ryder-Oliver’s Muriel in Funerals are for Dating gave us touches of acting of the highest class. And in a cast this good that is saying something. Emily Wright (Piano) and Paul Costin (Violin) gave impressive accompaniment which rarely intruded and invariably enhanced and counterpointed the drama. Beth Thomas (Musical Director) and Frances Hall (Director) can be justifiably proud of their latest creation at Dunstable Rep. For the record I only go to bed with one of them. Roy Hall.

Thursday, 1 November 2018

My Mother Said I Never Should (Wheathampstead DS)


****
A quartet on impressive form

The more observant amongst you may have noticed that I have been getting out a bit more lately. A few late season theatre trips have been added to the social whirl of Ladbrokes, the chemists, and the local cafe. Hardly surprising that in this latest trawl of Hertfordshire’s finest I roped in another visit to my old thespian friends down the B653. That’s the foreign field of Wheathampstead for those unfamiliar with the terrain. I am nothing if not adventurous.

If I was the nervous sort, I am but let us not go there, I would have stepped out with some trepidation. I have seen a few crackers recently and on my last visit to WDS they had dropped some way below their generally high standard. If I sensed sniffiness about their latest, Charlotte Keatley’s complex My Mother Said I Never Should, any Christmas cards coming up the Lower Luton Road would be wrapped around the proverbial eight by three house brick. Some folks can be so wasteful. Thankfully, I knew within ten minutes of settling that all missives would come lovingly stamped and letter box sized. These players were back on form.

My Mother etcetera is not an easy play to get a handle on. Four generations of females criss and cross the bewildering timescales of twentieth century life. Second World War to post Thatcherism aspirations in the blink of an eye and, in between, four actors of all the ages play at children against the symbolic wasteland backdrop. Could call for a few headache tablets but director Julie Field, astutely, signposted most with time referenced sound effects. She knows her audience. We ain’t thick but without a script the bombs of the 1940’s and the Falklands War 1980’s nicely pigeonholed potentially wandering minds.

Charlotte Keatley’s absorbing play is not so much plot as dysfunctional lives. Doris is the grandmother, in reality great grandmother, who buries her husband of sixty years and wonders if she ever really loved him. Margaret is her unfulfilled daughter sacrificing life for others and finally subsumed by dreary office life and even drearier cancer. Jackie is Margaret’s self centred artistic daughter offloading an inconvenient sprog, Rosie, to her own mother and posing as clever and interesting elder sister. All conspire in a massive family lie which, as I often say, is bound to end in tears. All their men are unthinking, unseen and offstage, which is probably the best place for most. If the youngest had one she never mentions him. At the end Rosie has a fetching kite and oodles of angst when she discovers her sister is her mother. I reckon most families down our way are like this.

That is about as much of character plot that I usually give. Says something about the performances. All totally believable and beautifully rounded. Irene Morris in her last performance with WDS, I shall certainly miss her, was on top form as the long suffering Margaret. She neither understood her mother or her children and probably went to her grave thinking that all men are shits, hers left her, and office life is less complicated and more forgiving. Sara Payne was a convincing selfish Jackie. The most awkward of the quartet and the least involved, her performance suggested a woman constantly confronting a girl she had literally and metaphorically abandoned. A  reminder of faults realised and ambition nakedly fulfilled. And Eleanor Field was an even better Rosie, the awkward elephant in the room ultimately betrayed. As much as she loved Margaret and Doris, especially the latter, none ever told her the truth.

And that leads me, nicely or otherwise, to Sheila Scull’s Doris. The grandmother come great grandmother who carried a lie and kept the peace. A wonderful performance, beautifully fleshed out. I loved her tales of her old man, her beautiful ending when, in flashback, old fashioned dress and ambitions told of a life to come, and her story of the posh teapot comically serving two poverty stricken houses. A portrayal so rich you wanted to put it in a Waitrose bag and take it home. Miss Scull was the cream of this production but all of this impressive quartet played their part. Longueurs on scene changes slightly irritated and a beautiful moving staging to the soundtrack of Both Sides Now was annoyingly cut short, but overall a pretty good production from my friends down the B653. Thankfully. I have no need of house bricks. Correctly stamped or otherwise. Roy Hall

Sunday, 21 October 2018

Dangerous Corner (Company of Ten) - Full Review


****
A Sparkling Dangerous Corner.

Company of Ten are one of the classiest amateur companies around and they are on sparkling form with Tina Swain’s virtually impeccable production of J B Priestley’s Dangerous Corner. In a good old fashioned 1930’s drama of seething tensions and destructive truths set and costumes perfectly realise the civilised age long gone. Russell Vincent leads an impressively strong cast as a man who, misguidedly, will not let sleeping dogs lie. An absorbing, four star, two hours that is well worth a ticket.

I wrote that, sorry to those who hate reading things twice, shortly after seeing a Sunday Matinee. (Dunstable Rep take note). Nothing has changed in my thoughts in the past week to make me alter my mind. I left Company of Ten’s latest production vowing to marry director Tina Swain if she will have me, her indoors may have something to say about that, but I did so for the best theatrical reasons. I reckon Ms Swain loves the old fashioned thirties as much as I do, her London Wall office life politics had me tingling, and she captured the post dinner party elegance and venom of Priestley’s first ‘time play’ with consummate style and pleasing presentation. Judith Goodban’s drawing room set and Lesley Ivinson’s costumes magnificently evoked a bygone age and metaphorical knives and damaging truths were drawn with finesse. Add in the fine directorial pointing of cigarettes lit, drinks poured, and refined seating by windows, and these numerous prosaic moments underline the hand of a director cleverly painting the gathering tension. Almost from the start I felt that this lot knew what they were doing. Sit back and enjoy.

It could all have gone pear shaped of course. If those bloody actors are blind to your concept they could scupper it by overblown or underplayed performance or by mistiming a line which destroys a lovingly created scene. Have seen the latter a few times in my long life and, pleased to say, my last prison sentence was suspended. Justifiable homicide the judge come theatre critic said. No chance here at St Albans. The seven strong cast were singing, collectively and individually, to Ms Swain’s Dangerous Corner tune. Shan’t regale you with the plot. Or only a bit. A chance remark regarding a musical cigarette box owned by the offstage and unseen Martin, conveniently dead, leads to smug and self satisfied dinner guests writhing like snakes in a bottomless pit. Lovely stuff. And beautifully played by actors collectively aware that this play had a solid theatrical base and individually determined to ensure that it zinged.

Russell Vincent was riveting as the slightly pompous and unduly pure host Robert Caplan who, misguidedly and doggedly, unearthed questions best left unanswered. A central performance of the highest class. And Abbe Waghorn visually ticked all my demanding boxes as elegant hostess Freda Caplan, torn between social niceties and destructive truths. Do you serve sandwiches when someone has confessed to murder? Probably. Lianne Weidmann was on top form as the slightly repressed and introspective Olwen Peel, Stuart Hurford spot on in the difficult part of the over emotional Gordon Whitehouse, and Apryl Kelly engaging as the doll like Betty Whitehouse. Miss Kelly needed to project a little more in her quieter scenes but this is a small point in an overall captivating performance. Besides, my ears ain’t what they used to be. But my favourite performance in a cast full of cream was Andrew Baird’s subtly crafted performance as the dinner party’s bad apple Charles Stanton. Drinks as much as me, Mr Stanton that is, which is no bad thing and his revealing social pariah cleverly knitted the growing tensions of the Caplan’s evening soiree. I first sniffed out Mr Baird as the friar in Juliet and her Romeo. Impressive then, even more so here.

That just leaves me with Jacqui Golding’s Maud Mockridge and my only caveat in an otherwise faultless production. Rest easy Ms Golding. Nothing about you. A beautiful, well modulated, and clear performance as an insufferable author publishers have to put up with. Social snob and convenient voice of exposition and, at the end, the underscoring point of the narrative. In a play that crucially goes full circle, hence its charm, Miss Mockridge is the important link. Her returning final scene was not reset with open curtains and afternoon light. Cigarette box and radio music repeated conversations not dramatically pointed enough for my taste. So the muted finale did not underline the tantalising beginnings. But my only caveat. Overall a superb Dangerous Corner. A superb production, first class director, excellent cast. Even if my small ending theatrical sniff means the marriage to Ms Swain is off. Roy Hall