Personally I have never understood the fuss made about
nudity, makes sense in the current steamy weather, but it is clearly a big deal
for some. And very unbritish. Which probably explains why a group of Women’s
Institute ladies collectively dropping their Yorkshire knickers twenty years
ago, caused such a stir. Tits and bums replaced Jam and Jerusalem on fund
raising calendars and worldwide media frenzy ensued. Tim Firth’s Calendar Girls tells the real small
scale story, liberally laced with pathos and humour. Death, sunflowers, and
gritty warmth manfully cloak an essentially simple tale of village folk. Too
episodic and formulaic to be a great play but one in which it is impossible not
to be moved. Emotional and historical baggage had a feel good factor worthy of
bottling for any village hall fete.
At the risk of sounding like an unwelcome adjudicator at a
private knees-up I have to say that, for me, Angela Goss’s latest Rep
production only partially pulled it off. She had some cracking performances,
none more so than Dee Lovelock’s feisty florist Chris and Annalise
Carter-Brown’s repressed Ruth. Miss Lovelock was sharp and pithy in everything
she did and Miss Carter-Brown, playing against type, beautifully etched a mouse
that eventually roared. But some scenes seemed under paced and/or over
rehearsed. Take your pick. The freshness of verbal sunflowers was missing. On a
set that leaves all the work to the actors, can’t do much with a village
community hall, you need your cast to fire full tilt on all their collective
cylinders. Here, in the heat, sparks only intermittently flew. I enjoyed some
well crafted portrayals but I wasn’t grabbed by the throat. Given the full houses,
the complimentary water and the ecstatic audiences, I now, no doubt, will be.
Susan Young turned in a very sensitive portrayal as the lady
who lost a husband (a gentle cameo from Phil Baker) and found a calendar, and
Katy Eliott (upmarket sexy golf widow) and Barbara Morton (belligerent but
refined teacher) provided rich humour in their clearly shaped
characterisations. Completing the Miss of the Month sextet, Deborah Cheshire
served up a rebellious vicar’s daughter. Aggressive in attitude and attire, more
vocal variety would have enhanced her performance. Told you this was pseudo
adjudication. Well if it is I shall leave some of the peripheral roles alone. I
liked Kenton Harding in the thankless role of Rod the flower man and Julie
Hanns looked every inch a cloned beautician. But the towering performance from
a cast member who didn’t shed drawers was Jo Collett’s status conscious Marie. Her
Women’s Institute Chairman treated Yorkshire as something she had trodden in
and constantly tried to shake off. Along with an unhappy past in, emphasise the
last syllable please, Cheshire.
My last syllable is that I admired Alan Goss’s clever set
change to a Yorkshire hill and the sunflower lighting of the theatre walls at
the end. And I felt for the man who never got to see the real flowers grow. But
you can be emotionally moved without being theatrically lifted. Flesh and
feelings were skilfully revealed in this calendar but the separate pictures never totally gelled. Roy Hall
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