Those desirous of a bit of relief from
Royal Wedding hysteria could do a lot worse than pop into St Andrew’s Players
latest musical offering. The Matchgirls celebrates the famous and courageous
strike of 1888 to improve the working conditions of downtrodden factory women.
Heavy in theme but light in depiction, simple songs intertwine with complex
social issues to illustrate both small community drama and the larger political
stage. In an astute intimate setting, surprising in such a large arena, the
camaraderie of London’s underclass is best displayed in some powerful
collective singing and strong portrayals from the two warring lovers of Jo
Yirrell and Joe Hawkins. More small scale musical than blockbuster, The Matchgirls
informs, educates, and entertains in the best Reithian fashion. I doubt the
Windsor lot being able to say the same. Malcolm Farrar directs with pleasing
imagination. Roy Hall
When
I said all the above after watching the Wednesday dress rehearsal I had every
intention of following up with a fuller review. Star ratings and all. You see,
I am so clever I can project my imagination to actual performing nights with
bursting audiences and honed and polished portrayals. Except I can’t, and
besides it ain’t fair. Those on stage, and the ones twiddling electrics and
musical batons, might be better, or worse, than I imagined. First night brilliance
followed by second or third night wobbles, the latter almost guaranteed if a
bloody critic is in. And that bloody critic gets the one, elusive, theatrical
snapshot that provokes rave or rant. As it should be. All I get from a dress
rehearsal is an impression, a promise that may or may not be fulfilled. Bit like a Newmarket trainer watching his
horse on the limekilns gallops. It may flash and flare in its prep but only the
actual race will find if it flops or fires. I knew I would get in a racing
analogy somewhere. It’s my own fault, should have attended one of the actual
nights to get the full flavour. But I didn’t. So I am not going to do an official
review. I might have done some musings instead and, if I had, here they are. If
you know what I mean.
Simple
musical with serious issues underlining it. Needs a studio setting with bravura
playing by the cast. Being belted in a small space fits the bill. It cleverly
got the former thanks to director Malcolm Farrar astutely enveloping all in a
small black set. Annie Besant’s palatial St John’s Wood domicile simply
suggested by a splendid chaise longue, and leading man Joe’s backyard
realistically evoked by Victorian street lamp and sounds of lapping water were
particularly impressive. Mr Farrar clearly had the right idea and linked the
disparate scenes pretty well. The switching link in the song ‘Something About You’ certainly ticked
my theatrical boxes. Some other scene changes were a bit muted, most notably
boys' low key whistling for distant pigeons, but imagination says this would
have improved with performance. I am so kind. Acting and singing split me if
that does not sound too painful. The singing was generally pretty good,
individually and collectively, and if the songs aren’t memorable they were very
catchy. I particularly liked ‘Men’, though
God knows where it came from in the narrative. But who cares. Kate and Polly
belted it over. And who couldn’t like ‘Waiting’
and ‘This Life of Mine.’ Stirring
stuff both. In my reviewing days St Andrew’s Players had a reputation for being
one of the best around for choral singing in musicals. You can still see why. I
haven’t a single word or pithy phrase to say about the musicians, so they must
have been good. I only notice duff notes. So I reckon Richard Cowling and his
team did a pretty good job.
Now
acting is different. I am an expert on acting. Ask anyone who has ever thrown a
brick at me. I can spot a mislaid cue or a misplaced line a mile off. Pace and
truth are meat and drink to me in characterisation. My numerous unpublished
books are only outsold by my best seller ‘How to Win at Newmarket.’ Don’t go,
is the answer to that one. But, opinions folks not facts, I sniffed out a few
in the acting stakes. Jo Yirrell (Kate) and Joe Hawkins (Joe) were spirited
leads drawn apart by political circumstances. Neatly encapsulated in the
dilemma Kate felt when the call of social agitation eclipsed the promise of
flight to the American dream. A misunderstood matchgirl if ever there was one.
If I preferred Joe Hawkins acting, very strong, to his singing I suspect he
does as well. Of the others Allanah Rogers impressed for a sassy Polly,
disconcertingly pleasing on the eye, Tracey Chatterley for a powerful Mrs
Purkiss, all East End suffering in her face, and Evie Wright for a scheming and
manipulative Jessie. In a mixed ensemble all gave notable performances. As did
Frances Hall in the small role of Annie Besant’s no nonsense secretary and
Reece Lowen as match factory foreman Mynel. All menace, mouth and moustache, he
commendably stayed just the right side of archetypal Victorian villain. I should not, of
course, mention Mrs Hall so I will not do so.
I
will mention the toffs though. Apart from anything else they were the real
characters in a real piece of history wrapped up in fictional working class
characters. Annie Besant, socialist reformer, and George Bernard Shaw,
socialist windbag, lived and breathed through late 19th century
history and beyond. The matchgirls strike was meat and drink to their reformist
agenda. They both did a fine job, Malcolm Farrar every inch one’s perception of
a young GBS and Michelle Arnold a fine and gentle Mrs Besant. Possibly too
gentle at times as always vocally more at ease in familiar settings of office
and home than in alien surroundings of the great unwashed. Perhaps the real Mrs
Besant had the same problems. I have no idea. This is a muse not a history
lesson. And neither was Bill Owen’s musical. A history lesson that is. We got a
slight flavour of the real social strife but we got more of a few jolly songs.
And all in all it made for a pretty good evening, nicely choreographed by the
excellent Sarah Albert and splashed with good sound and light by Tim Garside
and Paul Horsler. And that was the dress rehearsal when, so I am told,
everything usually goes wrong. I must have been lucky and, probably, it all
went pear shaped on the opening night. I doubt it though. Once they warmed up
this Matchgirls started to gel.
Here
endeth the unwritten muse.
Roy Hall
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