tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72035795866875135662024-02-08T10:57:44.737-08:00RoyhalltheatreRoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-83421064089257122112022-05-15T10:50:00.000-07:002022-05-15T10:50:00.103-07:00Lucky Stiff - St Andrews Players (Toddington)<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Lucky Stiff<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><strike>***</strike></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;">Haven’t
done a blog for almost a year. Been too busy being doubled and trebled jabbed
and avoiding human contact like the plague. Literally. But one has to get out
occasionally and, quadrupled jabbed and ridiculously bullish, I ventured along
to Toddington for Luton St Andrews latest. </span><b style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;"><i>Lucky Stiff.</i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;"> Postponed more times
than a certain infamous Scottish football match that got ditched twenty nine
times. I exaggerate, but then I often do. But, exaggerations apart, I wasn’t
the only one catching up on long lost and forgotten interaction with old
theatrical friends. Loads in the night I went and all in full volume
anticipatory voices. Simple pleasures long deprived. Noisy audience harbingered
noisy show. Seemed appropriate, and the warmth of post covid meetings enhanced
the mood. But, what about the show? say the two or three who read these
ramblings. I mean, let’s face it, not a single soul is interested in the
incipient musings of an ageing theatrical codger. Cut to chase, was it any
good?</span></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Well,
yes and no. </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Lucky Stiff </i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">is a quick
fire mad zany musical with songs easily forgotten and a plot so ludicrous you
could not make it up. Except it was. Based, loosely or otherwise, I have no idea,
on the tale of The Man who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, a corpse is trailed
through a variety of scenes to win some hapless individual a $6,000,000 dollar
inheritance. Pursued avidly by a neurotically inclined dog lover and a gun
toting blind bimbo with her equally hapless brother. It is a convoluted plot,
there is much more which I will not relate, based on a pretty thin joke that
gets increasingly thinner and desperate, so all brownie points rest on how well
the production zings and how well those actors do. Forgive me, but I did say
that this was a yes and no review and brains should not be engaged for the
ride.</span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Audiences
roared, or some of them, and actors on stage thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Why
not? It is a fun show, much needed in these desperate times. Along with covid I
now throw in Ukraine, the cost of living, energy prices, and that big fancy at
Newbury that let me down in the final furlong. I and everyone else at
Toddington needed a lift. It has been a rotten two years. I got one, as did
all, and for that I thank the actors. Not my sort of show, it is my age, and
director Dee Lovelock needed a bit more zing in her scene changes but some of
the performers warmed the cockles of an old heart. And for that, in barren and
bleak times, I will forgive almost anything.</span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Sarah
Albert was superb as the dipsy Rita La Porta. Her performance as the myopic gun
slinging sister had a genius touch of Lucille Ball, and I cannot give her more
praise than that. Absolutely watchable throughout. She was well matched by the
completely opposite Jo Yirrell as the straight laced dog loving Annabel Glick.
Her song about loving dogs more than folks touched like few others. These were
without doubt the outstandingly two best performances in a show loud on punch
but a little short on imagination.</span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Barry Hyde was presentable as hapless Harry
Witherspoon, the central character of ludicrous inheritance, even if his acting
convinced more than his singing, Ben Jaggers an impressive and assured optical
sidekick to his zany sister, and Jo Wells, superb singing, a most engaging and
sinuous Dominique. I would also single out Richard Alexander for an affecting
Luigi, even if expecting the </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Go Compare
Tenor</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> reprise at any moment, Michelle Arnold for an unnervingly convincing,
raucous Blackpool voiced landlady. And the admirable Stacey Peck for a totally
convincing Lucky Stiff. Title role, constantly talked about, and hardly a line
to learn. A part to die for. Literally. And he did it so well.</span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Director
Dee Lovelock worked her actors well but the disparate scenes needed to zing a
bit more to capture the full flavour of a show rich in persaz and narrative </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">but short on emotional depth. I did say I was
an ageing curmudgeon. The hotel bed, so important for the unlikely coupling of
Witherspoon and the doggy lady, created staging problems and the casino scene,
small table and small wheel, poor in imagination and execution, diluted the
necessary impact. Given the skilled cast, especially the ladies, we needed
everything to zing. What we got was a half zing. A three star. But enjoyable
all the same. Richard Cowling crooned and controlled it all, Martin Hart did a
sterling job on the piano accompaniment, and a full theatre continued the
highly vocal chatting long after it was all over. A post covid evening, much
needed and much welcomed. So thanks Toddington and St Andrews. Not my sort of
show, sniffy sod that I am, but in these strange times uplifting. As some would
undoubtedly say I am getting soft. Infinitely preferable to being the enigmatic
Lucky Stiff. When I go to my own personal Monte Carlo (Royal Ascot, Cheltenham,
or wherever) I would prefer to be alive.</span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Roy
Hall</span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div></span><p></p>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-38203008593691696962021-07-13T01:33:00.000-07:002021-07-13T01:33:30.271-07:00Confusions - High Street Players<p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Confusions</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Harpenden High Street Players</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Katherine Warrington School</span></b></p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Sunday 11th July 2021</span></b></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I
did something very strange and unusual yesterday. Don’t get excited, I didn’t
rob a bank or go skinny dipping. Far too old for both. No, the strange thing I
did was to go to a theatre, sit with other people, and watch actors on a stage
performing a play. In the modern, zoom infested, world it is the first time I
have done that for nearly eighteen months. Okay it wasn’t really a theatre,
only a school hall, and the actors were from my own small company but it was a
start at getting back to some sort of normality. Hands were sanitised, faces
were masked, and chairs socially distanced, so it wasn’t pre pandemic days at
the National but it lifted my spirits. In a barren world the smallest gifts are
precious.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">I
have always, in the past, studiously avoided reviewing a company I am
associated with. I do have standards you know, albeit pretty low ones. Beside
there are no brownie points in it. Any praise seems sycophantic and any
criticism might get your tea laced at the next social get together. And, perish
the thought, if on stage with some actor you slagged off in his or her last
production you may get more than lines thrown in your direction. But strange
times lead to strange decisions and having no involvement in any capacity with <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Confusions </b>I skirted the boring tennis,
popped along to see it and decided to give it a blog. It was either that or
skinny dipping.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Alan
Ayckbourn’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confusions </i>is a series of
loosely linked playlets from his early days which, pleasingly, have never dated.
All beautifully illustrate both the sad and comic aspects of the human
condition. And no one does that better than Ayckbourn. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mother Figure</i></b> depicts a
lonely and disturbed Lucy treating her neighbours as children, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Between
Mouthfuls</i></b> has two warring couples linked audibly by their hovering
waitress (a splendid Margaret Cox) and the manically comic <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gosforth’s Fete </i></b>has
mayhem in abundance both on and offstage. Lewis Cox gave a first class bravura
performance as the dominating Gosforth but all in this little gem of a play
gave solid performances. The production was rounded off with the gentle and
perceptive <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Talk in the Park </i></b>when communication, or the lack of it,
underlined the sadness of many lives. Kirstene Henriksen, impressive in all her
roles, particularly scored as the neurotic women convinced that all police
women are really men in drag. Laughing through masks isn’t easy but I managed
that one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">All
in all a pretty good couple of hours. A bit more pace and projection in the
early plays, coupled with some music to fill the necessary long scene changes,
would have enhanced some proceedings but given that the most complex, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gosforth’s Fete</i>, zinged, then Margaret
Cox edges the directorial stakes over the admirable Mike Lees. And in this one
the light and sound boys served up a highly realistic storm. I know, because I
am an expert on storms and stage ones often fail to convince. Six actors played
eighteen roles between them in the four plays with rarely a serious slip. Daisy
Hollingsworth (an amusingly ingenuous Milly impregnated by Gosforth), Richard
Pike and David Cox completed the pleasing sextet. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">So,
hopefully, no obvious sycophancy and, even more hopefully, no poisonously laced
tea at our next theatrical get together. Besides, if we are all still wearing
masks perhaps they won’t recognise me. I knew this pandemic had compensations.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 13.0pt;">Roy Hall<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-45857608056146639212020-11-16T10:21:00.006-08:002020-11-17T03:04:10.913-08:00Relatively Speaking (Company of Ten)<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: red;">Relatively Speaking<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: red;">Live stream - 12th November 2020</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: red;">****</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><span style="color: red;">Cracking theatre from a classy company.</span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 18pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
did something very strange last week but, after all, it is a strange year. I
went to the theatre or, more to the point, the theatre came to me. Company of
Ten live streamed their latest audience denied production and, being an Alan Ayckbourn,
I decided to tune in. With a little help from someone far more techno savvy
than me. Live streaming, a phrase that would have been alien in 2019 trips off
the tongue in virus torn 2020. You watch an old fashioned but incredibly clever
and funny play from the 1960s via your modern state of the art tablet, and
studiously watch the actors socially distance their complex mask free parts.
It’s a funny old world at the moment but at least you escape parking charges,
petrol costs, and oodles of ice creams for your friends. And the drinks from
the bar are free. Or that is what I tell myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
missed the first bit of the first scene of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Relatively
Speaking</b> but knowing the play well it did not matter. Besides, set in Ginny
and Greg’s London flat it is merely there to set up the delicious confusions
that follow when the action moves to leafy Buckinghamshire. I shan’t regale you
with the plot, I would be here all day, other than to say that Greg thinking
that Ginny’s middle aged lover is her father leads to tortuously comic
misunderstandings in spades. It is a rich seam which Ayckbourn mines
beautifully with logical precision. You never for a moment think that one word
or one line could explain all. Hence the play’s continuing charm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Director
Angela Stone had a cracking cast. Ben Cammack was an engagingly geeky Greg and
Emma Barry, far too common for a Buckinghamshire family, a feisty Ginny. Both
played their parts with super pace and delivery. But the stars of this, and all
productions of the play I have seen or heard, were the so called ‘parents’
Philip and Sheila. When Philip, thinking that Sheila is Greg’s lover rather
than Ginny, learns of a thirty year older man in her life he assumes he must be
eighty. It was a delightful comic piece, both in delivery and reactions. And
Sheila innocently questioning her so called ‘daughter’ Ginny about how she was brought
up and where she lives was exquisite in timing and responses. Suzie Major and
Russell Vincent, acting talents I have seen before, both bring exceptional
skills to their rich parts even if, as I said earlier, I really should not try
to explain the plot. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The
play was excellently directed and staged by Angela Stone on Judith Goodban’s
impressive patio garden set and, thankfully, the camera operators were not too
intrusive. All in all a classy production from a company I have regularly
admired. More so in these current challenging times. I only went to my private
bar once, and that was in the interval, and if there are not many laughs in
this semi-serious blog I assure they were in abundance at the Abbey. A reminder,
think Rosemary Leach, Celia Johnson, and the Michaels, Hordern and Aldridge et
al, of what we are all missing. Many, many, thanks, Ten<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">. <o:p></o:p></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Roy Hall<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-88127569067937083932020-06-11T07:09:00.001-07:002020-06-11T07:09:55.941-07:00Finborough Theatre - Jane Clegg
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><font color="#d52c1f" size="6">****</font></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><i><font size="4">An absorbing evening of lockdown theatre</font></i></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><i></i><font size="4"></font><font size="6"></font><font size="4"></font><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s
a funny old world. Being an old bird I don’t venture out much these days.
Especially in the evenings. So lockdown changed little. But as a grumpy old sod
one of my constant bleats in recent years has been the lack of anything decent
for geriatric theatre lovers to watch on the telly. I fondly remember <i>Play for Today</i>, <i>The Wednesday Play</i>, <i>Saturday
Night Theatre</i>, <i>Armchair Theatre</i>, and<i> Play of the Month</i>. I could go on but I
am in danger of being boring. Oh all right I am boring. You got Priestley and Rattigan,
Galsworthy, Chekhov, Turgenev. And TV master playwrights like Potter,
Rosenthal, and Alan Plater. In spades. And they would be aired in the three or
four TV channel era. Halcyon days. Nowadays bugger all. Hundreds of channels
and nowt to watch. But as I say it is a funny old world. Come the dreaded virus
and along with the plethora of singing birds in the garden we get plays, if not
in battalions at least not single spies.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Finborough
theatre in West Brompton has never figured on my radar till now. In horseracing
terms, I can’t resist it, if the National Theatre is Arkle or Frankel <i>(google them),</i> then this modest 50 seat
pub theatre is down amongst the claimers. I mean that kindly. Small is often
beautiful and, recommended by a theatrical friend, this very much proved to be
so. Dipped into it for an absorbing ninety minute <i>Jane Clegg</i> and both enjoyed and learned. My ignorance constantly
amazes me. I knew not the play, the writer, or the company. I left an expert in
all, or that is what I shall now pretend. Gaining such theatrical knowledge in
this virus has its compensations. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Edwardian
housewife Jane Clegg strikes me as a bit of a dry fish. No wonder her old man
was having it away with some impregnated floozie he wishes to abscond with.
Trouble is he doesn’t have any money and his wife does. Inherited wealth is a
pretty powerful weapon and Mrs Clegg, a beautifully restrained performance from
Alix Dunmore, uses it wisely. Can’t say the same for her hapless Henry, a
contrastingly powerful portrayal by Brian Martin. He gambles, embezzles, and
lies with the consummate ease of the inherently feckless. A modern woman would
have kicked him out long ago. But this was Edwardian England and when he
finally departs, almost with her blessing, the context indicates a degree of
feminine courage. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">If
that was writer St John Ervine’s point then I got it. Written in the age of
women’s suffrage, and first performed around about the time Emily Davison threw
herself under the thundering hooves of the Epsom Derby, Jane Clegg is an
Ibsenesque trumpet call to women. The set is tiny, pleasingly so, and the
flowery wallpaper enhances the ambient claustrophobic staging. David Gilmore
had a strong cast throughout and I was particularly taken by the awkwardness of
Sidney Livingstone’s office manager Mr Morrison. He conveyed beautifully his
distaste and discomfort over the unpleasantness of Henry Clegg’s embezzled
cheque. Neither welcomed nor relished.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I
have been regularly throwing in my own non embezzled tenner donation to the
National whenever watching one of their magnificent plays. Finborough Theatre deserves
the same. Viewed through Youtube over the silhouetted heads of the compact
audience it made for a theatre lovers pleasurable, self isolating, Saturday
night in this funny old pandemic world. And that, as they say, is where I came
in. <b>Roy Hall</b></span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-64832246832309167882020-05-19T04:59:00.000-07:002020-05-19T05:38:19.671-07:00Life in Lockdown - a plea for small theatres<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have a number of passions in my
life. They have changed positions as I have aged, but the overall list is
pretty stable. Horseracing, theatre, old murder cases, cooking, reading, and my
lovely wife are all in there somewhere plus a couple I have no intentions of
telling you about. With the exception of horseracing, sadly missed, they have
all come to the fore in these weird endless weeks of lockdown. For the
statistically minded I am now on Day 62 of self isolation. Made bearable by a
first class service from Waitrose. And all those lovely delivery drivers.
Especially the ones bringing whisky and fags. Benign weather and quiet skies
bring birds in abundance to our small garden and acts of kindness, small and
large, are witnessed everywhere. Only the daily parliamentary briefings of grim
statistics and pictures of rainbows in small terraced windows remind you that
there is a battle going on out there.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Theatre is just one of the
numerous casualties and for those who perform in it as well as watch it is
particularly frustrating. I am trying to do my bit for the professionals,
anything I watch of theirs I make a small donation to their cause. The National
Theatre’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twelfth Night </i>was well
worth the £10 a sofa seat ticket we paid. I calculated that if everyone who
tuned into it did the same they would have raised around £4,000,000. I hope
they did. But that does not help those who perform for fun or seasonal
visitors, especially the ones that have small theatres to run. From my own small
world I am thinking of the lovely Manor Theatre in Sidmouth, our favourite
holiday place and the home of England’s only permanent summer professional Rep
Company, and, closer to home, Dunstable Rep, Welwyn’s Barn, and St Albans
Company of Ten. And further afield Hitchin’s Queen Mother and Toddington’s
TADS. Been to them all in my time. How will they survive I ask myself?</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It ain’t going to be easy. Even
if they can perform, not easy doing a social distancing Romeo and Juliet, will
anyone come in the foreseeable future? Hopefully any gloomy prognosis will be
thrown into the dustbin of history before long, but commonsense tells me that
the next couple of years could be pretty fallow ones in the small time
theatrical world. If they do not have strong reserves and, possibly, kindly
local authorities, I reckon we lovers of their art will be asked to put our
hands in our pockets. I would not blame them. We will need what they offer even
more when this pandemic is finally over. If they sink it will be all our loss.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The even smaller companies, those
without a permanent base, do not have the same problems. They can’t perform but
they do not have a stonking large building to support. And if they are
enterprising they can still have theatrical fun. The small company I am
involved with, Harpenden High Street Players, have spent the last few weeks
doing Zoom play readings and, ambitiously, recording our own version of Wilde’s
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Importance of Being Earnest. </i>As I
said to the director driving it all, it helps to keep us sane. And it might
raise some money for a worthy local cause.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So life in lockdown has not been
too bad. Those interests listed above all help with my sanity and as I only
walked into town to visit the local betting shop, closed, I can cope with
talking to the odd duck on the riverbank every day. I worry, as we all do about
all the usual things in these unusual times, wouldn’t be normal if I didn’t.
Spent one night fretting that if I had toothache I would have to pull the
bloody tooth out myself and spent another fretting about an imagined power cut
spoiling all the lovely food I had stocked up in our freezer. And they are just
the ones I can tell you about.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I don’t fret about theatre, or
not yet. But I do hope they are all still there when the virus is in the history
books. The National will survive, as will the Harpenden High St Players and
their ilk. But what about those others I have mentioned. The ones with
expensive buildings but no high profile and no income. They are scattered all
over the country. And in my own small part of the world that means the Company
of Tens and Dunstable Reps. So, if asked, add them to your list of ever growing deserving causes. The NHS, God bless em, help us when we are ill and are deservedly at the top. But theatre helps to keep us well. If they fold we will all be the poorer.<br />
<b>Roy Hall</b></div>
<b></b><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-74028160676888552512020-02-26T03:05:00.001-08:002020-02-26T03:09:52.733-08:00Love From A Stranger (Wheathampstead DS)<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Love From A Stranger</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Feb 20th - 22nd 2020</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Wheathampstead</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i></i><span style="color: red;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">**</span><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">*</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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 (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My mother
Said et</i>c.), lovingly scribed, and a damp squib (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Herd</i>), 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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wait
Until Dark </i>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. </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Love From A Stranger </span></i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">may have Agatha Christie’s illustrious name on it but
it is no <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gaslight</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Shadow of a Doubt.</i> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger </i>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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nouveau
riche</i> Cecily Harrington<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(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.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love From A Stranger </i>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. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Roy Hall</b></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-66449403096006090062020-01-29T03:51:00.003-08:002020-01-29T03:51:48.077-08:00Alligators - Company of Ten<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Studio,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Company of Ten,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>St Albans</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>Sun 26th January 2020</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i><br /></i></span>
<i><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">****</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Another top class stunner from Company of Ten.</span></i><br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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.</span> </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">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. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Roy Hall </span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Runs to Saturday 1st February - Box Office 01727 857861</span></b></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-56000639327469895892019-10-14T09:25:00.000-07:002019-10-14T09:25:25.504-07:00Dealing with Clair (Company of Ten)
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Company of Ten</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Abbey Theatre Studio</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Runs to Saturday 19th October 2019</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>01727 857861 (Tickets £13)</em></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">****</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">A cracking depiction of Thatcherism.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dealing
With Clair. </b>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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-51198532109703057422019-02-12T07:58:00.002-08:002019-02-12T08:09:03.216-08:00Pagliacci - Irrational Theatre Company<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Pagliacci</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Irrational Theatre Company</strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Harpenden Park Hall</strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>10<sup>th</sup> February 2019</strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><br /></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: red; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;">****</span></span></span></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="color: red; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong><em>An uplifting touch of small scale opera class</em></strong></span></span></span></span></span></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></strong></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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. <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So I have given you some of the plot whether you wanted it or
not.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-24483000028790684142018-12-03T09:29:00.000-08:002018-12-03T09:43:37.864-08:00I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change (St Andrews Players)<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;">****</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change. </i>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Confusions.
</i>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.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Stan)</i>
and Emma Orr <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Pat)</i> gave us a skilled
representation of speed dating taken to absurdity in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Busy,Busy,Busy</i>, and Richard Alexander <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Jason)</i> and Jo Yirrell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Julie)</i>
were beautifully buttoned up folk in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A
Stud and a Babe.</i> 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. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">They
weren’t. Okay I was not a big fan of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Satisfaction
Guaranteed,</i> over aggressive Americanism, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waiting </i>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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tear Jerk, Wedding Day, </i>and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> The Baby Song,</i> all zinged for different
reasons. Jo Yirrell's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Jane)</i> 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. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But a couple
of bits deserve more. Emma Orr’s monologue in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rose Ritz’s Dating Video</i> and Jenna Ryder-Oliver’s Muriel in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funerals are for Dating </i>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. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Roy Hall.</b></span></span></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-41542895080048568582018-11-01T14:31:00.000-07:002018-11-01T14:31:06.970-07:00My Mother Said I Never Should (Wheathampstead DS)<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: red;">***</span>*</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>A quartet on impressive form</em></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Mother Said I Never Should</i>, 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.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Both Sides Now </i>was<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></span></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-50232595288502074982018-10-21T10:08:00.000-07:002018-10-21T10:08:55.570-07:00Dangerous Corner (Company of Ten) - Full Review
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;">****</span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">A Sparkling Dangerous Corner.</span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">London Wall </i>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.</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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.</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Juliet and her Romeo</i>. Impressive then,
even more so here.</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Roy Hall</i></span></span></b></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-88978309029663977242018-10-15T04:00:00.001-07:002018-10-15T04:00:20.682-07:00Dangerous Corner (Company of Ten)<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">****</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;"><strong>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. </strong><em>Roy Hall</em></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: black;"><em>
</em></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Abbey Theatre,</span></span></b></span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">St Albans.</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Runs until Saturday 20th October 8.00pm</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Box Office 01727 857861 (Tickets
£12/£11)</span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Full Review to Follow</em></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></b></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-56901769588895549732018-10-09T12:25:00.003-07:002018-10-09T12:25:38.242-07:00Neighbourhood Watch (Barn Theatre)<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Barn Theatre,</em></span></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>Welwyn.</em></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>October 2018</em></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;">****</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><strong><em>A Classy Neighbourhood from the Barn</em></strong></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There
is no pretending. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Neighbourhood Watch</b>
is not one of Ayckbourn’s best. Hardly surprising. He has written as many as
his age and that is close to eighty. On both counts. The cream of those have
that wonderful frisson of middle class folk, superficially civilised, grasping
each other by the metaphorical throat in family dances of exquisite comedy.
Think Seasons Greetings, Absent Friends, Just Between Ourselves. The resident
lot on the Bluebell Hill Development do not have that comic potential. These
nice folk, well some of them, direct their angst at the anonymous oiks
festering in the off stage and threatening Mountjoy Estate. Put up the
barriers, erect the stocks, and create a private police force. We all, cosy
middle class that we are, fear the Mountjoy worlds and given the opportunity
would do the same. That is what Ayckbourn seems to be saying. It creates
comedy, it creates absurdity, but it lacks that recognisable reality that
underpins classic Ayckbourn. He really don’t do plot and Neighbourhood Watch
has a bloody big one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But
even a minor Ayckbourn is littered with rich characterisations. The brother and
sister Massie’s have religion and sexual frustration in spades and their
misguided campaign to embrace their new neighbourhood in civilised vigilantism
captures a motley crew of willing, and unwilling, participants. The Bradleys at
number whatever are a wife beater and a sensitive musician, and the Janners, so
some say, a nymphomaniac and a masturbating loner. Mix in a security obsessed
ex army man and a gossipy old fogey completely out of her depth and you have a
heady mix for an interesting pudding. All united against those unseen monsters
of the Mountjoy estate. As my old mother used to say, it will all end in tears.
This one did as pigeons and people perished in fire and gunshot. And you can’t
say that about much of Ayckbourn’s canon.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I
take my hat off to director Bob Thomson. He not only flagged up the growing
threat to those cosy residents of Bluebell Hill with astutely filled living
room backdrops and Mosleyite donning of black costumes but he created a
delicious mix of complex characters in which there was not a single serious
weakness. I have never seen Godfrey Marriott on stage before, but by God I
can’t wait to see him again. His performance of Martin Massie, misguided lover
of Jesus and most of mankind, was a joy. A character who could have been bland
almost to the point of non existence was, in Mr Marriott’s hands, rich in
nuance and vulnerability. A central performance of the highest class. Linda
Vincent was an equally excellent Hilda, feet more firmly on the ground, and
Hazel Halliday a touching and sensitive wife beaten Magda. Her second act
speech on childhood abuse was riveting. Of the others, all totally believable, I
will only single out Ruth Heppelthwaite’s portrayal of Amy Janner. A refreshing
antidote to the righteous indignation of most she invested all her scenes with aggressively
strong characterisation and consummate skill. A booted bitch, we suspected, but
with an enormous sense of fun. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I
have a few caveats but that is probably because I saw the Scarborough original,
directed by that man Ayckbourn himself, and have played the obnoxious security
man in a later production. Directed by my wife. With all that baggage you could
say, unkindly, that I went to the Barn determined to theatrically sniff. If I
did, and I didn’t, those sniffs were quickly packed away. I know a good
production when I see one. And this, I am pleased to say, was one of them. Well
worth four stars. I reckon the one I was in only got three and a half. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Roy Hall</b></span></span></span></span></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-9373730486050850822018-10-01T12:27:00.000-07:002018-10-01T12:27:37.343-07:00The Accrington Pals ( TADS theatre Group)
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><em>Tads Theatre</em></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">Toddington</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">September 2018</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></em></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<em><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: red;">***</span>*</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><strong>Theatre's Joy, Accrington's Sorrow</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being
a man of a certain age I have seen a lot of War Memorials in my time. Through
the length and breadth of this country the smallest hamlets and towns and
villages all have them. It humbles you to see the long list of names from World
War One, in even the tiniest of places. I have never been to Accrington, famous
for its Stanley football team and its wartime Pals, but I reckon their war
memorial must be amongst the biggest and most awe inspiring. Over 700 of their
young men signed up for Kitchener’s army and nearly 600 of them lost their
lives in one of the twentieth</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">century’s bloodiest battles. The Battle of the
Somme, 1<sup>st</sup> July 1916. The ‘Pals’ recruitment policy was soon
ditched. The downside of a community going to war together was the desolate whirlwind
created in the town left behind. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Peter
Whelan captures all this, poetically and beautifully, in his small scale
telling of the tale of a town which went to war and, tragically, inscribed its
name forever on the British memory. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Accrington Pals </i>encapsulates those men in the Tom and Arthur and Ralph of
his dramatisation but also, even more, paints a tender and realistic picture of
their women. As someone much cleverer than me said, he could have just as
easily called his play The Accrington Gals. They it was who had to pick up the
pieces when passions and hopes of a wasted generation lay dead on a foreign
field. This play is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh What a Lovely War</i>
writ small and telling. And it packs, especially at the end, a similar punch.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
gritty May has unspoken love for her younger cousin, the idealistic and
introspective Tom. The sensitive Eva yearns and succumbs to the cheerful charms
of irrepressible Ralph. And pious Arthur takes up gun and God to escape the
acerbic Annie. Or that’s how I read it. Mix in the sexually liberated Sarah and
the jolly and comic Bertha, splendidly attired as a bus conductress, with
unseen and unsatisfactory beaus and small town lives engagingly focus against
the backdrop of a devastating war that devoured the innocents. These men knew
not to what they willingly marched.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
ensemble playing did not totally please, I wanted more pace and vigour in early
scenes, and a couple of the players lacked that essential inner truth to
completely engage the small town life. But where they did in Jenna Kay’s
directorial debut we were given some cracking performances. Tracey Chatterley
was a superb no nonsense May, conscious both of duty and denied emotional
fulfilment, Joe Hawkins (Ralph) a delightfully uplifting man of pleasure, and
Iain Grant (Tom) a sensitive artist destined to have ideals and body bloodily
destroyed. My small caveat with Mr Grant is that this ageing critic wished for
more projection in his quieter scenes. A criticism I also directed at Connie
Wiltshire’s eminently watchable Eva. You felt for this cuckoo in May’s domestic
nest, her expressions oozed emotion, but some of her lines were lost. <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But
overall, especially in a vigorous second act filled with consummate sound and
lighting effects from Paul Horsler and Josh Halsey, the production generally
pleased. Jennifer McDonald was a telling Bertha, an emancipated girl who could
not love a man who stayed at home, Claire Moore a nicely dirty minded Sarah, Andrew
Naish an especially impressive bible thumping Arthur, and Nathaniel Chatterley
a convincing ragamuffin constantly avoiding his mother’s stick. The young Mr
Chatterley’s stage timing would put some older hands to shame. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Director
Jenna Kay sang the two evocative songs beautifully and the second,
counterpointing the harrowing end scenes depicted, softened even the hardest theatrical
heart. Miss Kay shows much promise as a director. I may have quibbled at some
of her narrative scenes but fine individual acting coupled with the quiet and
still intensity of the final war strewn tableau will long remain in the
memory. I have directed over fifty plays. Jenna Kay’s ending of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Accrington Pals</i> eclipsed much. It makes
you muse over that late night introspective whisky. Theatre, like wars, relies
so much on the promise of the young. Theatre’s joy. Accrington’s sorrow.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Roy Hall</span></span></b></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-4939525378975057822018-07-12T02:35:00.000-07:002018-07-12T02:35:37.713-07:00Dangerous Corner (Wheathampstead DS)
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Dangerous Corner</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Wheathampstead Dramatic Society</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>May 2018</strong></span></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><strong>*<span style="color: black;">*</span></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Those
of you who read my piece on Redbourn’s Funny Money, there were a few, may be
wondering why I have not blogged Wheathampstead’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dangerous Corner.</b> After all, I was looking forward to it and
sharpening my pen in Redbourn was a mere theatrical taster following a winter
as fallow as my racing wins. Perhaps I didn’t go, you may say. Stayed indoors
watching some dreary reality show about Peruvian knitting or custard making in
the Cotswolds. Actually, the latter might be fun so look out for it on BBC Four
sometime soon. But I digress, as they say. I did go and see it, Dangerous
Corner that is, and came away thinking fondly of those Peruvian knitters and
that Cotswold custard. That comment is not meant to be cruel. It is said, or
written, with a heavy heart. I watched this favourite J B Priestly play and
thought, as some in the audience inappropriately chortled, that something
theatrically precious was being damaged. Wheathampstead Players should not have
staged it. They should have found something more suitable for the poor young
girl directing it. With some bizarre casting she never stood a chance of
pulling it off. Bear with me and I will tell you why. Either that or sod off
and make some custard.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
good bits first. The characters in Priestley’s play are very nice 1930’s folk
who formally dress for dinner, even in private. Ladies in posh frocks, men in
evening dress, cocktails and canapés. It is an age long gone but always
pleasing to see recreated on stage. And Wheathampstead Players did that bit
well. No farty updating here on a modern council estate with girls in dungarees
and men in jeans. You could, given the narrative premise, but thankfully they
resisted and retained that old world charm. Smug, self satisfied, successful
folk, indulging in an evening soiree. Nothing could be nicer. What makes
Priestley’s famous first ‘time play’ grip is the stripping of the cosy veneer
following a casual remark regarding a musical box. By the end of the play these
nice people are as snarling snakes writhing in the bottom of some dark
emotional pit. I will not regale you with the details but it is all very
clever, especially the end when all returns to cosy normality, and endlessly
fascinates lovers of pure theatre. Are we all like that when the guard is
carelessly down? Do we all have dangerous conversational corners? Say what you
like about old John Boynton but he could certainly construct a play.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So
you may ask, assuming you are still awake, where did it all go wrong? Casting
folks, nothing more, nothing less. Jonathan Field made for a fine, straight
laced, Robert Caplan and Steve Leadbetter scored quite a few acting points for
the more worldly wise Charles Stanton. But much else displeased and
disappointed. Irene Morris, fine actress, was scuppered by her discombobulated
hair and Julie Field, fine director, portrayed an inappropriate heaviness to
hostess Freda. Lines which should have been as sharp as mustard merely dropped
as leaden weights. The Whitehouse pair, supposedly bright young things Betty
and Gordon, were simply much too old to convince. I felt sorry for the two
actors concerned. I have seen them both to better effect so will refrain from
damning them here. Viv Fairley made for a convincing, if slightly muted Miss
Mockridge, and her and Messrs Field and Leadbetter scored the only brownie
points I am offering. But overall this was a theatrical Dangerous Corner that
should have been sensibly swerved.<em> Roy Hall</em></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-7981896589127378182018-05-21T03:48:00.000-07:002018-05-21T04:07:24.022-07:00The Matchgirls (St Andrew's Players) - Full Muse<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em> </em><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Something About You’</i> 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 ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Men’, </i>though
God knows where it came from in the narrative. But who cares. Kate and Polly
belted it over. And who couldn’t like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Waiting’</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘This Life of Mine.’</i> 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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">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 19<sup>th</sup> 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.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Here
endeth the unwritten muse.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Roy Hall</span></span></b></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-55293442902878872532018-05-17T08:20:00.000-07:002018-05-17T08:20:17.837-07:00The Matchgirls (St Andrew's Players) - Preview
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">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. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Matchgirls </b>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, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Matchgirls </i>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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">St Andrew’s Players</span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Matchgirls,</span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">St Andrew’s Church, Luton.</span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">17<sup>th</sup> – 19<sup>th</sup> May<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>7.45pm</span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Box Office: 07778 241457<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://www.standram.co.uk/">www.standram.co.uk</a></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Full Review to follow</span></span></i></span></span></span></span><br />
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-59143362985608788372018-05-07T08:49:00.000-07:002018-05-07T08:49:09.642-07:00Funny Money - Redbourn Players
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Funny Money</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Redbourn Players</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Village Hall</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Redbourn</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>4th May 2018</strong></span></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;"><strong>**</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I
have been musing on my two loves of theatre and horseracing this week. Well,
the horses anyway seeing as it is the Newmarket Guineas Meeting. Those classy
three year old colts and fillies strutting their stuff on a big stage after
months wrapped up in winter cotton wool. If you were lucky a few of them would
have had a pipe opener somewhere in the proceeding weeks. Well in a way,
tortuous analogy slowly coming to the point, that is what I have done. Other
than cavorting various boards in sundry murder mysteries, great fun, thespian
activities have been pretty thin on the ground. No scribing for months. I wish
to change that with a sharpened pen for Wheathampstead’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dangerous Corner</i> at the end of the month. A favourite play by a
favourite author. So popping down to the Redbourn Players for Ray Cooney’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Funny Money </b>was my equivalent of an
early season spin on the gallops. Even knackered old geldings have to get out
sometime.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ray
Cooney is a master of farcical comedy. They may not tick all my theatrical
boxes but even this misery will admit that done well, frenetic pace anchored to
inner truthfulness, they will invoke involuntary chuckles. As long as real
characters increasingly notch up ludicrous inner desperation, along the way
making you laugh rather than think, they can be and are a great success. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Funny Money</i> has all the necessary
ingredients. Switched briefcases, £750,000 in one and a cheese sandwich in the
other, switched characters from compliant neighbours, an irate and quirky taxi
driver, and two rather unusual rain coated detectives. All conspire with a
nondescript accountant desperate for Barcelona and a nervy wife desperate for
the bottle to create mayhem in a little bit of London suburbia. Cooney
territory writ large. All it needed was Brian Rix both dropping in and dropping
trousers to complete the happy picture.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If
the picture in my mind was not matched by the portrayal on stage it was, nevertheless,
an enjoyable evening. Redbourn are a small company but they created a nice bit
of living room suburbia with lots of pleasing doors and an impressive realistic
staircase. And in that suburbia we got a convincing minor accountant from Andy
Turner’s Henry Perkins, bluster and opportunism equally displayed, and a nervy,
alcoholic dependent, Jean Perkins from Lucy Goodchild. These two central
players did a pretty good job. Personally I would have liked a little bit more
panic and quiet desperation from Mr Turner to flesh out his lines but, in
fairness, he never bored. And Ms Goodchild, in the best performance of the
evening, suggested by her wavering voice and uncharacteristic reach for the
bottle, the long suffering and anonymous housewife behind many a suburban door.
When a man, even a dreary accountant, seizes an opportunity, his woman seizes
some other support.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of
the other characters Maureen Wallis and Jordan Davis were an ill matched pair
as the neighbourly and complicit Johnsons, stronger direction needed in ensemble
scenes, and Euan Howell and Hilary Violentano two of the strangest detectives I
have seen this side of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wormwood Scrubs.
I would not trust either of them with my parking ticket appeal, let alone a
quest for a dodgy £750,000. Mr Howell, thin and rain coated and with a fetching
little tache, had clearly blown in from some 1950’s bleak filmic murder
mystery, and Ms Violentano’s DS Slater suggested nothing more than a homely
June Whitfield. I quite liked her performance and if she had baked us a cake, so
in keeping with her persona, I would have liked her even better. If my opinion
on these motley subsidiary characters to the Perkins household is pretty firm
the fifth one had me in more theatrical opinions than you could shake the
proverbial stick at. No one on stage delivered lines better than Benita
Gilliam’s quirky taxi driver. With her jaunty Joe Orton hat and manly clothes
she suggested nothing less than Theatre Workshop’s Joan Littlewood. I suspect
this was intentional. But a performance that displayed considerable skill was
marred by over physicality. In other words the bloody woman never stood still
when delivering those lines. I would have directed it out of her because,
undoubtedly, Ms Gilliam can act.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But
overall not a bad evening. A new director, David Howell, will learn as I hope I
did, that sharper pace and more truthful characterisation will yield even more
positive results. For instance the unseemly, blanket covered, sofa shenanigans
should have been a highlight of the comedy but underdeveloped characters devoid
of the essential innocent manic drive induced merely mild amusement and the
thought of missed opportunity. Farce has its own internal logic. Miss it, even
by an inch, and it falls flat on its face. Bit like my fancy for the 2000
Guineas at Newmarket. But I still enjoyed the race and, overall, I enjoyed my
evening out to this one. As the art mistress said to the gardener, I may not be
blind to your faults but I thank you for the pleasure. Horses at Newmarket or
theatre in Redbourn. All matter. All gratefully received. And pen readily
sharpened for Wheathampstead.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Roy
Hall</span></span></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-29890435695882677372017-10-16T10:18:00.001-07:002017-10-16T10:29:31.954-07:00Juliet and Her Romeo (Company of Ten)<span style="color: red; font-family: "calibri"; font-size: x-large;">***</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><strong>Juliet and Her Romeo</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>Company of Ten, St Albans.</em></span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: "calibri";">6th - 14th October 2017</span></em><br />
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</span><div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Blogging isn’t what it used to
be. Reckon I am fed up with Brexit, (in or out anyone?) and a flat season on
the gee gees that has been awesome for its complete forgettability. And I have
been up to my inadequate arms in decorating. Not me personally, merely
supervising, but a friendly local professional who has been turning our house upside
down. Not literally even if, with Storm Ophelia currently doing her worst, it
seems like it. So that’s three excuses for dilatoriness and, given the non
existent will, I could add in a few more. But I shall not bother, other than to
say that a late discovering of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breaking
Bad</i> has dwarfed much else this autumn. Seriously addictive, especially for
those who like well acted drama and moral dilemmas in abundance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So it says something, a lot
really, that I dragged myself off to Company of Ten’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Juliet and Her Romeo</b> the other Sunday afternoon. I rather like the
offerings they put in the studio and a Sunday matinee suits me fine. Welwyn’s
Barn Theatre do them but they clash with my Saturday afternoon racing and it
takes a combination of a must see play and dreary equine fare to tempt me out. The
horses usually win, even if not in betting terms. And Dunstable Rep still resists
this oldies route. I try to persuade but ears and deaf come to mind. So COT and
the Studio are the occasional treat.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">London Wall</i> was terrific, ensemble
playing at its best in my sort of play, and Arthur Miller’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ride Down Mount Morgan </i>almost as
good and blessed with an exceptional lead in Andy Mills. I did not get the same
vibes from this geriatric version of R and J but it was absorbing listening to
the faithful rendition of the text and constantly admiring the skill and
delivery of the actor portraying Romeo.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Geriatric? How rude. Misty red
eyes are probably still blazing in defence. Was it that awful you say? Did it
clunk until the wheels fell off? Did this reviewer fall into an afternoon
snore? Banish the picture folks. I have no wish to be unkind. This production
was literally, not theatrically, geriatric. Our Juliet and her Romeo are old
folks in a care home. As are the Tybalts, Mercutios, and Benvolios. The Verona
Care Home, no less. All very clever. And as director Angela Stone says in her
programme notes, this adaptation by Sean O’Connor and Tom Morris gives ageing
actors an opportunity most of them felt long past. They may not have teenage
youth but they have experience. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">It does not totally work, mainly
because passions are naturally muted and anger diluted, but it had enough of
old Shakespeare and his crossed lover’s tale to entertain and engage. And on
Dennis O’Connell Baker’s simple but clever care home set and excellent
evocative modern music it all gelled pleasantly enough. Graham Boon was
absolutely superb as Romeo. I shall not guess at his age but I reckon the
Winter Fuel Allowance has long been in his back pocket. But he invested Romeo
and his lines with exquisite delivery and total believability. I got the
feeling that he may have first played the part many moons ago. If not he should
have done. No other performer seriously matched him but I had tons of
admiration for Rosemary Goodman, stepping in for an indisposed Juliet at the
last minute. An assured delivery which only rarely glanced at the book. Of the
others Tony Bradburn was a pleasant enough golf club type Tybalt, albeit
lacking in fire, Roy Bookham a bemused Benvolio, Andrew Baird an excellent
trendy Friar Lawrence, and Jacqui Golding a no nonsense nurse gathering her
care home charges like wandering sheep in need of penning. But the two
supporting roles which stood out for me were Dewi Williams' engaging and
disruptive Mercutio, beautiful rich voice and fun portrayal, and Peter Hale’s
totally believable Paris. Mr Hale had little to say, a wandering dementia
backdrop to the main drama, but he portrayed it with a realism which was
disturbing.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So there you have it folks. If it
all sounds a bit gimmicky, eighty year old Romeos, it probably was. But having
seen<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Hamlet</i> in a spaceship, a mafia
version of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Measure for Measure</i>, and
an all female <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As You Like It </i>in my
time, anything goes. If you don’t believe me tune into our dear old BBC. They
don’t do much that spins my dramatic juices these days but they have a
frivolous Shakespearian twirl with David Mitchell’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Upstart Crow</i>. Do that and, seriously, anything, absolutely anything
goes with our Will.</span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Roy Hall </span></b></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-50979339151197325652017-06-25T12:34:00.001-07:002017-06-25T12:34:08.475-07:00Major Barbara (Shaw's Corner) / The Man From Aldersgate
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<strong><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;">Major Barbara (Shaw's Corner) ****</span></strong></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><em>(Ayot St Lawrence - Fri 23rd June 2017)</em></span></div>
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<strong><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></strong></div>
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<strong><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri;">The Man From Aldersgate****</span></strong></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><em>(Harpenden Methodist Church - Sat 24th June 2017)</em></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I
have had a heavy weekend of religion, or theatre depending on your point of
view. All I know, and I do not know much, is that God figured an awful lot in
both of them. Salvationists and Methodists all and, theatre aside, you cannot
help but admire the commitment and unwavering belief in both. It all happened
by accident. Not the plays, merely my juxtaposing of attendance. George Bernard
Shaw’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Major Barbara </b>is a play rich
in wit and satire, and a plethora of bloody long speeches, but bares in
abundance his thought provoking polemic trademarks. Woolly charitable efforts
to feed and clothe the poor are all very well but money and industry do it a
damn sight better. Even if that money, as it often does, arises from the sweat
of whisky distilleries and armament manufacturers. Pass the smelling salts
someone, or at least an opposing political tract. It is an absorbing argument,
amplified here by cynical businessman Andrew Undershaft and his feisty
Salvationist daughter Barbara. If I did not totally buy in to the underlying
family dramatic plot, only foundlings inherit this worthy gunpowder business, I
was bowled over by the central performances in Michael Friend’s production for
the <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">National Trust Shaw Corner Festival.
</b>Chris Myles was beautifully clear and commanding as Andrew Undershaft, this
was an outdoor production on a windy evening, and invested all of his speeches
with delightful variation of tone and he was well matched, or should I say
sparred, by Maryann O’Brien as the zealously religious daughter Barbara.
Whether in her upper class day clothes or her austere Salvationist’s uniform
you were always acutely conscious of a woman rich in misguided warmth and
commitment. Good as these two actors were, they did have the two meatiest parts
and expertly wolfed them down, they were given splendid support by William
Keetch as the ineffectual son Stephen, Derek Murphy as the etonian beau Charles
Lomax, full of engaging ‘don’t yer knows’, and. most notably, Laura Fitzpatrick
as beleaguered upper class mother Lady Britomart. Miss Fitzpatrick had that
silken serenity of a woman always destined to be obeyed, or so she thought, and
a honeyed voice which conveyed it exquisitely. So all in all an excellent
evening of theatre, albeit a typical Shaw long one, only slightly marred by scene
placing against the trees and wind in Act One. Not their fault but most of the
later scenes were, mercifully, fully in front of the house. A large cast and I
can’t single them all out but Molly Waters was an impressive young
Salvationist and Paul Thomas the engaging silly ass Adolphus Cusins. Not a
totally believable character, not his fault, but played with a great sense of
Charles Hawtrey fun. My one main caveat, other than occasionally poor placing
of actors, was Paul McLaughlin’s portrayal of the rather nasty Bill Walker. A
strong performance but a little too strong for my taste. But then in the famous
film Robert Newton took on the part. And he was no fading wallflower. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">B
J Johnston was equally no fading wallflower in his one man portrayal of John
Wesley at Harpenden Methodist Church the following night. This was his five
hundredth performance of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Man From
Aldersgate</b> and if the other four hundred and ninety nine were given as much
rich drama and commitment as this audience then it has been a long treat for
many. Mr Johnston is a Methodist preacher but he is also a skilled actor to his
fingertips. Over an hour and a half he creates a rich picture of the life of
the man who founded the Methodist movement in the eighteenth century. We learn
about his relationship with his devout mother, his rescue from a fire as a
child, his finding of his true religious self, his lack of interest in money,
his confrontation with a highwayman, and his battles with the establishment.
All writ large in the engaging performance of an actor totally immersed in his
role. The greatest compliment I can pay Mr Johnston is that at times I actually
thought I was watching and listening to John Wesley and that his horseman was
really outside getting water from the wrong part of the stream. Engaging the
audience can be risky and dangerous but, generally, he pulled it off. Folks of
a religious bent will have been enthralled by Mr Johnston’s mixture of theatre
and religion. But even cynical old farts like me, there purely for the
biographical and theatrical bent, will have left uplifted by both the message
and the performance. Well worth catching when number five hundred and one comes
along. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></b></span></div>
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Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-35199334384112908332017-05-16T08:54:00.000-07:002017-05-16T08:54:33.691-07:00Jamaica Inn - St Andrews Players (World Premiere)
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Something rather unusual is
taking place at St Andrews Church this week. There is no swirling fog on bleak
moors, this is Luton after all, but gothic ambience is being lovingly created
behind closed doors. A world premiere, no less, and we do not get a surfeit of
those in these parts. Richard Cowling’s musical adaptation of Daphne Du
Maurier’s famous <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jamaica Inn </b>gets
the first airing of what I reckon may be many. To use my favourite, some say
tortuous, horseracing analogy the nags are either bloody or brilliant, the jockey
on top only does the steering. A pensioned off critic, sneaking in on a dress
rehearsal, has a duty in such circumstances to separate the two. I have never
read Jamaica Inn, gothic dramas are not really to my taste, but musically Mr
Cowling has done a first rate job on this one. A nag of the first order.
Collectively and individually the songs have a depth and passion which easily
engage the senses and please the theatrical heart. Especially in the first act.
I left thinking this is a work that would justify a wider audience on a more
ambitious stage. Given a few second act musical and narrative tweaks, Jamaica
Inn deserves to open its semi operatic doors again. In the interim enjoy this
first production of eighteenth century Bodmin Moor folk and wallow in the excellent
singing of Michael Niles and Ellie Turton in the central roles of Joss Merlyn
and Mary Yellan. You could have more wasted evenings. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jamaica Inn </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">St Andrews Church Luton</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wednesday to Saturday</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">17<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> – 20<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>
May 2017</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Box Office 07778 241457</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tickets £10 - £12</span></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-17601209343778637742017-04-30T03:10:00.002-07:002017-04-30T03:10:41.585-07:00The Ride Down Mt Morgan (COT - Full Review)
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-large;">****</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="color: red; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><em>'Powerful performances in slick and strong production.'</em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Arthur
Miller’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Ride Down Mt Morgan </b>is
a funny old play. By funny I don’t mean it’s a bundle of laughs, it ain’t, but
funny in the sense that it has little plot and the bit it has regularly bangs
you round the narrative head. In essence a man should be free to do what he
likes, even if this includes two simultaneous wives, and hang the consequences.
In fact in the tortuous mind of central character Lyman Felt there aren’t any
consequences, merely benefits to all. Depending on your point of view it is an
idea, or premise, that both attracts and repels. You don’t just mislay your
moral compass; you willingly and joyfully fling the bloody thing into the
nearest ocean. As my old mother used to say, it will all end in tears. Or in
old Lyman’s case a car crash down the slopes of Mount Morgan. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It
all very conveniently puts him in a hospital bed close to death and,
inconveniently, brings those same two wives rushing to his side. Both in
imagination and reality they combine and clash in the waiting room. Happens all
the while at the L and D some say. On a simple but effective set, geometric
acting areas clearly defined, the past and present of the rich and likeable
bigamist is played out. I say likeable because although his morals may seem
loathsome, to some the man himself had an uneasy charm. He had success, money,
women, and a sympathetic lawyer and you don’t get all of those if you are a one
hundred per cent total shit. It struck me, watching Andy Mills’ powerful and
engaging performance of Lyman, that here was a man who wanted his essential
inner truth so much he was prepared to act out an outrageous marital lie. His
worst fault, in Miller’s writing, was his attempts to justify it. Why make one
woman miserable when it is possible to keep two happy. As an exercise in self
delusional narcissism it takes some beating.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">s
the older wife, superficially discarded, Shelley Bacall as Theo turned in a
very strong portrayal that improved as the drama progressed. Her early scenes
seemed a little strident, hardly surprising given her discovery of the
consummate betrayal, but fleshed out in later scenes to a woman of sensitivity
and depth. Her suggestion that Lyman had tried to kill her on one occasion
stretched credibility in the flashback enactment, but that was the clear
intention. As was the contrasting overt sexuality of Jo Emery’s Leah, a second
wife rich in female swagger and fecundity. Who wouldn’t want her, she seemed to
say, much as Miller himself probably said about Monroe. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">St
Alban’s Company of Ten is one of the best around and the sextet in this one
played as a slick and strong team. It took me a while to attune to the harsh
American accents and Miller’s wordy tract but, combined with director Angela
Stone’s seamless scene linking, they pretty soon won me over. Helen Miller was
a no nonsense but sympathetic nurse, David Bailey a refreshingly quiet and gentle
lawyer with a steely edge, and Amber Williams an emotionally wired daughter.
Her Bessie seemed an underdeveloped cipher in this drama, mainly underpinning mother
Theo’s views, but Miss Williams blended her scenes with a great deal of skill.
Florentia Chelepsis’ set impressed for its dramatic simplicity, vital in such
an episodic piece, and Don Hayward touched all the right switches in pleasing
lighting. But I reckon all will forgive me if I say that my lasting impression
was of a man deeply flawed with dubious morality, and an impressive portrayal
of him by Andy Mills which engaged and intrigued from the moment he first
amplified his outrageous views. No man flies to a concupiscent future whilst
clinging to a desiccated past. If he does then, as surely as God made those
little green apples, he will one day ride down his own Mount Morgan. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></span></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-20986529120103478542017-04-24T02:21:00.000-07:002017-04-24T02:21:28.216-07:00The Ride Down Mt Morgan - Company of Ten
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Go
and see Arthur Miller’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Ride Down Mt
Morgan</b> with your other half and I almost guarantee there will be some
healthy squabbling on the drive home. The central character, Lyman Felt, is
both a self centred shit and a man who redefines personal integrity. Whether
you sympathise or despise, this bigamist rich in self justification will set
you thinking. Flashbacks from a life changing car crash are simply staged and
cleverly interweaved in Angela Stone’s absorbing production of Miller’s wordy
tract and Andy Mills, in a bravura performance of the highest class, leads a
pretty strong Company of Ten cast. Requires intellectual stamina but worth
getting a ticket. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Roy Hall</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Abbey Theatre St Albans</span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Box Office 01727 857861</span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Runs to Saturday 29th April 2017</span></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><em><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Full Review to Follow</span></em></span></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7203579586687513566.post-79879530762829458562017-03-20T08:09:00.000-07:002017-03-21T02:52:30.100-07:00Shingle Bells - A Winter of Discontent<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Just
had a quick look at this blog. Haven’t posted a thing since Company of Ten’s
magnificent <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">London Wall.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That got more hits than a mad machine gun at
a big barn door, so pretty happy. But six months ago? Come on, I ain’t died or
lost the plot totally, so what has happened. In a word, shingles. That’s my
excuse anyway. Six weeks of pain and six months of rashes, the latter still
lingering, had blunted much of my limited social activity and some of my irrepressible humour. What? Never
made me laugh, some say. Except his racing tips and, a la Harold Hobson,
frequently barking up the wrong theatrical tree. Google him if you must but
bear with me on the horseracing, much my main entertainment through cold months
bereft of theatre and other pleasures. It culminated in a beloved Cheltenham Festival which
gathered more returns than a demented polling officer at a dreary election
count. A couch potato lifestyle has its compensations.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Wish
I could say the same about TV in general but, showing my age, the more channels
there are the less there seems to be to watch. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Moorside</b> was very good with a couple of excellent female leads
and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Appletree Yard </b>with the superb
Emily Watson eminently watchable. But <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SSGB</b>
frustrates for its undeveloped characterisation and wavering plot, I will
ignore the sound, and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Broadchurch</b> still
seems to me to be little more than glorified soap. And I say that having
nothing but praise for its two spiky leads. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Killing</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Bridge</i>
they aint. None of them. So I watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Only
Connect</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">University Challenge,</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Masterchef</i> and yearn for those
days when we had three channels and a plethora of real plays. Dennis Potter, Alan
Plater, Jack Rosenthal, where are you? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Given
that I am a five star grump with eyesight that would challenge Mr Magoo, my
general inactivity has resulted in even more book reading than usual. Putting
aside <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cheltenham Festival Guide,</i>
sadly now out of date, the best of these has been Anna Keay’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Last Royal Rebel</b>, a riveting
history of Charles II’s bastard son the Duke of Monmouth. A must read for
anyone interested in the Stuart era and overfull of the Tudors. Val McDermid’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Forensics, </b>a fascinating insight to
science in murder, Michael Blakemore’s <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stage
Blood</b>, wonderful lively spats at the National under Olivier and Peter Hall,
and Diana Preston’s absorbingly detailed book, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wilful Murder</b>, on The Sinking of the Lusitania, head my list of the
rest. All different, all beautifully written. I could also recommend Peter
Longerichs’s fascinating insight into <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Goebbels</b>,
based on his diaries, but I doubt if anyone other than me or obsessive students
of twentieth century German history would read it. No novels, not generally my
thing in reading, except on holiday when Agatha Christie, Robert Goddard, Val
McDermid and Mark Billingham figure fairly high. But not Martina Cole. Love her
factual murder programmes on TV but her books and unsympathetic characters leave
me cold.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So
having shingles has had its compensations. I have wide reading tastes, from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beano</i> to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifty Shades of Grey</i>, no don’t ask, and they and the horses have
manfully filled the void of theatre. I will scribble again in the near future,
whether some want it or not, probably because most of the evening TV fare is
enough to drive anyone with half a brain out of the house.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Saturday Night Takeaway </i>anyone?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Roy
Hall</span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></b></div>
Royhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07182535372149017726noreply@blogger.com0