Lucky Stiff
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Folks who know me very well often say, kindly I think, that I should get out more. I’m a grumpy old sod at the best of times and in the ...
Lucky Stiff
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Confusions
Harpenden High Street Players
Katherine Warrington School
Sunday 11th July 2021
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.
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 Confusions I skirted the boring tennis,
popped along to see it and decided to give it a blog. It was either that or
skinny dipping.
Alan
Ayckbourn’s Confusions 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. Mother Figure depicts a
lonely and disturbed Lucy treating her neighbours as children, Between
Mouthfuls has two warring couples linked audibly by their hovering
waitress (a splendid Margaret Cox) and the manically comic Gosforth’s Fete 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 A Talk in the Park 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.
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, Gosforth’s Fete, 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.
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.
Roy Hall
Relatively Speaking
Live stream - 12th November 2020
****
Cracking theatre from a classy company.
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.
I
missed the first bit of the first scene of Relatively
Speaking 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.
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.
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.
Roy Hall
****
An absorbing evening of lockdown theatre
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 Play for Today, The Wednesday Play, Saturday Night Theatre, Armchair Theatre, and Play of the Month. 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.
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 (google them), 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 Jane Clegg 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.
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.
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.
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. Roy Hall