Shingle Bells - A Winter of Discontent

Just had a quick look at this blog. Haven’t posted a thing since Company of Ten’s magnificent London Wall.  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.

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. The Moorside was very good with a couple of excellent female leads and Appletree Yard with the superb Emily Watson eminently watchable. But SSGB frustrates for its undeveloped characterisation and wavering plot, I will ignore the sound, and Broadchurch 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 The Killing and The Bridge they aint. None of them. So I watch Only Connect, University Challenge, and Masterchef 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?

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 Putting aside The Cheltenham Festival Guide, sadly now out of date, the best of these has been Anna Keay’s The Last Royal Rebel, a riveting history of Charles II’s bastard son the Duke of Monmouth.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 Forensics, a fascinating insight to science in murder, Michael Blakemore’s Stage Blood, wonderful lively spats at the National under Olivier and Peter Hall, and Diana Preston’s absorbingly detailed book, Wilful Murder, 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 Goebbels, 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.

So having shingles has had its compensations. I have wide reading tastes, from The Beano to Fifty Shades of Grey, 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. Saturday Night Takeaway anyone?

 

Roy Hall

 

Cilla ( ITV1 )

*****

Forgive me. Life has been quiet on here for a little while. Not a thing since Aspects of Love and not a lot for me on the horizon. Can’t stand the library theatre so swerved The Ladykillers, am giving our local musical a miss for the usual reasons, and much as I fancy TADS On Golden Pond with its equally fancy Rep players, Toddington is a bloody long way for a lazy old wotsit. And everywhere else in the usual locations seem to be doing The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Don’t grab my Rattigans, play snob that I am. I should get out more some say, especially in a late summer of warm September sun, and I will dip my reviewing pen into the Rep’s Table Manners. That should be interesting. I am an expert on Ayckbourn, can spell his name anyway, and recently directed this one. So Mr O’Leary’s slant should induce the theatrical juices. But staying in as opposed to wandering the evening streets of local theatricals can have its compensations. Stuck by the box of general awfulness and triviality I got to watch Cilla.

Sounded my sort of thing. I grew up in the age of Billy J Kramer, Gerry and the Pacemakers, and the cloakroom girl who was a friend of the Beatles. The Liverpool sound swamped my teenage days and in a couple of vibrant years eclipsed America and its fifties rock n roll. The Cavern Club and all it spewed out became pop’s hottest tickets. And obliquely and distantly, me and my teenage friends were part of it. It was the same all over England. When Brian Epstein, The Beatles manager, died at his own hand at the height of their fame we all shared in the sorrow. If we’d had facebook or twitter we would have swamped them in mournful return.

I watched it for two principal reasons. The young Cilla Black was good, not Dusty Springfield or Connie Francis (google them), but the one true female Liverpool sound. She transmogrified (google that as well) into Surprise, Surprise and Blind Date for the later masses but at her young height she was magnificent. I still tingle at Anyone who had a Heart and, rightly or wrongly, think of her as the female Beatle. The second reason, yes I am coming to it, was Sheridan Smith. This lady is a sublime actress and she digs so deep into her characterisation of Cilla you can almost smell the Mersey. Watch her and you feel you know this feisty young cloakroom girl who writ large in your teenage life. She traces the emotional ups and downs with awesome skill and sincerity and, for good measure, she sings the trademark songs magnificently.

The subject and her performer would probably have been enough on its own to keep this old curmudgeon gripped, shamelessly wallowing in his lost youth, but ITV’s latest flagship drama comes with a battalion of bonuses. Personally I thought the limited Beatles portrayals a bit one dimensional and the Epstein gay scenes a bit Tom of Finland ( yes all right, google him as well if you dare) but the central family performances were absolutely spot on. John Henshaw and Melanie Hill turn in richly rounded portrayals as Priscilla White’s parents and Mr Henshaw is particularly good at conveying fatherly concern and mystification on his Cilla’s rise from the typing pool. A man truly, and touchingly, out of his depth. But best of all is Aneurin Barnard’s portrayal of the hapless Bobby Willis, erstwhile Co-op bakery man and budding entrepreneur. A beautiful performance which captivates for its realistic simplicity. The relationship between him and Miss Smith’s Cilla rings so true you could wrap it up and eat it. Add in Andrew Schofield’s raw and impressive Willis father and Ed Stoppard’s enigmatic and brooding Brian Epstein and you can see why I am hopelessly hooked.

One episode to go and I cannot wait.

Super TV drama.

From ITV.

And when, folks, did I last say that.

Roy Hall

Cilla – Episode Three ITV (Monday 29^th September – 9.00pm)

The Bridge and The Killing (BBC4)

I have never been a great subscriber to populism. Prefer to do my own thing rather than follow the latest trend. If I had been born a greyhound I would have been so slow out of the traps I reckon the hare would have lapped me before I got going. Take your time I says, assess the situation, gather the facts. Form your own opinion. Stunningly astute or plain bloody lazy? Take your pick. I have no idea but it has saved me wasting a lot of precious time on things that, when you sweep away the hype, are patently abysmal. Following this sensible maxim has saved me from the worst excesses of Fifty Shades of Grey, The Da Vinci Code, Britain’s Got Talent, Downtown Abbey, The Daily Mail, November Moustaches, and Nick Clegg. To name but a few. Equally I have no desire to bungee jump for charity, wear a badge proclaiming my beliefs, or do anything on television. If it’s the fashion, the perceived wisdom, or the popular view I tend to veer the other way. Sheer bloody mindedness and a strong desire not to be controlled. Probably explains why I loathe practically all government initiatives. Especially the ones telling us what to do or think.

Does have its downside, of course. Except for Nick Clegg. Being so stubborn in my refusal to join in with fashionable hype or hysteria I have missed out on a few things. Took me years to discover the joys of an iPod, Calvin Klein underpants, and Robert Goddard’s cerebral mysteries. But I soon catch up. Eventually. Bt Infinity, Stieg Larsson, and Quantitative Easing are a cinch at my dinner table discussions. I particularly like Stieg Larsson. The success of his Millennium Trilogy obliquely launched numerous Scandinavian dramas and, belatedly, the TV executive suits woke up to a blindingly obvious fact. A lot of us can actually cope with subtitles. Suddenly BBC4 was awash with cerebral crime dramas which a few years ago would have not got a look in. Took me a while to find them but Arne Dahl and The Bridge on Saturday nights soon became a must see in our house. Belatedly I have been splashing out on sundry Nordic Noir DVD’s and it will surprise few who lap up this genre that I am completely hooked.

The Bridge (Series One and Two) still ranks as my favourite in spite of over stretched plots. The chemistry between the autistic Swedish detective (Sofia Helin) and her philandering Danish counterpart (Kim Bodnia) is quality acting of the highest order. In narrative that grips throughout, detailed police procedure interspersed with pleasingly complex storylines, attention is permanently held in a way that British TV crime drama rarely does. The Killing (Series One and Two) matches, and probably exceeds, The Bridge for in depth relationship and convinces me that my first taste of this latest fashion was no happy accident. These Scandinavians know how to craft and develop gripping stories that require a heavy dollop of attention span and trust they have an audience capable of applying it. Sofie Grabol as Sarah Lund, famed now for her unprepossessing jumpers, gives a performance that deserves every award thrown at her. Her dysfunctional detective is surrounded by quality actors, Morten Surballe is superb as her boss Lennart Brix, and in series one Ann Eleonora Jorgensen gives a riveting performance as the murder victim’s mother. If you see no other modern Scandinavian crime drama you could do worse than try series one of The Killing as a taster. It is long, twenty episodes covering twenty days, but its mix of police procedure, political intrigue, and domestic grief and recriminations gains a hold on your attention that never lets go. Or it did for me.

So I am now following a fashionable trend, even if a bit late in the day. Have just bought The Killing (Series Three) and Those Who Kill from the same director. So I have a lot to look forward to in the evenings when dreary British TV schedules offer up the same load of rubbish that they have been churning out for years. There are exceptions (37 Days on BBC2 was riveting World War One factual political drama) but they are like hen’s teeth. I generally prefer the radio. But I like, no love, these Nordic crime dramas. They tick all my appreciation boxes.  And, actually, I quite like Nick Clegg. Just being provocative. It’s Paddy Ashdown I can’t stand. Roy Hall

Strictly Come Dancing (BBC1)

Hello, I can hear you say. Not a bloody word from him for weeks and he flags up a piece on a TV programme. Isn’t this supposed to be a theatre blog? Well, yes it is, and in defence there ain’t anything more theatrical than the Strictly lot on Saturday nights. So I am told. Personally I rarely watch it, reasons later, but do confess to a slightly mischievous frisson on the Sunday ditching of some hapless soul who has been loved, but not enough. Must be my upbringing.

But to explain. Been busy the last month or so directing my Harpenden lot in Alan Ayckbourn’s Table Manners. Pretty pleased because doing it in the round, no stage flats for this one, seemed to work and we had sell out houses every night. Not being into self promotion on this blog (that’s a laugh, they says, the whole blog is a form of self promotion) I say nothing else about it. But it did mean I missed Dunstable Rep’s latest offering. Little Voice. Pity, because they had a seriously good director and, on paper, an excellent cast. Pretty rare omission for me. The last time I missed a Rep production I reckon I was in short pants. As you don’t want to know about my private life I shall swiftly get back to Strictly.

Get back to it maybe, but clearly I don’t get it. Almost a minority of one in theatrical circles. And here come the tenuous blogging link. Judged by various comments from my cast and one or two at the Rep, I don’t tweet but I can facebook with the best of them, half of the actors couldn’t wait to ditch their scripts and settle down to their weekly fix of undiluted hysteria. And that’s its problem for me. I can just about stomach the frontmen, except the one I am convinced is a witch, and the judges have some individual charm. Bruno may be a demented Italian waiter and Craig, bless him, a nitpicking piranha but they can knock any Simon Cowell formation into a cocked hat. It’s the bloody audience I can’t stand. Drives me away from the screen quicker than you can say old seventies sitcom. They scream and boo at judges comments regardless of whether they are justified. The rule seems to be the bad gets booed and the good gets cheered. Nothing wrong with that if allied to performances but, sadly, performances seem almost to be incidental to audience frenzy.

If you don’t believe me think about the worst aspect of a programme that could, without its audience, be almost watchable. Every now and then you get moments of pure dancing theatre. It may be the professionals doing a turn with a guest singer in the background, occasionally it is a celebrity reaching the heights with a consummate partner. Music, staging, bodies, all combine in moments of physical poetry and tenderness. And then the audience scream their appreciation. Not at the end but during the twirls. The mood is destructively broken, not just for you but them as well. Only they do not realise it. Fired on by mindless TV executives who should know better those collective morons clap and scream to order. If they did it at the theatre you would walk out in disgust. As it is, I just go and make the tea and pray that one day, one day, they will defy their puppet masters and, presented with fleeting artistic beauty, remain silent.

Until the end.

Some hope.

Strictly Come Dancing?

No thanks folks.

Don’t have an opinion on the show, but I can’t stand the audience.

Roy Hall

 

Arne Dahl (BBC Four)

I am not a big fan of television. Ask me to choose between the box and the radio and it is no contest. I would miss it of course, as it went flying through the window. But not much. Channel Four Racing would be the only serious loss and I may briefly yearn for The Antiques Roadshow and The Chase. But these days, for me, it is little more than a glorified DVD player. I only agree with the contentious licence fee because of beloved Radios 3 and 4 and, sometimes, Radio 5. Wasn’t always the case. TV plays from Dennis Potter, Jack Rosenthal, Allan Prior and others regularly graced the screens thirty odd years ago. But along with Armchair Theatre, The Wednesday Play, Play of the Month, all have been ditched in favour of reality and celebrity. And mindless talent shows. The more channels you have the less there is to watch. Or that is how it seems. Especially on the licence charging BBC.

But, in spite of disgracefully and shamefully ditching all their horseracing coverage, they still have one little jewel in their tarnished crown. It is called BBC Four. This channel not only occasionally churns out interesting programmes, biopics, history, music, art, books, but they do them better than anyone else. They entertain you on the assumption that you might just have a passing interest in the subject, are not still at primary school, and that your attention span stretches slightly further than a gnat on Ritalin. Chivalry and Betrayal – The Hundred Years War was a recent three part history programme which showed this channel at its best. Intelligent presenter, in depth detailed commentary, and stunning photography not destroyed by mindless music and quirky styles. A sheer gem. Not surprised though that some political cretins and others think it is a channel that should be ditched. It caters for those who do not want a constant diet of Soaps, Celebrity, or Trivia. Such folks are dangerous.

That leads me on to Arne Dahl, the latest little gem on this unheralded but essential channel. There are lots of dangerous folk in this, and the ten week series on Saturday nights absolutely gripped for a number of disparate reasons. For the uninitiated Arne Dahl is a Swedish detective thriller writer and the series dramatised five of his novels. For some inexplicable reason subtitled dramas used to be considered anathema in the western world, only God knows why, but the powers that be have belatedly woken up to the fact that it beats dubbing any day. No longer do we get plied with flat and unemotional voices at variance with physical emotions. The actors are now allowed to speak for themselves, as it always should have been. Even in Swedish. They do so brilliantly in Arne Dahl’s complex and gripping pieces. A team of seven detectives, lead by the magnificent Irene Lindh as Jenny Hultin, solves cases that bemuse all others. Miss Lindh must be Sweden’s answer to Helen Mirren. She is brilliant for both grittiness and economy of style. And all of her A Team are beautifully crafted characters both in the acting and the writing. As well as getting strong and hard hitting storylines, no political correctness with this lot, we learn about all their frailties and passions. These cops don’t just drive the stories, they are the stories.

The last two-parter – Europa Blues – was a classic example of the set. Nasty murders in a cemetery and a zoo, horrifying executions of a group of prostitutes, echoes of Nazi medical experimentation, and a detective puzzled by an unexpected inheritance. All links beautifully in the end and along the way we get a consummate performance from Niklas Akerfelt as the featured cerebral cop Soderstedt. But it was like this throughout the whole series. Narrative gripped and realistic scenes stunned. Yes it was in a foreign tongue and you did need to pay attention. But that is BBC Four for you. Doesn’t like to make things easy. I shall miss it on Saturday nights. If it comes out on DVD get it. Unless you are a gnat. Roy Hall.