Finborough Theatre - Jane Clegg

****

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

 

 

Life in Lockdown - a plea for small theatres

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.

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 Twelfth Night 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?

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.

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 The Importance of Being Earnest. 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.

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.

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.
Roy Hall

Alligators - Company of Ten

Studio,
Company of Ten,
St Albans
Sun 26th January 2020

****
Another top class stunner from Company of Ten.

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

Roy Hall 

Runs to Saturday 1st February - Box Office 01727 857861

Dealing with Clair (Company of Ten)

Company of Ten

Abbey Theatre Studio

Runs to Saturday 19th October 2019

01727 857861 (Tickets £13)

****

A cracking depiction of Thatcherism.

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.

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.

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 Dealing With Clair. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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. Roy Hall

 

 

 

My Mother Said I Never Should (Wheathampstead DS)

****

A quartet on impressive form

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.

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 My Mother Said I Never Should, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Both Sides Now was 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. Roy Hall

Dangerous Corner (Company of Ten) - Full Review

****

A Sparkling Dangerous Corner.

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.

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 London Wall 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.

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.

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 Juliet and her Romeo. Impressive then, even more so here.

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. Roy Hall

Neighbourhood Watch (Barn Theatre)

Barn Theatre,

Welwyn.

October 2018

****

A Classy Neighbourhood from the Barn

There is no pretending. Neighbourhood Watch 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.

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.

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.

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. Roy Hall

 

 

 

The Accrington Pals ( TADS theatre Group)

Tads Theatre

Toddington

September 2018

****

Theatre's Joy, Accrington's Sorrow

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

century’s bloodiest battles. The Battle of the Somme, 1^st 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.

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. The Accrington Pals 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 Oh What a Lovely War writ small and telling. And it packs, especially at the end, a similar punch.

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.

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.

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.

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 The Accrington Pals 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.

Roy Hall

 

 

Dangerous Corner (Wheathampstead DS)

Dangerous Corner

Wheathampstead Dramatic Society

May 2018

**

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 Dangerous Corner. 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.

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.

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. Roy Hall

 

The Matchgirls (St Andrew's Players) - Full Muse

Those desirous of a bit of relief from Royal Wedding hysteria could do a lot worse than pop into St Andrew’s Players latest musical offering. The Matchgirls celebrates the famous and courageous strike of 1888 to improve the working conditions of downtrodden factory women. Heavy in theme but light in depiction, simple songs intertwine with complex social issues to illustrate both small community drama and the larger political stage. In an astute intimate setting, surprising in such a large arena, the camaraderie of London’s underclass is best displayed in some powerful collective singing and strong portrayals from the two warring lovers of Jo Yirrell and Joe Hawkins. More small scale musical than blockbuster, The Matchgirls informs, educates, and entertains in the best Reithian fashion. I doubt the Windsor lot being able to say the same. Malcolm Farrar directs with pleasing imagination. Roy Hall

 When I said all the above after watching the Wednesday dress rehearsal I had every intention of following up with a fuller review. Star ratings and all. You see, I am so clever I can project my imagination to actual performing nights with bursting audiences and honed and polished portrayals. Except I can’t, and besides it ain’t fair. Those on stage, and the ones twiddling electrics and musical batons, might be better, or worse, than I imagined. First night brilliance followed by second or third night wobbles, the latter almost guaranteed if a bloody critic is in. And that bloody critic gets the one, elusive, theatrical snapshot that provokes rave or rant. As it should be. All I get from a dress rehearsal is an impression, a promise that may or may not be fulfilled.  Bit like a Newmarket trainer watching his horse on the limekilns gallops. It may flash and flare in its prep but only the actual race will find if it flops or fires. I knew I would get in a racing analogy somewhere. It’s my own fault, should have attended one of the actual nights to get the full flavour. But I didn’t. So I am not going to do an official review. I might have done some musings instead and, if I had, here they are. If you know what I mean.

 Simple musical with serious issues underlining it. Needs a studio setting with bravura playing by the cast. Being belted in a small space fits the bill. It cleverly got the former thanks to director Malcolm Farrar astutely enveloping all in a small black set. Annie Besant’s palatial St John’s Wood domicile simply suggested by a splendid chaise longue, and leading man Joe’s backyard realistically evoked by Victorian street lamp and sounds of lapping water were particularly impressive. Mr Farrar clearly had the right idea and linked the disparate scenes pretty well. The switching link in the song ‘Something About You’ certainly ticked my theatrical boxes. Some other scene changes were a bit muted, most notably boys' low key whistling for distant pigeons, but imagination says this would have improved with performance. I am so kind. Acting and singing split me if that does not sound too painful. The singing was generally pretty good, individually and collectively, and if the songs aren’t memorable they were very catchy. I particularly liked ‘Men’, though God knows where it came from in the narrative. But who cares. Kate and Polly belted it over. And who couldn’t like ‘Waiting’ and ‘This Life of Mine.’ Stirring stuff both. In my reviewing days St Andrew’s Players had a reputation for being one of the best around for choral singing in musicals. You can still see why. I haven’t a single word or pithy phrase to say about the musicians, so they must have been good. I only notice duff notes. So I reckon Richard Cowling and his team did a pretty good job.

 Now acting is different. I am an expert on acting. Ask anyone who has ever thrown a brick at me. I can spot a mislaid cue or a misplaced line a mile off. Pace and truth are meat and drink to me in characterisation. My numerous unpublished books are only outsold by my best seller ‘How to Win at Newmarket.’ Don’t go, is the answer to that one. But, opinions folks not facts, I sniffed out a few in the acting stakes. Jo Yirrell (Kate) and Joe Hawkins (Joe) were spirited leads drawn apart by political circumstances. Neatly encapsulated in the dilemma Kate felt when the call of social agitation eclipsed the promise of flight to the American dream. A misunderstood matchgirl if ever there was one. If I preferred Joe Hawkins acting, very strong, to his singing I suspect he does as well. Of the others Allanah Rogers impressed for a sassy Polly, disconcertingly pleasing on the eye, Tracey Chatterley for a powerful Mrs Purkiss, all East End suffering in her face, and Evie Wright for a scheming and manipulative Jessie. In a mixed ensemble all gave notable performances. As did Frances Hall in the small role of Annie Besant’s no nonsense secretary and Reece Lowen as match factory foreman Mynel. All menace, mouth and moustache, he commendably stayed just the right side of archetypal Victorian villain. I should not, of course, mention Mrs Hall so I will not do so.

 I will mention the toffs though. Apart from anything else they were the real characters in a real piece of history wrapped up in fictional working class characters. Annie Besant, socialist reformer, and George Bernard Shaw, socialist windbag, lived and breathed through late 19^th century history and beyond. The matchgirls strike was meat and drink to their reformist agenda. They both did a fine job, Malcolm Farrar every inch one’s perception of a young GBS and Michelle Arnold a fine and gentle Mrs Besant. Possibly too gentle at times as always vocally more at ease in familiar settings of office and home than in alien surroundings of the great unwashed. Perhaps the real Mrs Besant had the same problems. I have no idea. This is a muse not a history lesson. And neither was Bill Owen’s musical. A history lesson that is. We got a slight flavour of the real social strife but we got more of a few jolly songs. And all in all it made for a pretty good evening, nicely choreographed by the excellent Sarah Albert and splashed with good sound and light by Tim Garside and Paul Horsler. And that was the dress rehearsal when, so I am told, everything usually goes wrong. I must have been lucky and, probably, it all went pear shaped on the opening night. I doubt it though. Once they warmed up this Matchgirls started to gel.

Here endeth the unwritten muse.

Roy Hall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Funny Money - Redbourn Players

Funny Money

Redbourn Players

Village Hall

Redbourn

4th May 2018

**

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 Dangerous Corner at the end of the month. A favourite play by a favourite author. So popping down to the Redbourn Players for Ray Cooney’s Funny Money was my equivalent of an early season spin on the gallops. Even knackered old geldings have to get out sometime.

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. Funny Money 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.

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.

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  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.

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.

 

Roy Hall

 

Juliet and Her Romeo (Company of Ten)

***
Juliet and Her Romeo
Company of Ten, St Albans.
6th - 14th October 2017

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 Breaking Bad has dwarfed much else this autumn. Seriously addictive, especially for those who like well acted drama and moral dilemmas in abundance.

So it says something, a lot really, that I dragged myself off to Company of Ten’s Juliet and Her Romeo 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. London Wall was terrific, ensemble playing at its best in my sort of play, and Arthur Miller’s The Ride Down Mount Morgan 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.

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.

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.

So there you have it folks. If it all sounds a bit gimmicky, eighty year old Romeos, it probably was. But having seen Hamlet in a spaceship, a mafia version of Measure for Measure, and an all female As You Like It 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 Upstart Crow. Do that and, seriously, anything, absolutely anything goes with our Will.

Roy Hall

 

 

 

Major Barbara (Shaw's Corner) / The Man From Aldersgate

Major Barbara (Shaw's Corner) ****

(Ayot St Lawrence - Fri 23rd June 2017)

The Man From Aldersgate****

(Harpenden Methodist Church - Sat 24th June 2017)

 

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 Major Barbara 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 National Trust Shaw Corner Festival. 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.

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 The Man From Aldersgate 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.

Roy Hall

 

The Ride Down Mt Morgan (COT - Full Review)

****

'Powerful performances in slick and strong production.'

Arthur Miller’s The Ride Down Mt Morgan 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.

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.

As 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.

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. Roy Hall

London Wall (Full Review) - Company of Ten

****

I like those inter war year plays. Priestley dramas, Coward comedies, Ben Travers farces, even Agatha Christie potboilers if done well. All have charm, elegance, innocence. Terence Rattigan’s classic murder play, Cause Celebre, appealed as much for its period setting as it did for the real life drama. And Ronald Mackenzie’s The Maitlands remains a neglected masterpiece of the age. I yearn for a revival by somebody. John Van Druten’s social comedy London Wall may have slipped under my wavering radar but its 1930’s office setting ticked an awful lot of my boxes. St Albans Company of Ten diligently tantalised and, thankfully, gave the play a Sunday matinee airing. As I told my long suffering, I had to go. Besides, apart from a small foray at Sidmouth my unwelcome oar hasn’t stuck into anything for a while.

I am glad I did. The Abbey Studio setting, against the backdrop of an impressive brick wall, ideally created the dreary and fusty atmosphere of long gone legal office life. Not a lot happens on stage, we get two deaths off it, but the play’s sheer ordinariness was part of its charm. The company drew you in both for strong narrative and rich characterisation and for the occasional glimpse of hectic activity. Usually at the end of the day when telephone bells summoned sundry personnel and unfinished post stretched to some trivial, but vital, deadline. Office life was ever thus.

And like all office life, then and now in some ways, it has its distinct pecking order. At the bottom of the hen house is Miss Milligan (Cate Brooks). This impoverished ingénue was beautifully played by Miss Brooks and all her confusions, professional and private, were internalised with consummate skill. She took her cue from the older and sadder Miss Janus, an excellent Helen Miller signalling a destination of frustrated old age. Husbands were clearly a precious commodity and you felt that this was one secretary already eyeing up the shelf. No such uncharitable thoughts entered one’s mind in regard to colleagues Miss Hooper (Katy Robinson) and Miss Bufton (Helen Goaley). The one flashed a ring and a walk with style and triumph, and the other, one supposes, flashed everything else. Both turned in rich and well crafted distinct characterisations and Helen Goaley particularly impressed for playing to the hilt, as my old mother would have said, a girl no better than she ought to be.

But good quality productions need a cast that bat long and, generally speaking, this lot did. I personally would have welcomed a little more projection from Tom McKeown’s otherwise sensitive and gentle Hec Hammond and a little bit more variety in playing from Daniel Robert Leigh’s supercilious office rake but these are tiny points. Mr McKeown’s thwarted beau of Miss Miiligan displayed beautiful stillness when surrounded by end of day office chaos, and Mr Leigh had the thankless task of playing the only unlikeable character in Van Druten’s play. And believe me he was not just unlikeable, he was odious. One of those people who think they are God’s gift to the earth and most of the rest of us would shed few tears if he was under it.

Joe Wackett was an engaging junior, swaggering with panache, and added much to the overall office ambience and Peter Bryans a commanding Mr Walker, the big legal boss with clear and concise ideas on personal and professional conduct. Not a man to be messed with. Except possibly by the daft and dotty elderly Miss Willesden. Providing a sub plot of sorts the beautifully costumed Angela Stone was simply magnificent. A performance so joyful you wanted to wrap it up and take it home. But then much of this production was. Opening scene music was a bit muted but in this London Wall it was a rare false note. Director Tina Swain had a good cast and she had drilled them with style and realism. A little old fashioned theatrical gem on a Sunday afternoon. Roy Hall

 

 

Sidmouth Manor Pavilion Theatre - Private Lives

****

There is a little theatrical gem down on the East Devon coast that is known only to a few of us. It’s the Sidmouth Manor Pavilion Theatre located, unsurprisingly, in Sidmouth. Regular readers, I have a few, will know that this is my favourite seaside place in all of England. John Betjeman quite liked it and renowned novelist R.F.Delderfield lived here. And further back, 1820 or thereabouts, Queen Victoria’s dad succumbed to life’s travails just up the road from where the theatre now stands. I could say popped his clogs but that would be disrespectful and the one thing you never do in Sidmouth is disrespect. Very civilised, very beautiful, very calming. And for all of the summer it offers week after week of differing plays, twelve of them, at the Manor Pavilion. Producer Paul Taylor-Mills bills it as the last standing professional weekly Rep in England. He may well be right but whether he is or not I hope he continues with the late Charles Vance tradition. Sidmouth is very special to me and many others. Dipping into the Rep on a holiday evening adds nicely to it.

Well that’s the nice and cosy bit over, now to cut to the Coleman’s. Caught the last of those twelve plays at the scrag end of the holiday season. Noel Coward’s Private Lives. Seen it umpteen times and considered a Coward masterpiece, even if for me it slips in a little way behind Hay Fever. Neither has much of a plot but the latter has dafter characters. But familiar or not you go to Sidmouth and just be grateful that the season is still going. I say that because the Pavilion Rep Company are pretty good, outstanding if you consider their hectic rehearsal schedule. The sets were sumptuous, especially the glorious French flat, some of the costumes less so. Elyot and Amanda’s night attire suggested more modern London bedsit than elegant 1930’s chic. And whilst I can just about forgive matches for cigarette lighting on hotel balconies I reckon that upmarket flat would have stretched to a posh and glassy table lighter. Lit matches jarred.

But the actors sparred with both verbal and physical aplomb and lashings of professional pace. Jonathan Ray did a fine job as a slightly manic Elyot Chase, Hannah Vesty was a spiky Amanda Prynne and Chris Kiely, arms comically akimbo at every stressful moment, an engaging Victor Prynne. But the best performance from Coward’s famous honeymooning quartet came from Jessica Kent’s thwarted and dumped Sybil Chase. She fluttered, posed, and screamed in elegant and equal proportions. Miss Kent was a well crafted self centred irritant who played her part to the hilt without ever going over the top. The cast was completed by Daniele Coombe’s eccentric maid. Her sneezing Louise had clearly been round the block a few times and the quirky portrayal, suited to this production, made an indelible mark.

I am still puzzled as to why a bright summer morning needed internal lights in Act Three; the lighting was generally so good I can only assume it was intentional. Andrew Beckett directed with an eye on the physical comedy which would not totally please the Coward purists. But he did it on a stunning set, undeservedly not credited in the programme, and with a cast firing on all cylinders in pace and delivery. A jolly evening from Sidmouth’s little theatrical gem. And that, as they say, is where I came in.




In 2012 I reviewed the company's An Inspector Calls mainly as a homage to James Pellow, a super Sidmouth player. Unsurprisingly he was not in Private Lives but click on the link above and you can read or refresh my views on him. Revered in Sidmouth and worthy of greater fame. Roy Hall