Aladdin - Stage One - St Andrew's Young Musical Theatre Company

I have loved live theatre as long as I can remember, and that’s a lot more than sixty years, but confess to never being a big fan of pantomime. The traditional kiddies’ introduction to the stage escaped me. My folks took me to Murder in the Red Barn when I was about seven or eight and Maria Marten beats Snow White and Cinderella any day. So in my reviewing days I steered clear of most of the ‘Oh no its not’ type of entertainment. Unless you have a little one in tow the pleasure can be a bit thin. But I used to make an exception for Terry Mills’ Stage One productions for St Andrews. That was because he turned the premise on its head. And still does. In his pantomimes the kiddies (average age ten and a bit) are on stage and it is the adults who sit in the stalls and squirm with delight and wonder. I am all in favour of tomorrow’s performers being encouraged today in a concept rich in the charm and innocence that the modern media is bent on destroying.

Strictly speaking the latest presentation wasn’t vintage Stage One. But when you take forty youngsters of variable talent there will always be an element of luck. Any fool can tell you they need packaging with lots of colour and business and jolly songs to cover narrative that even the best of this age will struggle with. This Aladdin had all that in parts, led by a splendid Widow Twankey from Ciara McDermott, it just did not have enough to rank it with their Robin Hood or Jack and the Beanstalk of reviewing memory. But it did not lessen the enjoyment one iota. From Widow Twankey’s Laundry to the Emperor’s Royal Palace Gardens the highly disciplined cast gave their all for Mr Mills. And neither he nor I can ask for more than that.

I have nothing but praise for Ciara McDermott’s highly accomplished Dame. In outrageous dress, and with equally outrageous lipstick, this young lady gave comedic oomph to every scene she was in. Her acknowledgement of pace and timing showed a maturity well beyond her years. An undoubted star of the future. She was well matched by the splendid evil persona of the beautifully costumed Rebecca Edwards’ Empress. With a dragon of a voice and eyes flashing venom, no one would want to meet this theatrical vixen on a dark night, she relished her part. And I and the audience relished her performance. Against these two standards of pantomime the straight and decent Aladdin can have a hard time of it. He wants his lamp and his Princess and neither of them are a recipe for the traditional laughs or boos. Alice Hayden played him impeccably with a clear and pleasing voice and a pair of legs that would entice any Princess. What more can you ask of a principal boy.

Keiran Newport and Ciaran Barragry threw everything into their ‘evening all’ PC’s Ping and Pong, Master Newport was particularly impressive, and they and the demented camel of Amy and Lucy Farrar were constant comic highlights. I particularly enjoyed the ‘Emperor’s men’ song where they regularly bashed each other over the heads. Critics are into that sort of thing. And in a large cast I give honourable mentions to Ciara Shadlow’s Omo, Kyle O’Hara’s villainous Abanaza, and Diarmaid Sam’s tiny Mustapha. Some others are worthy of mention but these three particularly registered. Master O’Hara clearly knows a villain when he sees one and he milked the boos with aplomb.

The costumes were magnificently colourful, the moustaches even better, and Hernando’s Hideaway Cave a realistic highlight to end act one. I loved the spooky effects of the baubles, bangles, and beads song and would have liked a few of those when the genies were summoned from sundry rings and lamps. A lone clash of cymbals short changed us in the magic. The familiar and easy on the ear songs culminated in the colourful ending of a song of the world from Walt Disney. Diana Baxter (Musical Director) and David Pryor (Lighting Director) combined to great effect in this. Only down point was a supposedly knowledgeable critic asking the director where it came from. I suppose I should get out more.

But even with the threat of snow it was well worth attending this matinee performance. It’s the 26^th time that Terry Mills has done it. Started in 1986. I still think they, whoever they are, should give him an MBE at the least. Lots of less deserving folks get one. But perhaps the pressure needs to come from a higher place. And talking of such places there was a poignant piece on the back of Stage One’s programme. In the last twelve months they have lost two of their stalwarts. Uncles they called them. I knew them both. Roger Newman, who regularly played the drums, and Peter Clarke who seemed to do everything. Two of the people who give life, and theatre, its meaning. The kiddies on stage, except for a few, will not know who they are. But they are passing on the baton. And they would not want a better memorial. Such is theatre. Such is life.

 

 

I received an e-mail from Terry Mills, Director, Stage 1. Posted here for info as, like me, he has difficulty pressing the right comment buttons. We ain't all Di Newmans!

"Thank you Roy. And thanks for the flattery! 26 years of Children’s pantomimes has only been possible with (and would have been quite impossible without!) the invaluable help the many Aunts & Uncles to the Company who give so freely of their time and talent – particularly those who work with me week in week out throughout the year."

Aladdin, Night Music, and All Weather Racing.

Interesting weekend and the main topic of conversation is snow. Judged by the queues in Waitrose I wasn't the only one stocking up on fags and whisky and the non essential five a day. The weather in February can scupper all one's best plans. Knocked out most of my beloved racing. Lingfield on plastic, or whatever, is no substitute for the jumping stars at Sandown. But I suffer and dream of Cheltenham in March. If the snow scuppers that one, I shall spit. Do it enough and it might help.

The snow, not the spit, might yet play havoc with the last flings of two shows I took in this week. If the audiences get there, it is no guarantee that the casts will. But whether they do or not, look forward to incisive and penetrating reviews next week. Failing that, pop in to this blog. A Little Night Music (Luton Light) lived up to most of its early promise and Aladdin (Stage 1 with its 26th children's pantomime) impressed for the enthusiasm of forty youngsters with an average age of ten and a half. Ciara McDermott (almost an unseemly oldie at twelve) was an outstanding Widow Twankey and Rebecca Edwards an unnervingly evil Empress. I wasn't blind to its faults but when your main notes are about the fun you got from PC's Ping and Pong and a demented camel you know you ain't reviewing Ibsen.

So, if the snow held off, the Saturday night audiences were in for two different types of treats. And if it didn't I can guess that at least one cast wouldn't care. Looking at some of the more mischevious at Luton Light it might even be two. Toboggans and reviews to follow.

A Little Night Music - Luton Light - Dunstable Little Theatre (31st Jan - 4th Feb)

Aladdin - Stage 1 - Stopsley School (3rd -4th Feb)

A Little Night Music - Luton Light

Stephen Sondheim’s ‘A Little Night Music’ is deep romantic drama heavily laced with elements of farce and that wonderful music that makes it, for me, a piece of compelling theatre. More a play with music as opposed to a musical, no dancing chorus here, which might explain why not many turned up on the first night of Luton Light’s run at Dunstable’s Little Theatre. Hopefully things will get better as the week progresses because Mathew Orr’s production contains some cracking performances. Richard Cowling leads and sings like an angel and Kate Brennan steals every scene she is in as an earthy maid. A bit slow on this first night and Lee Freeman’s orchestra occasionally overshadowed the singers but they will sort that out. I hope they do because backed by a superb quintet of a chorus this show, simply staged, has the makings of being a bit special.

Runs To Saturday 4^th February 7.45pm (Saturday Matinee 3.00pm) – Little Theatre, High Street, Dunstable.

Dunstable Rep - Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

****

As there are a lot of confessions and revelations in the Rep’s latest production, speechifying my late mother would have called it, perhaps I should throw in a couple of my own. I have never seen Cat on Hot Tin Roof on the stage. Come to that I have never seen Streetcar or The Glass Menagerie either. I reckon it was all those Tennessee Williams’ films of the 50’s and 60’s that put me off. There were a lot around at the time and I saw or slept through most of them. The Night of the Iguana was this ungrateful teenager’s low point. So when I became a serious theatregoer Mr Williams would always come a long way below Rattigan and Chekhov in the fight for my precious pound. If Liz Taylor and Vivien Leigh can’t tick my boxes what hope is there for the rest of them.

I think you can guess what is coming. The Rep wheeled this one out as the third in their 2011/12 film season and not only was this ambitious choice enjoyable it was, by some way, the best so far. Plaza Suite had a couple of acting gems and A Christmas Carol stunning invention, but neither had the shape or coherence that director Chris Lavin brought to this one. The Mississippi Plantation family are a rum lot and you wouldn’t want to spend Christmas with them. Half an hour on a picnic outing and they would be at each other’s throats. The back story is megabucks Big Daddy dying of cancer but only he and his Big Mama wife don’t know this, but the main thrust is the squabbling family desperate to share or grab the spoils when he goes. And the focus of that thrust is younger son Brick, crippled in an accident, and his sexually frustrated wife Maggie.

The action all takes place in Brick and Maggie’s bedroom and it is designed in such a way that it becomes a thoroughfare for all the various characters. Clapham Junction was never so busy. The colourful backdrop was pleasing but the imaginary door and windows stretched ones theatrical imagination. Only the porch area where Brick, poignantly, talked to the moon truly worked. But that bedroom was crucial. Nobody had sex but they talked about it an awful lot. It’s that speechifying that mother used to go on about. Maggie (Liz Caswell superb as always), desperately desires to rekindle a sexual flame in her Brick. As she says, she could live with his rejection if he was a flabby slob of a husband, but the manifest presence of his flesh both frustrates and attracts. Brick (a magnificent portrayal from Dave Corbett) seeks solace in alcohol. He detests his wife but he detests himself more. The only state he can cope with is the oblivion of whisky.

The relationship of Maggie and Brick are crucial to this play. If she is the Cat then he is the Hot Tin Roof. All the other characters, important as they are, are mere satellites. The chemistry between them has to both gel and sear. Especially as there is an elephant in their bedroom in the shape of the unseen, long dead, Skipper. I hope the audience got this because, by God, he is important. Killed himself because of his attraction to Brick. Or so it seems. I was gripped. The fading sexual powers of this Maggie and the brooding, monosyllabic, presence of Brick were writ large in this production. Miss  Caswell and Mr Corbett truly clicked and I take my theatrical hat off to both of them.

But in all good productions there is always a lot more going on than you think. A major plus for me was the easy and natural style in which Mr Lavin created his surrounding pictures of plantation family life. Characters, children and adults, crossed the set in realistic style and the life beyond the bedroom of Brick and Maggie was an ever present and crucial picture. It is merely a detail but get it right, as Mr Lavin did, and it adds so much to an evening. Charles Plester gave solid support as a Big Daddy consumed by his own perceived importance, Anne Davis, Big Mama in a pretty party dress, beautifully evoked the love that was missing in most of the other characters and Ben Jaggers was a believable older brother. I like him best when he took off his jacket but, being a lawyer with an eye to a fortune, that is hardly surprising. But other than the two bedroom inhabitants the performances that squeezed every inch from their turns were Jenna Ryder-Oliver’s sister in law Mae and Richard Garrett’s Reverend Tooker. Miss Ryder-Oliver shed kids like shelling peas, three very good ones on stage, and as a weapon with which to beat the barren Maggie they were formidable and vicious. The Rev Tooker found this family life all a bit too much and his uncomfortable character exited beautifully.

But in truth there was not a weak performance in a play in which I suspect most of the Rep actors have not been further into the deepest south than Cornwall. Richard Foster’s clouds pleased more than Graham Elliott’s late thunderstorm but that is probably because I am an expert on the latter. I loathe storms and know every nuance of their creation. This one did not convince. But practically everything else in Mr Lavin’s production did. An ambitious production, thoroughly enjoyable, and much better than Iguana and those other films of my teenage years. I clearly used to sleep through speechifying. Last week, the Rep kept me awake.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof - Dunstable Rep

I enjoyed this production. I am long enough in the tooth to know that taking on the deep south of Tennessee Williams ain't easy. Chekhov with cowboy boots. But overall they pulled it off. Dave Corbett topped anything he has ever done as the complex Brick, and Liz Caswell's Maggie was as watchable as ever. Strong support throughout and director Chris Lavin painted some nice dramatic pictures of a family in turmoil. I shall nit pick on some staging bits, it's my blog, but overall I give this Cat on a Hot Tin Roof four stars. Ten quid well spent.

Finishes tonight - full review to follow

The Lost Salford Sioux - Radio Three

Sunday 15th January (8.30pm)

There aren’t many better things to do on a cold Sunday evening than to curl up in front of the fire, glass in hand, and listen to Radio Three’s Sunday drama. The one this week, The Lost Salford Sioux by Anjum Malik, had unsurprisingly slipped under my theatrical radar so I switched on in total ignorance. I settle down well prepared for a Pinter or a Stoppard, but Salford and long dead Indians have never been on my reading list. They ought to be because once I had attuned my ear and garnered the plot, the play totally absorbed.

That plot is pretty important. Apparently, and the folks of Salford know this, a performer with Buffalo Bill’s Circus died during the troupes visit to this country in 1887 and is buried somewhere in the town. Probably a car park, although this may be dramatic licence. He went by the delightful name of Surrounded by the Enemy, super ghostly portrayal by Anthony Forrest, and the drama’s main thrust is his desire to have his bones resettled and his spirit released. The young woman he chooses for his haunting task is well selected. Alison is doing a PhD in death rituals around the world and her and her Nan seem obsessed with untimely and early demise. Coming to terms with loss, and Alison lost her mother when she was a baby, is a strong theme throughout the ninety minutes. Both Lorraine Cheshire and Sue Jenkins turned in easy on the ear and completely believable performances. The way Ms Jenkins described the relationship and sudden loss of her young husband, Alison’s granddad, was simple and effective. For good measure the haunted and troubled heroine gets a job with the local undertakers. I told you this play was about death. The dialogue here was particularly sharp and spare and, at times, also funny. Death may be distressing but it is also a business and Darren Kuppan (Charlie) and Roger Morlidge (Stanley) had their feet firmly on the ground. They believed in death, not sure they believed in ghosts, especially when Alison starts digging up the car park.

At the beginning I was totally confused, lots of sound effects and evocative music, but by the end I was totally gripped. When Surrounded by the Enemy’s long buried bones were released into the local river I could see all the pictures and feel all the conflicting emotions. This lost soul, literally, would finally find peace. In death that is all most of us, those taken and those left behind, can hope for. Beautifully directed by Polly Thomas this play was curiously uplifting. We are all going to die. Sitting by the fire, whisky glass in hand, The Lost Salford Sioux made that fact almost pleasurable. Takes Radio Three and its Sunday night dramas to do that.

January Blues

   

I hate January. The days are short and dull, and the cold nights crank up the gas bills. The media is obsessed by looking back to the past or, even worse, studying the navel of the many things to come. And 2012 gives them a plethora of opportunities. On top of the usual prediction circus we now get endless hypes for our Olympic or Diamond Jubilee year. I can just about cope with Mo Farrah or Miss Adlington but any more in depth studies on our cyclists and rowers and I shall throw a few whisky glasses at the radio. As for Liz, I shall enjoy her celebrations but I am getting fed up with them being rammed down my throat. Worst of all, Christmas being wrapped and stored for another year, my beloved horseracing stars put their equine feet up.

It’s all the fault of Cheltenham. That four days in March in the Cotswolds is our annual Olympics and any jumping gee gee with half a chance on the sacred turf of Prestbury Park is swathed in cotton wool and pampered better then any pop star. You can’t blame the connections. Most of the twenty odd races would headline a normal Saturday afternoon. And the best, Gold Cup, Champion Hurdle, Arkle, Queen Mother, World Hurdle, are the stuff of dreams. You can keep the Derby and the Arc. Cheltenham in March is what it is all about. So for the likes of Kauto Star, Big Bucks, Masterminded, Long Run, Hurricane Fly and others it is endless days at Champneys or wherever they keep them. We get a brief flurry on Trials Day at the end of the month but for most of January racing is the bread and butter affair of the Market Rasens and Huntingdons. Snobs that they are most nags rated 150 or better wouldn’t be seen dead at such racecourses.

I am therefore relying on local theatrical stars to give the next few weeks a bit of a lift. I don’t do Gang Shows so will give Harpenden’s sixty third a swerve and if I am missing a treat I apologise. Welwyn’s Barn Theatre and St Alban’s Company of Ten rarely figure on my radar so I have no idea what they are doing. I should get out more as on my occasional sorties in their direction I have usually been impressed. Looking forward to Wheathampstead’s ‘Time of My Life’, an Ayckbourn I have never seen, but that is in the remote mists of Mid February so hardly qualifies as an antidote to January blues. Nevertheless I hope it is good because at their best they seriously entertain. And they are overdue a good crit from me. Might even get me on their web page.

But to get the juices going I am having to rely on my old friends at Dunstable Rep. Their third production this season is Tennessee Williams ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’. Once you have attuned your ear to the southern drawl, and I don’t mean Watford, his plays can be compelling. Chris Lavin directs and I hope he does it justice. Following that Luton Light guest at the same theatre for Sondheim’s ‘A Little Night Music’. As my favourite theatre evening of all time was the National’s version of this with Judi Dench, Sian Phillips, and Patrica Hodge they are under no pressure. Unlike Kauto, Big Bucks, and Long Run. Last seen fanning themselves on some exotic and distant beach.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof – Dunstable Little Theatre Fri 20^th to Saturday 28^th January. No performance Wed 25th. 7.45pm Tickets £12 and £10

A Little Night Music – Dunstable Little Theatre Tues 31^st January to Saturday 4^th February. 7.45pm. (Sat matinee – 3.00pm) Tickets £12

Time of My Life – Wheathampstead Memorial Hall 16^th to 18^th February 8.00pm Tickets £8.

Cheltenham NH Festival – Tues 13^th to Friday 16^th March (Channel Four) Tickets priceless.