The Ladykillers (Barn Theatre) - Full Review

***

Hello, they say? Who they are I have no idea but they say it all the same. What’s he doing trolling around Welwyn? Come on here expecting an insightful piece on Dunstable Rep’s Abigail and stumble on this. Barn Theatre? Sounds a bit shabby. And in Welwyn for God’s sake, wherever that is. One of those snobby garden cities somewhere south of the B653 that we of the Bedfordshire ilk rarely visit. Might do John Lewis in the sales on a wet day but nothing else. Don’t even have a football team as far as we know. Grumble, grumble.

Or something like that. My excuse, if needed, is that I did not fancy my umpteenth viewing of Abigail’s Party, good as I am sure it was, and if I didn’t post something soon regular readers would think I had been washed away with the Christmas sherry. My abiding memories of Mike Leigh’s piece are a stunning Alison Steadman (TV) and the equally brilliant Angela Goss (Rep). Consummate fag in mouth Beverleys from yesteryear. My abiding memory of The Ladykillers is that team of beautifully crafted gangsters, forever captured on celluloid with the innocent old lady of Katie Johnson. A classic 1950s film of the kind they do not make anymore. Taking in a latter day stage version of those iconic villains on a free Saturday afternoon seemed like a good idea. Better than a cold night drive to Dunstable for my seventh Abigail. Besides, in daylight you could see that the Barn Theatre, Welwyn, is a bloody long way from being shabby.

And so was their set. Director Rosemary Bianchi designed it and this lady has seriously good form. Her creation for Hitchin’s Hay Fever was the icing on the top of a very rich cream cake. And in The Ladykillers, solid and crammed King’s Cross terraced house oozed reality and seedy locality. The closeness of the essential railway line where more than coal gets despatched to Newcastle was cleverly hinted in the sloping slate roof. No detail was spared, including the old fashioned front door beautifully slammed in the face of a gushing guest, and my only grouse is that the acting space for five fiddling musicians would require a pretty skinny cat for even a modicum of swing. But you can’t have everything and overall Miss Bianchi’s set pleased. One got the impression that this Barn lot do not do things by halves. No poncy black curtaining and two symbolic wooden boxes for them. They did have a curtain. A downstage, rather tatty, grey one. I shall draw a veil on my thoughts on that except to say that it took gloss off a classy production. Highlighted actors would have been better served by clever use of lighting. The company were well capable of it.

So what about those actors, highlighted or not, in a theatre and on a set bereft of barely a smidgeon of shabby. The motley crew of villainous musicians generally did a fair stab from a script by Graham Linehan that laid heavily on crude visual comedy. None of the Ealing subtlety here. Wasn’t their fault if I cringed a bit at cross dressing majors and desperate folks crammed in a downstairs cupboard. It’s my age I suppose. Eamon Goodfellow gave arch villain and mastermind Professor Marcus tremendous oomph and gave all of his scenes that injection of pace that, sometimes, his fellow conspirators lacked. He had a touch of  Gyles Brandreth (google him) about him which was engaging , even down to the slightly overdone nervous laugh, and his second act speech justifying a travesty of musical orchestration almost convinced even me. I formed the impression that this was a fine actor thoroughly enjoying himself. No bad thing in such a load of nonsense.

None of the other villains matched Mr Goodfellow for skill but all, even if not totally erasing memories of Herbert Lom and his mates, made their mark. If I single out one it has to be Adam Dryer’s Louis Harvey. This was the quintessential squat foreign spy beloved of cartoonists. All black beard, threatening hat, and metaphorical bomb under arm. Meet him on a dark night and you would promise to always kiss and love your mother in law. Mr Harvey did not always project lines with cutting flair but he looked, and sounded, every inch a very nasty piece of work. Well worthy of a trip to Newcastle on the nearest convenient train. And there were a lot of them. Chris White turned in a nice cameo as a policeman richer in plod than imagination and Wendy Bage led a plethora of elderly ladies with a nice refined aplomb. I loved the slamming of the front door on her gushing face but, as I have said that before, I will not repeat myself. These blogs don’t come cheap you know.

And what of Mrs Louisa Wilberforce, that gentle old lady of Katie Johnson fame? Maureen Davies did not eclipse her, who could, but she certainly matched her in a performance both refined in its portrayal and faithful in its interpretation. I loved her and the finest compliment I can pay Miss Davies is that, not for a moment, did I make any comparisons. She contrasted and complemented her extremely dodgy lodgers with a beautiful, old fashioned, dignity. And that, in The Ladykillers, is how it should be. So Barn Theatre, neither shabby in edifice nor  in presentation, entertained on my inaugural reviewing visit. Tainted with my opinion some would say. I hope they like it.  But, mindful of self preservation, I shall steer clear of Newcastle bound coal trains for a little while. Just in case. Roy Hall

 

 

 

 

 

The Ladykillers - Barn Theatre (Welwyn)

Maureen Davies makes for a delightfully eccentric landlady and Eamon Goodfellow an equally effective and idiosyncratic chief villain in Barn Theatre's slant on this iconic Ealing Comedy of the 1950s. Graham Linehan's stage script lacked the gentle subtlety of the original and gangster musicians were often forced to dance to a contrived theatrical tune. But all, from cerebrally challenged boxer to a cross dressing major, made some contribution. Chris White particularly scored as a policeman rich in plod and lacking in imagination. Rosemary Bianchi pulled all the directorial strings and a group of technical cleverclogs conjured up a variety of convincing trains. Somewhere amongst my ramblings next week I shall give The Ladykillers a fuller, more considered, review. It is time Barn were tainted with my opinion. Roy Hall

My One and Only (BBC Radio 4)

I have always been a big fan of the radio, right back to those days in our house when we called it the wireless. It’s the only reason I don’t rage against the BBC licence fee. I could live without television if I had to, much as I would miss the horseracing and weather forecast, but not the blessed radio. I have seven in my house. Only the lavatory escapes and I am working on that. And as I have aged, ears coping better than eyes, it becomes even more important. Being a theatre buff I avidly search for drama. We don’t get as much as we used to, apart from Shakespeare and the odd classic, and little these days that is relevant to the stage. The oiks who control output, much like their TV equivalent, see little need for a regurgitation of old Rattigans, Priestleys, and Ibsens. They used to, years ago, even throwing in an Ayckbourn, a Pinter, or an Arthur Miller. Search now and, generally, you search in vain. Most drama these days on the wireless, the radio, tends to be Radio 4’s afternoon slot, plays commissioned and especially written for the medium. Not for the stage. It saddens but it is better than nothing and, occasionally, just occasionally one turns up which grips you in a vice like hold that does not let go. You stop everything, cease those other activities, and avidly listen. When over, exhausted, you say ‘that was good, no, more than that, it was bloody brilliant.’ And you also recognise, reluctantly and grudgingly, it could only have been done on the radio. The wireless. Not the stage. My One and Only was one such play.

Written by Dawn King it concerns a complex triangular relationship in which the main character, a highly emotional Layla expertly played by Katherine Parkinson, is desperately seeking to continue an affair with self centred medic Ben whilst simultaneously trying to extract herself from one she never intended, the freaky and spooky Noah. What makes this little drama special, menace unnervingly ratcheting up with every prosaic ring of a variety of telephone noises, is that all conversations take place courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell’s little invention. Characters never, except in one nerve racking scene, meet. All angst, emotion, anger, fear, is conducted down telephone wires. On landlines, on mobiles, in home and office. Layla is unnervingly stalked by one night stand Noah and, obliquely, she in desperation and despair seemingly stalks Ben. A man she still desires. And in her desperation she ups the ante and gets Noah to stalk Ben’s wife. Her own sister. I tell you, it had my head reeling. Never did the ring of a phone contain so much venomous poison; never did a familiar homely object ooze such threats. Whatever I was doing, it went on hold for forty five heady minutes.

Director Jessica Dromgoole did a super job with all those special effects of the everyday and in Katherine Parkinson, Carl Prekopp (Noah), Simon Bubb (Ben), and Victoria Inez Hardy (Amy) she had actors’ voices which both complemented and enhanced this dramatic piece. Carl Prekopp was particularly compelling as the overtly nice Noah, gentleness laced with stalker’s menace, and the phone call between Layla and Amy was dramatic writing at its radio best. The despairing Layla could at that moment, I ungraciously thought, strangle both Ben’s cooing wife and the unseen baby being thrust down the phone as token of both fidelity and love. No wonder she put Noah onto her. My One and Only, beautifully written and directed, beautifully acted, unnervingly realistic, was radio theatre at its best. Out of the blue on a midweek afternoon. More like this and I will put an eighth radio, or wireless, in the lavatory. Roy Hall

 

 

Broadcast 2-15pm Radio 4 Monday 13^th October 2014 – available until 12^th November (30 days or thereabouts) on BBCiplayer

Fiddler on the Roof (DAOS) - Guest Review

****
Grove Theatre-October 2014 - Review by Frances Hall

‘Tradition’ proclaims Tevye. ‘Tradition, Tradition.....Tradition!’ replies the hearty chorus. And so we are off into the downtrodden lives of the lowly milkman and his family in the Russian-Jewish community of Anatevka 1905, just before the Russian revolution.

I know this show well, I was in it many years ago, and it is like meeting old friends as each of the well-loved songs and set pieces are re-lived. And Tradition is so much a part of the first act: the Matchmaker, the Sabbath, the Wedding, the Bottle Dance, all serving to define the lives of these simple people and highlight the enormity of the changes to come. Our guide, of course, is Tevye, played with immense skill and sensitivity by Alan Clarke. Taking on a role made so famous by the great Topol is a feat in itself, but within seconds comparisons were superfluous. Everything about the character seemed so right: costume, beard, gravelly voice, wry humour, the weight of a hard life and the love of God, family and home. The reluctant acceptance of inevitable change as little bits of tradition are chipped away with each daughter’s choice of husband, until the heartbreaking decision to disown Chava who has chosen outside the faith. The most poignant moment of this production being Tevye’s quiet lament ‘Chavaleh’ sung with such depth of love and loss.

There were some rather wonderful performances around him too. Wife Golda played by Susan Young had warmth often missing from other versions, but combined with all the feisty strength of the Jewish mother this was a fully rounded character. I would have preferred her to be busier and more dismissive in the duet ‘Do You Love Me’ but I think that was perhaps a directorial choice. The three elder daughters all had their moments and worked well together. Katie Ross’s Hodel was a little under projected in her acting scenes but sang ‘Far From The Home I Love’ with real emotion. Of the suitors, Sam Rowland’s Perchick was a suitably charming rebel but James Halling’s Fyedka, the Russian soldier with a heart, was again under projected against the feisty Chava of Ellie Reay. However, Simon Rollings as Motel brought all his experience and stage presence to the meek, mild-mannered tailor. Another beautifully crafted performance. With eldest daughter Tzeitel (Kim Albone) they made a perfect match.  And there was a touch of brilliance too from live Fiddler Lynette Driver who said not a word but spoke volumes with her bow and movement.

Of the rest, it will come as no surprise to those who have seen them before that Angela Goss and Barbara Morton were spot on as the busybody Matchmaker Yente and the raging Ghost Fruma Sarah. And a quirky but likeable Rabbi (Luigi Muscella) and his smug son Mendel (Alex Wheeler) lent some much needed character to the townsfolk. MD Chris Young worked his magic on the company and was rewarded by some excellent singing, particularly in the full company numbers.

The Grove is a big stage with a lot of height and, not for the first time, I felt that in some scenes the sparse set and open lighting, though beautiful, rather dwarfed the actors. I couldn’t understand why the cottage, which I assume was hired in at considerable cost, was trucked on and off stage instead of being a focal point throughout. I’m sure Director Alan Goss had his reasons and usually his set designs are magnificent but you can only react to what you see and for me sometimes the effect was a lack of atmosphere. Usually the haunting ‘Anatevka’ brings me to tears and from then on I’m a soggy mess till the end. However with this production, beautiful and perfect as the singing was, the scene didn’t really move me. But overall this was a good tight show with a magnificent central performance from Alan Clarke, lovely music and a fittingly enjoyable 50^th Anniversary production. And a real Fiddler to bring good fortune for the next 50 years. Frances Hall

Table Manners (Full review)

****

Little Theatre,

Dunstable Rep,

October 2014

Just for a change I have decided to do something different with this blog. Can’t face Table Manners, the Rep’s latest offering, with my usual shafts of coruscating critical wit and dripping pearls of exquisite wisdom. Or whatever rubbish I normally post that passes for theatrical comment and opinion. Wouldn’t be fair. Not because I know this play so well, I know so many plays well. Have two Pinters, one Ibsen, and Collins pocket dictionaries of Shakespeare and Aphra Benn on my library shelves. Oh all right, I made the last one up. But I am not making up my reluctance to review John O’Leary’s commendable production of the dining room slant on Alan Ayckbourn’s Norman Conquest Trilogy. Have only recently directed this one myself and, very soon, will be moving on to the next one, Living Together, which unsurprisingly takes place in the living room. The third in the trilogy is called Round and Round the Garden and I shall shortly be releasing my first theatre blog competition with a prize for the first entrant who successfully guesses where this takes place. All three plays, cleverly mixed, are  over the same fraught family weekend and in Table Manners we see the action in the dining room.

Knowing every line and every move, almost by heart, it is inevitable that one makes comparisons. Doubly so in my case as the original 1977 Thames Television production, a stellar cast including Penelope Keith and Richard Briers, is also indelibly printed on my mind. They did such things on TV in those days, but don’t get me started on that. But I brought so much baggage with me into the Rep’s splendid Little Theatre with this one it is a wonder that there was room for anyone else. I thoroughly enjoyed my evening and Mr O’Learys excellent cast hardly hit a false note, but I ain’t going to review it. One needs to distance oneself from the stage and the actors for that. Entertain me, engage me, draw me in, surprise me, you say. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. But at least they, initially, hold all the theatrical cards. With Table Manners I was up there with them, anticipating every move, every line, every subtle nuance. So no review which, seeing as this is a blogging review site, leaves me in a pickle. Perhaps I should talk about horses and what may, or may not, win the Newmarket Cesarewitch.

I did have the splendid idea, well it seemed splendid at the time, of having an imaginary discussion with director John O’Leary on the various characters in Ayckbourn’s East Grinstead shenanigans. But as that wandered into the respective merits of the legs of his Sarah (Jenny MacDonald) and the famous Penelope Keith I wisely decided it was best abandoned. Legs apart, if you know what I mean, I thought Miss MacDonald did a super job. She was very feisty as bossy snob sister-in-law Sarah, her of civilised dinner parties and tantrums, and the guilty way she envisaged sexual trysts was spot on. She made a nice foil for the laidback persona of husband Reg (lovely portrayal from Matt Flitton, rich with the dirtiest laugh in Dunstable) and you seriously questioned how this ill matched pair ever got together. But that applies to all in The Norman Conquests. Reg’s sister Annie, homely and suffering, is stuck with hapless and dull vet Tom and dysfunctional librarian Norman, the bringer of emotional chaos to all he touches, is married to the insufferably upwardly mobile Ruth. A cow of any description. How they all cope with Norman’s intended conquest of Annie is what passes for a weekend plot. But that matters little in Ayckbourn. It is all about how his richly drawn characters react, both to each other and the situation.

Mr O’Leary’s interpretation had a gentle and subtle feel to it; commendably neither he nor his actors were intent on any unseemly manic rushing. If the chaotic third scene dinner party lost a little impetus as a result, this was my only regret. Elsewhere nuances were well fleshed out by all. Kate Johnson etched a pleasant and helpless Annie, lacking only in projection of her nicely observed character, and Anthony Bird was a keenly crafted Tom. I like this actor, he is rich in variety of tone and subtlety, and never more than when he delivered an aggressive threat to Norman. Pigeon arms akimbo, or something like that, his expelling air spoke volumes for its difficulty. Sometimes you don’t need words, just an actor clever enough to flesh out the nuances. This Tom was miles out of his emotional depth and in that one instance he encapsulated it. And in Norman’s wife Ruth, sister of Reg and Annie, Liz Harvey gave us that cow of consummate depth and artistry. She gave the dinner party scene considerable venomous zest and it was a joy to see this accomplished actress back on the Dunstable stage. And what of Norman, lumbering dysfunctional and engaging Norman, creator of emotional chaos and priapismic longings. In this interpretation he didn’t so much seize the moments as gently wrap them in his shambling likeable persona. I rather took to him, he both flagged and underlined Mr O’Leary’s concept of the piece, and left the theatre thinking that Alex Brewer had given his best performance yet for the Rep.

So a pretty gentle and pleasant evening, nicely staged and nicely lit, of a very familiar piece. It could have been turgid for me. That it wasn’t owes much to Mr O’Leary’s intelligent direction and his highly skilled cast. But, as I said, I ain’t going to review it. I shall leave that to others. Roy Hall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Table Manners (Dunstable Rep)

Alan Ayckbourn’s Table Manners is a lot of fun for both actors and audience. Part of the famous Norman Conquest trilogy it tells the tale of clandestine trysts with clarity and a large dollop of acutely observed humour. Director John O’Leary did a fine job for the Rep and a classy cast headed by Alex Brewer’s engagingly dysfunctional Norman made for a pleasant evening, easy on both eye and ear. With a play so familiar to me I could easily tear it apart if false notes registered. None did. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. And so I suspect will you. Roy Hall

Runs to Saturday 4th October 2014  - 7.45pm

Little Theatre, High Street South, Dunstable.

Tickets £9 - £13

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)