THEATRE REVIEW: Shibari

Abbey Theatre, Dublin

3 November 2012

Photo: Fiona Morgan

The Irish are rightly proud of their strong literary and dramatic tradition - wherever you go in Dublin, allusions to Joyce, Beckett, Wilde and Shaw abound. So the prospect of some new Irish writing was an irresistible one for a visiting theatre-lover, as director Tom Creed and playwright Gary Duggan make their Abbey Theatre debuts as part of the Dublin Theatre Festival. Shibari is an odd piece full of dichotomies: its Love Actually-style interlinking of different lives has become conventional, yet its progression is unexpected; while some scenes possess a power and thoughtfulness, others feel rather dead and uninspiring; and whilst some performances entertain and even electrify, one or two would not merit praise in the most ordinary of student productions. With such a mixed reaction, the piece divided my party and left me a little confused - and more than a little frustrated every time a weak point interrupted an intriguing or entertaining element.

Six characters occupy this entwined world of coincidental connections, from widowed Japanese florist Hideo, to down-on-his-luck ordinary guy Liam, to big-name movie star Nick. With the sparse set ornamented with minimal props, it is left to the dialogue and performances to do all the work in establishing setting, scenario and character: by and large, this is successful as the audience quickly find themselves in a bookshop, florist's, nightclub or bedroom without Duggan resorting to trite exposition. Yet a script, of course, needs more than just competency of storytelling, and this one is rather lacking in depth, leaving me questioning how impressive or even interesting it truly is. Some aspects do capture our imagination but others garner little interest; for example, what should be a poignant episode - that of a young widow reflecting on her husband's death as she returns to a long-abandoned dance class - is rather clichéd and wastes the talents of the otherwise convincing Janet Moran (Marie). Ian Lloyd Anderson may not have to stretch himself too far to play up to the Hibernian stereotypes of his character, the rather lazy Liam who is endowed - by his own admission - with a substantial dose of "Irish charm"; yet he should be credited for his natural stage presence and confidence, which emerged particularly in his early wry humour, and in his sombre tête-a-tête with fiery sister Eva (an assured Kate Nic Chonaonaigh). By contrast, Michael Yare's performance as Nick has the opposite effect, in undermining the potential of his character through stilted and self-conscious delivery which jars with the supposed confidence and arrogant ease of his role. The rhythm of his speech is far from the natural realism adopted by the rest of the cast: while others embody their characters and situation without a struggle, Yare appears to be acting in a different production from the rest, under markedly different direction. By the end I was beginning to feel irritated that his role was so key to the web of plotlines, as his performance added little to the show and detracted much from its promise.

At the other end of the scale, Orion Lee is impressively sympathetic and sweetly amusing, yet progressively and ultimately unsettling, as Japanese florist Hideo. A figure of aloof sadness and poignant dedication to his art, the development of Hideo's thread of the story proves the most enrapturing, and Lee's rendering of the role is sensitively understated, and consequently the most powerful in the ensemble. It is here that the motifs of the dialogue come into force: the many references to bonds and ties may not be subtle, but they help to shape a play which is searching in vain for a strong structure and meaning. Shibari certainly leaves the best until last, as the final climactic scene is affecting in its slow, deliberate pace, shocking without crossing the line into sensationalist or gratuitous, and flawlessly played out by Lee and Alicja Ayres (Ioana). The harshness and innate threat of the ropes somehow becomes beautiful in the attention to detail of director and cast. It is an unsettling conclusion, executed with finesse - if the entire show had been of this calibre, Duggan and Creed would be on to a winner.

Yet the overall effect and the play's lingering impression is one of fragmented achievement and part-successes. There are some thoughtful and enjoyable elements here but in attempting to explore what makes this lively city tick, Duggan fails to really get under the skin of the characters he is creating. Combined with a cast who are rather varied in their ability and suitability, and Shibari ends its run at the Abbey Theatre to a soft vote of thanks, rather than a shout of triumph.

THEATRE REVIEW: Three Sisters

Young Vic

29 Oct 2012

Three Sisters trailer; courtesy of The Young Vic/Dusthouse

This is Chekhov as you have never seen it before. Raucous, dirty, vodka-fuelled, surprising, coarse, funny, uninhibited, destructive - and magnificent. Benedict Andrews' modern adaptation of the script tears down our expectations whilst breathing new life into a classic tale of love, sisterhood, despair and hope.

Under Johannes Schutz's design, the simple grey stage of the Young Vic is coldly lit and bare, a large mound of earth the only scenery. As characters make their entrances, the full space is utilised, with unusually large areas of empty stage between them: it is fragmented, jarring almost, to see a cast working together fluidly when physically so separate. The titular three sisters are introduced to us, and from her first appearance it is clear who will steal the show: Vanessa Kirby is simply superb as Masha. Her movement around the stage is so instinctive, so fluid, that not the slightest pretence is needed - she is not playing Masha, but has become her, utterly embodying the part in every toss of her head and every drawl. It is her spirit that seems to guide the production, with its irresistible mix of glamour, thrill, heartache and wretchedness. Beside this, Olga (Mariah Gale) risks appearing a little dull and anonymous, but some skilful and balanced direction by Andrews ensures her more understated performance is not overwhelmed. Completing the trio is Gala Gordon as unintentional heart-breaker Irina, whose transformation from sweet youth to hardened bitterness and despair is truly touching and at times difficult to watch in its soul-baring pain.

Although the girls are given some simple period dresses, there is nothing much conventional about this production. As the vodka flows, the expletives rack up and before you know it the cast are dancing on the tables and belting out Smells Like Teen Spirit. It's a brave move by Andrews and it works perfectly. Chekhov and grunge - who would've thought such a bizarre marriage could be so fruitful? The scene is funny, no doubt - and indeed there is much humour across the board here, from the brash, Aussie Natasha (Emily Barclay) to the inebriated Chebutykin (the splendid Michael Feast); from the brow-beaten Andrey (a tracksuit-wearing Danny Kirrane) to the loveable, sensitive Tuzenbach (Sam Troughton). Yet it is also thrilling in its raucous energy and verve, and in its contrast to the beautiful moments of stillness elsewhere in the play in which laughter and pathos are woven together in excruciating rawness. It is also demonstrative of the importance of sound as well as visuals, as peace is repeatedly and jarringly interrupted by singing, shouting, or by the uncomfortably loud bell which cuts through the calm, jangling painfully, in the second half.

There is a wonderful sense of synergy to the piece, as one or two individual performances which alone may be quite ordinary - William Houston's rather smug Vishinin, for example - bounce off others around them and become a seemingly vital element in the ensemble. Fragmentation is certainly a powerful theme as the sisters are gradually abandoned by all, and the slow, deliberate removal of the stage itself, piece-by-piece, is a stroke of brilliance; yet the force of togetherness inherent in the final tableau of Masha, Olga and Irina embodies the powerful bonds of raw humanity in this piece.

This bolshy yet nuanced production packs a real punch, with rare intensity and focus in its wildness. It is a tribute to the show's ability to hold an audience that I could have happily sat through it all without an interval, even on some of the most uncomfortable theatre seats in London. Its breathless energy, delightfully messy stage and wonderful performances, led by Vanessa Kirby, will not be forgotten any time soon - in short, a triumph.

THEATRE REVIEW: Our Country's Good

Out of Joint

Nuffield Theatre, Southampton

16 Oct 2012
(Touring Sept-Nov 2012; St James' Theatre, London Jan-Mar 2013)

               

This latest revival of Timberlake Wertenbaker’s 1988 work conflates the old and the new, the past and the future. Max Stafford-Clark returns to the play he originally directed for the fourth time, but this time it is with an unusually youthful cast; the drama is steeped in history, yet its focus on the art of putting on a play makes it unavoidably and perpetually relevant whenever it is performed; and although death and enslavement pervade the story, somehow there is hope and salvation inherent in all its words and action. These combinations provide the magic which ensures this play remains a compelling tale of struggle, comradeship, and the power of theatre. If that sounds a little clichéd, then maybe it is; but in fact this production, after some rather weak beginnings, reveals a vitality and spark which disperses cliché and triteness and for the most part keeps things both rousing and intense.

Our Country's Good trailer - courtesy of Out of Joint/Jonny Walton/kaptur.co.uk

For the first twenty minutes or so, the show hovers on the brink of disappointment. The opening scene, with its convict ship tableau, may have appeared more avant garde in Stafford-Clark's original conception of the show, but here feels a little staid and predictable - certainly not the most gripping introduction ever performed. Yet to give the show credit, it soon came into its own as the cast sharpened their act up and got into their stride: indeed, more than a stride, rather a quickening run, as the production gathered pace and dipped and dived from hilarity to despair. The relatively young cast breathe fresh life into the work, bringing energy and vigour as well as deep pathos as, in the bold and heady Antipodean climate, the fragility of life emerges. Epitomising this is the wonderful, scene-stealing Kathryn O'Reilly as fiery Liz Morden, who brought shouts of slighted laughter yet also moments of painful, stomach-kicking silence in her dogged refusal to defend herself. O'Reilly is ably supported by Laura Dos Santos as a charming yet surprisingly steely Mary Brenham and Helen Bradbury in a forceful yet nuanced performance as Dabby Bryant. Similarly, Lisa Kerr as Duckling demonstrated Wertenbaker's talents in weaving subtle and interesting roles as she exploited all facets of the character: stroppy, coarse, empty, heartbroken and desperate, Duckling's is sometimes a tricky progression to negotiate believably, and Kerr did an impressive job of coping with the challenge, ably supported by her ageing lover Harry (Ian Redford).

Not everything lives up to this standard, with some scenes falling back into the suggestions of dragging stasis hinted at in the opening. With the stage heavily populated in the officers' meeting, the cast struggles to keep up the spark of interest and dynamism which is so powerfully present elsewhere: the episode feels long and drawn out, with little tension to sustain it. Dominic Thorburn's Ralph teeters on the edge of falling into a similar pattern, as his early appearances gave the impression of detachment and a lack of identification with the role; yet Thorburn gradually channels this awkwardness into a subtle depiction of the naive young officer, and, by the climactic ending, flourishes in the part. Elsewhere, Wertenbaker's titling of her scenes has felt like a problematic device for directors, and Stafford-Clark's decision to keep some, but not all, in the spoken script was not convincingly thought out, with the effect being a little stilted, rather than adding anything memorable to the performance.

These moments of uncertainty are an unfortunate muddying of the waters in a production that is otherwise triumphant in its humanity and emotional core. Just like the convicts and officers themselves, there is a sense that despite moments of difficulty, something sincere cannot help but shine through.

BOOK REVIEW: The Casual Vacancy - J. K. Rowling

Photo: Cindy Pepper

If there were any doubts that J. K. Rowling could leave behind the family fantasy world of Harry Potter, these were banished from anyone's mind on page fifteen of The Casual Vacancy: "Like f**k he does, the c**t", sixteen-year-old Andrew thinks to himself. Clearly, this is no Hogwarts. Rowling's first novel for adults steers very clear of her previous territory, but in many ways this serves to demonstrate that her astounding literary success is most definitely due to her imagination, rather than style. This is no argument to say she is a bad writer, but The Casual Vacancy would almost certainly not have been in the top fifteen bestsellers of the year if there had been no Harry Potter. In her move to realism and social commentary, Rowling has produced a decent read with strong characters, but its plot and style are a little try-hard and the result is distinctly average.

A portrayal of social differences, prejudice and petty small-town politics, The Casual Vacancy begins with a death - and it gets less cheerful from then on, with depictions of child abuse, drug addiction, illness, rape, cyber-bullying, racism, self-harm, suicide and mental illness. These are tough issues to tackle, and Rowling faces them head-on and brutally. Yet they also require subtlety, even when being hard-hitting, and this is where Rowling falls down: it is almost as if she is shouting, "Look! A book for adults! I don't just write books for kids! Look, I'm writing about ISSUES!" Yes, we get it. Of course, the gritty portrayal of 'The Fields' is an everyday reality for many people and the hypocrisy and prejudice of the Pagford characters is disturbing. However, in forcing so much into one novel, these issues stick out as plot devices intended to shock or morbidly thrill, rather than being a useful exploration of genuine social problems and the effects they have.

Rowling's characterisation has always been the strength in her work, and it remains so here: for all the wacky magic of the wizarding world, it is the people she created that captured the world's imagination, and once again Rowling draws rounded and interesting characters with ease. Some are detestable (Obbo, certainly), few are loveable, others waver on the boundary (Fats, most notably). The internal monologues are invaluable to these swift and skilled characterisations, showing the intolerance, uncertainty, fear and desire behind the masks of these social circles, and the sections of the novel which follow Andrew Price and Samantha Mollinson are particularly enjoyable, combining humour with fear and frustration. Yet overall it is troubled teenager Krystal Weedon who emerges as the most attractive figure of the work, as she possesses a spark and vitality which the novel itself lacks.

If only Rowling could deal with Krystal's story as well as she deals with her character. Her personality is given warmth and life, yet the heart-wrenching and sometimes nauseating difficulties she faces appear a little shallow, without quite enough development or testing to prove truly affecting. In particular, her rape is harrowing, yet is barely explored beyond moving the plot in a certain direction, which lends the episode an almost offensive crassness. Other moments, such as Sukhvinder's torment and self-harm, are given more subtle development; but Rowling is not consistent in her ability to handle these major themes, with the result that some can appear thoughtless inclusions - try-hard in their presence, but weak in their effect. The novel asks a number of big questions of the society which Rowling has placed under the microscope, yet with her somewhat patchy blurred lens, her novel does not give us many answers to ponder.

This said, The Casual Vacancy did keep me turning the pages to the end, curious as to how this melange of characters would resolve their tangled lives. Yet this is a solid enough read but not a powerful one, and certainly not one that reaches the meteoric levels of success to which Rowling has always been connected. In attempting to take on some intense and complex issues, the novel still somehow feels unadventurous, as it backs away from real, deep explorations. It is hard to argue with the cover's claim that it is "The work of a storyteller like no other"; however, this particular story is like many others and will attract attention for its author's name rather than any particular originality or brilliance.

TV: Trouble in 'The Paradise': A Complaint

As a rule, give me a period drama and you make me a happy woman. A period drama with a charming, handsome love interest? Well, of course - bonus. Add into the mix a loveable urchin? Extra points for cuteness. A period drama with a charming, handsome love interest and a cute loveable urchin, which happens to be all about SHOPPING? I'm smitten before the first episode of BBC One's The Paradise has started.

Except now I've seen four episodes I'm decidedly un-smitten. In short, our heroine's too good, our hero too bad. Now, I haven't yet watched this week's instalment so forgive me if something dramatic and unexpected has happened to render all this complaining total codswallop (I'm not actually sure how to spell that word but I've always wanted to use it...). However, from what I have seen from four episodes, Denise (Joanna Vanderham) is too perfect for me to identify with. The girl does nothing wrong! She is pretty, kind, intelligent, articulate but most of all, really a bit of a suck-up. Not to mention she has the kind of perfect blonde hair which my locks will sadly never resemble. A teacher's pet and angel all rolled into one. Even when someone does criticise her, she is usually forgiven within half an episode.

Emun Elliott's Moray, on the other hand is handsome, charming, flattering... Yet he is also shown to be motivated most strongly by money and publicity, and that is not a popular trait in the current climate, whether the show's set over a century ago or not. I'm sure the show's writers believe they are making him complex and enigmatic, with his outward attractions, tangled love life, tragically dead wife and dubious morals. Yet whilst he does not seem a particularly 'good guy', he is neither exciting nor dangerous enough to occupy the seductive 'bad boy' persona either - really he's just rather irritating. Even more irritatingly, he is slowly making the irritatingly perfect Denise fall in love with him. The show is clearly building up to this irritating romance, but quite honestly the only thing they appear to have in common so far is some sparklingly good sales patter.

There are some solid supporting characters, I will admit. Sam, Pauline, Miss Audrey, Arthur the loveable urchin and even that good looking friend of Mr Moray's who's too dull to have a memorable name all fill their roles as sidekicks and figures of comic value satisfactorily. Yet so far even their storylines are a tad predictable. Elaine Cassidy as Katherine Glendenning, chief rival for Moray's affections, is actually fairly sympathetic when she's not being mopey or flirtatious (which isn't actually that often now I think about it....). Moray appears so heartless towards her that she attracts pity rather than any ill-humour for de-smoothing the course of true love.

Of course, it's not that I require or even prefer characters to fit into a stereotype, and it would be brilliant to see a period drama avoiding what is automatically expected from the genre - if it was done well. Sadly The Paradise, in attempting to create layered and interesting characters to keep you guessing, has simply made its cast of shop workers rather drearily unsatisfying. They neither fit a formula that works, nor do they possess the bright flame of originality.

A BBC period drama set in a department store: it really should be my favourite thing ever. For a show that highlights the tricks of enticing women through the means of thrilling, exquisite, can't-live-without-them products, this show rather underwhelmingly fails to use these very mantras to its advantage. Instead it simply leaves me feeling rather flat, and all I can hope for is that the scriptwriters pull something out of the bag pretty sharpish.

(And yes, I know I can switch off if I don't like it. But of course I am still watching, because in this case, I really do want to be proved wrong.... More thoughts will follow as the series progresses!)

An Ode to the Royal Court

A couple of weeks ago I developed a major crush. There were butterflies in my stomach; I couldn’t keep the smile off my face; I remained calm on the outside to save any embarrassment, but on the inside I was squealing and bounding around. The object of these great affections? No dashing charmer or hunky heartthrob, but a red brick building on the edge of Sloane Square. That’s right, I’m in love with the Royal Court Theatre.

Photo: Ben Sutherland

The Court has long been on my list of Places I Must Visit; I’m not sure why it’s taken me so long to get there – it’s hardly on the far side of the world – but I finally made it towards the end of the run of Caryl Churchill’s Love and Information. I do indulge in literary tourism on the not-too-rare occasion: I have seen the sofa on which Emily Brontё (supposedly) died, the house in which Shakespeare was born and the room in which Hardy wrote some of his most famous novels and poems. Yet I would not say I stand in too much awe of this hallowed ground – it’s interesting, it’s reasonably exciting, but it doesn’t violently thrill me. I’d never kiss the ground. Of course, I love going to the theatre (obviously, as this whole blog would be a bit of a weird charade…), and nearly every time I am met with that same excited tingly feeling. But even the electricity of my beloved Les Mis or of Trevor Nunn’s King Lear, the first time I saw Shakespeare on a grand scale, had me buzzing in quite the same way that I was as we drove through the sheeting rain through west London. This was different – something more to do with the place than with what I was about to see: because, quite honestly, I had no idea what to expect from what I was about to see. (Incidentally, you can find out more about that here: http://laurapeatman.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/theatre-review-love-and-information.html).

As soon as I walked in, there was something about the Court that got to me; something about being in arguably the most important place for British modern drama. The place that the Angry Young Men caused a stir, to say the least. Where John Osborne, Shelagh Delaney, Edward Albee, Caryl Churchill, Timberlake Wertenbaker, David Mamet , Edward Bond, Samuel Beckett, Sarah Kane and so many other had presented their works which were to shape the face of theatre in this country. If I hadn’t been in the role of responsible staff member on a school trip, I might’ve actually danced for joy.

Maybe you’ll think this fangirling is ridiculous. But even if you manage to keep a bit more of a cap on your emotions than me, there is something undeniably cool about the place, even if it has lost its controversial edge of 50 years ago. The lack of a spacious foyer, the comfy and familiar-seeming brown leather seats, the scripts that are sold as programmes, the principle actors’ low key presence in the bar afterwards: it’s all about the drama, not about the affluent West End punters.  This genial atmosphere was evident during the technical glitches that halted the performance of Love and Information which I attended: there was real sympathy for the cast, real encouragement for the techies fixing the issue, no complaints and no impatient tutting – just a good-natured enthusiasm for the theatre to continue, and a hearty cheer when it did.

Perhaps it was partly my inner expectations that I had built up about the place. But I felt the Royal Court’s atmosphere, its history, its effect and its draw more keenly and more fiercely than I have for any other venue. If you ever see a bedraggled blonde girl attempting to camp outside the doors – it might be me.

FILM REVIEW: Anna Karenina

Anna Karenina Official Trailer courtesy of Focus Features

With the genius of Tom Stoppard on the credits and the inspiration of Tolstoy, Anna Karenina promises big things. Its sumptuous costumes, original concept and big name leading lady all aim to create something with impact, and something to shout about, although the last time Joe Wright took on a literary classic starring Keira Knightley (Pride and Prejudice, 2005), the result was bitterly disappointing. I left this venture impressed by certain aspects but, I have to admit, generally unmoved: I'd be more likely to mention the film over coffee than shout its praises from the rooftops.

The film looks gorgeous, the screen practically dripping with silk, fur, pearls and lace: visual texture is almost palpable in its richness. And yes, Keira Knightley in the title role also looks gorgeous. The close-up shots certainly do her no harm as the camera lingers on her flawless skin and dark eyes. Yet the problem - once again - with Knightley is that her external suitability for the part, and more unfortunately her acting talents, possess very little depth. She has the right expression for the right moment - the girlish smile, the pained, furrowed brow of distress, the poignant stare into the distance - but there is no feeling in her eyes, no soul in her performance. The portrayal of her growing attraction and love for Vronsky verges on the ridiculous, as her succession of breathy gasps on observing his stares appears to lead directly and very suddenly to a state of utter and blissful adoration. Sadly, her lover suffers from the same limitations. Vronsky has always seemed to me a shallow and unlikeable character, but Aaron Taylor-Johnson went further in depriving him of any real, believable passion. This is partly due to the rushed courtship which the film presents, and partly due to a flatness which haunts his and Knightley's performance. Jude Law, on the other hand, as the unfortunate Karenin, does repressed emotion beautifully; in a role which may well change perceptions of him as an actor - he has moved away from parts which emphasise his charming good looks - he is understated without being dull, and perfectly encapsulates the ambiguity of sympathy and frustration which Karenin attracts. Comedy came in the form of the ever delightful Ruth Wilson (Princess Betsy) and an unusually pompous Matthew Macfadyen (Oblonsky), although a little more attention could have been brought to the always-present tensions between his affability and his repeated adulterous affairs. Wright saves the character from become irritatingly blasé with a simple yet intelligent shot of Macfadyen following the film's tragic climax, bringing a rare moment of reflection and emotional depth in what is a busy and rather superficial film.

The concept is, admittedly, genius. The setting of a vast Russian novel in the confines (mostly...) of a nineteenth century theatre may seem bizarre and downright impossible, but what Wright admitted was a lightbulb, 'Eureka!' moment shows itself to be a real brainwave. The swiftly changing scenes and costumes, and the contrast between on- and off-stage action, epitomise the facades of 'polite' Russian society, while the musicality and dance-like movement of the opening scenes - in particular, a cleverly directed scene in Oblsonky's workplace and a beautifully whirling dance - depict a rhythmic rollercoaster of a social scene. The transitions between Serhoza's toy trains and the station scenes were again well-crafted, weaving intricately between the world of fantasy and pretend, and of reality. It may not be as madcap as the theatrically-set Moulin Rouge. but you could be forgiven for thinking Wright had been taking lessons from Baz Luhrmann. The symbolic use of colour is effective in the Odette/Odile-esque styling of Kitty and Anna at the ball, although goes too far when Anna and Vronsky, dressed in white, lie and frolic on a white blanket, bathed in white light. Fallen angels? Innocent love made perverse through its adulterous nature? Childlike naivety? It was all a bit too blatant and in-your-face to make any of these ideas seem interesting. Yet all this intricacy and beauty is a sheen over something that, on closer inspection, is rather shallow and lacking.

Although the Russian atmosphere was evoked by jaunty, Troika-esque music and some luscious fur coat and hats, it was lacking in a real evocation of Tolstoy's intensity and profundity. The film hurdles towards it's tragic denouement, but still manages to lack the real air of ominous, impending doom. Anna's eventual death is moving but sudden: the burden of her situation does not seen great enough to warrant suicide, which renders her behaviour bizarre rather than lending the character pathos. As a sidenote, I was glad to see Wright and Stoppard retained the earlier death of a railway worker as a mirroring device, although admittedly the differences between the two unintentionally amused me: while the unfortunate worker met a gruesome, bloody end on the track, Knightley was spared any mutiliation, dying under a train with just a small splash of blood across her waxen features. What rescues the film from an overload of the purely decorative is Levin (Domhnall Gleeson) and Kitty (Alicia Vikander). The best example of that elusive 'true love' in the novel and, some have argued, in literature, Vikander and, in particular, Gleeson do a masterful job at evoking the simple yet beautiful nature of their relationship. It is not sweet and sickly, nor is it reduced to an uninteresting subplot; the scene in which Kitty tends to Levin's sick, socially outcast brother is full of warmth and tenderness and the acting is allowed to speak for itself without fancy cinematic ornamentation.

Yet on the whole, however much I enjoyed the film's style and visual feast, it still felt rather unsatisfying. There is a veil of brilliance here, but it covers a shallow and unconvincing heart.

THEATRE REVIEW: Love and Information

by Caryl Churchill

Royal Court Theatre

5th October 2012

There’s something about seeing Caryl Churchill’s work at the Royal Court – especially for the first time visitor like myself – that brings great expectations of something momentous. This could be it, the drama to once again revolutionise modern British theatre. Love and Information, however, is not it. This is not to say that Churchill’s latest piece is not highly enjoyable: it is, in turn, witty, sweet, heart-breaking, confusing and uproariously funny. Yet despite the range of emotions it takes you through, the play feels as if it is missing a solid enough spine to make it truly memorable and to understand what Churchill actually wanted to achieve with this work.

The show is divided into a series of short scenes: snippets of conversation, snapshots of events, moments of interaction, all intercut with strident sound effects and often bathed in harsh lighting. There is great variety, from the revelation of a boy’s parentage and discussions of terrorism, to virtual relationships, Facebook and memory improvement techniques.  Most impressive is the instant characterisation which the script and the performances achieve, instantly pitching the audience into each scene: although we want to know more, we never feel we need to in order to appreciate it. The sparky dialogue holds our attention flawlessly, and has the power to be raucously funny – a discussion of the word ‘table’ in many different languages – or desperately sad – a silent, depressed mother – in just a few lines or words; or sometimes, none at all. For the most part, Churchill resists the temptation to give each scene a ‘punchline’, which prevents them from becoming trite: indeed the episode that did, that of two dancers contemplating the inevitability of their imminent affair, was disappointingly weak. Movement and stillness are important here, and each gesture, twitch and look has been delicately perfected. This intelligent direction from James Macdonald is supported by an excellent cast who are really responsible for making the likeable script come alive. Susan Engel and, in particular, Linda Bassett offered exquisite comedy and frequently had the audience in stitches, while Laura Elphinstone refused to be typecast, demonstrating great range in her performances – and not just in the many different accents she adopted. The young talent of Josh Williams was equally impressive and delivered each line with perfect timing; to tell the truth, there was no weak link here.

At least, there was no weak link amongst the cast. Unfortunately the technical mechanics of the show refused to play ball on this particular performance, leading to an unplanned halt early on. It was a shame that the hitch allowed the audience to see the method of entrance and exit on and off stage, which rather marred the mysterious nature of the cuboid and apparently sealed cell-like set. However, the audience remained good-natured, and Justin Salinger and Joshua James eventually restarted their scene with impressive composure.

The problem here is it’s almost a bit too random: there are evident themes, of course, but the overriding premise is: people. It’s that simple. Yet it doesn’t really tell us anything new, and it’s hard to tell if that is because Churchill isn’t thinking anything that’s particularly new, or if it’s just not being communicated. The piece would have benefited from a stronger thread throughout, not necessarily in terms of specific plot or character, but in something of a mainstay to lead us through. However well thought out Love and Information is, its ostensibly haphazard nature becomes an onslaught of character, theme, idea, tone: this is constant and brilliant, but it means that by the later scenes the audience are in danger of forgetting the earlier vignettes. Without anything to link them, our minds are simply unable to retain all the scenes at once. Perhaps this makes for a more personal experience: certain sections stick with each person, and what one viewer remembers most vividly may be very different from the person sitting next to them.

Yet this implies that for all audience members who don’t have a superhuman memory, parts of Churchill’s sparkling work will be lost from their memories through saturation. This is undeniably a shame, for nearly all scenes are worth remembering and there is no doubting that Churchill still has a keen eye, ear and voice for theatre. It suits the Royal Court perfectly; it would just be nice if it had a little more backbone. This play may not go down in history as her most influential, but it is yet a highly enjoyable and entertaining work demonstrating a sense of joy in the variety of humanity.

Silence in the stalls? Not for me, thanks.

Manners cost nothing, we are told as children. Politeness, that great British virtue, is drilled into is as a quality of the highest importance. And there is  a certain code of manners associated with going to the theatre, especially somewhere traditional, in London, not what you'd call cheap: we go in, buy our programmes and perhaps some overpriced snacks, sit in our seats, turn off our phones and go silent when the house lights come down. Sometimes we laugh, we gasp, we cry – but in general we are quiet when the actors are acting, and loud when they take their bow. That’s the way it’s done.

Well, that’s certainly not the way it was done when I attended a weekday matinée of Blood Brothers this week. As Willy Russell's 1983 drama is currently on the Year 9 syllabus, I was accompanying a troupe of schoolgirls to see the show - as were many teachers from a large number of schools, as became clear from the crowds of excited teenagers outside the Phoenix theatre. Groups of young people on a school trip are not exactly the quietest of souls, as I remember from when I was one of them, and I'm sure other members of the audience looking for a nice afternoon out at the theatre may have been horrified by the crowds of teenagers buying sugar-filled snacks and drinks in the foyer. Their buzz of noise filled the auditorium as they chattered excitingly and rustled their crisp packets.

The noise of confectionery packaging aside, this was not a quiet audience. Yes - they laughed, they gasped, they cried. They also gave cries of disgust at Sammy and Mickey's impressive spitting abilities; they wolf-whistled at the first appearance of the teenage Linda in her short skirt and sky-high stilettos; on one occasion they chorused along to the words "Marilyn Monroe" as that song was repeated in various guises; there was even a raucous shout of "Get in!" as Mickey and Linda shared their first kiss. But far from being irritated by the lack of restraint of this particular audience, I loved the enthusiasm and engagement with the show that they were demonstrating. They were paying attention, reacting to it, showing their connection and emotional investment in what was going on in front of them. At times, I'm sure, some of them thought they were being hilarious - the joker of the pack. But if it was in response to one of Willy Russell's best-loved and most critically acclaimed pieces of theatre I'm not complaining. Some might say I'm putting too much faith in their appreciation of the show, but I don't believe they need to be specifically thinking about the fact that they were enjoying and reacting to the show in order to be doing so.

This became clear at the dramatic climax of the show. As armed police officers came through the stalls to the sides of the stage, and as the fateful shots rang out, a burst of shocked, thrilled whispering broke out across the Dress Circle and, indeed, most of the auditorium: followed by the hasty hushing of dozens of teachers. For one thing, this certainly gave those teachers an idea of who had read to the end of the play and who hadn't... And it also showed that the action had affected this crowd. They were shocked, excited, saddened. Ok, talking over actors in most circumstances appears rude, and perhaps the Narrator did have to pause for a couple of extra seconds for the noise to die - I don't know. But the urge to share a response to something through conversation with their friends is a basic teenage instinct; it shows an intuitive rush of emotion that is as natural as crying or laughing - an outward demonstration of a feeling.

Anyone sitting in that theatre who tutted or rolled their eyes at this noisy young audience seems to me to be connected with an image of theatre-going which should not be perpetuated. That is, an image that this type of theatre - as opposed to Fringe theatre, cabaret or devised pieces, for example - is stuffy and for a certain kind of person: rich, middle class, Conservative, restrained. The current prices of West End theatre is not helping to shake off this perception. It should be for everyone; it is for everyone, and it is fantastic to see people - and especially children - giving such a response to a show. It's not as if quietness is the traditional way to watch theatre - just read some accounts of audiences at the Globe on the sixteenth century. I don't pretend to speak for the cast, but I'd say from the look on their faces at the curtain call they were delighted at the involvement of this excitable and boisterous crowd. The theatre felt alive as the audience were united in a wave of emotion, and I for one would not have had it any different. Forget etiquette, a bunch of noisy teenagers did it right.

THEATRE REVIEW: Blood Brothers

Phoenix Theatre, London

4th Oct 2012

In just a few weeks the striking backdrop of the Liverpool skyline will come down from the beautiful Phoenix Theatre as this production of Willy Russell’s Blood Brothers departs from the West End; and a sad day that will be, as this cast have put on a superb production of the tear-jerking “story of the Johnstone twins”. The show is of course intrinsically linked with a particular place and time – Liverpool, and the toughest days of the 1980s – but this production truly shows it off as a modern classic, by maintaining this heritage yet avoiding any sense of being dated. There is still freshness here and, to invoke a horribly over-analysed concept, relevancy; and no need to take my word for it – just listen to the raucous, enraptured reaction of the hordes of schoolchildren at this midweek matinée. Much of the appeal lies in the blend of bitter realism and stylised superstition which is kept in perfect harmony: although “harmonious” seems an inappropriate word to choose for a drama that pulls you in so many directions. It is harsh but warm; heart-wrenching but funny; bleak but uplifting; at the end of the first act the girls around me were bopping in their seats to the tune of Bright New Day, yet by the end of the second the tears were steaming down their cheeks. The production delivers in every area.

Blood Brothers is nothing without its perfect Mrs Johnstone, and this run gives Vivienne Carlyle her turn to join the lengthy list of stars who have taken on the role, from Petula Clark to Mel C. Carlyle gives a strong and soulful vocal performance as her rich tones bring deep emotion to the lyrics, and her ‘Mrs J’ is likeable and pitiable in equal measures. At times there are some odd vowel sounds, when the mostly-perfect Scouse accent doesn't quite gel with Carlyle’s singing style as she negotiates the break in the voice: yet this is really a minor niggle. The trio of Mark Rice-Oxley (Mickey), Paul Christopher (Eddie) and Louise Clayton (Linda) work together with confidence and ease, mastering the range of child to adult which these characters demand. Rice-Oxley in particular steals the show, bringing the audience from hysterical laughter as the cheeky, scruffy schoolboy and awkward teenager, to gut-wrenching sympathy and edge-of-the-seat desperation as the older, embittered Mickey. Michael Southern is solid in his supporting role of Sammy, but somewhat less successful at the tricky task of, as an adult actor, playing a child; however, the problem lies in aesthetics more than anything as Southern simply looks a little too old to pull off the portrayal of a young boy in quite the same way as other cast members.

The direction of Bob Thomson and Bill Kenwright emphasises the underlying themes of desperation and paranoia which pervade the tale of Mrs Johnstone, through the Narrator’s constant yet seemingly invisible presence in the action, as the figure of Philip Stewart lingers at the edge of the set or at an upper window. His powerful voice and at times menacing performance reminds the audience constantly that this is a tale heading for tragedy. Designer Marty Flood highlights this mood without it becoming overblown and without breaking the sense of truth in this piece. As the burning red light of Madman cuts into the realism of the Town Hall chamber, the show lurches from stylised rage to something far more ‘real’: the audience know with a jolt that the inevitably tragic ending is really about to happen.

This production builds and builds as it continues, and the electricity at the explosive climax is palpable. As the last verse of Tell Me It’s Not True crescendos and the band and voices swell together, so do the audience’s emotions, and many a tear-stained face emerged from the Phoenix Theatre. Willy Russell has said that the show “relies on that primal, ageless universal thing of “I'm going to tell you a story”” and it is this strong storytelling, with its pure truth and emotion, that keeps audiences coming back for more.

Thoughts on being a critic...

Critics have themselves become the focus of criticism recently, with many an article and post on the matter emerging in recent months. This is me adding my thoughts into the mix - possibly in a slightly garbled manner, I grant you - about how I see it as a young critic, part of the new breed trying to break through.

Being a critic, in my experience, puts you in an odd position when it comes to the world of theatre. You're in amongst the action - yet you're not really in the fold. You're a part of the industry - but you're never going to be in the thesp or techie gang. It's not hard to see why, either. But, whilst knowing that being best mates and bosoms pals with the people you're critiquing would be not only awkward but potentially detrimental to your review, our strangely liminal position also saddens me a little: I truly believe that theatre critics are a necessary part of the performing arts industry. (Possibly it's also because I can't help a part of me in vain still believing, or hoping, that it's all glitz and glamour and fame.)

On a basic level, it provides the public with a service: recommendations of what to see, what to avoid (I know, you know this. There's a point to it, promise...). Just like a travel manual for a city, it's a map and a personal tour guide through the must-sees and don't-sees of what's currently on. Of course, it's the 'personal' bit that people can object to. Subjectivity of reviews is a common complaint that I've heard; and then, occasionally, there are those accusations of "Well they just didn't get it". Of course one person's opinion isn't necessarily the be-all and end-all on a show. We all know that. That's largely why I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing that more and more reviewers are emerging from different corners. The Edinburgh Fringe epitomised this issue this year, with a few whispers about too many reviewers diluting the relevancy of critical opinion. Yet the shows complain if anyone dares to suggest their (negative) review could represent a definitive truth - so we can't win really. The increasing number of opinions out there - from nationals to smaller publications to humble little blogs such as my own - should be celebrated (look at how many people are watching theatre, and thinking about it, and writing about it - it's GREAT!), acknowledged and used as a platform for conversation and debate. Critics should be speaking - personally and publicly - to each other to a wider extent to get even more people discussing and engaging with theatre. How could that possibly be a bad thing? Of course people want to reach the top of their field, and of course there's the practical business element: publications want to be selling more copies or getting more hits than their rivals. But - and I know I'm starting to sound a bit like that girl from Mean Girls - it would be exciting to have more visible communication and support between different kinds of critics to get conversation about theatre to a higher profile. Twitter is of course a great platform for this, and the debate just the other week about 'Ageist Arts' threw up some very interesting viewpoints and arguments. Yet it would be fascinating if there were more in-depth opportunities to discuss performances and industry issues in an open community (not just those who are lucky enough to get paid for what they write), interactively (the speed of Twitter is what makes the debate come alive) and without the restriction of 120 characters.

This of course would allow the old masters and the new kids on the block to converse and debate on an even playing field. Which brings up another issue in the world of the critic. Amateurs. Anyone with access with the internet can call themselves a critic these days, as a small number of disapproving writers have pointed out, their words dripping with disdain. I suppose you could say I'm proof of this, although my experience pre-blogging does come from positions and contributions I've had to apply for in some way. But I doubt it would have stopped me from publishing this blog if this hadn't been the case. It was a point that was thrown directly in the faces of some of our EFR reviewers at this year's Fringe: on two occasions that I know of, our student critics were challenged, on the Mile or in a venue, by someone who felt we were unfit to review. Who were we? What training had we had? What right had we to write "anything we liked" about these shows? Well, in a world of blogs and social networking and online interactivity, we can technically - within reason and the law of course - write anything we like. Of course, we don't. We have a particular aim, our reviewers were presented with style guides, tips and of course their reviews were edited if necessary. But the issue goes beyond practical points of organisation. These comments and accusations were troubling and offensive to me because of their attitude to young critics and student writers. I'm not sure what "training" these people expected us to have, but the best form of training is experience. Yes, you can improve your grammar, or perhaps be given lessons in the art of a witty opener. But if you're seeing lots of theatre, thinking lots about theatre and most of all writing lots about it, that's training: and that's the way to improve. Certainly, young and amateur reviewers such as myself and other EFR reviewers (and many, many others at the Fringe and beyond) will have less experience. It may appear laughable that I'm here writing about the way to becoming a good critic when I am only 21 and have only been reviewing for a couple of years. But to suggest that we stop reviewing for these reasons is ludicrous. The whole point is to encourage and, if you like, "train" a new generation of critics. Take, for example, the current production of Twelfth Night at the Globe: there is no press night until the West End transfer, a point discussed by Mark Shenton in his blog for The Stage ('Shenton's View'). Therefore, for the large part, the reviews coming in are unofficial, from the pens and keyboards of paying audience members: from those well-known for their writing (e.g. Dominic Cavendish, who took it upon himself to purchase a ticket in order to review the show) to those lesser known members of the public putting their opinion out there on blogs or social networking sites. And oh look - some of them are interesting, articulate, well-informed! Who knew! And although they may not have quite the readership that Cavendish's Telegraph review will have got, on that one night they saw and heard the same show as him, and decided to write up their thoughts, opinions and judgements just as he did. Some of them will be better written and have more supporting knowledge than others; but the point is that, unusually, these opinions are the ones that might be read for a change, in the absence of organised press. Which is great! Let's face it, if we leave it all up to the Michael Billingtons and Lyn Gardners of the world, what happens when they're no longer writing? And how does a new breed of young, enthusiastic, talented writers emerge if not through experience, practice and recognition?

This is one of the most frustrating elements of being a critic in the context of student theatre in particular. The investment into student productions can be epic in terms of time, emotion, creative belief and - sometimes - money. It is of course natural that nobody likes getting a negative review. Furthermore, it is certainly reasonable that performers, directors and anyone else involved should not expect to be personally attacked, mocked or insulted in a review - every comment should be fair, relevant and justified. But are reviewers extended the same courtesy? Well, not always. I have seen and heard critics being slated by dissatisfied thesps and comedians more savagely than the critic themselves slated the show. Why is it acceptable in one direction and not the other? There can be (and in most cases should be) a tendency to show generosity towards young performers, which is important to encourage fresh creative talent: they're trying something new; the intention was there, if not the execution; credit where it's due, they're a young team with potential; they're learning their way in the industry. Well, so are young critics. We too are learning how to be the best that we can be - developing our art, finding our voice, adjusting and practising and finding our way, and always improving. Feedback is great. Rejection and dismissal is not.

At university, there are so many opportunities to be a critic; beyond this, the trail in search of a paid job runs cold for many. Amongst all the schemes encouraging youngsters into the arts, critics should not be forgotten. Being dismissed as "amateurs" and therefore not worthy of having our opinion heard is disheartening, rather insulting and not healthy for the field, which needs to have new blood just as much as the realms of directing, writing and acting. I'm not saying everyone would write good reviews. But many would. And yes, I'll be confident and brave and say it - I would. We're all part of this fantastic industry, this amazing world of theatre - and we shouldn't be shut out.

Lessons From The Fringe

After a week at home recovering from Fringe Fatigue, it's time to reflect on my time in Edinburgh. In list form, because I'm moving to start a job tomorrow so things are a bit busy at the moment! So, with apologies for the slight lack of coherent prose, here's a smattering of things I learned at the Fringe:

1) Expect the unexpected.
I very quickly discovered that my capacity to be surprised dissolved and vanished away in Edinburgh. Things that I was doubtful about took my breath away, shows I looked forward to let me down; the Royal Mile was always providing another unexpected sight; old friends popped up at every corner, new friends emerged; and you never quite knew if you'd just walked past an unusually glamorous woman or one of the Ladyboys of Bangkok. So, I learned to leave all expectations behind me and be prepared for anything!

2) Deep fried Mars bars are not as nice as people tell you.
I was assured by two very trustworthy (or so I thought...) EFR reviewers that this stereotypically Scottish snack was in fact addictively tasty. I found it was disappointing and gave me stomach ache. Although, the fact that the Marchmont Takeaway (whose staff are lovely, by the way) will deep fry any of the confectionery that they sell makes a return visit tempting. Next time I'm going for a deep fried Crunchie - maybe that'll convert me to the cause. But I doubt it.

3) Do not attempt to walk down the Royal Mile if you're late.
Or, don't be late if you know you have to walk down the Mile. Or else, perfect your kamikaze dodging technique. The number of times I left with plenty of time to spare yet ended up sprinting the last couple of streets would fill an entire blog post of their own, and it was always because my route took me down the Mile. Even if you're a persistent flyer-dodger, it is a simple fact of the Fringe that you cannot get down that road quickly. Although quite honestly, why would you want to?

4) Living statues' paint is surprisingly waterproof.
Ok, this may not be a vital life lesson, but I was intrigued to hear from a silvery lady in Caffe Nero that in fact her metallic body paint would not run in the downpour that the Edinburgh skies were dumping on us. It's just that she didn't like rain very much.

5) ZOO Venues and Edinburgh Zoo are NOT the same place.

Before someone makes a joke about dumb blondes, I never had to learn this lesson - obvious, I thought. Apparently not, as one of our reviewers proved when, just as she was enjoying the gift shop and panda exhibit, she realised that in fact the play which was due to start ten minutes later was not somewhere between the monkey and the meerkat enclosure, but the other side of Edinburgh. In a theatre. Not a zoo. Just in case you're still confused, here's a brief description from their websites: we've got "one of the leading venue management companies on the Edinburgh Fringe, with two thriving theatres at the heart of the Festival" and "the largest and most exciting wildlife attraction in Scotland, committed to the highest standards of animal welfare, conservation and environmental education." Worked out which one is which? Excellent. Remember that.

6) Not everything should have 'The Musical' stuck onto the end of the title.

There seems to be an ever-increasing sector of shows with this particular suffix. I love musicals - always have and always will. But not everything should necessarily be given the all-singing, all-dancing treatment. Bereavement: The Musical and Sex Ed: The Musical both get a big fat YES. Andy and the Prostitutes: The Musical? Doubtful. The Tibetan Book of the Dead: The Musical? No. Just... no.

7) Arthur's Seat is worth an afternoon away from the festival.

It's quick and easy to climb and the views are beautiful. And you hear some gems of bad geography if you eavesdrop on conversations at the top as people try to get their bearings. "Isn't Stonehenge near here? Oh no, wait - that's in Italy isn't it..." I have no idea if this person made it back to her house without getting lost, but I have my doubts.

8) The Fringe is addictive.

I came home sleep-deprived, never wanting to send an email again and seeing press releases and reviews and stars whenever I closed my eyes. But I'm going back next year, no question. I may have got Fringe fatigue, but I also caught Fringe fever - I'm officially a life-long fan. No matter how tired you get, the sheer amount of amazing, surprising, hilarious (whether intentionally or not) and heart-rending theatre that is on show here is unparalleled, from the most traditional of Shakespearean productions to the newest comedians on the circuit to an eleven minute performance in a prison cell. One year's taste of it is not enough. Thank you Edinburgh, you were great.

THEATRE REVIEW: Sex Ed: The Musical (Edinburgh Fringe)

Out Write Productions

Edinburgh Fringe – theSpace @ Surgeons’ Hall

25 August 2012

Sex Ed: The Musical bills itself as a show which will tell you “Everything you never wanted to know about sex”. I think that should be altered slightly – it’s everything you thought you never wanted to know about sex, until you witnessed it all put into a series of very catchy songs and hilarious dances, at which point you couldn’t imagine how you wouldn’t want to hear about it.

The inaugural production of new theatre company Out Write Productions, this show caused hysterical laughter to break out throughout the audience as the riotously funny cast of seven take sixteen-year-old Gilbert and Gladys – along with the audience – on a journey through all the ins and outs (yes, pun intended – I stole it from the show) of sex, from contraception to technique and positions to sexual orientation. It’s all very silly, of course: sperm is represented by sock puppets, STIs are likened to cheese and phrases such as “vaginally tardy” are thrown around the stage. But the show manages to tread the line between funny and crude with skill, and ensure that serious issues are not trivialised whilst also having a lot of fun. This extends to the set, props and scene changes: the use of labels and signs indicates a home-made aspect to the show, but rather than highlighting any sense of unprofessionalism, cardboard signs such as “If We Had a Budget This Would Be A Scene Change” or “Focus On The Sign!” bring an extra dash of charming humour to the show.

Bethan Rigby and Isobel Wolff steal the show with their hilarious characterisation of Barbara and Glenda respectively. Rigby’s sense of physical comedy is spot-on, uproariously over-the-top at times but also touching in her own journey of self-discovery. Wolff’s motherly naivety is a brilliant foil to Agatha’s (Emily Snee) brashness and Hildegard’s (Lizzie Hartley) hopeless disorganisation and never-ending pregnancies. Vicky Buxton as Bob also provides many laughs with her forthright nature, and has one of the strongest voices in the musical numbers. The songs are all performed with gusto, and credit should really be given to all the cast for their ability to make it through numbers such as ‘Swallow My Pride’ with a straight face – there certainly wasn’t a single one to be found in the audience. Moments of hilarity came one after the other: from enforced audience participation on the part of two unsuspecting theatregoers who were made to wear ‘W**ker’ labels, to the transformation of shy Gilbert into a “kinky” lover, the show combined a wicked sense of humour and a warm heart which was encapsulated perfectly by the closing number of ‘Go F**k Yourself’.

There is a plethora of shows at the Fringe who have decided to stick ‘:The Musical’ onto the end of their title – enough to make me nervous about them all. Yet Sex Ed: The Musical certainly does not merit this anxiety, as the hilarious script and the relentless energy of the cast make for an hour-and-a-bit of unstoppable fun and hilarity.

THEATRE REVIEW: End to End (Edinburgh Fringe)

Gramophones Theatre Company

Edinburgh Fringe - Bannermans

25 August 2012

'End to End' is one of the quirky gems waiting to be found amongst the mad mish-mash (technical term) of the Free Fringe: it was recommended to me by two EFR reviewers (their thoughts on the show can be found here http://edfringereview.com/r/UCi_Q25cQ6WR3W81XDx6yg – shameless plug Number I-Don’t-Know-What), and word of mouth recommendations had obviously been doing a great job for the Gramophone Theatre Company. The back room of Bannermans was full to the brim for this performance, their last at the Fringe.

The show presents Hannah Stone, Ria Ashcroft and Kristy Guest's adventure from one end of the country to the other, as they travelled from Land's End to John O'Groats in April 2012. For the most part getting by on the kindness of strangers, their trip has been adapted into a touching and charming piece of theatre about human connections and the way that chance encounters, however fleeting, can make a deep impression. It is heart-warming, funny and at times unexpectedly moving, and the cheery, sparky spirit of these three women makes it impossible not to be swept away by their tales. Each performer has a particular personality trait which they exploit to characterise the narration whilst still managing to stick close to their true selves, making the show honest: there is Hannah the tea-loving worrier, Ria the (almost) fearless adventurer, and Kristy the wide-eyed innocent. The bond and love between these friends is evident and is passed on to the audience through their direct communication with us, sharing in their thoughts, feelings and desires. The involvement of names and stories of the people they met lends a truth to the show, and the three performers allow the audience in to share their personal highs and lows without ever creating a feeling of discomfort. When Kristy speaks of her homesickness, I am sure it strikes a chord with many in the audience: by simply reading a text message from her mother to evoke her feelings, the moment is touching without becoming sickly sweet or too obviously pulling at the heartstrings with long, demonstrative speeches.

The set is cluttered artistically with rucksacks, maps, signposts and blackboards which are updated as the story continues, as the girls rack up miles, costs and increasingly wackier modes of transport, from trains to tractors, space hoppers to scooters, hitch-hiking to handgliders. The use of photographs and film is a nice touch to bring truth to the tales and to add interest to the show, which could have become a little flat with just a spoken narrative. Similarly, the stylised enacting of aspects of the journey is effective, particularly Kristy's representation of handgliding and Hannah's comic episode of a difficult cycle ride. The mimes and models are sometimes childlike, sometimes striking, such as the recreation of the kite-flying at the conclusion of the journey. At times the show can verge on being a little too cheesy: at one point, on being told to shut our eyes, the audience are wafted with cushions (I peeked…) to simulate the sensation of travelling in the open air, which felt rather gimmicky. I can see the effect they were aiming for, but for me this attempt to take us on the journey with them misses the mark slightly and is somewhat unnecessary.

However, this is a very minor point: overall I was captivated by the charm of the show and by the touching journey of the three women. The show ends with every audience member being given a postcard addressed to the women, and a seed. I’m still deciding what to do with mine: but I can’t help but be inspired by the Gramophones’ experiences and their simple but touching rendering of their great British adventure.

Edinburgh Fringe Day 18 - Just for Lolz

(I am aware this is very very late and we are way past Day 18 of the Fringe, for which I humbly apologise...)

Although I'm not trying to fish for sympathy (....OK, yes I am. I can sense I'm probably not getting much after waxing lyrical about the amazing-ness of the Fringe...), this month has not been an easy one. In between all the shows I've been writing about, I have of course been co-editing EFR - and to be honest it's been as stressful as it has been fun. So I figured I need a good laugh every now and then to make the crises fade away. And the Fringe isn't short on comedy shows, although not all of them necessarily manage to provide "a good laugh". So, once again, here's a snapshot of my comedic experiences at the Fringe so far (the ones I witnessed on stage. Not the ones which involve me trying to be cool in front of actors, or going up and down in a hotel lift trying to find a show, or carrying a rucksack packed with whole chickens back to the house. Although I will admit all these things are pretty laughable in their own way.)

Anyway. First up, the Edinburgh Revue - comfortably at home in their own city, right? Well, maybe if they'd been allowed a better venue. The Banshee Labyrinth is not exactly designed for sketch comedy, and quite honestly the background music they play in that place is terrifying, and didn't wash away my initial concern at the name of the building I'd decided to venture into. Yet the Revue don't deserve a scary venue - they really do seem like lovely people and had a lot of fun with their show, throwing themselves into the silliness. As always, some sketches worked better than others, but they started strong with a quick and hilarious history of Edinburgh; with a series of tableaux representing everything from war and rebellion to Harry Potter and Greyfriars Bobby, they had me giggling from the off - a good sign. Beyond this, Adam Todd was consistently strong and I particularly enjoyed his portrayal of Hamlet at the job centre. The gameshow in which a couple have to 'prove their love' also guarantees a lot of laughs throughout, and didn't weaken or lose focus as some other sketches sadly did. Clarisse Loughrey and Katia Kvinge particularly shone in a wide variety of roles, but the whole troupe were likeable purely on the basis of their own enjoyment and enthusiasm. The venue leaves very little space for movement and no option for blackouts between sketches, but in general the Revue worked with these limitations with success. Sometimes the odd awkward laugh-less moment punctuated the fun, and the show is rather rough around the edges. But overall, a relaxed and enjoyable show.

Moving from the back room of the blood-curdling Banshee Labyrinth (it wasn't that bad - I just like alliteration) to the Pleasance Courtyard, and a prize of £2500. Or should that be £25,000? Or maybe £2.5 million? With Mark Watson in charge of proceedings, who knows? Yes, the Chortle Student Comedy Awards 2012. Six pounds for a night of eight of the best up-and-coming comedians, plus Mark Watson - definitely not a bad deal! And I got plenty of laughs for my money. Footlights stalwart Pierre Novellie was flying the flag for Cambridge and got the evening off to a great start: I'd heard a lot of the material before, but that didn't stop me enjoying it immensely and giggling away at his parodying of bio-yoghurt adverts and affectionate mockery of the Isle of Man. Elsewhere Kwame Asante, Hari Sriskantha and David Elms all tickled my funny bone, and huge credit should go to Jonny Pelham for having the audience in full-on hysterics for a good few minutes simply with the words "She died". One act, Johnny F Monotone (aka Sebastian Bloomfield) quite honestly left me baffled rather than amused, but I'll accept that it simply wasn't my kind of humour, and it seemed that others around me enjoyed the set. In the end it was Kwame Asante who took the big prize and - putting aside my Cantabrigian loyalty - I was pretty satisfied by that result: he's clearly a brilliantly talented comedian and a seemed a gracious and humbled victor. Hopefully we'll be seeing much more of this lot in the years to come, and I'll be a bit smug to say I saw and rated them all before they hit the bigtime.

Another chance to spot the rising stars came at the Footlights Free Show: I've been twice now (the beauty of the Free Fringe) and if you've been paying attention you might have read what I wrote about it the other day.... My second visit repeated some of the same acts as my first, but also some new ones. Again, I'd seen a lot of Ahir Shah's set before in Cambridge so probably didn't appreciate it as much as the rest of the crowd, but it went down well. For me the show was made by headliner Nish Kumar, who definitely deserves the label of "rising star" which TimeOut gave to him. His quips and anecdotes lifted my spirits from the symptoms of Fringe fatigue, and sent me back out into the sunshine with a broad grin on my face. Frequent performers at the Footlights' show are the three-man sketch troupe of Rory & Tim (yes, three man...) who are also well worth a watch - details, in another shameless plug, are here: http://edfringereview.com/r/UCDeIuJAT4ScYD6pXDx6yg

I'd definitely recommend them if you've got a free hour; but of course, all my comments on this comedy may be totally different to your own thoughts. This was obvious from the reviews which emerged of this year's offering from the Oxford Revue, 'Prattle Royale'. Now, I really wanted to like this show. I really did, and I went in there putting all my latent distrust of Oxford aside (sorry, it's the Cambridge in me...) and prepared to have a good time. Yet the show really struggled to make me laugh - my review here justifies why: http://edfringereview.com/r/UBkdvLdcRSqP1ieWXDx6yg. However, another certain high profile reviewing body gave the show five stars, raving about its hilarity. Were we at the same show? Had they drastically rewritten the script? Was one of us blind or deaf? Or - most likely - doesn't this just show the subjectivity that is inherent to reviewing, and particularly reviewing comedy: a sense of humour is such a particularly personal trait that it's even harder to provide the opinion of the masses than usual. I don't think this devalues the opinions of our critics in any way: I still firmly believe that critics do a fantastic job in providing feedback for shows and audience and creating conversation and debate about cultural events and performances. Yet performers who are unhappy with a bad review should always remember that there is probably someone in the audience who totally disagreed and was loving it. It just happens this wasn't the person whose job is it to publicly publish their opinion.

As a final note for today, I have a confession to make: I've become an Austentatious-aholic. After my fourth visit to the show, I haven't yet tired of it - the funniest thing I've seen here, without a doubt.

Edinburgh Fringe Day 12 - Variety is the spice of the Fringe

There are far far far too many shows on at the Fringe to talk in detail about everything I’ve seen – Austentatious became an exception, because…well, read the review and you’ll understand – so this is a quick-march-review-spectacular through my last few days of theatregoing. I have truly experienced the variety of the Fringe recently, from puppets to Footlights, from drag queens and burlesque to Mozart, from packed-out theatres to the back room of a tiny pub.

I’ll start with the burlesque. It was really an accident that I ended up at Briefs, a troupe of male burlesque performers from Australia. We set out to see Showstoppers, the improvised musical (by the way, we did see it another night – it is INCREDIBLE and I still can’t believe they improvised the whole thing) but, on finding it was sold out, took a punt on this “beef-caked and disorderly” Antipodean show on the advice of a charming man at the Underbelly box office. I don’t regret it – Briefs was one of the most hilarious evenings I’ve ever been witness to. Unfortunately I don’t have a record of cast names anywhere, but our brilliant compère not only had a range of fabulous outfits, but also kept the audience laughing throughout the show with a combination of camp flamboyance and wickedly blunt humour. The acts ranged from hilarious – a truly bizarre lapdance – to stunningly impressive, notably the aerial silks and rope routines. Not for the faint-hearted, but also don’t be put off by the ‘burlesque’ tagline if it makes you nervous: there really is very little here that is gratuitous or would make anyone uncomfortable. Rather it is an evening of impressive circus/cabaret/vaudeville acts combined with brashness, occasional crudeness, flamboyance and straightforward hilarity.

At the other end of the spectrum, one lunchtime I made my way down to The White Horse on Cannongate to see Dating George Orwell, a one-woman performance playing as part of the Free Fringe. This show really epitomised the charm and hidden delights of the Free Fringe; ushered through the tiny pub into a small, cosy back room – more English country pub than theatre venue – I was at first slightly perturbed by the intimacy of the venue – was this just going to be horrendously awkward? In fact, I very much enjoyed the show that followed. Kelly Jones (as lonely bookworm and birthday girl Pauline Duffy) is in turn adorable, pitiable, funny and perplexing as she relates her coming-of-age years and the combination of her love of literature with her sexual awakening. A strange concept perhaps, but utterly and surprisingly entertaining.

Elsewhere: the Footlights’ daily stand-up show is a cheap (in fact, free if you’re stingy and don’t donate anything at the end…) alternative to their tour show. In fact, having seen these performers on many occasions, I feel that the strength of this year’s Footlights lies in stand-up rather than sketches, so here is a great opportunity to see some of their best alongside some guests. My favourite new discovery from this show was the exquisitely rib-tickling musical comedy of Emerald Paston who closed the show and sent me on my way giggling appreciatively. For something more traditional, a modernised version of Mozart’s The Impresario finished yesterday (sorry, I meant to write this up sooner…) at Paradise in Augustine’s but was well worth a watch: even if you’re not into opera, you can’t help but be impressed by this über-talented cast. If you didn’t go, you missed out.

However my biggest MUST-SEE (capitalised because I can’t emphasise enough how much you should see it) is now The Girl With No Heart at Bedlam Theatre. I can’t thank the programmers of Bedlam enough this year, as their whole schedule for the festival is incredible, but this show in particular really is sensationally beautiful. I can’t sum it up in a couple of lines, so I’ll leave that review for another time…

THEATRE REVIEW: Austentatious (Edinburgh Fringe)

The Milk Monitors

Edinburgh Fringe - Laughing Horse @ The Counting House

10th August 2012

If someone had wanted to devise a show especially to appeal to my co-editor and me, they really couldn't have hit the nail on the head any harder and more precisely than the cast of 'Austentatious' did. We were hooked from the moment we saw those magic words in the Fringe guide - no, not 'Free Non-ticketed', although that did help... - 'An Improvised Jane Austen Novel'. Amazing.

This ensemble of six did not disappoint. It was silly, implausible, littered with the odd error and corpsing incident, but utterly delightful and unfailingly giggle-inducing. The title of each show is supplied via audience suggestion - charmingly written on slips of paper designed as classic Penguin book covers - and today we were treated to the mysteriously-titled 'Mr Bingley Pulls It Off'. Pulls what off, you may ask? Well, in the context of the preposterous plot, it turned out to be a glove, off the hand of Miss Clarissa Kopparberg (yes, as in the cider...) But beyond that, Mr Bingley (Graham Dickson) and his fellow Austenites also pulled off a comic performance with aplomb and panache that comprised admirable elements of improv, farce, pantomime and parody. Drawing on stock Austen characters - the pretty but poor girl, the condescending richer friend, the well-meaning but financially insecure young hero... - the cast of 'Austentatious' revel in cliché and plunge themselves into stereotypes without fear: hilarity ensues.

Being improv, and - dare I say it? - being inspired by Austen, the plot has little logical sense or intention of meaning or message, but that simply makes it all the funnier. Cariad Lloyd and Amy Cooke-Hodgson were a brilliant double act who led each other into fresh improvised ideas and supported each other through their continuation - the singing of their names being a prime example of a ridiculous yet hilarious motif that ensured constant laughter throughout a scene. Joseph Morpurgo and Andrew Murray did a sterling job of remaining straight-faced in the face of ludicrous evolutions of conversation, sneakily evil challenges set by fellow cast members, and the laughter which erupted from the full and enthusiastic audience. Yet it was when the cast let the mask slip a little that the production truly showed its heart and soul. Mistakes were almost inevitable in an improvised piece, and were at times surprisingly basic - "Lord Bingley!" exclaimed Mr Bingley in one lapse of concentration. Yet rather than detracting from the professionalism of the piece, these instances served to keep the audience on side as they enjoyed both quick-thinking improv and the holes that the cast dug themselves. Acknowledging these errors on stage and dealing with them humorously is a skill in itself, and one that the cast proved themselves to be highly adept at. Furthermore, it was a joy to see them standing at the sides of the stage and laughing at their colleagues' scenes, taking real enjoyment in each other's craft.

There seems little point in recounting the details of this particular story as it will only ever be appreciated by those who were there on the day, but suffice to say the tale of vintage weapons, financial concerns and square dancing was in the end brought to a reasonably neat end. My overall impression at the end of this amazingly free show (I would have happily paid to see this!) was a great sense of fun and enjoyment which spread from the actors to the audience to the harpist (Tamsin Dearnley) to the one-man tech team. I was promised "silliness and sophistication" and I got a generous helping of both, with a barrelful of laughs thrown in for good measure. 

Edinburgh Fringe Day 3 - Attraction & Animosity, Editor's Guilt, and some Improv.

After many nervous and increasingly stressful hours of waiting for deliverymen...We have EFR jumpers! They are bright bright red, shamelessly promotional things of beauty. But they also have a strange, Marmite effect - people are either drawn to you as if you're some kind of big scarlet magnet, or run away in deadly fear. Certainly there are many performers desperate for extra publicity and for reviews, and I love being out on the Royal Mile and chatting to people about their shows - I've heard that last year a couple of our reviewers literally got chased down the Mile by someone wanting a review written of their show. There's such a buzz here and it's brilliant seeing the amount of hard work and passion that goes into an extraordinary variety of shows. But I've heard other tales from reviewers that crowds part in front of them, as if some weird Moses-like aura  is attached to the jumpers. I certainly had my own strange experience when I reviewed my first show yesterday, Rosa Robson and Matilda Wnek's Beard. Entering the Baillie Room at Assembly, the entire room - audience and the show's tech team - turned and stared. Just stared, without any subtlety or embarrassment. Effortlessly grabbing the attention of an entire room of people purely by walking in is maybe every girl's secret dream, but this wasn't quite how I'd imagined it. It was disconcerting, as if they were all thinking - "ARGH. REVIEWER. JUDGEMENT. EVIL EVIL DREAM-DESTROYING CRITIC" (for the record, I didn't destroy any dreams - the girls gave a great show, and you can read my review here! http://edfringereview.com/r/UBpVkrfMQAamNUa9XDx6yg Shameless plug no.2). It reinforced what a strange position being a theatre critic is sometimes - involved in the theatre scene but not part of the gang, as it were. Apparently a strange beast, to be feared and not quite to be trusted... So walking around the Fringe with this big label of 'REVIEWER' stuck to me is going to be interesting.

Next, a small word of warning about the Free Fringe. It can be wacky and surprising and exhilarating and confusing and disappointing - and it can apparently be highly traumatic. One reviewer returned to the house so dumbstruck from such an intensely disturbing one-man show last night that I felt immense editorial guilt for unknowingly putting her through such an experience. So if you're looking for something different and unusual at the Fringe, there's plenty of choice. Just make sure it won't mess up your mental health.

However if you're looking to laugh yourself silly, go and see The Improverts! Yes, you! Go! See them! They are Bedlam Theatre's resident improv troupe from Edinburgh University and provided the best hour of improv I've seen. The cast of 5 were so slick, so tight, so quick and so, so funny: from conversing in sentences beginning with consecutive letters of the alphabet to a guessing game involving prosthetic legs smuggled inside bananas from Uruguay, the (surprising) all-male group dealt with everything thrown at them by the game formats and by the audience (including some drunk hecklers - this was a post-midnight show after all). Of course there were elements which didn't quite work, as is the tendency of improv, but in this case the hilarity far outdid the flop moments. David Elms particularly stood out for his accents, quick-thinking, subtlety and wittiness, but he was the leader of a strong ensemble performance. I can't recommend them enough - go go go before they sell out!!

And now if you'll excuse me, the sun is shining and I'm off to meet a star of Skins and review his play. Laters.

Edinburgh Fringe Day 1 - Scottish Accents, Getting Lost, The Royal Mile, and 'I Am, I Am'

So, after a train journey of immense excitement and rising panic, I've arrived at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe! I'm a Fringe virgin so these next few posts are as much about reviewing my Fringe experience - and shamelessly promoting the website I'm working for, edfringereview.com (plug no. 1) - as reviewing the shows I see here.

The first evening brought immediate problems. Now, I have a very good friend who is Scottish. I've been to Scotland before. I figured I could handle the accent. Oh no. A phone call from a Tesco delivery man ranked in difficulty levels approximately equally with one of my finals. Confusion ensued. Luckily, confusion was solved mainly through me pretending to understand what he was saying, adding the odd "Yes" and "Sure" into the conversation and then guessing afterwards what we'd actually been talking about. This is not meant disrespectfully in any way - I'm 100% sure it was my own incompetence - but it was hardly an encouraging start to a month in Scotland.

Meanwhile, it turns out one day trip to Edinburgh at the age of 8 is definitely not enough to enable me to know my way around. My first trip into the city centre the following day therefore brought another milestone: the first time I got lost in Edinburgh. I still don't know where The Voodoo Rooms are, but I had "fun" negotiating roadworks and dead-ends and alleys that lead nowhere... (Seriously, where ARE they?! If anyone knows, please let me know!) Another good start. The 'magic' of the Fringe had so far eluded me; up to this point I'd failed to understand the natives, failed to find one venue, found another whose entire system had crashed five minutes into the festival, and generally got pretty hot and bothered and unprofessional-looking.

But then... then I finally emerged onto the Royal Mile. And Toto, we were not in Kansas any more. We were in bizarre, absurd, heavenly theatre land. All niggling problems aside, I'm in love with the Fringe already. A magician swallowing a balloon, a girl group singing Lady Gaga, a couple of drag queens tottering past in stacked high heels, a pair of Victorian gentlemen giving me a flyer... even some free sweets! Not to mention the more traditional shows like As You Like It or Bugsy Malone. This is my kind of thing - I'm already dreading the day I have to leave.

And so my Fringe adventure kicked off for real. After an afternoon of flyer-collecting and e-mailing (So. Many. Emails.), the night brought around my first taste of a show. I was familiar with the comedy of I Am, I Am stars Lowell Belfield and Harry Michell from their work with the Cambridge Footlights, but this was my first taste of their musical comedy. The two performers worked perfectly as a duo, harmonious in both their singing and their not-at-all staged (ahem) conversation between numbers. Playing on awkward social situations with girls and traumatic school experiences is perhaps not an original or difficult line of comedy, but these guys brought their own fresh sense of fun, wit, charm and occasional grossness to the material. The performance wasn't without its faults - you could tell this was a preview - but the audience lapped it up and even the unsuccessful moments were dealt with in a funny and unembarrassed way. Lowell melted the audience's hearts by milking his "adorable" qualities, but it was Harry Michell who gave me my own personal serenade - however "platonically" it was intended. Ah well, I still felt special. The song of the night for me however was their ditty based around puns on London Tube stops, which had the whole audience in fits of giggles.

So, the improv was sharp, the patter with the audience was charming, the atmosphere was fun: and we forgave them for all the small mistakes. The boys were unaware they were carrying the pressure of setting the standard for me as far as Fringe productions go - but if I'm going on this show, I'm going to have a great Fringe!

And so I go back to the emails....