Category Archives: Theatre

London 2009 – Day 22 – War Horse

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Just got home from another night at the theatre, this time War Horse at the New London Theatre. This is a popular ticket, partly due to being appropriate fare for families, but especially because of the spectacular use of sophisticated puppetry in many aspects of the production. If you haven’t done so already, check out this video to get an impression of what I mean:

The story line is simple enough; a young Englishman raises a horse but it gets pressed into service in World War I. He ends up going to the continent to find his horse, and both the lad and his horse have trials and tribulations on the Western Front.

The problem facing this company was how to cast a show with horses as major characters? Their solution, puppets, was brilliant. Made more so by their choice of puppeteers, Handspring Puppets (Adrian Kohler, lead designer), a South African group. Here is another video showing more details:


The effect of these horses is amazing, you simultaneously grow to accept them as simply horses, and to marvel at the quality of the puppetry. Job well done, all round.

The horses are not the only puppets; there is a barnyard goose which is full of character, as well as crows who show up at the worst of times. For that matter, right from the very first you know this is no normal production, as a pair of puppeteers come sweeping onto the stage wielding twenty foot wands with articulated birds at the ends, their wings flapping with grace, swooping around the stage.

The story is both a raw war tale and one of family struggles and clashes. Based on the best selling novel by Michael Morpurgo, this show is popular with families and adult audiences. To be honest, take away the fine puppetry and this show most likely would not make it, but such speculation misses the point – the show is what it is, and that is what makes it a success.

The other technical aspects of the show are marvelous, the set, especially, integrating animation, projections and atmospheric effects with a fine lighting hang and some other special effects. This all integrates quite well with the soundscaping and the score. A special treat is the period songs, often played and sung by a strolling minstrel with his accordion.

I give it four stars.

One note, the New London Theatre is a fairly modern space, and has a spacious feel to it common of theatres built in the 1980s, with a thrust stage, wrap-around steeply raked seating, and, most grievous, no centre aisle. The centre section in stalls is 38 seats wide, and God forbid you have a seat in the middle and need to get in our out! I was third seat from the aisle, and simply gave up on sitting until the row was filled.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 20 – In Other News, Pt. II

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There are a lot of little things that I keep meaning to mention, so today I will try to catch up.

First off, however, I need to comment on Havana Rakatan, the dance programme presented by Sadler’s Wells tonight at the Peacock Theatre. Ooh La La!

I have learnt that Sadler’s Wells do not disappoint, and tonight was no exception. Last year I saw Insane in the Brain and Tango Por Dos, and both were exceptional. Now, when I see an advert for a Sadler’s Wells production I just add it to my list and don’t worry myself about whether it will be a worthy investment.

So, tonight’s performance, ending Saturday, features the top Cuban Son band Turquino, and a crew of about 20 dancers representing the cream of the crop in Cuban dance. Every style of Cuban dance is represented in this show: Salsa, Mambo, Rumba, Flamenco, classic folkloric, Bolero, Cha-Cha-Cha, etc.

A crowd favourite was when, following a bracing ensemble number, just the men are left on stage wearing an assortment of tops and tie-up trousers. They all face the audience and strip off their tops. The women in the audience went nuts and we all cheered. Then they started to loosen the ties on their trousers, the whole audience gasped, and many started a deafening cheer.

Just then a female Flamenco dancer started in from stage right, all taught angles, quivering curves, a costume as red as if a vat of lip gloss had been dumped on her (and as figure hugging, too) and a severe glint in her eye. As she moved across the stage in that staccato fashion unique to Flamenco, the men preened, then shrugged and then, resigned, simply picked up their kit and slunk off the stage.

The moment was precious, and the audience was but putty in their hands after that.

The show nearly broke my heart when the band started into Guantanamera, that most Cuban of all songs. I cannot help myself, whenever I hear this song I am transported to a little Mexican restaurant I visited many, many years ago with X and her mum N. N loved Cuba, and when the mariachi’s band came by X asked if they could play it. They launched into a serviceable rendition, an N started to cry for her love of Cuba. It was a touching, and to me eternally precious, moment, and now whenever I hear that song I start to tear up at my love for N and for her love of Cuba. Oh what a tangled web…

The show ended with the entire audience brought to their feet and trying to dance along with the crew on stage. My seat mate, Carolina, (a Polish immigrant, by way of Australia) a salsa dancer, put me to shame as I just did the white-guy-shuffle and tried to keep in time.

So, the other news… I have already reported twice on the little constitutional crisis brewing over here. Well, it would be one if the Brits really had a constitution like the US does. At the root of the current mess are two separate scandals, which are coming to fruition simultaneously. The first is the peerage “laws for pay” scandal. This actually dates back to my last visit here, in early spring of 2008. In this one, members of the House of Lords, the upper chamber of parliament (think Senate) were found to be dispensing favours for money – aka taking bribes. Two peers have been found guilty, finally, and have had their privileges suspended pending further action. This is remarkable in that it hasn’t happened in over 300 years, dating back to the era of Britain’s civil war (yes, they had one too).

The second is the continuing Exes scandal, in which members of the House of Commons (MPs) have been exposed as having exploited rules which allow them to recoup various expenses associated with maintaining multiple households so as to attend parliament. This has now claimed several members of all the major parties, including senior aides and ministers, and has lead to calls for wholesale reform of the entire electoral system. Yesterday it took its biggest toll, the resignation of the Speaker of the House of Commons. Though widely expected, and called for, this act, again for the first time in more than 300 years, has set the entire government, majority and opposition alike, on their arse and made them think about just how quickly they are racing towards the abyss of writing themselves out of governance and into history.

There is a lot of talking about cooler heads prevailing and the like, but coming down the tracks like a dual locomotive are the 4 June county and EU elections. The electorate are fuming and they are ready to elect anyone who is not currently in power. This could potentially send a bunch of fascistic “England for the English” folk, like the British National Party (we’ll pay you to just move back home and leave us alone) into Whitehall. No one bargained for this.

Meanwhile the Germans and French, in the person of Angela Merkel and Nicolas Sarkozy, have already issued warnings that if the Conservatives (Tories) or isolationists are elected they may need to restrict England from having a say on EU policy going forward.

This is, as my dad used to say, a right bloody mess.

On a lighter note. I noticed something in Mayfair the other day. You know those ridiculously gorgeous models in the Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues? If you go to the Mayfair outlet of A&F those very same models are there in person, wearing virtually nothing, and ready to greet you at the door and hand you a shopping basket. I kid you not.

Marks and Spenser, known affectionately around here as either M&S or Marks & Sparks, celebrate their 125th anniversary this year, and so for three days, starting today, put 30 items on sale for a penny a piece, in recognition of their start as a penny shop (“Don’t ask the price, its a pence” was an early slogan). People started to line up at the flagship Oxford Street, Marble Arch location at 5 this morning and M&S handed out tea and coffee to those in line, along with cards listing the available products and little pencils so they could check up to five that they wanted.

Twiggy was there as Mistress of Ceremonies and has been all over the telly promoting it for the past week or so. At least we get to see a lot of Twiggy, whom fate and time have treated quite well indeed.

Bank Holiday, again! When Pawn first got here, nearly three weeks ago, England launched into a three day weekend, triggered by a bank holiday. In the US such a term evokes memories of the Great Depression, when “Bank Holiday” was a euphemism for a bank failure, wherein the government would shutter a bank for a few days while they sorted the books and then reopened the bank under national control. We have seen this happen with alarming regularity in the past year or so, but the FDIC, who handle such things, have gotten quite good at doing the whole thing over a weekend, so no one’s any the wiser.

Anyway, Bank Holiday weekends mean a few things. First off, sales, lots of sales. Two, everyone tries to leave London for the hinterlands, beaches of Brighton, etc. Third, half the underground goes under repair at once, and you cannot get anywhere you want. Fourth, the weather sucks. The forecasts are always rosy, but the actual weather always seems to suck. We’ll see if this time is any different.

The next item on today’s gazette, STRIKE! The RMT union have struck the Victoria line for a 24 hour stoppage from tonight at 9:00 pm. This is due to a little incident a couple of months ago wherein a train operator mistakenly opened the doors on the wrong side of the coaches of a Victoria Line train. The union pointed out that this line lacks the safety devices which prevent such a mistake on the other lines, but Transport for London (TfL) sacked the driver nonetheless. Thus the strike.

For me this means I may not get to see Cirxus up at Arcola Theatre’s new experimental Studio K space. Arcola are up in Dalston, in Hackney, and the only good way to get there from here is via the Victoria. I meant to go there tonight, but couldn’t risk being stranded with no way home. Thus my choice to attend Sadler’s Wells show. Tomorrow may work, but if the strike does continue for the full 24 hours it will be a no-go to get to Hackney. Bank Holiday means massive trains works, so that means the whole weekend is bullocks. >Sigh<

In other news of the day, I treked east to Bethnel Green again today, hoping to check out some more galleries there. Oops! Must learn to check the fine print more carefully. Most of these galleries are only open by appointment or on Friday and Saturday. Okay, add that to the list for the weekend.

Tomorrow L shows up from Wisconsin to visit her brother. We’ll hang out some, too. So look forward to more reports of someone getting annoyed at me for walking fast or refusing to hail cabs or other such indignities. I am hard to cope with, which just adds to your reading delight.

Two final notes: I pinched an office chair from a rubbish skip the other day, an office block across the street is under rehab and they had a half dozen chairs out to the curb.

My favourite Gay-Bollywood-After-School-Special, Nina’s Heavenly Delights is on BBC One right now. Ah, joy!

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 17 – Beneath The Dress

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Last night brought the 3rd of 5 performances of Beneath The Dress, a new cabaret show by Frances Ruffelle.

I scored a ticket to this after having been intrigued by a handbill at a the Pleasance Theatre the other night. Ruffelle has been performing on stage for many years now, having won a Tony award for her turn in Les Miserables several years back. She has heaped up a career’s worth of awards in a fairly short time, and at age 42 has pretty much pivoted to a recording career.

This show was billed with this memorable little poem:

I must confess
there’s an emptiness
each night the music ends ….
underneath the mess
and beneath the dress
I’m best when I pretend.

Well, I can tell you this, she delivered on the underneath the dress bit, performing almost the entire show in her unmentionables; prancing around the stage in various stages of undress, complicated by the numerous costume changes (think Cher) all performed centre stage.

It is worth mentioning that yet again Pawn was one of the few straight men in attendance. Her act was incredibly well put together, with very tight musical arrangements and a very capable band. Accompanying her were sax/clarinet, trumpet and trombone, drums, stand-up bass and keyboards. Her daughter, who goes by the stage name Elisa Doolittle, joined in for one number. Quite nice.

The act felt like a blend of Judy Garland and Sarah Brightman. Brightman, at least in what I have seen, plays the remote diva, while Ruffelle is anything but detached. She obviously loves what she is doing, and that comes across on stage in a way which simply cannot be faked. Her eyes always shimmer, her moves are so sure it is almost surreal, and every little movement seems to have been if not choreographed at least very well considered.

I must give a special nod to her rendition of Mood Indigo, the classic Duke Ellington song. She captured the sometimes difficult minor-key transitions masterfully, and her band never crowded her on the more delicately phrased passages.

There are two performances left for this show, June 3rd and 14th, and I recommend it to anyone who has the opportunity to attend. Madame Jojo’s at 8-10 Brewer Street in Soho are a wonderful venue for this show.

If I’m no longer needed
and I must take my leave
I’ll go with a smile
My exit music please

London 2009 – Day 15 – North Road Drama

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Pawn returned to old haunts today, in more ways than one. The day started with packing and moving out of the two bedroom flat shared with the now absent (and so sorely missed) X. Did I mention just how much she is missed? Boatloads, to be sure.

Okay, now that bit of appeasement is out of the way…

The move to Camden actually went pretty well. The new flat is not as nice as the old one, but has much better views.

A small gallery of photos is here. After getting sorted in the new flat, I decided to head down to Borough Market for some shopping. This is a huge market at the South Bank end of London Bridge, tucked in under the rail lines. They have everything you can imagine, from all over Europe. There are fresh cheese and sausage from France; olives, olive oil, chiles and chorizo from Spain; Parmisian Romanno fresh from Italy (with an aroma which is most arresting) as well as salami and ham that are to die for; from Germany come white asparagus and all sort of würsts; from Portugal come more olives and cheeses; Greece is represented with feta, kefta and korma, not to mention all sort of sweets; Turkey is there with Turkish Delight in forty flavours.

Local growers and vendors bring the pride of England: eggs, cheese, meats, greens, veggies, tubers, seafood (including hand caught and cut scallops, cooked to order). The list go on and on. I heard more than once people complain that their noses were stuffed from allergies, depriving them of the feast of aroma for which this market is famous. I’ll tell you, just to walk from the Italian cheeses to the Parma ham was an olfactory miracle of no small dimension. If only they made a camera which would capture odours!

I loaded up with landjeagger and French smoked salami, English cow milk brie, young Gouda, gem, asparagus, carrots, apples and pears, tin loaf bread, and some other stuff. I was quite loaded down by the time I stopped and went home to the new flat. After getting everything into the fridge (no small feat) I relaxed a bit, napped, made myself a light plate of cheese and sausage, and then headed back out to the Pleasance Theatre in North London for Dying For It.

Dying For It is based on Nikolai Erdman‘s wry comedy, The Suicide, written in Russian in 1928. The Suicide reflects the growing dissatisfaction with life in post-revolutionary Soviet Russia, and was in fact banned there until after Stalin’s reign. Semyon, a young married, unemployed man is down in the dumps. Living in his mother in-law’s hallway, and suffering under her blatant distaste, he decides that his best option is to end it all. As word of his plan gets around, people from all over see in this act a way for them to express their grievances against the state, the church, the proletariat, the bourgeois, the Communists, etc.

Suddenly Semyon is famous and people are lining up and paying a fee, to Semyon’s unscrupulous neighbour Alexander, just to pitch their cause to him in hopes that his suicide note, now as eagerly awaited as the next Tolstoy or Dostoevsky novel. Semyon entertains them all, and as he does he begins to feel a pride and sense of worth he has never felt before. His wife decides to leave him over this daft plan, while his mother in-law starts to see an upside (widow’s fund and all).

I shan’t tell how it ends, but I think you can get a sense of the absurd farce that this is. It made me think of the anti-fascist piece Rhinoceros by Ianesco.

This was an amateur production, with design duties handled by final year students in theatre arts. They performed well for a small budget show, though my one big note on back stage duties would be that future such shows should include at least one make up artist. A big problem with amateur shows like this develops when each actor does their own make up, and what shows up on stage is a muddle to say the least.

So, the show? Well, it was a mixed bag. Moira Buffini’s adaptation was brilliant. The language was exceptional and her finessing of the vernacular was wonderful. She artfully made the plight of these post revolutionary Russians accessible to the British audience. Most skilful in carrying this lovely work to the stage was Daniel Kendrick as Semyon. His was an easy and friendly reading, and his performance was completely naturalistic, not an easy thing given the absurdist nature of the script. The only drawback to his skilled performance was how some of the lesser talents on stage paled next to him.

Emma Pilson, as Maria, Semyon’s long suffering wife, also turned in a stellar performance. Felcity McCormack tried her best to inhabit the role of Serafima, the mother in-law, but was defeated by her age and lack of appropriate make up. Matt Sutton (sorry, not sure on the name), an understudy, filled in for an injured Okorie Chukwu, in the role of Alexander. His performance drifted between brilliant and serviceable. I mention him in respect for the fact that he was stepping into a role for which he had less preparation than his cast mates.

All in all a great night at the theatre, all for £9 a ticket.

I must also mention the brilliant photo exhibition in the lobby spaces at Pleasance. It is collection of Jamie Gramston’s photos from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2008. I was swept up in the manner Jamie found to bring us backstage and show us moments both intimate and public. His use of light and shadow was masterful for someone who did not control that lighting but had to work with what there was. I have made enquiries to acquire a few pieces in this series.

It is worthy of note that the series was made possible by the donation of a printer, inks and paper from Epson. Thanks to their generosity, proceeds from these sales will go towards the Charlie Hartill Special Reserve a fund supporting theatre education and performance.

So, hats off to Jamie Gramston, Pleasance Theatre and Epson for this wonderful exhibit.

London 2009 – Day 14 – A Little Tragedy After the Flood

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A day of work today, work and writing, and then off to wander Southwark in search of interesting sights, some din-din and finally { EPIDEMIC }, an experimental theatre work at Southwark Playhouse.

After doing a few hours of work, and a couple of writing, I decided to head out early for my show in Southwark. I move tomorrow, from tony Fitzrovia to the more frugal climbs of Bloomsbury/St. Pans. I decided to take a walk to Kings Cross station by way of the new flat, so I could get an idea of what awaits me. It was a nice stroll over into an area, Bloomsbury, with which I am already familiar, having stayed there for a while back in 2000. The sights are mostly the same, just the works are different.

From Kings Cross I took the eastern branch of the Northern line down to Bank so that I could walk across London Bridge to the South Bank at Southwark (say “suth-ark”). After snapping a few photos of the Monument to the Great Fire of London

I took the walk and was prepared to find a right mess on the south bank, as there was a major water mains break early this morning, which lead to 1.5 metres of water in Tooley Street, right outside the London Bridge tube station, and caused hundreds of businesses, hotels and offices (including City Hall) to shut down.

London is currently pox marked with works involving replacing the Victorian era water mains (should sound familiar to Milwaukeans), and a break like this (the second in 3 months) really brings home the need for it.

As expected, Tooley Street, just east of the station, was closed to vehicular traffic, but the various agency seemed to be doing a bang up job of sorting it all. There were fire brigades from all over, Whitechaple, Kentish Town, etc. as well as Plastic Cops, the PCSO support corps., water works lorries, etc. Quite a scene.

Had a walk around and then settled for a dinner of penne carbonara not far from the action.

Back out to stroll around some more, wandered along the southern side of the train trestles to take some photos of the ornate, but sullied masonry. Along the way encountered Pierre Garroudi, a slender French designer who has honed his skills in Manhattan (I’m guessing Pratt) and Milan before settling in London. He introduced me to his cat (who has lived in all of those places with him) and his designs.

Check out today’s gallery for all the photos. “Are you an architect?” he asked, when he saw me photographing the masonry. “No, just an admirer” I told him. We had a nice chat.

The area along the southern bank of the Thames here is called MoreLondon and includes a number of very modern structures in the shadow of Tower Bridge. It is quite vibrant, as most of the old docklands are, and tonight was no exception. A lot of public art, and a lot of people admiring it. I took more photos of that.

Finally it was time to go to the playhouse to see {EPIDEMIC}, the show I had come for. The story behind how I came to be here is this: A week ago, as X and I were traveling down to South Bank for a show, we encountered a vivacious group of young Thespians on the train. They were quite animated and one girl, maybe 21, was asked by a nearby lad if she was Indian (she obviously was). She was quite a striking beauty, and coyly looked at the young man and without skipping a beat said “No, I’m white, I just tan easily. My name is Emily.” as though that name was enough to establish her racial identity.

natalie

In modern England the question of whether someone is Indian is foolish, to say the least. Indian, as well as Bangladeshi, Pakistani, Afghanistan people have lived here for generations. So, to be Indian here is to say third or forth generation Indian, and with intermarriage (which happens more often than you’d think) it all becomes meaningless fairly quickly. This young woman had the dark ruddy skin and Arian features which I happen to find quite lovely, but I was not the one pestering her, so let’s leave that out of it.

I was more interested in the large hand made drum which the quietest and shyest member of the troupe was carrying, or rather trying to carry. After helping her get settled into a seat so that her drum didn’t obstruct traffic, I inquired what the story was with the drum. She answered, in a accent I would later discover was Greek, and halting English, that they were all with a theatre troupe, and the drum was a vital prop.

ioli

I asked what show, and she said it was an experimental production at the Southwark Playhouse based upon Antigone which would be produced for one night only, May 14th. I went online the next day and got a ticket for the whopping sum of £3.

Life is short, and when you have an opportunity to see some truly new and different perspectives in theatre, I say go for it. Enough of my theatre career was spent producing just that kind of show, so I can truly appreciate it when I have a chance to see it.

The venue was the bar of the playhouse, which itself is under the bridges of the railway interchange at London Bridge Station. In the darkened caverns of space is carved out a little antechamber to the main theatre, and this is where the production would take place. By the time I arrived, almost an hour before the show, the box office was already turning interested parties away as they had a sellout show. Eventually the eager audience prevailed upon the box office workers to sell them SRO spots, so at the start of the show the place was packed. I had three people sitting on my feet for most of the performance.

While the audience milled about and got their drinks and seats sorted the cast started to coalesce in the centre of the bar room, performing stretching and limbering exercises (made my back hurt just watching).

warmup

Then, when the audience was all watered, the actors gelled into a cohesive mass and started the show.

There is nothing grand or unheard of to report about the show. It is an old tale, Antigone, but this was a vital and inventive telling. Props were spare, mostly just a large piece of orange-red fabric and a couple of puppets. Most of the creative work went into the movements of the cast and the turns on the traditional story. Our “Emily” from the tube, Natalie Naomi Bamunuwatte, was stellar as Antigone, Luke Harris shines as Creon and Konstantinos Kavakiotis triumphs as Haemon. Ioli Adreadi, the shy woman with the drum, played director cum ring-master to the cast of eight, and crafted a piece seemingly purpose built for the space.

natdown

natpuppet

That’s the trick, it wasn’t. {EPIDEMIC} are all about constant change within the company of actors and the spaces they inhabit. The cast of tonight’s one-off performance consisted of 4 veterans and 4 newcomers. They will perform, as well, in Athens. They previously performed, with different cast, at Edinburgh and the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, both in 2008.

group

I felt honoured to have been amongst the 100 or so people to get to see them this time out.

London 2009 – Day 13 – The Frontline

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Yesterday was a slow day by any measure. X left to return to the US and I took some time to relax, read, and generally just be lazy. I did sojourn down to Leicester Square to procure a ticket to see The Frontline , by Ché Walker, at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre down in Southwark, a recreation of original Globe Theatre, and a pretty good one at that.

Lucky for me I had a seat in dress circle (first balcony) and sheltered, as the Globe is open roofed, and the hoi polloi stand up in the courtyard and their only recourse in case of rain (like the light mist at curtain time) is rain coats or ponchos, anyone opening a bumbershoot will be roundly booed, or worse.

The plot of The Frontline is the life in the direct vicinity of an underground station somewhere in the East End of London:

There is an underground strip club; a couple of food vendors, one selling hot dogs and the other selling Korma, locked in friendly competition; a religious group; a handful of drugs dealers, and various other habitués of the area. We watch them all interact and most of the time the beautifully sculpted dialogue is taking place on two, three or four levels at once. A drug dealer is taunting his rival while a stripper is teasing her bouncer while a evangelist is converting a sinner while the hot dog vendor is berating the Afghani vendor. That we can make any sense out of this at all is testament to the skillful direction of Matthew Dunster and the cast’s remarkable sense of timing.

I loved this show. It handled many of the same issues that English People Very Nice did, but with more humour, grace and effect. It did not aspire to the full throated assault on English bigotry that show did, but it still handled the subject deftly, as in a scene in the first act where a black stripper and a white drugs kingpin get into a debate about British society and who has a right to claim priority.

A rolicking good night at the theatre, and a show I would love to see transition to film or video. One interesting thing overheard at interval; one usher to another “This one gent just left, said he was only two days off the plane from the States and couldn’t understand a word of it!”

While the promotional materials all warned about rough language and subject matter, none of them warned about the thick cockney accents and sometimes impenetrable language. But the script is so masterful, so well written, so peppered with intelligent, sophisticated, vocabulary stretching words and turns of phrase that Shakespeare’s own theatre was certainly a well deserved home for this production. Ché Walker has brilliantly earned the right to put his characters on Shakespeare’s stage.

London 2009 – Day 12 – Off West End Drama

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Pawn had a business meeting today, which entailed remembering just what his business really is, after all, and much other preparation. X took advantage of this to laze about for once before heading off to the National Galleries for the Picasso retrospective there.

Pawn’s meeting went well, and dwelt on longer than expected, eating up the entire afternoon. Back home, then, to rendezvous with X and dinner, which consisted of some yummy broccoli and a chicken and asparagus pie, followed by biscuits and grapes. Then off to the Arcola Theatre production Monsters up at Arcola’s creatively green theatre in Hackney.

This show has generated it’s fair share of controversy in the press, for a variety of reasons. The basic idea of the show, by Swedish playwright Niklas RÃ¥dström (translated by Gabriella Berggren), is to examine the events which lead to the death of 2 year old James Bulger, in 1993, at the hands of a pair of 10 year old boys. How could this happen? How could so many people witness these events and not intervene? How could so many CCTV cameras record this, and nothing was done to stop it?

It is difficult subject matter, to be sure, and while I am not sure that the best approach was used in all instances I can attest that the show is masterful and quite effective in making the audience squirm and find defect in their own behaviour. I, for one, was made to think of how many times I may have been complicit, though my own lack of action, in crimes which while less heinous still crimes. The show opens with the four actors, two men and two women, asking a series of questions, almost as Greek chorus. These questions are academic, rhetorical, but probing:

I don’t know

I don’t know why you came here

I don’t know what you expect from a performance about two children who kill a third

I don’t know what you expect to hear

You probably want to know why

Why did that which soon will happen here already happen?

How could such a thing happen: children killing children, brutally, ruthlessly, planlessly destructively?

That situation must surely be so from anything I know that it would never happen anywhere near me.

Someone must tell me why, so that I need never think about it.

And on in that vein. The actors eventually break out of chorus and into a series of 33 scenes, punctuated by flashes of fluorescent lighting and loud bursts of static. There are video monitors suspended from the ceiling of the performance space, a space which itself is a rectangle deliniated by a thin line, and with seating on all sides. There are video cameras which the cast members periodically re-aim and refocus these cameras on other cast members, the audience, etc.

The action alternates between direct exposition on the sequence of events, reënactment of the police interviews, statements by the parents, and more of these probing questions. The actors take turns playing the roles of the 10 year olds, their parents, the police, the victim’s mother. All the while we see video from CNN, the BBC, films (Lord of the flies is prominent at one point) and other sources on the video screens.

Despite the frequent references in the script to “that which soon will happen here” or “that which has just happened here” there is no effort to actually reënact the crime itself, just the interogations. This leads to an oddity in the script, as throughout the show we are being questioned as to whether we would have gotten involved, should the authorities have done so, etc. At the end we are nearly chastised for not having done so:

CHORUS: How can any of the responsibility be ours?

We weren’t even there.

CHORUS LEADER: We are here.

It has also just happened right here.

CHORUS: This was just an enactment.

When it happened it was for real.

…

CHORUS LEADER: We are all guilty of what we did

or didn’t do.

Where there is evil

it thrives on indifference, contempt,

self complacency, arrogance…

Human beings kill other human beings

Children kill another child

The conclusion or moral to be found in this

cannot undo that it is, was and has been happening

CHORUS: Is, was, has been, happening

Is, was, has been, happening

CHORUS LEADER: And it has happened,

without any of us being able to prevent it

I’m not saying that makes us responsible for this

I’m saying it makes this part of our fate.

Had they in fact enacted the grisly event, no doubt there would have been no end of protest, but then to carry on as though we had just witnessed this even seems duplicitous.

No matter, I guess. The show, as I’ve stated, was powerful and effective. The use of the space and video and sound technologies was wonderful. The cast: Lucy Ellinson, Sandy Grierson, Jeremy Killick and Victoria Pratt were all brilliant.

All in all a good and effective piece of social criticism wrapped up into an impressive play. Oh, and this bears mentioning: The program for Monsters includes the full script (which explains, for those of you wondering, how I’ve been able to quote so extensively). For a play which aims to educate and inspire thoughtful reflection and discussion, this is a wonderful thing.

London 2009 – Day 11 – White Stiffs of Dover

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Travel brings Pawn back to an apocryphal place and event in his family lore. X is dragged along for the ride. Much hiking transpires, in gale force winds. Children die, seemingly by the dozens, and the audience applauds. Ovations lead to encores, dogs are tired, and drinks are consumed. A busy day, all around.

“Obtuse enough to be cryptic or cryptic enough to be obtuse?” These are the Pawn’s true muttered musings on the above introduction. But every word is true. Off to Dover on the train at the crack of 10 am., to retrace the near drowning of Pawn’s five year old father-to-be on a family outing (back in 1928). Pulled out to sea from Dover’s stony shore by an undertow yet returned to the bosom of his family to thrive, without ever again entering a body of water larger or deeper than a bathtub.

Arrive in Dover with the fantasy of a side trip by bus to Canterbury, innocent pilgrims that we are. Takes a half hour to even find the Tourist Information stand and are directly merrily off for a wee hike to Dover Castle.


“O, you’ll be there on foot before the bus would even arrive,” we’re assured by a sadist somehow (terms of her probation?) assigned to help visitors. Battling high winds, a map like something from The Da Vinci Code, steep and treacherous steps, and my incessant whining [Pawn: and Wheezing] we scale the heights of the mountain, ready to defeat the German invasion, or at least find the restaurant.

This is a massive fortress, one of the first structures is a lighthouse built by the Romans,

and added to and improved over the millennia until it became a pivotal coastal base in World War II to spot and destroy German ships and planes. There are cannon, trebuchet (siege engines), anti-aircraft guns, narrow slit windows in towers for archers, moats: the state of military art over the centuries. Tourists were staggering like drunks from site to sight along the cliff edges, buffeted by winds that would have ruffled Winston Churchill. I envied those tottering about with canes; at least they had more stability than I enjoyed.

We made our retreat without a tour of the tunnels used in WWII to the disgust and amazement of the guard at a gate and made our way – wind mysteriously again in our faces – back to the town centre and thence to the Promanade. We pass a sculpture of two swimmers on granite blocks


on the shoreline – the point at which the Channel swimmers traditionally take the plunge for France; as the Rick Steves’ guidebook in our flat said, “Allow nine hours”. –X

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Dover was dramatic and wonderful, and very very very windy. You cannot even understand this wind, and its effect, unless you were to experience it. After clamouring up to Dover Castle and its fortifications and instalments, we descended back down to the beach. I was determined to go as far as possible out on the sea wall so as to get some good shots of the cliffs:

I cannot even begin to describe how lashing the wind was. I have spent enough time sailing the Great Lakes to say that the wind was easily 20 knots, gusting to 30 or more. It was unbelievable enough to try to walk along the jetty, but to then try to take a photograph with a 400mm lens? Forget it. That any of them came out at all is truly amazing to me.

After three and a half hours of walking around in these conditions we are toast, and were quite glad to get back to the train station. Our train back to London was delayed, and with travel conditions we were late enough that we were glad that our evening show was so close to Charing Cross Station. We quite literally walked out of the station, around a corner, and into the New Players Theatre/Bar/Restaurant. Dinner was nice enough, and then into the show: Tiger Lillies – The Songs of Shockheaded Peter & Other Gory Verses. How to explain the Tiger Lillies?

They are a post-modern Burlesque Cabaret act heavily inspired by the Berlin cabarets of the years between the wars. The subject matter of this show are cautionary tales and songs sung to children to encourage them to behave properly:

And many more. Here are some videos of their performances:

What a wonderful way this was for us to relax from the rigours (or rigour-mortise) of the day. I picked up the live CD of this show. Back home again, and to update all of our photos, blogs, etc.  BTW, Due to memory card restrictions, many of the JPEGs you see are low res.  Full sized raw format images are available if you are interested.

As always, the entire photblog is available online here.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 9 – Scandals and Demons

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Pawn may be disenfranchised but he is neither humbled nor disinterested. Some honesty is displayed, to what end is unknown. Some dishonesty is revealed, outcome unclear. Dirty laundry is aired, outcome most certain. Chains are rattled, hammers have fallen, polls have been rocked. Oh, the turmoil!

Whilst your intrepid travelers have been blithely gallivanting about London, do not for a moment think that they have been ignorant of the goings on in politics. All about us a scandal has been brewing, and that brew has now burst the bottle and sprayed its frothy mush all over the Zeitgeist. That is the MP Expenses scandal; it doesn’t look as though it is getting much coverage across the pond, but it is all the rage on every front page over here. Here is the story in a nutshell:

British Members of Parliament (MPs) are allowed to claim a variety of expenses, such as second homes in or around London (so as to attend Parliament), service workers, meals, etc. Each member is limited to about £25,000/year. The system was first engineered back in the 1980s when the typical MP earned a relative pittance for their service, up against comparable professions, such as bankers, solicitors or barristers. Recompense has since increased, but the expenses system remains.

Gordon Brown, the current Prime Minister, has been trying to change the system for years, but these efforts have been successively rebuffed by the House of Commons (the UK equivalent to the House of Representatives), year after year. When word started to get out about some potential abuses, the government responded by preparing an audit, and announced that it would be releasing the details in July, well after the British county and European Union (EU) elections coming up in late May.

Well, best made plans… The Telegraph, a decidedly Tory rag, performed some exceptional investigative journalism, and dug up all the facts on who claimed what, when and why. [I believe the muckraking consisted of paying someone £300,000 for the expenses reports – an offer the more principled papers here refused. – X] They then put these facts into the partisan journalism blender and released an overly sensationalised account which focused almost entirely on Labour MPs (only mentioned one Tory) and containing many flat out distortions, conflations and errors.

No matter that, the chum was in the water, and in no time at all every paper in the country had picked up and repeated the Telegraph’s claims, right or wrong, and in a matter of days Labour numbers dropped 14 points in some polls (23 in others) and with elections looming the Tories now stand at 48%, Labour 27%, Liberal Dems 18%.

Having done its dirty deed, the Telegraph is now reportedly going to start releasing the results of their investigation vis-a-vis the Tory MPs. You can fully expect that they will do so in such a manner as to selectively pick off some perceived weak members, and reorder the party to their liking.

This is redolent of nothing so much as the House Franking scandal which rocked the US House of Representatives back in 1992. That lead to the downfall of Dan Rostenkowski, then the Democratic chair of the House Ways and Means committee, the most powerful seat in the house, by many measures. If that is any guide, we can fully expect that Chancellor of the Exchequer Darling and PM Brown will be jobless in short order. The Telegraph, of course, will live to slander another day.

Well, enough of scandal, how about some demons. Tonight took us to the Vaudeville Theatre for Duet for One. Here is X for that review:

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Juliet Stevenson has long been a favourite of mine (since the lovely film “Truly Madly Deeply” with Alan Rickman), so on that basis alone I was interested in this show. I did not know that it was about a brilliant, successful violinist who (pressured by her husband) is seeing a psychiatrist after developing MS and becoming unable to play music. The story was inspired by the story of Jacqueline Du Pre. The play is profoundly moving, well written and brilliantly acted. Stevenson, in a motorized wheelchair for the most part, is riveting as she talks through her rage and suicidal thoughts about having MS in the prime of life. The set, the subtle details of Stephanie’s deteriorating condition, the music and lighting are perfect. It’s physically hard to take your eyes off her to look at her doctor (Henry Goodman), but when you do, his reactions to her words and actions are perfectly in tune. There were several people in the audience who appeared to have MS, and, judging from the audible sobs of the woman next to me, must have friends with the disease. I thought of my dear NR and BB with love.

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duet-for-one

To expand a bit on X’s able hand, I would add this: During interval we discussed how strong of a performance Goodman turned in. In a two-hander like this, where the lead is so strong it can be hard for the second to really do much more than show up. Goodman does way more than this. He never just shows up, he is present and inhabits the stage every bit as much as Stevenson does. Given few lines in the first act, he has to rely instead upon gesture, body language, movement – all subtle, but all pitch perfect.

As has so often been the case on this trip, however, we were blown away by the tectonic shifts which occurred in the second act. Goodman, as Dr. Alfred Feldman, at one point launches into what must have been a 10 minute soliloquy about life and suicide and psychiatry. It takes one’s breath away, it does. It takes Stevenson’s breath away, as well, and for a short while the tide is turned on stage and in the audience’s hearts. That Stevenson comes back in the very next scene and steals the show back for herself is just one more example of the emotional whiplash to which we are subjected.

Testament to the high state of London theatre arts is the fantastic lighting, scenography, soundscapes, etc. to which we have been treated this past week. Tonight was no exception. The set, by Lez Brotherston, is a near-perfect rendition of a doctor’s office. Comfortable yet not too inviting. Jason Taylor’s lighting and John Leonard’s sound do exactly what they are supposed to do, not get noticed. The subtly of both is the most exquisite expression of theatrical art one can achieve. Taylor’s lighting is a masterpiece of naturalism rarely seen in today’s over-sensationalised shows. Well done!

If there is one bone to pick with the production, well I will pick it. The set decoration, while complete, was perhaps a little too much so. The bookcases were full, edge to edge. The CD shelves were full, edge to edge. The same with cassettes and LPs. I can believe that the good doctor is a collector and aficionado of music, I cannot believe that he has this custom built shelving system and has only got space for maybe 2 CDs out of 12 entire shelves. Good thing that they don’t make cassette tapes any more, ’cause there is no room for any more of those, either.

A small point, I know, but I noticed it, so I am willing to guess that others did as well. Barely a blip of a blemish on what is otherwise as perfect a production as one could hope to see.

One last point. In England one typically must pay for a programme for the West End theatre. £2 or £3 will get you the typical cast listings, bios, etc., as well as general theatre news, and such. Not so tonight. We gladly paid the £3 for the evening’s programme, only to find that is was nearly a book, replete with extensive details on MS, causes and treatments, the music used and referred to in the performance, as well as the usual interviews and such. It is quite the reference.

Ta!

London 2009 – Day 8 – Banksy Holiday

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Pawn discovers that he has become disenfranchised by an act of Parliament and is none too happy about it, with the vote looming quick on the horizon. His heritage slowly leaking away, Pawn is prone to spasms of reflection and reminiscence. Meanwhile, more art by the basket is heaped down upon our intrepid travelers, a tyre palace from a past empire looms large, but does not ultimately lure.

The number 14, our trusty favourite bus, takes us down to South Kensington for an exhibit of Banksy at Andipa Gallery on Walton Street. Banksy doesn’t really lend himself to official shows, as he still maintains his anonymity, so little galleries like Andipa step into the void by gathering enough pieces from private holdings to put on shows and try to elevate the prices of those pieces which are in private hands. It is an art world rat race which is entirely a fiction created by those who stand to gain the most, the brokers, dealers and sellers. Banksy sees not a pound from this, directly, but it still does add to his myth, his mystique and ultimately his wallet, no doubt.

The show was small, like last year’s, about twenty pieces in total. Some good, some redundant, all inimitably Banksy. Picked up the catalogue this time, couldn’t help myself. [in light of the “Riverwest anarchists” breaking windows of Whole Foods, etc., in Milwaukee, his screen print of a hooded figure about to hurl a bouquet of flowers {Love is in the Air} is appropriate.]

Then off to the Michelin Bidendem, a bizarre Art Nouveau temple on Brompton Road, just a short dash from Andipa. We had thought about eating there, but after checking the set price menu we demurred and stumbled on off to the Victoria and Albert to take in the exhibit “Hats; An Anthology by Stephen Jones” Here is X to comment on that:

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So, as is so often the case of late, Nic is the only straight guy in sight at this special exhibit. A fantastic show of hats and headgear over the years, from Queen Victoria to Leigh Bowery, Audrey Hepburn to Madonna, from plastic rain hats {fancied by my Aunt} to “The Kiss of Death” – a feathered tunnel of a hat, black of course.

From there we toured, with a bored and indifferent group of “docents in training” the Theatre and Performance exhibit. Teeny tiny costumes worn by Mick Jagger, Adam Ant and Brian Eno were astonishing, at least in size. When you don’t care about jewellery or holy relics, you can save a hell of a lot of time at the V&A.

The plodding, exhausted masses yearning to drink tea I’ve encountered at so many museums here reminds me of “Shawn of the Dead”. I’m beginning to think Rick Steves is a cult leader (just sayin’). The necking French teenagers encountered around every corner probably have the right idea. After a costly (for Nic) stop in the gift shop, we went to the Science Museum and the “Listening Post.”

You are drawn into a stream of information and exchanges being made at the moment on the internet. One of the seven sequences is a narrated and projected series of posts beginning with the words “I am”…Bulgarian, horny all the time, leaving for Monterrey, wearing that black dress, eating constantly, holding a gun…hundreds of messages captured and displayed. Jenny Holzer on crack. And, voyeur that I am, I loved it.

Over to Pawn

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Regular readers may remember my visit to Listening Post last year. X was immediately drawn into its hypnotic spell, as it is the ultimate in textual voyeurism. I had to tear her away after a complete cycle, though, as we had other dates to make. Specifically we had to get back up to the Photographers’ Gallery in time for me to finalise shipping details for the Dryden Goodwin print I’ve purchased (yes, no willpower). That sorted, we shot back east on the tube, and relaxed a bit at home… had a lovely lamb and rosemary pie we bought at the market Sunday last.

Then, off to the theatre, the Young Vic, for Pictures from an Exhibition. This is one of the most difficult to describe shows I have ever seen, so I will toss it over to X:

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Pictures from an exhibiton

OK, this is a smackdown, since this theatrical/dance piece choreographed to the music of Modest Mussorgsky is a definite one-off. After surviving the scrum at the door for our ill-defined seats, we found a pretty good vantage point for the story of composer Mussorgsky’s life told in dance to his composition, “Pictures from an Exhibition”. A highly physical and accomplished production (but the Brits should lose the freaking fog effects) tracing Mussorgsky’s life from birth (from an egg, according to his father) to his death by vodka and Mother Russia (in bear costume). Beautiful, strenuous dance and a poignant narrative made for a very moving experience. Noting the young, fashionable and enthusiastic Londoners queuing for the show left us both encouraged for the future of ambitious theatre here. So, home on the tube to the Mighty Goodge station and back to American Idol (concerned for our MKE friends in Gokey Gridlock) and adding to our already extensive collection of empty wine/liquor bottles. We have to carry these, in public, to a recycling bin in a square near us, and Pawn is already concerned. Me, hell, I’m used to it… – X

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Well, X has done it up rightly, then, hasn’t she. Not much to add here, but a few observations:

  • There is a dearth of French in France, as they, apparently, are all here in London.
  • The wealthy are still so, the poor are even more so.
  • True love lingers but does not die.
  • The political parties may change, but the scandals are remarkably similar, nonetheless.
  • A natural born Brit may not vote in his homeland if he has been gone too long, it seems.
  • Steve Martin is still a genius (just watched LA Story).
  • Tiered skirts and dresses are very much in style right now.
  • So are sculpted waistlines, pointy-tipped men’s shoes, bright colours, self confidence, jaunty looks, sensible heels, nonsense heels, hats, scarves (men and women)…

Enough for now. We have nothing booked for tomorrow, yet, but there is much demanding our attention. Will write again,

Ta!