REVIEW: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

(This is almost certainly my last review for 2009 and probably my final post for the year as well.)

For many, Elizabeth Taylor is synonymous with Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Despite personal tragedy in production, her sexy, smouldering Maggie draped herself across a film full of long, still shots, and the theatrical nature of the script often led her to play directly to the camera and audience in such a way as to immediately sympathise with the ignored wife and give in to her charms and appeals. Any new production, therefore, must find a way to keep the film as far from the audience’s mind as possible during the play.

In a stunning new production, director Debbie Allen (most infamous for her choreography in Carrie) has done just that by casting an all-Black family in her Cat. While purists may show disdain at Allen’s edits, mostly to reflect racial issues and salt up a bit of Big Daddy’s language, the new Cat is a fascinating view of a family and an era in decline.

Moved to the 1980’s, Brick (Adrian Lester) is a football player-turned-announcer now consumed with apathy and alcoholism after the death of his best friend and possible lover Skipper. He has cut off his wife, Maggie (Sanaa Lathan) in every way possible, but most importantly in the bedroom. As Big Daddy (James Earl Jones) turns 65, word spreads through the family that he is dying of cancer - though the doctors have told him and Big Mama (Phylicia Rashad) that it was just a scare. Armed with the news, Brick’s older brother Gooper (Peter de Jersey) and his wife Mae (Nina Sosanya) are going full on for inclusion in Big Daddy’s yet-unwritten will, throwing their children and traditional family values in the faces of their opposition.

Williams’ play is a curio, not just for the way its repetitive style of dialogue would be co-opted and expanded by later generations (compare Maggie and Brick’s “Are you listening?” “I hear you.” with the “Talking/Telling” aspects of Glengarry Glenn Ross), but also for its portrayal of Southern traditions in decline and the needs of polite society to sweep anything undesirable - be it marital issues or homosexuality - under the rug only to watch as the house of cards collapses when the dirt dissolves the foundation.

Indeed, there have been many complaints among visitors for how the new time period weakens the crux (Brick’s possibly sexual relationship with Skipper), but the cultural shift of casting it in a Black family keeps it up: the role of the Church and traditional family structures are central in the African-American community, and sexual tolerance is still far behind that of society at large.

As far as Allen’s cast and direction go, Lester’s Brick is the picture of apathy: given over entirely to the bottle, Brick is a man of pride with nothing to be proud of. He’s flat, smooth, and devoid of emotion for anything except a drink and his memories - a calm amongst the storm around him. Lathan’s Maggie carries the first act, and demands both the audience’s sympathy and their annoyance: we can side with her while seeing why Brick wants her to go away and let him drink. The stars, however, are Rashad’s Big Mama, a well-meaning but intellectually lacking matron whose traditional power is shadowed entirely by the whirlwind of James Earl Jones’s firebrand of a Big Daddy.

To be honest, Jones was the selling point of the play for me going in, and the man could read the phone book for three hours and I’d still be enraptured, so take it for what it’s worth. However, to see a legend up close in one of the great American dramas is always a joyous experience, especially one which allows us both to see the voice of Darth Vader tearing into the fools he suffers in the name of polite society and for his delivery of the classic lines on mendacity.

So, needless to say, the production could do little wrong in my eyes, and it delivered by keeping me enraptured for the entire three hour runtime (one proper interval, one short one between the second and third acts.) While the new Cat is ambitious on multiple levels, it succeeds at two key aspects at the core: to bring a new, fresh angle to the text and to present the play well. See this while you can, and rejoice in the power of the straight play (especially with the Enron and Jerusalem transfers just around the corner.)

NOTE:
OK, so there’s one thing that did keep me from being fully engrossed in the show for all three hours, namely where I was sitting. It’s possible to get tickets in the slips for £10 on Lastminute, which is the only way I could afford a ticket, and depending on where you are (mine wasn’t TOO bad) you’ll miss a good deal of the action and when the eyes wander, so does the mind. The effect wasn’t as bad as at Arcadia, but the easily distracted should definitely shell out the extra cash for central seating, as both sides will face significantly restricted views (seats 1-12 lose being able to see the bar, seats 13-24 won’t see the dressing table.)

NOTES: Holiday Show Roundup

Things are extremely busy over here in show meltdown land, but as a bit of distraction I’ve attempted to keep up some of my annual holiday time theatre going. So, for those in need of some cheering up and rediscovery of inner youth, here’s the four big holiday shows I’ve seen in the last month:

Aladdin @ Hackney Empire
This is my third year attending the Hackney panto and every year it’s a gem and a total treat. The script is tight, the jokes brilliant, and the cast on tip top form. And Clive’s even throwing sweets into the audience again. Really, nothing else to say besides SEE THIS.

Rock 'n' Roll Aladdin @ The Shaw
The cast of actor-musicians give it their all and this is a fun show, but the script is middle of the road and very paint by numbers. I enjoyed it, and would recommend it to those who don’t want to travel all the way to Wimbledon though. Especially if you prefer 50’s-70’s rock instead of most of the bits and bobs that get pinched for panto these days.

Morecambe @ The Duchess
I fully admit that I’m too young to really have appreciated this. It’s very nice, but there’s no real dramatic tension (Morecambe and Wise both led rather squeaky clean lives) and the humour feels old and dated now, especially since it’s a double act done by one. See it if you’re nostalgic, otherwise stay home and watch Morecambe and Wise clips on YouTube for an hour - especially the Mastermind segment. I think I laughed more at that than the entire show...

Dick Barton: Quantum of Porridge @ Croydon Warehouse
My second Dick Barton show, and one well worth the rather long journey out to Croydon for. Sharp gags, a plot twist in every scene, and some real creativity in the staging. Sure to join Hackney’s panto as one of my Christmas time traditions. See it if you can.

REVISIT: Jest End

Never let it be said that I don’t believe in second chances.

On the other hand, let it be said that I absolutely believe in calling ‘em as I see ‘em. And despite thinking this version of Jest End is better than its predecessor, and regardless of the cast who worked their tails off to sing it well, the show still doesn’t come together.

For one, timing is everything in comedy. So why are there still jokes about Gone With The Wind, (nothing about Ernie Get Your Gun though) Mary Poppins, and Footloose (all gone for over a year) and bits about Little Mermaid and Legally Blonde (not open yet)? Ditto the farewell to Avenue Q which doesn’t close until March. All of the reality show bits are recycled from the last show as well, despite the fact that we didn’t have a casting show this year. I’ll almost forgive the Lord of the Rings song even if it took me forever to remember what it was from - though LotR wasn’t mentioned in the lyrics - but it was at least about flops in general. And still nothing about some of the biggest shows in the West End.

Second, the jokes are still one note. ALW and the Phantom singing “You’re Nothing Without Me” from City of Angels is a cosplay skit. It’s not something to put in a professional show, especially given that the joke is exposed as soon as people realise what the song is. The Barrowman and Donovan numbers were the same - Barrowman has a big smile and is loud, Jason Donovan hasn’t done stage in a while. Got it. Now do something with the other three minutes in the song.

How bad was it? I sat behind the creatives who were quite pleased with themselves, and I couldn’t hear all of the audience, but I *could* see the people off to the side thanks to the Jermyn Street’s lovely layout. And I saw that most of them weren’t laughing after the first verse of most bits.

Third, too much repetition. This is both in the lyrics (don’t repeat yourself in comedy unless you’re adding new context, and yes, this means writing new lyrics for each chorus) and in staging (I lost count of how many times the SA guy scratched his arse, how many times girls adjusted their tits, and how many skits ended with or involved someone giving two fingers.)

Fourth, too much repetition. This is both in the lyrics (don’t repeat yourself in comedy unless you’re adding new context, and yes, this means writing new lyrics for each chorus) and in staging (I lost count of how many times the SA guy scratched his arse, how many times girls adjusted their tits, and how many skits ended with or involved someone giving two fingers.)

See? Not funny. Neither is the third time Cameron/Fagin says "Maybe it's time to revive Miss Saigon." That's your second chorus. Your first is to comment on the upcoming Hair revival, the third is to change costume pieces and suggest Cats. See, it builds from happening to "Please no" to "Anything but that."

Anyhow, clearly there’s an audience for this sort of thing - after all, they packed the Menier for Forbidden Broadway - but despite the money and attention being thrown at it, Jest End remains on the wrong side of amateurish, feeling more like something being put on for friends (who seemed to make up most of the not sparse but not full house last night) rather than, you know, an actual paying audience.

REVIEW: “Faithless Bitches”

I’m still quite busy and exhausted, but this one merits some commentary. If nothing else because it’s been 45 minutes since I left Faithless Bitches and I have yet to fully comprehend what I’ve seen. In fact, let’s handle this with a simple checklist of things I consider when I see a play at the theatre:

Script

Direction

Acting

Lighting

Set Design

Costumes

Production

Now let’s assign adjectives for all of them as they relate to Faithless Bitches:

Script - Puerile. Bad. Awful. Advertised as “camp” but goes beyond camp, insults proper trash (John Waters would reject this script), and firmly resides somewhere between “Naruto cosplay skit” and “Lowest ranked submission in an amateur playwriting competition.”

What’s it about?

70’s softcore starlet Chesty is dead, her friends and fellow softcore washouts Pam and Monique start fighting at her funeral over the fact that Monique stole Pam’s leading role in the mainstream film Faithless Bitches. Of course, Pam stole Monique’s man, who is the father of her son and the son is fucking her male co-star in the film. Monique finds all this out from Angel Delight, the new hot young thang, and the love polygon unravels. Oh and there’s the lesbian producer behind Faithless Bitches manipulating everything. See the potential for something interesting there? Me too. Too bad none of it ended up in the script. Lame jokes, no character development, plotholes, directionless plot twists, you name it this thing fails at it. Big time.

Direction/Acting - Flat. One-Dimensional. Amateur. Not that the script offers much depth to characterise, but this goes beyond 70’s softcore acting (or even 70’s hardcore acting - Deep Throat is a damn entertaining movie even if you skip the actual sex scenes.) Director Harold Finley doesn’t know where to pull the comedic timing from, which is only a minor problem given that he wrote the bloody thing. Especially bad in the acting department (since the website lacks names) were the annoying twink/queen playing Monique’s son, the almost as vapid boyfriend, and the overdone Spanish/Hispanic/Italian/Who knows what he is because he’s called every epithet for it husband. Oh and Angel and Debbie Blake the supporting characters. And Pam during her breakdown. The actress playing Monique almost gets away with it because old bitches deserve some respect. But I can’t respect her for doing this given that she’s probably stuck on profit share.

Lighting - Nonexistent. Useless. There was lighting? Besides the projections telling us what the locations were (hint to the writer: We shouldn’t need to be told what the locations are) that nobody could see unless they were in the front row.

Set Design - Overcomplicated. Too clever for its own good. Some of the set changes, mostly moving around the coffin/table, took longer than the scenes that the set was changed for. See also: direction.

Costumes - Ugly. Unflattering. Fugly. Monique’s final dress. The semi-sheer shirts. The bad shirt choices in general. Pam’s dress at the top of the second act. BAD.

Production - Wasted. Failure. Faithless Bitches did a promo at West End Live. It was seen by 10,000 people. It was done too early and made no impact (other than to place doubts in my mind as to whether or not the show would be good - should have trusted my instinct). They had a huge cardboard stand thing for it earlier at the Courtyard. And it ended up where? In the studio.

So, to the producer of Faithless Bitches, this is for you: My email address is on the side. I’m working on a couple projects that could really use some development and enhancement money, and it’s clear that you’ve got a few thousand Pounds to burn or at the very least need some tax write-offs. And I want to put up a new production of Hedwig.

To everyone else: Faithless Bitches is a play with a message, and the message is BEWARE. This is not a play for seeing. This is a play for forgetting about and avoiding. Seriously. It almost makes Ernie Get Your Gun look competent by comparison.

NEWS: Hiatus

Sorry for the lack of updates recently, but things are getting quite busy over here in RZ land. I am still getting to the theatre but press work is picking up a bit, plus I have two shows to work on in the pipeline for January and February and all of that is demanding my writing attention over blogging. Do keep in touch if you're a regular, as I am still getting to the theatre and can always use more people to go with. Everyone else....sorry, very tired.

NOTES: "My Real War 1914-?"

As we enter poppy season, it's not uncommon for culture to turn its own eye towards the military and the sacrifices made by countless numbers of young men (and more recently women) for their country. The soldier's tale, one of mud and sweat and death, maintains both a fascinating and horrific look at the best and worst of humanity at once, and the utmost respect is due to anybody who signs up for the job.

Constructed around the letters of one Lieutenant Le Mesurier (his first name is conspicuously absent from the publicity materials), My Real War 1914-? is a superbly created one-man show (Le Mesurier, or Lem, is stunningly played by Philip Desmeules). Largely educational, intensely personal, and appropriately brief (80 minutes no interval), it is a pity that the text and performance are undermined by some unnecessary voiceovers and at times unnecessary or misused projections.

That said, I wish the schoolgroup who came to see Othello had seen this instead. The Great War is such a vital part of the English conscious that our pitiful turnout (some 20 people in Studio 2) was a disgrace to performance and memory alike.

REVIEW: The Author

(Warning, massive spoilers ahead.)

The fourth wall is a barrier which the theatre has long been trying to both preserve and break, often simultaneously. For audiences, it’s a psychological safety curtain, separating us from the proceedings onstage and allowing us to emotionally engage without risk. For performers, the fourth wall can provide boundaries for performance, keeping a focus on the stage and not in the house. But then there’s promenade and interactive pieces, which have no walls, talking directly to the audience and making them as much a part of the show as the cast or the text.

The Author is all about breaking down the fourth wall. And the others. Looking at a play from four perspectives (two actors, author Tim Crouch who plays himself, and an audience member), The Author is about the walls we construct inside and outside of the theatre. About preserving our distance. About keeping it safe. About things not being safe.

For example, there is no actual stage. The four cast members are seated around amongst two sets of facing seats. Audience members are constantly talked to, pointed at, and referenced. And, in the cast of Adrian, are something that author Crouch clearly finds annoying: he talks about seeing everything, worshipping actors, and offers Maltesers to others. The events, told in a broken way resembling a group therapy session, revolve around one of Tim’s plays: a hyper-violent piece about wartime abuse which ends with Adrian being attacked by Vic, an actor who let the role get to him, at the stage door. Meanwhile Tim breaks down after months of researching torture videos by having a wank to a video of a baby sucking on a penis while actress Esther’s own infant is in the same room.

Needless to say, the audiences is taken out of their comfort zone. As someone who loathes audience participation and prefers to sit stoically in the back, I had the mis(?)fortune of ending up seated behind Crouch as he delivered the climactic tale. So much for that.

Personal squickiness aside, The Author is a brainy and challenging work in its themes often let down in execution: the dialogue is primarily “I” statements, there are odd pauses for non-beneficial lighting cues, and the events are far more interesting than the characters who lived them: Esther is a stereotypically shallow actress who thinks she’s deeper than she is, Vic is a big softie who keeps playing the hard man, Tim is suicidal, and if I’d been sitting near Adrian I’d have probably resorted to violence to keep him from talking. But as a fan gone pro, it’s an unavoidable reaction: we were Adrians at one point before we grew the hell up in order to be taken seriously.

So should you see The Author? I guess, if you’re the “I’m more fringe than you” sort or you like ticking extreme content boxes. Me, I’m a traditionalist, happy to let the action stay far, far away.

Addendum: I also have to take away points from the Royal Court (despite the fact that they were kind enough to supply a press ticket) for how much I loathe their bar. Sloane Square is not the easiest place to find an affordable pre-theatre meal (unless you come early enough to justify the walk to the Stockpot down Kings Road), and trying to even get a packet of crisps at the theatre is like fighting through an angry mob with the pre-Enron traffic. There’s nowhere to stand without getting jostled around like socks in the washing machine, and the more substantive bar offers disappear immediately, leaving people who come for the late show with empty stomachs and fuller wallets.