Friday, 23 October 2009
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.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 5 October 2009
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.
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.
Friday, 25 September 2009
NOTES: A quick catch up....
Saw two more shows this week, don't really need to go into detail on either of them....
Come Back to the 5 and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean - if you like Steel Magnolias, Mystic Pizza, Beaches, and the like, you'll love this early 80's play about small town women in a James Dean fan club who meet up after 20 years to reminisce and reveal secrets. The production is up to the Gatehouse's usual high standards, though the show itself wasn't really my thing - but I'm also not the target audience.
The Rat Pack - Live from Las Vegas - Is it me or is this show constantly on tour around the UK and the continent? I guess it's true that you can't stop a good tribute band, as again we have a well performed piece with impersonators doing Frank, Dean, and Sammy. The music is legendary and nice, the banter is VERY much a product of its era, politically incorrect in every way ("Did you say Jew-Jitsu? How would you like it if I called you a wop-sicle?") but you can't help but laugh. The audience ate it up, I would have been happier if it was a 105 minute one-act instead of a full two and a half hours, but again, not the target audience.
Seeing Newsrevue tonight.
Come Back to the 5 and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean - if you like Steel Magnolias, Mystic Pizza, Beaches, and the like, you'll love this early 80's play about small town women in a James Dean fan club who meet up after 20 years to reminisce and reveal secrets. The production is up to the Gatehouse's usual high standards, though the show itself wasn't really my thing - but I'm also not the target audience.
The Rat Pack - Live from Las Vegas - Is it me or is this show constantly on tour around the UK and the continent? I guess it's true that you can't stop a good tribute band, as again we have a well performed piece with impersonators doing Frank, Dean, and Sammy. The music is legendary and nice, the banter is VERY much a product of its era, politically incorrect in every way ("Did you say Jew-Jitsu? How would you like it if I called you a wop-sicle?") but you can't help but laugh. The audience ate it up, I would have been happier if it was a 105 minute one-act instead of a full two and a half hours, but again, not the target audience.
Seeing Newsrevue tonight.
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
THOUGHTS: “Over the Threshold”
The post-Edinburgh transfer season is upon us as all of the shows with decent reviews rush to get bookings before casts disperse, pockets run dry, and hype evaporates following awards and critical acclaim.
Over the Threshold is no exception: Originally participating in and subsequently developed by the Perfect Pitch, Threshold won MTM’s best score award at the Fringe this year and has so far a number of 4 and 5 star reviews. Needless to say, it’s only natural that Threshold would come to the big smoke, settling into the cozy Jermyn Street Theatre.
What I don’t, however, is WHY. As in “Why is there so much hype around this show?” This isn’t to say that Christopher Hamilton’s book and score are bad - because they’re not - but why are people getting so excited about it? Yes, Threshold is thoroughly competent and professional, but it never, well, goes over the threshold into becoming special. Or even interesting.
Over the course of 75 minutes, two couples fight, have accidental partner swaps, and deal with the aftermath. Scottish Tom and Kate are new in London, he’s an out of work actor and she gave it up to be a stable office manager. They fight about commitment, his low libido, and whether or not he should move into a real job.
I can’t even remember the other two characters’ names, other than the prattish Englishman in an overly shiny suit and his American wife who spews words of comfort and wisdom while keeping secrets of her own. None of the characters are particularly special, deep, or exciting, and the misunderstandings lack the gravity of serious drama and the humour of farce.
The score, sadly, is equally plain. All of the songs are pleasant, but if you think you’ve heard it before on your Jason Robert Brown or Scott Allan CDs, not to mention about 80% of the shows that go through Perfect Pitch in general, you wouldn’t be too far off. There’s little variation in the tunes, just a lot of introspective mid-tempo piano ballads that wouldn’t be helped by a fuller orchestra because there’s nowhere for them to go.
That said, I can’t fault the cast: all four members (whose names I don’t have down by role) are clearly talented and deliver the material as best they can, bringing what little life the show has, but they’re also encumbered by John Brant’s direction. Brant wants very much to be smart, but the limited abstract set (a few half-doorways and some clear chairs) instead inspired an internal logic which demands cast members wander through a maze of paths to go on and off stage as though the audience know the floorplans to the theoretical flats the characters occupy. It’s distracting and sloppy, realism be damned.
In short, I guess Over the Threshold won awards and got decent reviews for being bland and inoffensive: it’s hard to find fault with something that sits so squarely in the middle. I’m genuinely thrilled for the creatives - finding the money to get ANYTHING up at Edinburgh and back to London so quickly is a monumental task in and of itself - but this was really the best that was on offer at the Fringe?
Over the Threshold is no exception: Originally participating in and subsequently developed by the Perfect Pitch, Threshold won MTM’s best score award at the Fringe this year and has so far a number of 4 and 5 star reviews. Needless to say, it’s only natural that Threshold would come to the big smoke, settling into the cozy Jermyn Street Theatre.
What I don’t, however, is WHY. As in “Why is there so much hype around this show?” This isn’t to say that Christopher Hamilton’s book and score are bad - because they’re not - but why are people getting so excited about it? Yes, Threshold is thoroughly competent and professional, but it never, well, goes over the threshold into becoming special. Or even interesting.
Over the course of 75 minutes, two couples fight, have accidental partner swaps, and deal with the aftermath. Scottish Tom and Kate are new in London, he’s an out of work actor and she gave it up to be a stable office manager. They fight about commitment, his low libido, and whether or not he should move into a real job.
I can’t even remember the other two characters’ names, other than the prattish Englishman in an overly shiny suit and his American wife who spews words of comfort and wisdom while keeping secrets of her own. None of the characters are particularly special, deep, or exciting, and the misunderstandings lack the gravity of serious drama and the humour of farce.
The score, sadly, is equally plain. All of the songs are pleasant, but if you think you’ve heard it before on your Jason Robert Brown or Scott Allan CDs, not to mention about 80% of the shows that go through Perfect Pitch in general, you wouldn’t be too far off. There’s little variation in the tunes, just a lot of introspective mid-tempo piano ballads that wouldn’t be helped by a fuller orchestra because there’s nowhere for them to go.
That said, I can’t fault the cast: all four members (whose names I don’t have down by role) are clearly talented and deliver the material as best they can, bringing what little life the show has, but they’re also encumbered by John Brant’s direction. Brant wants very much to be smart, but the limited abstract set (a few half-doorways and some clear chairs) instead inspired an internal logic which demands cast members wander through a maze of paths to go on and off stage as though the audience know the floorplans to the theoretical flats the characters occupy. It’s distracting and sloppy, realism be damned.
In short, I guess Over the Threshold won awards and got decent reviews for being bland and inoffensive: it’s hard to find fault with something that sits so squarely in the middle. I’m genuinely thrilled for the creatives - finding the money to get ANYTHING up at Edinburgh and back to London so quickly is a monumental task in and of itself - but this was really the best that was on offer at the Fringe?
Sunday, 20 September 2009
THOUGHTS: “Kurt and Sid”
(Sorry for the lack of updates, everyone. I’ve been rather busy lately working on my own shows lately - one of which is part of Scratch Festival at BAC this coming weekend - and writing those has drained me of my ability to bother writing reviews. That said, here goes a try...)
I remember when Kurt Cobain died. Nirvana had been the hottest band around, and though I didn’t have a copy of Nevermind, my sister had picked up a used CD of In Utero, sneaking it in past our mother’s overzealous eye (electric guitars in general were too much for her.) I remembered the controversy over the cover art and “Rape Me,” the brilliance of the MTV Unplugged performance, and how my 8th grade lit teacher told us that Cobain should never have been a role model because of his drugs and emphasised the pointlessness of the “Life’s not 100% fun anymore” line in the suicide note.
As someone who hated his classmates and most of his teachers, I thought she was full of shit. And I still do.
So now in Trafalgar 2 we have Kurt and Sid, a fantasia set in the hours before Cobain’s suicide. A frustrated Kurt is in the attic of his suburban home when the vision of Sid Vicious appears. To cut 95 minutes (including interval) short, this Sid (who is, as he puts it, “way too smart” to be the real Sid) is Cobain’s subconscious attempting to talk him out of the act. That’s about as close to a spoiler as anybody can really get, because we all know how it’s going to end.
Needless to say, I found myself asking what the point is (and doing my best not to ask the author, who was in attendance). Cobain’s life has been covered in numerous biographies, and his own journals are available at bookstores everywhere, and for less than the price of a ticket. There’s some witty banter in Roy Smiles’s script, but no real insight: Cobain’s relationship with Courtney Love was idealised with no mention of the two’s constant fighting, his medical issues are written off, and he comes across as the media slanted him 15 years ago: a whiny poster-boy ungrateful for his fame and taking an easy way out.
Production-wise, there are few complaints: Shaun Evans has Cobain’s signature drawl though he never quite channels the real thing’s complexity, and Danny Dyer is a calm yet verbally feisty Vicious both in and out of reality. Cordelia Chisholm’s set is a cluttered attic strewn with toys and records, the old cliche about a cluttered mind come appropriately to life.
Complaints aside, I’m glad I saw Kurt and Sid - the rising alternative rock scene was one of the best parts of the 90's, and we're about to hit that on the global nostalgia cycle. That said, I’m also glad that I didn’t pay for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to soak up "Jesus Don’t Want Me For A Sunbeam."
I remember when Kurt Cobain died. Nirvana had been the hottest band around, and though I didn’t have a copy of Nevermind, my sister had picked up a used CD of In Utero, sneaking it in past our mother’s overzealous eye (electric guitars in general were too much for her.) I remembered the controversy over the cover art and “Rape Me,” the brilliance of the MTV Unplugged performance, and how my 8th grade lit teacher told us that Cobain should never have been a role model because of his drugs and emphasised the pointlessness of the “Life’s not 100% fun anymore” line in the suicide note.
As someone who hated his classmates and most of his teachers, I thought she was full of shit. And I still do.
So now in Trafalgar 2 we have Kurt and Sid, a fantasia set in the hours before Cobain’s suicide. A frustrated Kurt is in the attic of his suburban home when the vision of Sid Vicious appears. To cut 95 minutes (including interval) short, this Sid (who is, as he puts it, “way too smart” to be the real Sid) is Cobain’s subconscious attempting to talk him out of the act. That’s about as close to a spoiler as anybody can really get, because we all know how it’s going to end.
Needless to say, I found myself asking what the point is (and doing my best not to ask the author, who was in attendance). Cobain’s life has been covered in numerous biographies, and his own journals are available at bookstores everywhere, and for less than the price of a ticket. There’s some witty banter in Roy Smiles’s script, but no real insight: Cobain’s relationship with Courtney Love was idealised with no mention of the two’s constant fighting, his medical issues are written off, and he comes across as the media slanted him 15 years ago: a whiny poster-boy ungrateful for his fame and taking an easy way out.
Production-wise, there are few complaints: Shaun Evans has Cobain’s signature drawl though he never quite channels the real thing’s complexity, and Danny Dyer is a calm yet verbally feisty Vicious both in and out of reality. Cordelia Chisholm’s set is a cluttered attic strewn with toys and records, the old cliche about a cluttered mind come appropriately to life.
Complaints aside, I’m glad I saw Kurt and Sid - the rising alternative rock scene was one of the best parts of the 90's, and we're about to hit that on the global nostalgia cycle. That said, I’m also glad that I didn’t pay for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to soak up "Jesus Don’t Want Me For A Sunbeam."
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
NOTE: "I'll Leave It To You"
I've left this way too long to properly review it, but fans of Noel Coward should make it a point to catch his first play, the drawing room comedy "I'll Leave It To You" at Pentameters. Lots of fun, not too long (2 hr 10 INCLUDING two intervals), and brilliantly cast and performed.
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