THE RAMAYANA

THE RAMAYANA

The Crick Crack Club at the British Museum

10.12.17

for Remote Goat

The Ramayana is a vast, sprawling epic, which has come down to us in many forms. Largely through oral traditions.

So it is a good choice for storytelling specialists the Crick Crack Club; their presentation is much abbreviated, and wholly absorbing.

We’re promised a battle between good and evil, truth and illusion.

The tangled chain of tales is told by Emily Hennessey, with Sheema Mukherjee providing not only a wonderfully evocative musical soundscape, but also a rapt listener, and vocal support at key moments in the drama.

Hennessey, a performer steeped in the legend and lore of India, draws us in to the world of gods and avatars, as she follows the legend of Rama and Sita through time and across continents. “There was once a man and a woman,” she begins, “And they longed for children ...” But gods Brahma and Vishnu warn that the stars cannot be re-aligned; only Shiva, the destroyer, holds out hope, but warns that there will be consequences …

And at the end of the two-hour tale our storyteller reminds us that in our own world it’s not always easy to distinguish gods from demons, truth from illusion.

“Will there be loads of special effects?” wondered one of the many children in the audience. Of course ! – the very best kind, Cerebrally Generated Images, conjured by the story-teller’s art, of sea monsters, air-borne chariots, a golden deer, Shiva’s marvellous palace, the flying monkey Hanuman, ta mricaulous blue arrow, the paradise isle of Lanka, the ten-headed Ravana, the cosmic battle between monkeys and demons.

The Crick Crack Club return to the British Museum on February 11, this time with “Greek myths unleashed”.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Unfolds Theatre at the Rose Playhouse

04.08.17

for Remote Goat

A Dream to add to the pantheon, to join the “bathroom accessories” and the “30s Hollywood”, both from Shakespeare's Globe.

The theme this time is fairground. It works perfectly in this space, renowned for its chamber Shakespeare in an immersive style.

“Roll up, roll up ...” from the foyer, where you're encouraged to pin the tail on the donkey's bottom, to the intimate performance area, [Sullivan's hymn on the calliope], where there's inflatable hoopla and a card trick in which Verona meets Athens.

Once the main event gets underway, the gimmicks are reined in, with little details – the candyfloss, the inflatable dainty ducks, the goldfish-in-a-bag lanthorn – to bring us back to Dreamland, the name picked out in fairy lights over the water.

Alex Pearson, who has years of experience of bringing the Bard to life within these walls, gives us a lively, physical and very entertaining Dream. The grouping is perfectly planned, the rehearsal sequence wickedly observed. The mischief in the wood is lively and often very funny, the boys wrestling on the forest floor as the girls spar verbally. Theseus and Hippolyta dance cheek to cheek, the lovers sleep on the further shore, which does seem a little less involving after the proximity of the Mechanicals and Titania's bower.

A cast of eight, with much doubling. Not just the obvious Titania/Hippolyta [Cindy-Jane Armbruster] and Theseus/Oberon [beautifully spoken by Ian Hathway], but Robert Hazle, impressive both as an aggrieved Egeus and a fussy Quince, Rhiannon Sommers as Hermia, eloping with her luggage, and a shy Snug, hiding behind her buoyancy-aid Lion. Nick Oliver is a compelling, lustful Lysander, casual in a tee-shirt, as well as Starveling, Clark Alexander Demetrius, formal in a collar and tie, as well as a hilarious Thisby. His Pyramus – their death scene endlessly inventive – is Sydney Aldridge, pulling off the tricky double of Helena, comfort eating when the course of true love runs less than smooth, and Nicky Bottom, done as a sulky teen diva, slurping a slushy, chomping on a carrot as she recalls her dream. A triumph in the role, the most memorable female Bottom since Dawn French's wartime Dream of 2001. Equally engaging is Elinor Machen-Fortune's Puck; she's also an officious Philostrate, introducing the interlude and the Bergamasque jig, before coming back as Robin Goodfellow to bid us goodnight.

The audience is frequently drawn in to the action – as confidants, and, in the case of front-row Ricky, to play a very convincing Wall.

With his new company Unfolds Theatre, producer Pepe Pryke has brought to Shakespeare's Bankside an enchanting summer show for all the family – “swift as a shadow, short as any dream...” 

THE TEMPEST

THE TEMPEST

Sea-Change Theatre at the Rose Playhouse

23.06.17

for Remote Goat

Shakespeare probably saw his Tempest over the river at Blackfriars. He'd be bewildered to find it performed 400 years later on the sparse remains of The Rose, already dark by the time the play was penned.

He'd be intrigued by this beautifully simple staging, directed by Ray Malone and designed by Lu Firth. Ropes, crates, and a distant prospect of the very Romantic storm, which we view, with Miranda, from afar.

Sea-change, a women-only company, seeks to “invert the Elizabethan convention of male-only performances”. Their name is taken from Act I – one of Shakespeare's many coinings – and this was their inaugural production, first seen on Lesvos last year.

The cross-gendering works well, for the most part. Many of the male characters, names unchanged, become women. Others remain resolutely masculine – the clowns, the Neapolitan nobles, striking in their beards, black doublets and red sashes. No chance of meeting Claribel, but we do get to see Sycorax [Lottie Vallis] – a strong female role – conjured by Ariel in a very effective scene.

American actor Marianne Hyatt makes an imposing Prospero, the poetry beautifully delivered [though it's a shame that Our Revels was both misplaced and misremembered]. Her daughter is played by Lakshmi Khabrani, in an impassioned, and often passionate, reading. Kimberley Jarvis is a compelling Ferdinand; Lucianne Regan an angelic Ariel, in a long white robe which seems to sap some of the fun and the energy from an otherwise delightful interpretation. A strong Caliban from Rosie Jones, giving The Isle is Full of Noises to just one auditor in the front row, and a great Laurel and Hardy double-act from Vix Dillon and Gerry Bell as Stephano and Trinculo, the drunken butler – skin-head and England shirt … 

Sue Frumin, who wrote this version, makes several appearances as Myrtle, the mudlark peddling relics from the river. A good idea to root the production in the place, but like the hand-held projector, it didn't really work in practice.

The publicity might lead us to expect a more radical re-working, rather than this magical, captivating 90-minute Tempest, which though it has its own agenda, manages to respect the text, the place and the audience. Let's leave the really radical to the rival house across the way … 

OTHELLO'S GUILT

OTHELLO'S GUILT

at the Rose Playhouse, Bankside

22.092016

for Remote Goat

We walk into a desert, strewn with the essentials of survival. Boxes, a camping stove. A lone prisoner, in orange overalls, lies chained under a polythene shroud.

It's Othello, whose inner turmoil – the torments of hell, maybe - make up this compelling monologue.

Marco Gambino makes a welcome return to the Rose, after performing the Italian version of this piece – La Colpa di Otello – at the ancient amphitheatre in Segesta this summer.

The words are Shakespeare's, repeated and re-purposed by director Roberto Cavosi.

Key words and phrases recur: “What dost thou think, Iago?” - handkerchief, confession, slave - “Leave me, Iago!”, “I am bound to thee forever.” Like Jekyll and Hyde, the two men seem locked in a self-destructive struggle, Othello's jealousy fuelled by his nemesis Iago. Occasionally another voice is heard: Emilia, Desdemona.

Gambino's Moor is a tortured soul – farewell the tranquil mind; he utters his thoughts in a rich Shakespearean tone with a touch of his native Sicily. There are snatches of dramatic music – Alfredo Santoloci the composer. And Othello's solitary life is punctuated with small rituals – making coffee, taking a piss, failing to light a roll-up, clumsily shaving. Sand runs through his fingers as Desdemona protests her innocence. He contemplates the green-eyed monster through a glass darkly. And finally crawls back under the polythene to lie with arms outstretched.

A powerful, poetical study of one man's conscience, making for an intensely moving hour in the company of a captive racked by guilt, grief and remorse.

THE ALCHEMIST

THE ALCHEMIST

Mercurius at The Rose Playhouse, Bankside

10.06.16

Ben Jonson was no stranger to the Rose, but this perfect farce was written for an indoor space, and, ironically given the plot, was premièred in Oxford thanks to the plague.

It was last done on this tiny, temporary stage some three years ago.

Mercurius's riotously lively production begins with Labrinth's Earthquake, shaking the concrete rafters as Subtle and Face unpack their paraphernalia, ready to welcome a succession of the gullible to the house they've “borrowed” in the Blackfriars. Peter Wicks is the duplicitous butler, sporting an eye-patch as the captain, tongs as the alchemist's acolyte. Benjamin Garrison makes a gloriously fruity, flouncy charlatan, flopping onto his chaise longue and wrapping himself in his astrological throw. Doll Commmon, their “colleague”, as the programme coyly has it, is Beth Eyre, just as clever as the chaps at assuming a disguised persona.

Amongst the varied victims, all splendidly portrayed: Monty D'Inverno's Dapper [he was also the angry Kastril], Clark Alexander [who also plays the absent Lovewit, master of the house] as Abel Drugger, seeking to feng shui his tobacconist's shop, and Jeremy Booth's excellent Sir Epicure, eagerly seeking the philosopher's stone and relishing some of Jonson's richest, ripest language. Alec Bennie is his sceptical side-kick Surly, soon to return in Spanish guise. Some of the playwright's sharpest satire is reserved for the Puritans: Charlie Ryall's Anabaptist Ananias and Beth Eyre's splendidly named Tribulation Wholesome. Ryall also gives us Dame Pliant, the widow who weds Lovewit in the deft dénouement.

The echoing void is sparingly, but effectively used – shadowplay for the quarrel, and Mammon's imposing arrival.

“Take but the cues I give you; it shall be brief enough...” Pared down to the statutory ninety minutes, Jenny Eastop's relentlessly pacy Alchemist is fast and furious fun – the tinkly little doorbell scarcely stops ringing. Just the thing to ruffle the cobwebs and rouse the glorious ghosts of the old Rose.

MIRROR MIRROR

MIRROR MIRROR

Charles Court Opera at the King's Head Theatre

08.12.15

for Remote Goat

It's not every panto that opens Act Two with a funeral. But that's typical of the alternative take on the genre offered by Charles Court Opera. This is their ninth “boutique pantomime”, decamped for the first time to the King's Head.

John Savournin's script has plenty of weird and wonderful twists – Snow White is the widow of the late great Barry – who flies in for a guest appearance. And following a “cease and desist” from the Disney Corp the dwarfs are carefully re-christened: Gleeful, Crabby and poor old hippy Half Baked, blown to bits just before the interval.

But there's plenty of traditional festive fun – familiar jokes [tainted money, full frontal lobotomy, we were so poor, a warm hand on your entrance …] and even a bake-off food fight escalating from mini buns to cream pies. An eclectic clutch of songs, too, the lyrics re-worked by Savournin's co-writer and MD David Eaton. Reach For The Stars, A Natural Woman and of course Man In The Mirror. Plus a brilliant One Day More mash-up. Since this is an opera company, we're treated to marvellous unplugged voices, too.

Andrea Tweedale opens the show – after a snatch of prog-rock Polovtsian – as the Wicked Queen, Matthew Kellett plays all of the little people, Nichola Jolley is Harry, the valet turned frog footman, Amy J Payne makes a superb Larry, the Black Prince of Pretzel in a prominent purple cod-piece and Savournin himself plays a wonderful dame Snow White, squeezed like Alice into the bijou dwarf house [William Fricker's delightful design]. Their cross-dressed Aretha Franklin duet one of many priceless highlights.

The script is sparing with the topical/local references, though we do get the Garden Bridge, and a couple of Frozen gags. The space is ingeniously used, with the vast mirror concealing the dwarf kitchen and the forest, and the furry critters of the chorus popping up from windowsill and suitcase.

As usual, a brilliant blend of the familiar and the fantastic, “shimmering and glimmering” at the King's Head well into the New Year.

TRAVESTIES

TRAVESTIES

Tower Theatre Company at the Bridewell Theatre

07.04.15

for Remote Goat

Stoppard has been muttering recently about having to dumb down his latest play to help the audience understand it.

Lucky it's only Philosophy of Mind this time – forty years ago, in Travesties, the punters needed a working knowledge, inter alia, of James Joyce, the Savoy Operas, Lenin's role in the Bolshevik revolution, Wilde's Importance, the poetry of Dada and Gallagher and Shean from the Music Hall.

I think we coped well on the first night. True, we didn't guffaw at the Post Hock pun; even the aleatorily obscene Sonnet 18 failed to raise much of a titter.

But this unlikely tale of expats in 1917 Switzerland kept us entertained for a couple of intellectually stimulating and frequently hilarious hours.

The set [Michael Bettell], with its twin doors and tasteful dove grey/old rose décor, comfortably housed the public library, the drawing room, and a modest escritoire for Carr of the Consulate as he re-drafted his fallible memoir of the Zurich he knew.

That marathon role was shared by Bob Hough as the elderly autobiographer – just the right tone, just gaga enough – and Dom Ward, excellent as the sartorially impeccable young fop. His delivery of the Wildean wit was pin-sharp, his debate about art and flying [with Alan Madrell's equally assured Tzara] was a high point of the production. Sean McMullan brought energy and a polished accent to the role of James Joyce, while Adrian Calvo-Valderrama was an imposing Lenin, a compelling orator.

A strong supporting cast included Lisa Castle's superb Cecily [the simultaneous translation a particular delight], Sacha Walker's sympathetic Mrs Lenin, Camilla Fox's Gwendolen, and Robert Irvine's unbending Bennett, walking forward to lecture us on Russian politics as Henry scoffed cucumber sandwiches on the chaise longue.

The time-slips, a crucial part of Stoppard's vision, were here done by the older Carr scratching out, or tearing up, one draft after another of his reminiscences.

The piece is stuffed with allusions and throwaway gags. “I'm finding this conversation hard to follow,” was a sentiment shared by many, I guess. “It may be nonsense, but at least it's clever nonsense,” the only possible reply.

production photograph by Ruth Anthony

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

Lindisfarne at the Dixon Studio, 

the Palace Theatre Westcliff

for Remote Goat

23.10.10

Period furniture, several aspidistras, Lane [an unbending Simon Dunn] listening to Algernon's pianoforte practice.

An auspicious start to Lindisfarne's “Importance” in the Dixon Studio. “Style, not sincerity, is the vital thing”, as Oscar says.

The two bachelors, neither named Ernest, coped manfully with Wilde's precious language, and at least were the right age. The “ostentatiously eligible” Algernon was Nathan Spence; his friend Jack was Rory Joscelyne. They interacted well, though a crisper delivery, and better posture, might have improved their characterization.

I was impressed by Lizzie Smith's Cecily – a touch of the jolly hockey sticks and a hint of wickedness made for a memorable performance. She could also manage the accent - “little” the shibboleth here – and got most of what few laughs were going from a staid matinée audience. Her duel with Gwendoline [Kim Tobin] was very amusing; the weapons sugar tongs, cake slice and engagement rings. The overbearing Lady Bracknell, heralded by a very Wagnerian ring at the door, was Elaine Roberts. She looked and sounded like one raised in “the purple of commerce” - in Act Two she was done up like a Lemon Fancy – but she bristled effectively; I liked the way her hat's feathers trembled with indignation, her pince-nez and her use of the sal volatile before “the line is immaterial”.

Carol Hayes was a pert, almost pretty, Prism, but she was a convincing academic, thrilled by German grammar, and had some nice moments with Ian Morton's eager Chasuble.

The Gilbertian dénouement was briskly handled, and the couples joined in a decorous dance to round off the piece.

production promo video from the Lindisfarne Players