Another busy year, with
groups – from the biggest professional to the tiniest am-dram –
battling to entertain us through the recession.
Some of my five-star
hits were long-awaited: Kiss Me Kate at Chichester, Simon Callow
doing Dickens for Christmas, CYGAMS' Les Mis revival, Mark Rylance
back on the Globe stage as Olivia. But as ever, the unexpected gave
the greatest pleasure – Chris Barber, sharp and witty, providing a
superb two-hour set, or The Drowsy Chaperone, from Brentwood Operatic
[how can I have missed this one up to now?].
Last
show of the year, 180th audience I've joined in 2012, and
a special treat, the chance to catch up at last with Will Tuckett's
enchanting Wind in the Willows deep under the Royal Opera House in
the Linbury Studio.
Loads
of very young children in the audience, and they loved it, despite
very few concessions being made to tender years. There was a
literate, poetical narrative [written by Andrew Motion, no less,
pastoral often, but with urgent Night Mail rhythms for the exciting
dénouement] and plenty of theatrical magic – butterflies on
mittens, snowfall on the stalls for the carol singing, and a wardrobe
which disgorged the river. And through the wardrobe, not Narnia but
Toad's gypsy caravan. The police pursuit of the errant Mr Toad, in
his little motor, was conducted through the crowded foyer in the
interval ...
The
storyteller was Kenneth Grahame himself [Anthony McGill], guiding us
through the story and watching it unfold from his favourite armchair
in the attic.
The
music, played by a chamber ensemble, was inspired by George
Butterworth, composed by Martin Ward and conducted by Tim Murray.
There were songs, as well as dance, a pantomime dame for the Gaoler's
Daughter, even some Morris Dance work with handkerchiefs, and all the
unforgettable characters from the riverbank.
Will
Kemp was a superb Ratty, pipe clenched between his teeth, nicely
contrasted with Clemmie Sveass's modest, myopic Mole. Tom Woods made
a wise old Badger, and Cris Penfold's Toad was an amazing creation,
assuming a brilliant physical persona which exactly matched the
character Grahame's created. All the creatures were much more human
than animal; just a hint of make-up, a suggestion of fur. The weasels
were strutting teddyboys, the stoats, and the judge, beautifully
animated puppets.
The
whole experience held us all – from the tiniest to the most cynical
– enthralled, captivated by this Edwardian fantasy fable – "a
world at once impossible and true".
That
great philanthropist and social campaigner would be delighted to hear
his best Christmas story performed to raise funds for Great Ormond
Street.
This
revival by Pica Productions of Jim Crozier's adaptation travelled to
three Chelmsford villages just before the holidays, a timely reminder
of some of the real truths of the festive season.
It's
not a dramatization, but the narration, and the dialogue, is
creatively shared between the seven actors, with a refreshing variety
of voices. Not unlike Dylan Thomas's Play for Voices, Under Milk
Wood.
Scrooge,
the "grasping old sinner" at the centre of the story, was
Richard Baylis, who sensitively suggested the waggish human being
behind the Bah Humbug, and was moving in his change of heart.
Crozier
himself, as well as a narrator, was a finely characterized Cratchit,
Greg Whitehead played young Scrooge and his nephew – his infectious
laughter a tour-de-force. Beth Crozier, Anna Jeary and Debbie Miles
covered Dickens'women, from Mrs Dilber to Fan and Belle. Many plum
roles, and plummiest voices, came from Roger Johnson – Marley,
Fezziwig, the schoolmaster and the portly gentleman.
We
enjoyed the famous moments, of course, the death of Tiny Tim was
superbly done, but it was a real pleasure to meet the whole Cratchit
clan, and to be reminded of the story of Ali Baba and Crusoe's
parrot.
A
Christmas treat from CTW, James Christie and his comically gifted
cast.
The
Odd Couple has had a long and successful career on stage and screen –
now it is becoming a period piece, and the 60s setting was nicely
observed in this production, especially perhaps in the appearance of
the English girls from upstairs, played with a nice sense of style,
and effervescent enthusiasm, by Naomi Phillips and Vikki Pead.
The
Riverside Drive apartment was convincingly recreated too, with a nice
pair of louvred doors for the offstage kitchen.
The
action revolves around a poker school, and there were some lovely
characterizations here, notably Jesse Powis's cop, and Barry Taylor's
dyspeptic Speed. Though there was impetus a-plenty in their
exchanges, we did sometimes long for more rapport, a pacier overlap
of dialogue.
The
two writers of the title – fastidious Felix and "divorced,
drunk and slobby" Oscar were played by Kevin Stemp and Dave
Hawkes. Possibly the best double act to grace this stage, they both
inhabited their roles with total conviction – Oscar the
wisecracking kidult in his baseball cap and sneakers, Felix fragile
in his pain, awkward with the Pigeon girls, humming along to Mozart
as he dishes up.
The
music, too, was well used; a whole ballet "Too Good to be True"
developed for the big sulk that opens the final scene.
History
and tradition were respected at St Laurence this year: ending with
Stille Nacht to send us off into the night, and beginning with
Gaudete, Ben Parry's arrangement of an ancient tune which may well
have echoed round these walls when the great Priory still dominated
the village.
But
there was a healthy injection of new music, too. Conductor
Christopher Tinker led us through Matthew Owens' very different
setting of The Holly and the Ivy, Thomas Hewitt Jones' What Child Is
This, with its haunting motif [Michael Frith at the organ], Will
Todd's My Lord Has Come, and Bob Chilcott's lively Sussex Carol
arrangement, rhythmic and harmonically interesting, the tune often in
the lower voices. All performed with care and commitment, the voices
of this chamber choir blending effectively in these lovely
surroundings.
The
reading this year, by Mavis Holmes, was Kipling's Eddi's Service
[where the congregation – "such as cared to attend" –
were the Ox and the Ass] looking back to an early Christmas at St
Wilfrid's in remotest Sussex, a church even older than Blackmore's
ancient Priory.
Eddi,
priest of St. Wilfrid In his chapel at Manhood
End, Ordered a midnight service For such as cared
to attend.
But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well. Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.
"'Wicked weather for
walking," Said Eddi of Manhood End. "But
I must go on with the service For such as care to
attend."
The altar-lamps were lighted, --
An old marsh-donkey came, Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.
The storm beat on at the
windows, The water splashed on the floor, And a
wet, yoke-weary bullock Pushed in through the open
door.
"How do I know what is greatest,
How do I know what is least? That is My Father's business,"
Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.
"But -- three are gathered
together -- Listen to me and attend. I bring good
news, my brethren!" Said Eddi of Manhood
End.
And he told the Ox of a Manger And a
Stall in Bethlehem, And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider,
That rode to Jerusalem.
They steamed and dripped in the
chancel, They listened and never stirred, While,
just as though they were Bishops, Eddi preached them
The World,
Till the gale blew off on the marshes
And the windows showed the day, And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.
And when the Saxons mocked him,
Said Eddi of Manhood End, "I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend."
