PIAF

Kytes Theatre Group at Brentwood Theatre

10.11.16

Pam Gems' dramatic biography of the great chanteuse is not a perfect play. Husbands, lovers, protégés go by in a flash, in a confusing sequence of disjointed scenes. In 1978, when many more people remembered The Little Sparrow and her remarkable story, the central performance [by Jane Lapotaire] was widely thought to be much better than the writing.

The same could well be said of this welcome Brentwood revival, directed for Kytes by Graham Poulteney. It is memorable chiefly for the outstanding performance of Tori Till in the title role. Sassy, crude, but vulnerable in her trademark black dress, she held the stage, especially in those moments in the spotlight, recreating the distinctive songs that made her famous. And that unique voice, easily heard over the traffic and the cutlery.

The tone, the timbre were uncannily accurate – a real frisson when a word - “bat”, or “sonne” say – absolutely hit the nostalgia spot. The acoustic Heaven Have Mercy, with live accompaniment on guitar, was touchingly done, and her No Regrets final number had huge emotional power, bringing fans to their feet as it did over half a century ago. And the final scenes, her tragic decline and her deluded determination, were movingly played.

She was well supported by Romy Brooks as her old mucker Toine, their love-hate relationship nicely suggested. Good work too from Wade Owojori in a multitude of roles, including the boxer Cerdan and the singer Montand, and from Gareth Locke as Little Louie and many others. The duologue between Leplée [Bob Thomson] and Coquatrix [Paul Sparrowham] in Act Two was convincingly done.

But this was a disappointingly flawed production. Forgivable perhaps on opening night were some hastily curtailed sound and light cues. None of Piaf's co-stars sang in French on stage. The odd cliché might be excusable too: bicycle, striped tee-shirt, baguette – only the onions missing. And no-one expected faultless French, although a stricter dialogue coach might have eliminated the worst howlers. The announcer, for example, had little to do other than to say, quite frequently, “Mesdames et Messieurs” … ironically the same actor was the American MC who couldn't get Edith's name right. And I don't think Aznavour was ever called Charlotte.

More surprisingly, Piaf was allowed [encouraged? directed?] to use a cod French accent throughout, which made it much more difficult to suggest her roots in the gutter and her emotional depths. Rather like asking Helen Mirren to play the Queen in a plastic mask. Bizarrely, not all the actors ventured down this “Allo Allo” avenue.

But good to be reminded so persuasively of the songs, and of La Môme's eventful life, though I would guess it might be hard to follow without at least some knowledge of her career and the colourful characters who briefly shared it with her.

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

Kytes at Brentwood Theatre

13.11.2014

Discovering a new play, well written, with something worthwhile to say about the human condition, performed with style and integrity by gifted actors, is rare anywhere. On the often denigrated am-dram scene, it is a cause for celebration.

Australian playwright Andrew Bovell's piece, from 1997, is new only in the sense that, to my shame, I'd heard of neither him nor his work. It forms the basis of a film, Lantana, screened in 2001.

Graham Poulteney's production for Kytes uses nine actors. Originally, all these characters were played by four, which would give it a more theatrical, less literal, less linear feel. But it is the right decision here – our actors, and our audience, have enough demands made on them as it is.

The drama begins with a virtuosic quartet – chamber music an easy analogy here – with overlapping, impeccably timed dialogue. Infidelity twice over. Later, in duet and solo aria, other themes, other stories emerge. And after the interval, the characters from these subplots take centre stage, the threads inexorably intertwining in a tragic tapestry.

All of the actors give compelling performances. Their hesitations, their lifelike speech patterns effortlessly convince us that we are eavesdropping on real people, feeling their real pain, even if the characters as written seem remarkably ungrounded culturally, or even geographically.

Lionel Bishop, for instance, the last piece in the jigsaw, makes a memorable impression as a man haunted by guilt.

His therapist wife, predictably with issues of her own, is heart-rendingly played by Sara Thompson, with Hayley Webber as her nervy, insecure patient, troubled by guilty memories of a long-forgotten affair with Paul Sparrowham's unhappy Neil, unable to let go. Mike Gordon gives a mysterious, slightly creepy, neighbour who may, or may not, have murdered one of the women ...

The two couples in Act One are Justin Cartledge, restless and confused, and Helen Pinson's plain Jane, each having a one-night stand with Amy Clayton's brilliantly observed Sonja – a mood change in a moment, excellent in the girls' duet in the bar, on her fourth martini – and Ray Johnson's policeman, a sympathetic performance which brings out the humour as well as the heartache.

An intriguing two hours – the symmetry, the dreams, the clichés, the linking motifs [shoes abandoned, women disappeared, faces disfigured], the parables, the patterns, the disturbing themes [trust and lust, betrayal and suspicion]. Simply staged – maybe even the phone box is superfluous – and precisely directed, this is thought-provoking theatre at its best.

WHAT THE BUTLER SAW

WHAT THE BUTLER SAW
Kytes Theatre Group
Brentwood Theatre
17.05.2014

Mary Redman was in the audience for Orton ...

Joe Orton, an outsider from an early age, was the enfant terrible of British theatre in the 1960s. His chief delight was to upset the apple cart of the Establishment with his plays and his behaviour. In this play he chose the straitjacket form and rules of farce, plus his wicked humour backed by his deadly accurate observations of human nature in all its weakness. Thus blowing sky high the pretensions of the comfortable middle classes with their entrenched views of how society should behave, contrasting with the hopeless helplessness of the lower classes.
Set in a private psychiatric clinic, this gives Orton an opportunity to use madness to examine the madness of the world around him.
This production directed by Bob Thompson started relatively quietly with an innocent and very proper young lady arriving for an interview as potential secretary to Justin Cartledge's twitchy Dr Prentice. As his demands grew more and more ludicrous Laura Leigh Newton's eyes became more and more saucer-like. Her understanding of how to play this ingénue role was superb and she would have made a wonderful member of any early Carry On cast in the Barbara Windsor kind of role.
Intruding into this hothouse of masculine desire comes Nina Jarram's totally OTT Mrs Prentice, a flourishing, whisky-swilling nymphomaniac ready to chase anything in trousers. She's closely followed by the apparently innocent hotel pageboy of Jake Portsmouth who is used to living on his wits.
The recipe gets stirred up further with increasingly preposterous excuses and events. 
To add to the seasoning Alan Ablewhite's Dr Rance's seemingly calm approach hiding his rampant sexuality as the inspector from the government. The two doctors collude to declare the would-be secretary non compos mentis and pump her full of drugs.
The final touch is the arrival of Mark Griffiths's Sergeant Match, the perfect PC Plod.
How much views have changed in the years since this play was written is reflected in Conchita Wurst: a man appearing as a woman and singing in a woman's voice but complete with a bearded face won an international competition by a country mile. And what was once considered pornographic is now mainstream in various forms of media.
Farce does impose rules on both director and cast. You have to play it absolutely straight to get the maximum humour across to your audience. In this production the hysteria began too soon leaving the actors nowhere else to go. As the doyen of theatrical critics Michael Billington once commented on an earlier, professional production "...Orton's subversive wit gets buried under an avalanche..."

STEPPING OUT

STEPPING OUT

Kytes at Brentwood Theatre

17.05.13

Richard Harris's dance-class classic is set – and frequently performed – in a church hall.

It follows a mixed-ability group of women [and Geoffrey] as they prepare a tap number for a charity show. As in A Chorus Line, we learn something of their lives, too, before they leave angst and animosity behind them in a sparkling finale.

Paul Sparrowham's production is full of throwaway observations – Chrissie Mallett's Sylvia and Daryl Adcock's brilliantly cantankerous Glenda particularly good at this – and has a strong cast of contrasting characters. The group dynamic is not consistently sustained though, and some of the lines, and all of the footwork, tend to be lost to the back rows. Claire Hilder is the choreographer [the dance sequences are excellent] as well as the teacher in the show, which must have made for some interesting rehearsals. I loved the moment where she stood at the back and proudly watched her ducklings in their final dress rehearsal.

Many other watchable performances, including Jackie Parry's insufferable Vera and Cindy Halliday's Maxine, who was once in Annie … Gary Catlin catches Geoffrey's insecurity well, though seems far too young for the part, with Kate Evans as poor little Andy.

Fred Astaires, buffaloes to the left, the pressure of impending performance causing cracks in the camaraderie, and, as an encore, the tappers twelve months on, with hats and canes both mastered, and Mrs Fraser hoofing it with the best of them.

THE FLINT STREET NATIVITY

THE FLINT STREET NATIVITY

Kytes at the Brentwood Theatre

08.11.12

for Remote Goat

The school Nativity Play – it's a shared cultural reference for nearly everyone, from the lowliest Shepherd to the loveliest Virgin. So it's no surprise that Tim [Calendar Girls] Firth's affectionate comedy presses all the right buttons – it's our eight-year-old selves we can see up on that makeshift stage.

This deservedly popular show [the Yorkshire Television version from 1999 is still available on DVD] is brightly updated and moved down to deepest Essex by the enterprising Kytes – Jordan, the Sugar Hut, Southend, all get a look-in, and the errant stick-insect [every year 2 classroom has one] is re-baptised Mo Farah.

An excellent ensemble, directed by Hayley Joanne Bacon, bring the kids to life: fidgeting, sulking, squabbling, bullying, waving to their mums and dads, living out their fears and their fantasies. And being naively truthful about themselves, their peers and their parents.

Graham Poulteney was the all-important narrator, eager to please his Dad, with his words on cue-cards. Josie Bruty brilliantly brought Mary to life – you could see why Miss Horrocks picked her – she's goody-goody, bossy and, unique among the cast, word perfect in all the songs. Her rival for this most coveted role was Tracy Richardson's evil angel Ashley, superbly observed. I also like the other angel, Amy Clayton's Siobhan – right from the opening she established a very believable character, and was touchingly inconsolable in tears towards the end. Gary Ball's football-made Herod was hilarious on Question of Sport, and memorably took a dive, furiously mouthing and gesturing his frustration. Candy Lillywhite-Taylor was the leader of the Magi, bossing poor Adrian [Alan Ablewhite], with his lisp and posh background, who has to deliver Frankincense. Fortunately he has Justin Cartledge's special needs Donkey to advise him – their duologue was one of the best moments of a rich script.

Pam Ambrose was the Shepherd, with her inflatable sheep, and the sinister Innkeeper was done as a strangely alluring bully by Bob Thompson.

And perhaps the most convincing eight-year-old, Paul Sparrowham as the Star. His vocal delivery and his body language both rang very true as he argued astronomy and invoked his hero "Uncle" Ted.

The end of the play is perhaps the cleverest part, where we see the parents whose lives have already been innocently exposed in their children's chatter. I was less sure about the songs. They provide a crucial insight into the lives of the kids and the adults, but they did seem to slow the otherwise lively pace of the production.

I wonder how many of the appreciative Brentwood audience will be seeing a "real" Nativity play this Christmas. And whether they'll ever be able to look at life around the Manger in quite the same way again ...

and for the Brentwood Weekly News:

The first of this year's seasonal shows: Kytes' brilliant version of Tim Firth's affectionate satire of the Nativity Play.

Famous-Five-style, the kids are all played by grown-ups, digging deep into their seven-year-old psyche to recreate the angst of what is for many their first taste of the stage. A nice touch to have the programme feature old photos of the actors as children.

Hayley Joanne Bacon gets lovely performances from all of her young charges. Hard to single anyone out in this strong ensemble, but Justin Cartledge does great work from inside his cardboard box donkey head, and Paul Sparrowham is entirely convincing in the less-than-stellar role of the Star of Bethlehem, eminently watchable, even holding up the scene cloth.

Excellent work, too, from the two Marys – Josie Bruty's fussy, perfectionist and Tracey Richardson's spiteful rival Virgin.

And loads of clever detail – the giant chair for the unseen, long-suffering class teacher, the Cabbage-Patch Jesus, the peeping round the curtain, the pointing at Mum, Dad and Social Worker out front.

I blame the parents, of course, and at the end we get to see them as they gather for a festive punch and mince pie. Herod's Dad [Gary Ball] on his blue-tooth, "Uncle" Ted and, most touching of all, Tim's Dad [Graham Poulteney], now separated, who's watched his son's Narrator through the classroom window.

HARVEY

HARVEY

Kytes Theatre Group at Brentwood Theatre

17.05.12

A daughter and her nervous mother receive no gentlemen callers. The embarrassing man in their life leaves the home to drink in cheap taverns and shady bars, and brings home unsuitable friends to play cards. Magazine subscriptions are sold to a "circle" over the phone.

Familiar Tennessee territory ? Well, this is the feel-good comedy Williams never wrote: Mary Chase's ever-popular Harvey.

This is the one – best known as a Jimmy Stewart vehicle on celluloid – about Elwood P, whose imaginary friend is 6 foot 1, and has holes in his hat where his ears poke through.

For her début as a director, Claire Hilder wisely assembled an experienced team of all the talents. Lionel Bishop was "the biggest screwball in town", giving a wonderful study of this oh so pleasant philanthropist – a laid-back, almost throwaway performance, but exuding childlike innocence and naïve charm.

The useless shrinks who fail to turn our harmless hero into a "perfectly normal human being" were Darren Matthews as Sanderson and Paul Sparrowham, predictably excellent as Chumley: his closing scene with Dowd – Pittsburgh and maple trees – was beautifully delivered.

Jeanette Tirmizey played the distraught mother, Emma Feeney her frustrated daughter. Plenty of pleasure to be had from the supporting cast, including Bob Thompson's taxi driver, Alan Thorley's judge and Sacha Flory's feisty nurse.

The clever set design – by the director and Dr Sanderson – swivelled to allow a reasonably seamless cross-fade from family mansion to funny farm, and the incidental music [Happy Days Are Here Again] neatly established period and mood.

Our visits to the bijou Brentwood venue sometimes recall a regular old-style repertory company: familiar, friendly faces playing a range of styles and roles over a season. This week, for instance, our two doctors and our Myrtle May, not to mention one of the lady callers and the director herself, were to be seen on this same stage just days ago in College Players' hugely entertaining Roxy Krasner.