A comment on a recent review of 'Julius Caesar' at the Donmar Warehouse

Today I divert slightly from the usual format of this blog to instead comment on Charles Spencer’s review of Julius Caesar currently playing at the Donmar Warehouse. (Without prejudicing any immediate response…I would fully advise reading aloud in a smug condescending tone to get the full effect).  

“For as long as I can remember, actresses have complained that there aren’t nearly enough decent parts for women… I was rather hoping that the wives of Brutus and Caesar would be played by men in drag but this is a feminist closed shop and chaps aren’t allowed.”

(Read the rest here if you fancy getting riled up http://bit.ly/VlP9xG)

So one can assume that Spencer has a problem with gender-blind or single-gender productions? Admittedly they’re not everyone’s cup of tea, fair enough, you don’t like musicals? I’m not going to drag you into ‘Wicked’ kicking and screaming.

Yet, it’s worth noting that Spencer’s 4* review of Twelfth Night/Richard III, comments on the all-male casting only once to applaud that “all the female characters are played, superbly, by men” (http://bit.ly/VPHO9t). Similarly his 5* acclaim of Propeller’s Comedy of Errors/Richard III at the Hampstead Theatre last year, he claims was his “privilege to witness”. Clearly Spencer has no issue with lauding all-male productions, which makes his following quote that little bit more repulsive than it would be if taken in isolation, “I vowed that I wouldn’t resort to Dr Johnson’s notorious line in which he compared a woman’s preaching to a “dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all””.

This is of course not to say that Phyllida Lloyd’s production should be immune to criticism simply for being all-female. That idea is (almost) equally as offensive as Spencer’s misogynistic drawl. Yet Spencer’s waffle illuminates the reasons why this production is brave in concept, his evident tone of surprise in his admission that “in fact some of the acting is excellent” advances what I assume is Lloyd’s aim, to assert the fact that Harriet Walter and Cush Jumbo are as capable of bringing Brutus and Cassius to the stage as Mark Rylance and Johnny Flynn are of giving us Olivia and Viola. Whilst there are elements of Lloyd’s production that could be subject to criticism, the gender of the actors, in my opinion, is a valid response to a swelling trend in all-male productions amid an industry that is already largely dominated by opportunities for male actors.

I normally use this space to write my own reviews yet I will spare your ears any further bashing. I encourage you to go to this production (if you can get hold of a ticket) so that you can form your own opinion of what is undoubtedly an important piece of theatre. In the meantime, I’d encourage all to stop reading the reviews of ‘certain individuals’ charged with influencing public opinion with the view that eventually column inches will be bestowed on someone with less embittered and antiquated sentiment.

Review: 'Every Man for Herself', The Courtyard Theatre, 17th January 2013

It has got to be said, the cabaret scene in Mussolini’s Italy isn’t a topic that’s likely to pop up on Family Fortunes any time soon. Dario Polmanari’s ‘Every Man for Herself’ intriguingly illuminates the plight of this otherwise overlooked group, telling their story whilst cleverly steering clear of wartime cliché. Nestled into the Courtyard’s studio theatre, the choice to bypass glamour and overdone glitz in their costume and staging gives an appropriate image of decayed flambuoyance and extravagance amid a cruel fascist regime.

It’s a tricky business to successfully pull off performing a ‘performance’, and the audience is thrown straight into the ‘show’ from the off. Unfortunately the company just misses the mark. The backstage scenes where the performers, which include a Jew and a homosexual, reveal their fear of being arrested by troops who have charged into the show, falls somewhat flat where it could easily be heart-rending. It would be nice to see an observable contrast between the extravagant onstage personas and the shrivelled, fearful reality backstage. Unfortunately I didn’t.  The performers’ themselves aren’t quite sharp or energetic enough to suggest that they do this on a daily basis, whilst the ‘real life’ personas don’t display enough humanity for an audience to engage with.

The underlying problem is one of execution rather than content (aside from a slightly whimsical ending which I think could be cut). Polmanari’s writing is innovative and thought provoking, given a little more development and tighter direction, this play’s potential could be fully realised. 2/5 

Review: 'Top Story', Old Vic Tunnels, 9th January 2013

Excitingly billed as a ‘darkly hilarious and poignant new comedy’, ‘Top Story’ documents a nation’s countdown to the apocalypse from the perspective of two largely nonplussed men in a flat, falls far short of the mark in admirably dull fashion.

The first ten minutes are somewhat promising. Friends Gus and Tarflyn, having evaluated their non-existent travel options, make the choice to spend the apocalypse together. Seconds later, they break into unrestrained panic upon realising they haven’t enough booze to carry them through to the end of the world. After a swift trip to the shop, calm is restored. Unfortunately however, this is where ‘Top Story’ peaks, and at the interval I found myself wishing that there had been some miscalculation and the meteor would obliterate the possibility of a second act.

In fairness, the two lead actors do what they can with a flat, spark-free script, which infuriatingly seems to feel that the key to ‘lad’ talk lies in sticking ‘mate’ on the end of every other sentence.  Their scenes are spliced with action from a TV studio providing apocalyptic updates. These revolve around a central theme of fittie newsreader ‘Chrissy’ being sexually propositioned by various male news reporters, funnyish at first, but after an hour or so it wears pretty thin. Additional cast members include two white-clad and entirely superfluous ‘angels’ who occasionally drift onstage to observe Gus and Tarflyn whilst musing over vague philosophical points.

The person who had the misfortune to be dragged along with me requested fairly early on that we leave. Wanting to know how ‘the end’ was going to be performed, I stayed. Probably an error. Exceeding my reasonably low expectations the final minutes can only be accurately described as a cop-out.SPOILER ALERT. Meteor doesn’t hit. The end. 2/5

Review: 'In the Republic of Happiness', Royal Court, 10th December 2012

Crimp’s latest offering opens with a promise of traditional festive fare. The dysfunctional family, porn guzzling Grandpa, two daughters, one pregnant, one volatile, deaf father and harrassed mother; have all united to bicker incessantly over their Christmas Dinner. This is until all is swiftly overturned by the arrival of the toe-curlingly unsettling ‘Uncle Bob’ (Paul Ready). Events turn progressively sinister as conversation nauseatingly begins to hint that this new visitor may be both Uncle and Father to the new addition to the family. 

For Crimp’s next bombshell, Miriam Beuther’s (incredible) set blasts open to make way for what appears to be the set of Jeremy Kyle. ‘The Five Essential Freedoms of the Individual’ is on a screened backdrop as all the cast members take a seat and proceed to talk over each other…for about 45mins, with musical interludes sung by the cast members

Needless to say, Crimp has no intention of breaking out Christmas Pudding and The Snowman in the Royal Court this year. However, chaotic, music-infused ‘Happiness’ somewhat loses momentum after the first 15 minutes of ‘Jeremy K’ time. Whilst one can see the merit in throwing an audience into an uncomfortable endurance test, I found myself disenchanted and bored with characters that had held such promise in the first half hour. Admittedly, given Crimp’s unabashed comment on the relentless, hollow pursuit of ‘individuality’, removing the characters’ quirks is probably the point.

Whilst I think I ‘got it’, the most telling comment I can make is that my only thought at the curtain call was deciding whether I needed a wee or not. Considering Crimp’s incredible preceding work, I was disappointed not to feel a mite challenged or unsettled as I left. 2/5

Review: 'Three Sisters', Young Vic, 15th October 2012

Traditionalists seeking enchantment are well advised to steer clear of Benedict Andrew’s ‘Three Sisters’, a gutsy, slap in the face revival of Chekhov’s tale of impassioned, frustrated aspiration amid rural Russia.

Those wary should note that the adaptation, though radical, is sourced from a literal translation, seamlessly fusing familiar lines such as Irina’s lament that her heart is “like a piano that’s been locked away and the key is lost” alongside the less recognisable, “heard the one about why God gave women orgasms?” The three siblings, (excluding Mariah Gale’s marvellous yet unwaveringly staid Olga), are fascinatingly precocious and deplorable, yet little satisfaction can be gained from their inevitable downfall. Rather, the unrestrained decadence of the Nirvana and Bowie bellowing characters of the first act are fantastically juxtaposed in the second as the stage is deconstructed around them, the arena that housed such debauched revelry gradually erased until no more remains.

Understandably, a play stuffed so boldly is unlikely to universally please.  The tubby, slovenly ‘Vicky Pollardesque’ Andrey, for example, though unarguably striking, seems, at times, a bit much. However, for a production that provides a simultaneously chilling, compelling and thought provoking three hours, these minor disagreements can easily be forgotten. 4/5

Review: Eastern Angles, I Heart Peterborough, Pleasance Courtyard, 24th August

As a born and raised Peterborian, Joel Horwood’s choice of title sold this to me from the off. I snapped up a ticket keeping one set of fingers crossed for dramatic genius and another partly hoping for a fabulous car crash, a) because I was at the fringe and b) what can one expect of a city that for a fair year or two was devoid of a functioning theatre?

The answer? An intense two-handed tale of strained paternal relationships, frustrated sexuality and floundering hopes and aspirations as two individuals sink into the monotony of the ‘nation’s beating heart of train travel’. 

The dusty 70s decor, and moth-eaten suited/gaudy sequinned protagonists contribute to a ‘Titanicky’ feeling that the last lifeboat pulled out of these two lives long before you entered the theatre. Horwood’s stars are Michael/Lulu (Milo Twomey), a transvestite so accustomed to physical conflict that she chuckles through smeared makeup as she regales further bloodshed; and Hew (Jay Taylor), Lulu’s formally estranged and clearly emotionally damaged son who earnestly battles through adolescence and ever-thwarted dreams of a musical career.

Horwood shapes his characters and his landscape with accurate bleakness and sensitivity. Indeed, Hew’s account of stumbling around outside the Met Lounge dazed and confused in the early hours of the morning harked back to occasions when my own teenage self sat in the same spot and sobbed my heart out on the pavement over one heartbreak or another. 

Whilst ‘I Heart Peterborough’ is far from the documentary, (much as every set of twins in Liverpool isn’t the victim of a fraternal shooting with a singing Nolan sister for a mother) what Horwood does in I Heart Peterborough is represent a long artistically-neglected region, a move which, ideally, will spark a deluge of writing from these under-represented regions nationwide. Here’s hoping… 

For those less emotionally and/or politically invested in the plight of nondescript midland towns however, Hew’s poignantly gut wrenching rendition of Kate Bush’s ‘Running Up that Hill’ will continue to haunt you long after you stroll out the Soho Theatre, where Horwood’s gem will be from the 9th of October. 5/5

Review: Milk Presents, A Real Man's Guide to Sainthood, 19th August, Underbelly Cowgate

Busting into Edinburgh complete with bicycles, ketchup, ping pong balls, music and manliness, ‘Milk Presents’ gift this years fringe with ‘A Real Man’s guide to Sainthood’, a self-proclaimed ‘disembowelling’ of the legend of Saint George. The piece niftily hijacks the national legend in order to comment on the prevalence of suicide amongst young men in the UK. Hand-drawn projections, multi-roling bicycles and a doe-eyed ‘George’ combine with a motherload of energy to provide entertaining, endearing and poignant food for thought. This is an hour that you’d definitely like to have in your life. 4/5