... And back to the Tuxedo Cat it was for a piece I really did want to see: Joel Tito's The Trial and Death of Socrates (No Relation). As an impatient queue formed in the corridor outside the former office space, Tito suddenly burst out into the corridor in full Japanese regalia, shooing us into the performance space and then delivering a diatribe in Japanese that went on for some time. Of course, it was the old joke about the wrong warm-up act being booked (alas, there's nothing much more to be wrung from this gag since the brilliant Martin-Molloy series of botched musical finales on The Late Show in the early 90's). This got good, though, when our sanmaime had the bright idea of plugging his observations into Google Translate and allowing his tablet to read the English version back to the audience.
Anyway, this was over soon enough, and the imaginary curtain rose on Socrates, a shut-in loser, whose faults are enumerated by an invisible voiceover which insists, in respect of each, that "for this, he must die". Along the way there is a good deal of absurdist adventure - Tito is convincingly pathetic and lonely (so desperate for affection that he orders pizza in the hope he can persuade the delivery guy to give him a hug) - and some audience participation, especially in a lengthy sketch where Socrates is welcomed to a new church by an evangelist minister feuding with his sound guy. And there's a highly amusing auction sequence culminating in the attempted sale of an entirely plagiarised manuscript (inspired by the strange tale of Quentin Rowan, perhaps?)
The premise is slight, and the "twist" ending somewhat telegraphed, but it's still pretty funny stuff. Tito works his audience hard, but rewards us with a lot of laughs as well. Worth catching, if it returns at a comedy festival near you.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Melbourne Fringe: Trying Hard (Alasdair Tremblay-Birchall)
The beauty and the terror of Fringe Festivals everywhere is the sheer volume and variety of what's on offer. I've often thought it would be great to take a week off (with the weekend on either side) and just go and gorge myself at the Melbourne Fringe, but four shows a day for nine days is still only 36 shows, which is only about one-tenth of the programme. So choosing what to see is either vitally important or virtually irrelevant - I went the latter route and aimed for (a) what fit around my work schedule and (b) was near my hotel.
And thus I squeaked in to the Tuxedo Cat just in time for Alasdair Tremblay-Birchall's one-man show Trying Hard. A room in a barely-converted office space was nearly full with a very friendly crowd when Tremblay-Birchall hopped on to the stage in a giant amoeba costume. Yes, the first part of the show was about evolution - and the continuing layers of costume, one beneath another, were crude but clever (and the retro-style sign his friend made him was very professional). Tremblay-Birchall's material here was not entirely comfortable, it seemed to me: the theme was how each character badly wanted to become something else, became that thing, and regretted it (despite still loving that thing); the awkward but unavoidable subtext appeared to be that he regrets leaving engineering for comedy. An easy thing to understand for anyone who's tried to make a living from their bliss only to find commerce sucks the joy out of it.
His second half was more conventional stand-up, and funnier, though he fell back on some very well-used tropes (yes, male genitalia is HILARIOUS!). He clearly had a lot of supporters in the room, but he got some genuine laughter from me too. If I happened to be passing his next gig I might well stick my head in, but I probably won't prioritise it at my next Fringe foray - there's just too much else to choose from!
And thus I squeaked in to the Tuxedo Cat just in time for Alasdair Tremblay-Birchall's one-man show Trying Hard. A room in a barely-converted office space was nearly full with a very friendly crowd when Tremblay-Birchall hopped on to the stage in a giant amoeba costume. Yes, the first part of the show was about evolution - and the continuing layers of costume, one beneath another, were crude but clever (and the retro-style sign his friend made him was very professional). Tremblay-Birchall's material here was not entirely comfortable, it seemed to me: the theme was how each character badly wanted to become something else, became that thing, and regretted it (despite still loving that thing); the awkward but unavoidable subtext appeared to be that he regrets leaving engineering for comedy. An easy thing to understand for anyone who's tried to make a living from their bliss only to find commerce sucks the joy out of it.
His second half was more conventional stand-up, and funnier, though he fell back on some very well-used tropes (yes, male genitalia is HILARIOUS!). He clearly had a lot of supporters in the room, but he got some genuine laughter from me too. If I happened to be passing his next gig I might well stick my head in, but I probably won't prioritise it at my next Fringe foray - there's just too much else to choose from!
Friday, October 12, 2012
At the Q: Ladies Night (Jally Productions)
Ooh, this is a hard one - no pun intended.
And that was pretty much the standard for the evening. Ladies Night is famously the Kiwi play it's claimed was ripped off by The Full Monty, about a group of unemployed guys who decide they can make some quick cash by putting on a charity-case strip show (hey, it's not as if the ladies are very discriminating - after all, look who they've married, amirite, girls?). Though the authors lost their case on a technicality (they sued in the wrong jurisdiction), on watching this it was hard to drum up much sympathy for them. The play lacks the heart, character development and emotional resonance of Monty - we don't know why these guys are broke, we know next to nothing about their relationships, and personal growth seems to consist of one guy getting unexpectedly laid (and skiting like a lout about it) and another suddenly turning up in a frock. We're given no reason to like these guys or care about their futures: it's an unsatisfying text.
There's still fun to be had, largely from watching the lads make total fools of themselves, but this incarnation of the play by Jally Productions has a curiously amateur feel about it; while featuring a few notable veterans like Alli Pope and Ken James, it also features a bunch of slightly miscast hopefuls whose CVs seem to consist of no-brand local pantomimes. That's not to say they're bad (they're not), but they're clearly not professional, and they don't quite match their characters. And direction is also a little off, with some lengthy set changes and a few other odd decisions, such as giving a Sunshine Coast local radio host a smarmy American accent. Not that most of the audience cared much, especially when the lads got their gear off (yes, all of it).
Me - I was disappointed. Though possibly not as disappointed as the sweet young thing in ridiculously optimistic shoes who struck up a conversation with me at interval, confiding with shining eyes that she was meeting up with a member of the touring crew after the show. As I went in for the second act, I saw the gentleman in question leaning back with his feet up on the chairback in front, chatting up a blonde. La plus ca change...
And that was pretty much the standard for the evening. Ladies Night is famously the Kiwi play it's claimed was ripped off by The Full Monty, about a group of unemployed guys who decide they can make some quick cash by putting on a charity-case strip show (hey, it's not as if the ladies are very discriminating - after all, look who they've married, amirite, girls?). Though the authors lost their case on a technicality (they sued in the wrong jurisdiction), on watching this it was hard to drum up much sympathy for them. The play lacks the heart, character development and emotional resonance of Monty - we don't know why these guys are broke, we know next to nothing about their relationships, and personal growth seems to consist of one guy getting unexpectedly laid (and skiting like a lout about it) and another suddenly turning up in a frock. We're given no reason to like these guys or care about their futures: it's an unsatisfying text.
There's still fun to be had, largely from watching the lads make total fools of themselves, but this incarnation of the play by Jally Productions has a curiously amateur feel about it; while featuring a few notable veterans like Alli Pope and Ken James, it also features a bunch of slightly miscast hopefuls whose CVs seem to consist of no-brand local pantomimes. That's not to say they're bad (they're not), but they're clearly not professional, and they don't quite match their characters. And direction is also a little off, with some lengthy set changes and a few other odd decisions, such as giving a Sunshine Coast local radio host a smarmy American accent. Not that most of the audience cared much, especially when the lads got their gear off (yes, all of it).
Me - I was disappointed. Though possibly not as disappointed as the sweet young thing in ridiculously optimistic shoes who struck up a conversation with me at interval, confiding with shining eyes that she was meeting up with a member of the touring crew after the show. As I went in for the second act, I saw the gentleman in question leaning back with his feet up on the chairback in front, chatting up a blonde. La plus ca change...
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Canberra Theatre: Sasha Regan's Pirates of Penzance
It's a bit unfashionable to like Gilbert & Sullivan. Long out of copyright, familiar, tuneful and funny, the Savoy Operas are a mainstay of every amateur company from your local primary school to the retirement village down the road. And, as the glorious Anna Russell observes, at any given time, in any given place, someone is putting one on.
But, I frankly confess it, I adore Gilbert & Sullivan, know great swathes of the dialogue by heart, and lulled myself to sleep through many an adolescent trauma to an ancient cassette tape of the collected Overtures. They're so familiar that it's easy to forget how witty and pretty the words and music are, and to wonder if there's anything that could really make a chestnut like Pirates fresh again.
Well, brava! Sasha Regan - because she's done it, and in spades, in this quite irresistible all-male production.
Given recent events in gender politics, I wasn't sure a drag show was going to be quite the thing, and when a sole piano player (MD Michael England) started to push out some spare-sounding drawing-room chords in a venue more accustomed to orchestras, my doubts deepened. But I was converted almost immediately: it was the perfect accompaniment to the unamplified voices of a crew of handsome young pirates, in costumes reminiscent of a gym class at an Edwardian boys' public school.
The resemblance was only emphasized when they re-emerged in white skirts and a few corsets, as the Major-General's daughters. This isn't drag, it's not even camp; it's just young men, not really pretending to be women, without wigs or makeup, playing the roles as they might at an all-boys school. It's wholly delightful, and some of the voices, in particular Alan Richardson as the coloratura Mabel, were nothing short of amazing. Other performances of note were Joseph Houston as Ruth (uncannily like David Marr when made up as middle-aged; the image of the young Rupert Everett when not), Adam Vaughan as the Sergeant, the dashing Nic Gibney as the Pirate King. Stewart Charlesworth, in Velma haircut and specs, was utterly convincing as Edith, the willowy Dale Page was quite mesmerising as Kate; and Matthew Gent, with his handsome face and gorgeous tenor, was a perfect Frederic.
This is a very funny, fresh and endearing production, and the Canberra audience very clearly could not have loved it more. It's touring all over the place - in fact, some quite unexpected places - and if you can possibly get yourself to one of them, I urge you to do so. Years from now you'll still find yourself smiling when you think of it.
But, I frankly confess it, I adore Gilbert & Sullivan, know great swathes of the dialogue by heart, and lulled myself to sleep through many an adolescent trauma to an ancient cassette tape of the collected Overtures. They're so familiar that it's easy to forget how witty and pretty the words and music are, and to wonder if there's anything that could really make a chestnut like Pirates fresh again.
Well, brava! Sasha Regan - because she's done it, and in spades, in this quite irresistible all-male production.
Given recent events in gender politics, I wasn't sure a drag show was going to be quite the thing, and when a sole piano player (MD Michael England) started to push out some spare-sounding drawing-room chords in a venue more accustomed to orchestras, my doubts deepened. But I was converted almost immediately: it was the perfect accompaniment to the unamplified voices of a crew of handsome young pirates, in costumes reminiscent of a gym class at an Edwardian boys' public school.
The resemblance was only emphasized when they re-emerged in white skirts and a few corsets, as the Major-General's daughters. This isn't drag, it's not even camp; it's just young men, not really pretending to be women, without wigs or makeup, playing the roles as they might at an all-boys school. It's wholly delightful, and some of the voices, in particular Alan Richardson as the coloratura Mabel, were nothing short of amazing. Other performances of note were Joseph Houston as Ruth (uncannily like David Marr when made up as middle-aged; the image of the young Rupert Everett when not), Adam Vaughan as the Sergeant, the dashing Nic Gibney as the Pirate King. Stewart Charlesworth, in Velma haircut and specs, was utterly convincing as Edith, the willowy Dale Page was quite mesmerising as Kate; and Matthew Gent, with his handsome face and gorgeous tenor, was a perfect Frederic.
This is a very funny, fresh and endearing production, and the Canberra audience very clearly could not have loved it more. It's touring all over the place - in fact, some quite unexpected places - and if you can possibly get yourself to one of them, I urge you to do so. Years from now you'll still find yourself smiling when you think of it.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
NT Live: The Curious Incident of the Dog In the Night Time
NT Live is a glorious, glorious thing. For the fraction of the price of a normal ticket, one can go to the Dendy and see a live (or nearly live) broadcast of the best productions the UK National Theatre has to offer (which is to say, some of the best in the world). What's more, you get to see them from the best possible angles, and you get to sit in comfy cinema seating with your drink and choc-top. You also get a bit of a pre-theatre talk, credits, and even an interval in which to refresh your glass of bubbles. If you could buy a programme it would be practically perfect. Sod the sunshine, this is how I like to spend a weekend afternoon!
Mark Haddon's Whitbread-award-winning novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is one of my favourite books (as one might expect, with the title referencing one of my favourite stories). But I was curious to see how dramaturge Simon Stephens would translate it to the stage, with some challenging logistics (such as a seminal train trip from Swindon to Wilston) and, more importantly, a narrative told in a peculiarly introspective fashion, in the first person POV of Christopher, a 15 year-old autistic boy (a heart-stopping, wonderful performance by Luke Treadaway), who has discovered his neighbour's dog "murdered" with a garden fork, and sets out to uncover the killer.
When done well, the device of the "unreliable narrator" in fiction is one of my favourite things. But how do you translate that to stage, when you only have the boy's actions to observe, and can't connect the dots of the internal monologue?
As it turns out quite well, by having the boy's story read back to him by the schoolteacher Siobhan (the warm and persuasive Niamh Cusack), an excellent device which allows her to stop and engage with Christopher about what he means by the words he's written. The script is a very faithful translation of the original novel; my only tiny kvetch is that a couple of deeply moving scenes in the book are portrayed nearly casually here - a character in Act Two reaches out to Christopher who is entirely unable to appreciate what that means to her; in the book this almost broke my heart, in the play it seems almost brushed aside. But these exceptions are rare.
The cast is outstanding - well, of course it is, it's the NT. There's no point in singling out anyone apart from Treadaway, because every performance, from veteran Una Stubbs to an extra eating a chocolate biscuit, is pitch perfect. But if there is another star in this production, it's the set, an electronic grid by Bunny Christie which is also a chalkboard, and which serves brilliantly as everything from an escalator to the seats of a railway carriage), supplemented by Paule Constable's exceptional lighting design. The in-the-round, steeply raked seating of the Cottesloe Theatre means that on occasions the actors can lie on the floor against patterns on the grid, and form an aerial picture (wonderful movement direction from Scott Graham & Steven Hoggett) - very clever, but something likely to be very difficult to replicate in other venues. It's also where NT Live really shines, because you could not get a view this good from any single spot in the actual theatre (I felt it was a bit of a cheat, to be honest, to be able to view this from so many angles when the live audience could not).
There's a slight mawkishness at the end, but it brings the optimism that's needed - and make sure you stay on after the curtain call for an extra treat, especially if you're mathematically minded. I'd love to see this live in a theatre if it ever tours Australia, and I'll be fascinated to see whether the design can be replicated in a venue other than the Cottesloe.
Mark Haddon's Whitbread-award-winning novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time is one of my favourite books (as one might expect, with the title referencing one of my favourite stories). But I was curious to see how dramaturge Simon Stephens would translate it to the stage, with some challenging logistics (such as a seminal train trip from Swindon to Wilston) and, more importantly, a narrative told in a peculiarly introspective fashion, in the first person POV of Christopher, a 15 year-old autistic boy (a heart-stopping, wonderful performance by Luke Treadaway), who has discovered his neighbour's dog "murdered" with a garden fork, and sets out to uncover the killer.
When done well, the device of the "unreliable narrator" in fiction is one of my favourite things. But how do you translate that to stage, when you only have the boy's actions to observe, and can't connect the dots of the internal monologue?
As it turns out quite well, by having the boy's story read back to him by the schoolteacher Siobhan (the warm and persuasive Niamh Cusack), an excellent device which allows her to stop and engage with Christopher about what he means by the words he's written. The script is a very faithful translation of the original novel; my only tiny kvetch is that a couple of deeply moving scenes in the book are portrayed nearly casually here - a character in Act Two reaches out to Christopher who is entirely unable to appreciate what that means to her; in the book this almost broke my heart, in the play it seems almost brushed aside. But these exceptions are rare.
The cast is outstanding - well, of course it is, it's the NT. There's no point in singling out anyone apart from Treadaway, because every performance, from veteran Una Stubbs to an extra eating a chocolate biscuit, is pitch perfect. But if there is another star in this production, it's the set, an electronic grid by Bunny Christie which is also a chalkboard, and which serves brilliantly as everything from an escalator to the seats of a railway carriage), supplemented by Paule Constable's exceptional lighting design. The in-the-round, steeply raked seating of the Cottesloe Theatre means that on occasions the actors can lie on the floor against patterns on the grid, and form an aerial picture (wonderful movement direction from Scott Graham & Steven Hoggett) - very clever, but something likely to be very difficult to replicate in other venues. It's also where NT Live really shines, because you could not get a view this good from any single spot in the actual theatre (I felt it was a bit of a cheat, to be honest, to be able to view this from so many angles when the live audience could not).
There's a slight mawkishness at the end, but it brings the optimism that's needed - and make sure you stay on after the curtain call for an extra treat, especially if you're mathematically minded. I'd love to see this live in a theatre if it ever tours Australia, and I'll be fascinated to see whether the design can be replicated in a venue other than the Cottesloe.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
ANU SoM/The Street: Albert Herring
I was completely charmed by this production.
My feelings for Benjamin Britten vary as widely as his music does; I will confess it: I'm an old-fashioned type, and I like a nice tune. There are a few nice tunes in Albert Herring, but most of the score is post-romantic and not particularly melodic. It's nevertheless pleasing, and the facility of the (mainly) young cast in singing to the sometimes counter-intuitive orchestral score is admirable.
In the English village of Loxford, assorted worthies are assembled to recommend suitable prospects for the title of Queen of the May to the Lady (Billows) of the Manor (a fabulously horsey Rachael Thoms, embodying every Aunt in the Wodehousian canon, and sounding splendid). But her factotum, Florence Pike (Julia Wee is gender-bendingly good), has dirt on every girl in town. And so presents the idea of a May King - blameless mother's boy Albert Herring, the greengrocer's clerk. Albert's friends Sid and Nancy (I kid you not), who must have missed the awful fate of Gussie Fink-Nottle some 13 years earlier in "Right Ho, Jeeves", spike his drink so that he's not too nervous to speak in public, and Mayhem Ensues.
What a great choice of vehicle this is for a student production. The music is challenging, but the scale is small, and very clever direction from Caroline Stacey means that any weaknesses (and there really aren't many) are easily submerged in comedy. The small group of village worthies (stand-outs are Jessica Westcott as Miss Worthington the headmistress, and Norman Meader as the self-important mayor) is beautifully choreographed, and the three children (particular props to Laura Griffin, adorable as Emmie), zoom about the stage like giggling Pac-Men. Imogen Keen's costumes are inspired, and there's great use of props; a simple but clever and highly utilitarian set from Gillian Schwab, and an effective lighting design from PJ Williams.
The chamber orchestra, conducted by Rick Prackhoff, is faultless - my only gripe was that they seemed very badly dressed, but this was amusingly resolved in Act Three. (Though I still think they could have scrubbed up a little better without ruining the joke).
As the eponymous hero, Robert Shearer fits the bill (or Albert) so perfectly I wondered fleetingly if this production had been tailored around him. Also deserving of mention are Rohan Thatcher as the dashing Sid, and Elora Ledger as the kind and lovely Nancy. And Krystle Innes, fresh from her star turn as 15 year old Tracey Turnblad in Hairspray, stacks on 30 years with disconcerting ease to play Albert's overbearing mother in a performance just as excellent.
I should note that I saw this production on Saturday night, and some of the roles are alternating, so I will have missed some performances that were probably noteworthy. I'm only sorry that it's been such a short run - five performances in three days. There's one more chance to catch it, tonight, and at such a ridiculously small ticket price, it's really worth the effort.
My feelings for Benjamin Britten vary as widely as his music does; I will confess it: I'm an old-fashioned type, and I like a nice tune. There are a few nice tunes in Albert Herring, but most of the score is post-romantic and not particularly melodic. It's nevertheless pleasing, and the facility of the (mainly) young cast in singing to the sometimes counter-intuitive orchestral score is admirable.
In the English village of Loxford, assorted worthies are assembled to recommend suitable prospects for the title of Queen of the May to the Lady (Billows) of the Manor (a fabulously horsey Rachael Thoms, embodying every Aunt in the Wodehousian canon, and sounding splendid). But her factotum, Florence Pike (Julia Wee is gender-bendingly good), has dirt on every girl in town. And so presents the idea of a May King - blameless mother's boy Albert Herring, the greengrocer's clerk. Albert's friends Sid and Nancy (I kid you not), who must have missed the awful fate of Gussie Fink-Nottle some 13 years earlier in "Right Ho, Jeeves", spike his drink so that he's not too nervous to speak in public, and Mayhem Ensues.
What a great choice of vehicle this is for a student production. The music is challenging, but the scale is small, and very clever direction from Caroline Stacey means that any weaknesses (and there really aren't many) are easily submerged in comedy. The small group of village worthies (stand-outs are Jessica Westcott as Miss Worthington the headmistress, and Norman Meader as the self-important mayor) is beautifully choreographed, and the three children (particular props to Laura Griffin, adorable as Emmie), zoom about the stage like giggling Pac-Men. Imogen Keen's costumes are inspired, and there's great use of props; a simple but clever and highly utilitarian set from Gillian Schwab, and an effective lighting design from PJ Williams.
The chamber orchestra, conducted by Rick Prackhoff, is faultless - my only gripe was that they seemed very badly dressed, but this was amusingly resolved in Act Three. (Though I still think they could have scrubbed up a little better without ruining the joke).
As the eponymous hero, Robert Shearer fits the bill (or Albert) so perfectly I wondered fleetingly if this production had been tailored around him. Also deserving of mention are Rohan Thatcher as the dashing Sid, and Elora Ledger as the kind and lovely Nancy. And Krystle Innes, fresh from her star turn as 15 year old Tracey Turnblad in Hairspray, stacks on 30 years with disconcerting ease to play Albert's overbearing mother in a performance just as excellent.
I should note that I saw this production on Saturday night, and some of the roles are alternating, so I will have missed some performances that were probably noteworthy. I'm only sorry that it's been such a short run - five performances in three days. There's one more chance to catch it, tonight, and at such a ridiculously small ticket price, it's really worth the effort.
Bell Shakespeare: School for Wives
I've had seriously varied reactions to Bell Shakespeare productions lately; a bit like the Star Trek movie franchise: great and awful in turns. Loved the 2010 King Lear. Absolutely loathed Julius Caesar. Thought Much Ado About Nothing was a glorious and unalloyed delight. Was alternately irritated and bored by this year's Macbeth. So I was due to enjoy School for Wives, and am happy to report that I did.
The opening scene reminded me strongly of Patrick Barlow's adaptation of The 39 Steps (ie, the insanely funny four-hander), while the close-out felt like a hat-tip to Richard Bean's One Man, Two Guvnors. Auspicious influences indeed, even if this production isn't quite in that league.
John Adam puts in a massive rollercoaster performance as Arnaude, a chauvinist so extreme that he bought a girl at age 4 and has kept her locked in a convent for 14 years to make certain she will know nothing but her place - and naturally will also be too ignorant to know what she's missing when he finally marries her. Hilarious, non? (It ought to be; it's not Moliere's fault that current conservative voices have rendered Arnaude's more outrageously misogynistic pronouncements less absurd than some presently befouling the airwaves.) But of course the path of twisted and inappropriate love runs no more smoothly than that of the true variety, and Arnaude's bonsai bride-to-be Agnes (an absolutely brilliant Harriet Dyer) promptly falls for Horace, the first other man she meets (not so surprising when it's Myene Wyatt, who moves like an angel).
Justin Fleming's translation is pacy and witty but possibly suffers from being a little too true to the original; some scenes - such as one where Arnold's doltish servants insult and abuse him - seem a bit pointless and might have been better cut. The rhyming script is a remarkable piece of work, but sometimes it feels a little forced.
Costumes were excellent, and one lovely subtlety was seeing Agnes come on in similar yellow frocks which increased in brightness as her awareness grew too. The 1920's Paris setting added freshness and comic opportunity; though I did wonder at one point what a Frenchman might be doing with a cricket bat. The moveable set had some advantages - one might be recycling: I swear that was the same scaffolding and stage lights that Bell used in Julius Caesar last year - but I think will work best when viewed squarely front on. I was seated to the side, and suspect I missed the full effect of having assorted screens and frames lined up to best advantage.
Finally, a special mention has to go to Mark Jones, the Bill Bailey doppelganger who provides brilliant comic support on piano, kazoo and assorted percussion (I was deeply impressed with his ability to articulate unmistakeably the phrase "WTF" using only a kazoo. It's all in the intonation). Jones is hilarious and I don't know if the decision to add this accompaniment came from Fleming or director Lee Lewis, but it's inspired.
I hope Bell keeps bringing us more of this stuff; I sense rich opportunity in next November's A Comedy of Errors. Recommended viewing.
The opening scene reminded me strongly of Patrick Barlow's adaptation of The 39 Steps (ie, the insanely funny four-hander), while the close-out felt like a hat-tip to Richard Bean's One Man, Two Guvnors. Auspicious influences indeed, even if this production isn't quite in that league.
John Adam puts in a massive rollercoaster performance as Arnaude, a chauvinist so extreme that he bought a girl at age 4 and has kept her locked in a convent for 14 years to make certain she will know nothing but her place - and naturally will also be too ignorant to know what she's missing when he finally marries her. Hilarious, non? (It ought to be; it's not Moliere's fault that current conservative voices have rendered Arnaude's more outrageously misogynistic pronouncements less absurd than some presently befouling the airwaves.) But of course the path of twisted and inappropriate love runs no more smoothly than that of the true variety, and Arnaude's bonsai bride-to-be Agnes (an absolutely brilliant Harriet Dyer) promptly falls for Horace, the first other man she meets (not so surprising when it's Myene Wyatt, who moves like an angel).
Justin Fleming's translation is pacy and witty but possibly suffers from being a little too true to the original; some scenes - such as one where Arnold's doltish servants insult and abuse him - seem a bit pointless and might have been better cut. The rhyming script is a remarkable piece of work, but sometimes it feels a little forced.
Costumes were excellent, and one lovely subtlety was seeing Agnes come on in similar yellow frocks which increased in brightness as her awareness grew too. The 1920's Paris setting added freshness and comic opportunity; though I did wonder at one point what a Frenchman might be doing with a cricket bat. The moveable set had some advantages - one might be recycling: I swear that was the same scaffolding and stage lights that Bell used in Julius Caesar last year - but I think will work best when viewed squarely front on. I was seated to the side, and suspect I missed the full effect of having assorted screens and frames lined up to best advantage.
Finally, a special mention has to go to Mark Jones, the Bill Bailey doppelganger who provides brilliant comic support on piano, kazoo and assorted percussion (I was deeply impressed with his ability to articulate unmistakeably the phrase "WTF" using only a kazoo. It's all in the intonation). Jones is hilarious and I don't know if the decision to add this accompaniment came from Fleming or director Lee Lewis, but it's inspired.
I hope Bell keeps bringing us more of this stuff; I sense rich opportunity in next November's A Comedy of Errors. Recommended viewing.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
The James Morrison Big Band @ Top of the Cross
James Morrison in concert is always a wonderful thing, and so despite a headache, a long hard day, and absolutely foul weather, the scales still tipped in favour of making the effort to leave my nice warm house and venture out to Top of the Cross to hear him perform with his Big Band (of varying membership, one assumes, as I spied a few local talents in the lineup).
It was a good call; Morrison is always hugely entertaining, and never more so than when his brother John, the drummer, sits at the fore and shares the schtick. Of which there was almost more than the music. An added, and considerable, bonus was the inclusion of two vocalists, the truly fabulous jazz singer Emma Pask, and Liam Burrows, whose vocals are more of a lounge style, but with an amazing Buddy Greco/Sinatra/Matt Munro sound from a disproportionately slight frame.
Sound (this seems to be a recurring theme of late) was a bit of a problem, especially for Pask, with the Cross' guy forgetting to turn on her mic, and increasing the speaker volume to ear-splitting levels when she actually was asking for more foldback. But she's much too good to let that bother her. And it wasn't until I recognised a riff being played unexpectedly on piano that I realised they were short a guitarist, too.
Really, the only disappointment for me was that the charts were so familiar - and I do recognise that it must seem odd, when listening to a big band programme, to complain about hearing standards. But the only arrangement of the evening I hadn't heard before was a lovely update of the Tommy Dorsey classic "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You". Pask's arrangements, though familiar, were at least wriiten for her and popularised by her. Burrows' were numbers we've heard everyone from Matt Rivett to Michael Buble to David Campbell sing over the last couple of years, and I confess I felt let down - while the average non-jazz-fan can't wait to hear New York, New York again, this was an audience of aficionadi, and it would have been nice to get something new.
Still - if you just wanted to hear some world-class perfomers and great jazz musicians at the top of their game, with a healthy dose of stand-up comedy, this was a great evening out, and all kudos to the Southern Cross Club for bringing us entertainment of this calibre.
It was a good call; Morrison is always hugely entertaining, and never more so than when his brother John, the drummer, sits at the fore and shares the schtick. Of which there was almost more than the music. An added, and considerable, bonus was the inclusion of two vocalists, the truly fabulous jazz singer Emma Pask, and Liam Burrows, whose vocals are more of a lounge style, but with an amazing Buddy Greco/Sinatra/Matt Munro sound from a disproportionately slight frame.
Sound (this seems to be a recurring theme of late) was a bit of a problem, especially for Pask, with the Cross' guy forgetting to turn on her mic, and increasing the speaker volume to ear-splitting levels when she actually was asking for more foldback. But she's much too good to let that bother her. And it wasn't until I recognised a riff being played unexpectedly on piano that I realised they were short a guitarist, too.
Really, the only disappointment for me was that the charts were so familiar - and I do recognise that it must seem odd, when listening to a big band programme, to complain about hearing standards. But the only arrangement of the evening I hadn't heard before was a lovely update of the Tommy Dorsey classic "I'm Getting Sentimental Over You". Pask's arrangements, though familiar, were at least wriiten for her and popularised by her. Burrows' were numbers we've heard everyone from Matt Rivett to Michael Buble to David Campbell sing over the last couple of years, and I confess I felt let down - while the average non-jazz-fan can't wait to hear New York, New York again, this was an audience of aficionadi, and it would have been nice to get something new.
Still - if you just wanted to hear some world-class perfomers and great jazz musicians at the top of their game, with a healthy dose of stand-up comedy, this was a great evening out, and all kudos to the Southern Cross Club for bringing us entertainment of this calibre.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Canberra Theatre: Side By Side By Sondheim
Where are the clowns? Send in the clowns... Don't worry - they're on the sound desk.
Before I go on, I should say that none of my quibbles should get in the way of you going to see and hear three stellar artists performing songs by one of the greatest lyricist-composers ever - especially when you may still be able to get half-price tickets here.
Rachael Beck was as charming as her soprano was lovely and agile; Michael Falzon's cheeky game-show-host grin and delicious baritone were thoroughly endearing, but the evening belonged to Geraldine Turner; heartbreaking and hilarious in turn, from Sondheim's best-known ballads to his most obscure cabaret numbers.
The arrangements, for piano and an electric keyboard, were exactly right, and MD/pianist Craig Renshaw and the keyboard (not named in the programme) deserved better than Jessica Rowe's perfunctory introduction in the second act.
I do have quibbles. Though apparently this show has already had a night in each of Dubbo and Orange (not to mention a larger scale production at Sydney's Royal Theatre in April), the performers seemed under-rehearsed. Both Falzon and Turner - a Sondheim expert- forgot lines, and Rowe seemed quite unfamiliar with her script, even as she read it from a large book (which raised a separate question of why she could not have used that to prompt from instead of the performers having to walk back to the MD on piano for the line).
The script was also just dull, even without Rowe's hesitation. She did not seem at all comfortable, frequently referring to reading the news and naming her husband as if she needed to make sure we knew who she was, and then making a misplaced joke about getting us home in time for the football (Hello? Sondheim fans?)
I also think this was the worst sound I've ever heard in a professional production. Mics dropped out, had to be handed around, interfered with what mild choreography there was, were far too loud and bright (remedied somewhat in the second Act). Worst of all, mics were left on backstage, with snatches of conversation coming through over - of all things - an otherwise spellbinding rendition of Send In the Clowns. Though the basilisk glare Ms Turner directed to the back of the theatre was a treat to behold.
Lighting choices were also odd, and the book containing the boring script had a gilt edge which caught the light repeatedly and was distracting (on occasion, blinding). These are stupid and basic production errors which should not have occurred in a professional show.
I was also surprised to see a credit for "set and costume design" on the programme, as there was no set, and the performers were all dressed in plain black evening clothes. Surrounded by black curtains and in front of a black grand piano, it looked disappointingly drab.
I stil say: if you like Sondheim, do go to this, because the songs and performances more than make up for the very poor production values - most of which really ought to be fixed by tonight's performance. Just also be aware that this show was put together in 1976, and for whatever reason has not been updated - so there's 36 years' worth of material missing. But there are also some very rarely heard numbers that are worth the price of admission alone - especially if you score the discount.
Before I go on, I should say that none of my quibbles should get in the way of you going to see and hear three stellar artists performing songs by one of the greatest lyricist-composers ever - especially when you may still be able to get half-price tickets here.
Rachael Beck was as charming as her soprano was lovely and agile; Michael Falzon's cheeky game-show-host grin and delicious baritone were thoroughly endearing, but the evening belonged to Geraldine Turner; heartbreaking and hilarious in turn, from Sondheim's best-known ballads to his most obscure cabaret numbers.
The arrangements, for piano and an electric keyboard, were exactly right, and MD/pianist Craig Renshaw and the keyboard (not named in the programme) deserved better than Jessica Rowe's perfunctory introduction in the second act.
I do have quibbles. Though apparently this show has already had a night in each of Dubbo and Orange (not to mention a larger scale production at Sydney's Royal Theatre in April), the performers seemed under-rehearsed. Both Falzon and Turner - a Sondheim expert- forgot lines, and Rowe seemed quite unfamiliar with her script, even as she read it from a large book (which raised a separate question of why she could not have used that to prompt from instead of the performers having to walk back to the MD on piano for the line).
The script was also just dull, even without Rowe's hesitation. She did not seem at all comfortable, frequently referring to reading the news and naming her husband as if she needed to make sure we knew who she was, and then making a misplaced joke about getting us home in time for the football (Hello? Sondheim fans?)
I also think this was the worst sound I've ever heard in a professional production. Mics dropped out, had to be handed around, interfered with what mild choreography there was, were far too loud and bright (remedied somewhat in the second Act). Worst of all, mics were left on backstage, with snatches of conversation coming through over - of all things - an otherwise spellbinding rendition of Send In the Clowns. Though the basilisk glare Ms Turner directed to the back of the theatre was a treat to behold.
Lighting choices were also odd, and the book containing the boring script had a gilt edge which caught the light repeatedly and was distracting (on occasion, blinding). These are stupid and basic production errors which should not have occurred in a professional show.
I was also surprised to see a credit for "set and costume design" on the programme, as there was no set, and the performers were all dressed in plain black evening clothes. Surrounded by black curtains and in front of a black grand piano, it looked disappointingly drab.
I stil say: if you like Sondheim, do go to this, because the songs and performances more than make up for the very poor production values - most of which really ought to be fixed by tonight's performance. Just also be aware that this show was put together in 1976, and for whatever reason has not been updated - so there's 36 years' worth of material missing. But there are also some very rarely heard numbers that are worth the price of admission alone - especially if you score the discount.
Friday, September 21, 2012
The Q: HAIR
Well, what a year it's been for drag acts, naked people, and flutes on stage*!
Anything sub-titled "The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical" was never going to appeal to me much, but then I had never seen Hair on stage, and I am a completist. So I suppose it is not surprising that I have quite mixed feelings about this one. Like Cats, I have to separate the production from the content - except it's even harder here, because while I am quite fond of cats, I am not a fan of hippies.
This production compounded that dislike [Editor' note: that's dislike of hippies, for those lacking basic reading comprehension skills], because while in the original Broadway production (as I understand it) and the film, there seemed to be much greater emphasis on the political side of the Tribe, both on resistance to the Vietnam draft, and on the issue of racial discrimination; in this production, the characters burn their draft cards like it's a game, and it's sort of hard to emphasise discrimination against black people when there are no actual black people in the cast. These hippies aren't activists - even Sheila, their "Joan of Arc", returns from a protest at the Pentagon (it's not clear against what), and talks about how she saw it levitate. These hippies are mere vague, aimable nutters who spend their time getting stoned, making love and sponging off their parents. So it's hard for me to feel all that sorry when one of them does, at last, get a haircut and a job.
That said - let's get to the pros and cons of the production, as opposed to the vehicle (with its negligible plot, uninteresting songs and bodgy lyrics).
PROS:
1. Pete Ricardo is both perfectly cast and completely at home in the role of Claude. He owned that stage from the beginning. His voice is beautiful, he delivered his songs with conviction and ease, and he looked totally right for the part. His Claude was more wistful than dynamic, but it worked.
2. There are an extraordinary number of list songs in this show, or nonsense lyrics, or non-sequiturs. Stuff that is hard to remember, especially when the music is not particularly tuneful. I was very impressed at how well-rehearsed the cast was - I did not detect a single fumble on lyrics or dialogue, which is no mean feat for an amateur company on opening night with difficult material.
3. A lovely, endearing, convincing performance from Maigan Fowler as Jeannie.
4. The pyschedelic sign nodding to Occupy Wall Street.
5. Two smashing drag acts - first Ben Kindon as Claude's mother channelling Max Gambale channelling Marge Simpson; then a truly hilarious turn from Greg Sollis as "Margaret Mead".
6. Strong perfomances from some relative newcomers in the supporting and chorus roles - nice to see a new generation of young performers moving up through the ranks.
7. Good costumes from Christine Pawlicki and some innovative choreography from Jordan Kelly.
MIXED
1. Pete Ricardo might have owned it, but Will Huang certainly brought it. I'm always happy to see Will Huang in a show, and he pulled out all the stops here - but he was just miscast as Hud, who's a black man. Huang's still one of the best dancers in the cast; nailed the voice; that gorgeous baritone was even deeper and richer than usual - but he's still not a black man. Sorry, Will - you were as great as always, and couldn't have done more. (If I'd shut my eyes it might have worked, but I couldn't, as I was waiting til the end of Act 1 to see if you lived up to your name...**)
2. Similarly - everyone loves Tim Stiles, right? Including me. But again, he's miscast here. Berger is the comedian of the group, but that's not all he is. Stiles is 20 years too old for this part and Berger and Claude had none of the sexual chemistry the script kept telling us about. At one point, Berger says to the audience: "I know what you're thinking- is it a boy or a girl?". Dude, nobody was thinking that. Stiles is hugely entertaining, but just not the right man for that particular part.
3. The band, led by Geoff Grey, was pretty good for the most part, but I'm not sure there were good enough reasons to have them on stage (though they certainly dressed for it!) instead of the perfectly good Q orchestra pit. Must have been awkward for those in the nude scene. And they drowned out the singers quite often, even big voices like Tim Stiles'.
4. The bloody singalong at the end. I know Stephen Pike loves a good singalong, and I know that this a show which has always encouraged that participation at the finale, so I have no right to complain. And much of the audience got right into it. So probably the right choice, but it still made me cringe.
5. The famous nude scene - I suppose I would have whinged about this had it been omitted, and it was very discreetly lit and so forth, but it's pointless.
CONS
1. Seriously, if your show really needs people with certain characteristics for the script to make sense, make sure you have those people in your cast. Having a bunch of people who aren't black singing about being black is, at the least, uncomfortable.
2. Some of the cast didn't quite have big enough voices for the roles (while a couple who did were wasted in second-tier roles).
3. The farewell to Claude scene was insanely drawn out and dull.
4. Ditto the most lengthy and self-indulgent curtain call I've ever had to applaud through.
CONCLUSION: This particular show will never be my personal cup of hash tea. But this production still has much to recommend it, and, as I've said elsewhere, if you like this sort of thing, then this is the sort of thing you will like.
* Drag Acts - We started the year with Matt Chardon O'Dea's impressive falsetto in Chicago, then the touring Men In Pink Tights, followed by the two Ednas - Everage, in the Barry Humphries' putative Farewell Tour, and Max Gambale's Mrs Turnblad in Hairspray. Now a double feature in Hair with Ben Kindon reprising Gambale's Marge Simpson voice as Claude's mother, and Greg Sollis quite outstanding as Margaret Mead. And still to come are the all-male Pirates of Penzance and Les Ballets Trockadero.
- Naked people - Everyman's Pool (no water), off-Broadway cult sensation Naked Boys Singing (I had a ticket in the middle of D row, and then they cancelled the Friday night show, boo!), Act 1 of Hair, and Ladies' Night in a couple of weeks.
- Flutes on stage: Hair, Cats, The Venetian Twins, and two very different productions of The Magic Flute (AO and COW). And there should by rights have been a couple in Iolanthe, except Q Players used the updated libretto, sans Arcadian shepherds etc.
** Cheap joke, but you were all thinking it.
Anything sub-titled "The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical" was never going to appeal to me much, but then I had never seen Hair on stage, and I am a completist. So I suppose it is not surprising that I have quite mixed feelings about this one. Like Cats, I have to separate the production from the content - except it's even harder here, because while I am quite fond of cats, I am not a fan of hippies.
This production compounded that dislike [Editor' note: that's dislike of hippies, for those lacking basic reading comprehension skills], because while in the original Broadway production (as I understand it) and the film, there seemed to be much greater emphasis on the political side of the Tribe, both on resistance to the Vietnam draft, and on the issue of racial discrimination; in this production, the characters burn their draft cards like it's a game, and it's sort of hard to emphasise discrimination against black people when there are no actual black people in the cast. These hippies aren't activists - even Sheila, their "Joan of Arc", returns from a protest at the Pentagon (it's not clear against what), and talks about how she saw it levitate. These hippies are mere vague, aimable nutters who spend their time getting stoned, making love and sponging off their parents. So it's hard for me to feel all that sorry when one of them does, at last, get a haircut and a job.
That said - let's get to the pros and cons of the production, as opposed to the vehicle (with its negligible plot, uninteresting songs and bodgy lyrics).
PROS:
1. Pete Ricardo is both perfectly cast and completely at home in the role of Claude. He owned that stage from the beginning. His voice is beautiful, he delivered his songs with conviction and ease, and he looked totally right for the part. His Claude was more wistful than dynamic, but it worked.
2. There are an extraordinary number of list songs in this show, or nonsense lyrics, or non-sequiturs. Stuff that is hard to remember, especially when the music is not particularly tuneful. I was very impressed at how well-rehearsed the cast was - I did not detect a single fumble on lyrics or dialogue, which is no mean feat for an amateur company on opening night with difficult material.
3. A lovely, endearing, convincing performance from Maigan Fowler as Jeannie.
4. The pyschedelic sign nodding to Occupy Wall Street.
5. Two smashing drag acts - first Ben Kindon as Claude's mother channelling Max Gambale channelling Marge Simpson; then a truly hilarious turn from Greg Sollis as "Margaret Mead".
6. Strong perfomances from some relative newcomers in the supporting and chorus roles - nice to see a new generation of young performers moving up through the ranks.
7. Good costumes from Christine Pawlicki and some innovative choreography from Jordan Kelly.
MIXED
1. Pete Ricardo might have owned it, but Will Huang certainly brought it. I'm always happy to see Will Huang in a show, and he pulled out all the stops here - but he was just miscast as Hud, who's a black man. Huang's still one of the best dancers in the cast; nailed the voice; that gorgeous baritone was even deeper and richer than usual - but he's still not a black man. Sorry, Will - you were as great as always, and couldn't have done more. (If I'd shut my eyes it might have worked, but I couldn't, as I was waiting til the end of Act 1 to see if you lived up to your name...**)
2. Similarly - everyone loves Tim Stiles, right? Including me. But again, he's miscast here. Berger is the comedian of the group, but that's not all he is. Stiles is 20 years too old for this part and Berger and Claude had none of the sexual chemistry the script kept telling us about. At one point, Berger says to the audience: "I know what you're thinking- is it a boy or a girl?". Dude, nobody was thinking that. Stiles is hugely entertaining, but just not the right man for that particular part.
3. The band, led by Geoff Grey, was pretty good for the most part, but I'm not sure there were good enough reasons to have them on stage (though they certainly dressed for it!) instead of the perfectly good Q orchestra pit. Must have been awkward for those in the nude scene. And they drowned out the singers quite often, even big voices like Tim Stiles'.
4. The bloody singalong at the end. I know Stephen Pike loves a good singalong, and I know that this a show which has always encouraged that participation at the finale, so I have no right to complain. And much of the audience got right into it. So probably the right choice, but it still made me cringe.
5. The famous nude scene - I suppose I would have whinged about this had it been omitted, and it was very discreetly lit and so forth, but it's pointless.
CONS
1. Seriously, if your show really needs people with certain characteristics for the script to make sense, make sure you have those people in your cast. Having a bunch of people who aren't black singing about being black is, at the least, uncomfortable.
2. Some of the cast didn't quite have big enough voices for the roles (while a couple who did were wasted in second-tier roles).
3. The farewell to Claude scene was insanely drawn out and dull.
4. Ditto the most lengthy and self-indulgent curtain call I've ever had to applaud through.
CONCLUSION: This particular show will never be my personal cup of hash tea. But this production still has much to recommend it, and, as I've said elsewhere, if you like this sort of thing, then this is the sort of thing you will like.
* Drag Acts - We started the year with Matt Chardon O'Dea's impressive falsetto in Chicago, then the touring Men In Pink Tights, followed by the two Ednas - Everage, in the Barry Humphries' putative Farewell Tour, and Max Gambale's Mrs Turnblad in Hairspray. Now a double feature in Hair with Ben Kindon reprising Gambale's Marge Simpson voice as Claude's mother, and Greg Sollis quite outstanding as Margaret Mead. And still to come are the all-male Pirates of Penzance and Les Ballets Trockadero.
- Naked people - Everyman's Pool (no water), off-Broadway cult sensation Naked Boys Singing (I had a ticket in the middle of D row, and then they cancelled the Friday night show, boo!), Act 1 of Hair, and Ladies' Night in a couple of weeks.
- Flutes on stage: Hair, Cats, The Venetian Twins, and two very different productions of The Magic Flute (AO and COW). And there should by rights have been a couple in Iolanthe, except Q Players used the updated libretto, sans Arcadian shepherds etc.
** Cheap joke, but you were all thinking it.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Canberra Rep: Lost in Yonkers
Oh, this is really good.
But first things first: as the lights went up on a a gorgeous art-deco shop-front a couple of miles north of Manhattan, I could only think: geeze, but Rep does a good set.
Actually, Rep does consistently outstanding sets - easily better than any other local company; and often much better than professional touring productions, too (I'm looking at you, HIT Production's Let The Sun Shine, and I hope you're ashamed of yourself). There are rare mis-steps (cough cough Life x 3 cough cough), but there have significantly more often been some absolute crackers, including the town house in Pygmalion, the astonishing street of terrace houses (complete with Valiant) in Pig Iron People, the stunning garden setting for Humble Boy, and the clever clever clever set of books earlier this year in Pride & Prejudice. This lovely construction by Andrew Kay is well and truly up to standard.
And the rest of this production lives up to the set. Neil Simon won a Pulitzer for Lost In Yonkers in 1991, a year that also brought us La Bete, Angels in America and Death and the Maiden, so it can get by without any praise from little me, but it is warm and funny and touching. It's 1942, and Eddie Kurnitz (Colin Milner) has just lost his wife to cancer; he's hocked himself to the eyeballs to loan sharks to pay for her care, and the only way to make enough to pay them back is to hit the road selling scrap metal. The only place to leave his two sons, Jay (Lachlan Ruffy) and Artie (Pippin Carroll) is with their deeply unpleasant grandmother (Helen Vaughn-Roberts), who won't take them until their sweet, child-like aunt Bella (Bridgette Black) threatens to leave. Life with Grandma is pretty grim, but leavened by the occasional appearance of their Uncle Louie (Paul Walker), a C-grade mobster. There's another aunt, Gertie (Elaine Noon); two other siblings died in childhood, and Grandma has damaged all the survivors in different ways.
Lighting, sound and costumes are all spot on, and for the most part, direction from veteran Angela Punch-McGregor brings the best out of both script and cast. And my bete noire, the dodgy accent, makes only the most fleeting of appearances.
The performances are uniformly strong. What I thought was looking like the Year of Simon Stone is turning out to be the Year of Lachlan Ruffy; his performance as fifteen-year-old Jay is funny and touching, a kid trying hard to be a man. Pippin Carroll, thirteen and playing thirteen-and-a-half, is an absolute joy. Vulnerable and cheeky and just a total pleasure. The other standout in the cast is Bridgette Black as the excitable and helpless Bella. Her performance - confused, joyful, frightened - was heartbreaking.
Paul Jackson as Louie put in the best performance I've ever seen him give; animated and convincing. (I really want to make a joke about "the most animated I've seen him since Out of Order", but it would be sacrificing truth for a cheap laugh - and in fact I loved him in Out of Order). Colin Milner was solid, warm, and desperate as Eddie; Elaine Noon has only a cameo, but it's a jewel. And Helen Vaughn-Roberts anchors it all with a grim relentlessness; by the time you're ready to pity Grandma Kurnitz, it's simply too late.
Something that especially moves me about this play is that while it is quasi-autobiographical, when Neil Simon's father abandoned his sons to the mercy of relatives for months on end, it was for no very noble reasons; in Lost inYonkers Simon goes to great lengths to make sure we know that Eddie's motivation is the most selfless possible. He's right; had Eddie just dumped his sons on his mother and bunked off for a good time, the warmth and optimism that underpins this story would be lost.
This is a lovely play, beautifully staged and performed, and every bit as good as something you'll see from STC or MTC. Except you can see it right here in Canberra, and I hope you will.
But first things first: as the lights went up on a a gorgeous art-deco shop-front a couple of miles north of Manhattan, I could only think: geeze, but Rep does a good set.
Actually, Rep does consistently outstanding sets - easily better than any other local company; and often much better than professional touring productions, too (I'm looking at you, HIT Production's Let The Sun Shine, and I hope you're ashamed of yourself). There are rare mis-steps (cough cough Life x 3 cough cough), but there have significantly more often been some absolute crackers, including the town house in Pygmalion, the astonishing street of terrace houses (complete with Valiant) in Pig Iron People, the stunning garden setting for Humble Boy, and the clever clever clever set of books earlier this year in Pride & Prejudice. This lovely construction by Andrew Kay is well and truly up to standard.
And the rest of this production lives up to the set. Neil Simon won a Pulitzer for Lost In Yonkers in 1991, a year that also brought us La Bete, Angels in America and Death and the Maiden, so it can get by without any praise from little me, but it is warm and funny and touching. It's 1942, and Eddie Kurnitz (Colin Milner) has just lost his wife to cancer; he's hocked himself to the eyeballs to loan sharks to pay for her care, and the only way to make enough to pay them back is to hit the road selling scrap metal. The only place to leave his two sons, Jay (Lachlan Ruffy) and Artie (Pippin Carroll) is with their deeply unpleasant grandmother (Helen Vaughn-Roberts), who won't take them until their sweet, child-like aunt Bella (Bridgette Black) threatens to leave. Life with Grandma is pretty grim, but leavened by the occasional appearance of their Uncle Louie (Paul Walker), a C-grade mobster. There's another aunt, Gertie (Elaine Noon); two other siblings died in childhood, and Grandma has damaged all the survivors in different ways.
Lighting, sound and costumes are all spot on, and for the most part, direction from veteran Angela Punch-McGregor brings the best out of both script and cast. And my bete noire, the dodgy accent, makes only the most fleeting of appearances.
The performances are uniformly strong. What I thought was looking like the Year of Simon Stone is turning out to be the Year of Lachlan Ruffy; his performance as fifteen-year-old Jay is funny and touching, a kid trying hard to be a man. Pippin Carroll, thirteen and playing thirteen-and-a-half, is an absolute joy. Vulnerable and cheeky and just a total pleasure. The other standout in the cast is Bridgette Black as the excitable and helpless Bella. Her performance - confused, joyful, frightened - was heartbreaking.
Paul Jackson as Louie put in the best performance I've ever seen him give; animated and convincing. (I really want to make a joke about "the most animated I've seen him since Out of Order", but it would be sacrificing truth for a cheap laugh - and in fact I loved him in Out of Order). Colin Milner was solid, warm, and desperate as Eddie; Elaine Noon has only a cameo, but it's a jewel. And Helen Vaughn-Roberts anchors it all with a grim relentlessness; by the time you're ready to pity Grandma Kurnitz, it's simply too late.
Something that especially moves me about this play is that while it is quasi-autobiographical, when Neil Simon's father abandoned his sons to the mercy of relatives for months on end, it was for no very noble reasons; in Lost inYonkers Simon goes to great lengths to make sure we know that Eddie's motivation is the most selfless possible. He's right; had Eddie just dumped his sons on his mother and bunked off for a good time, the warmth and optimism that underpins this story would be lost.
This is a lovely play, beautifully staged and performed, and every bit as good as something you'll see from STC or MTC. Except you can see it right here in Canberra, and I hope you will.
Monday, September 17, 2012
MTC/STC: Australia Day
Jonathan Biggins is a cast-iron genius. Of course I mainly say that because I met him a few months ago and he agreed with everything I said. But that aside, anyone who's ever caught a glimpse of the Wharf Revue will acknowledge that he is an incisive and very funny man.
Australia Day is a lovely play, and with a clever script, a nice mixed assortment of characters, and two achievable sets, amateur companies all over the country will be queueing up for the rights as soon as they hit the market. I spent interval casting it in my head from the local talent.
Australia Day is inspired by Biggins' own experiences as an Australia Day ambassador, and, I'm guessing, by every school fete or charity Open Day anywhere, ever. It's set in the typical small town of Coriole, where Brian the mayor (Geoff Morell) is also hoping for preselection as the local Liberal candidate in the next Federal election. He's also the owner of the town's hardware shop, which is tough because Council's just received a planning application from Bunnings ("That's not competition, it's napalm!"). Brian, his reliable deputy mayor Robert (David James), old-school conservative plumber Wally (Peter Kowitz), CWA stalwart Marie (who like all CWA stalwarts of that name is pronounced MAH-rie; why is that? - Valerie Bader), and the tree-changing do-gooder Green, Helen (Alison Whyte), are also Coriole's Australia Day organising committee, supplemented by the school liaison officer Chester, a second-generation Australian born of Vietnamese parents (Kaeng Chan). The performances, like the script, are absolutely pitch perfect. There are some memorable one-liners.
The first Act takes place over several months, neatly depicted by changes in the artwork in the school hall where the committee holds it meetings and some quick and discreet costume changes; these scene changes are beautifully covered by a series of changing and increasingly (though unintentionally) hilarious messages from technophobe Marie on the committee's answering machine. The beauty of this set-up is that through small snidenesses, nods of agreement, snippets of gossip, moments of weakness that could be diplomacy (or vice versa), repartee and hissy fits, Biggins draws each character for us in a few clear lines, along with their motivations. Or so we think, because Biggins may be easy, but is never cheap, and even the most obvious of stereotypes have some surprises up their sleeves: what seemed to be a pleasant comedy winds up its first Act with strong emotion and genuine tension.
The second act might be summed up as The Fete Worse Than Death. I've read pieces suggesting Australia Day is based on the Ayckbourn micro-play Gosforth's Fete, but I don't think that's fair; yes there are some similarities, but that's because all of these events are similar, from the plastic chairs to the sausage-on-a-bun cuisine to the dodgy riff from Smoke on the Water played by three schoolkids on tubas. It's the very familiarity of all of these tropes that makes it so damn funny. We've been to these events, eaten the sausages on white bread, heard the execrable brass band, watched the school play, sat on those white plastic chairs (or wandered about in the January sun trying to find one).
Of course, everything that can go wrong does go wrong, and the mere fact that you can see most of it coming makes it not one whit less hilarious. Some of the tension is resolved, albeit a little readily, but as the litany of everyday catastrophes mounts, the characters are put through their paces, and not everyone comes up smelling of roses. (In fact, after a debacle with the portaloos, nothing's smelling any good at all.) And as petty politics of self-interest vie with a commitment to the greater good, we're asked: when do the ends justify the means? Do you have to be a good person to achieve good things, and how far can you bend the rules before you stop being one?
These things give the play a depth that make it more than the average farce, but truly the reason to go to see this is that it is funny and witty (not always the same thing) and hugely entertaining.
I caught this locally, at the Playhouse, and have spent so long writing it up that thought I'd missed my posting window. But in the meantime it has moved on to Sydney and is now playing at the Sydney Opera House until 27 October. So there's plenty of time to get there, and it's worth the trip.
Australia Day is a lovely play, and with a clever script, a nice mixed assortment of characters, and two achievable sets, amateur companies all over the country will be queueing up for the rights as soon as they hit the market. I spent interval casting it in my head from the local talent.
Australia Day is inspired by Biggins' own experiences as an Australia Day ambassador, and, I'm guessing, by every school fete or charity Open Day anywhere, ever. It's set in the typical small town of Coriole, where Brian the mayor (Geoff Morell) is also hoping for preselection as the local Liberal candidate in the next Federal election. He's also the owner of the town's hardware shop, which is tough because Council's just received a planning application from Bunnings ("That's not competition, it's napalm!"). Brian, his reliable deputy mayor Robert (David James), old-school conservative plumber Wally (Peter Kowitz), CWA stalwart Marie (who like all CWA stalwarts of that name is pronounced MAH-rie; why is that? - Valerie Bader), and the tree-changing do-gooder Green, Helen (Alison Whyte), are also Coriole's Australia Day organising committee, supplemented by the school liaison officer Chester, a second-generation Australian born of Vietnamese parents (Kaeng Chan). The performances, like the script, are absolutely pitch perfect. There are some memorable one-liners.
The first Act takes place over several months, neatly depicted by changes in the artwork in the school hall where the committee holds it meetings and some quick and discreet costume changes; these scene changes are beautifully covered by a series of changing and increasingly (though unintentionally) hilarious messages from technophobe Marie on the committee's answering machine. The beauty of this set-up is that through small snidenesses, nods of agreement, snippets of gossip, moments of weakness that could be diplomacy (or vice versa), repartee and hissy fits, Biggins draws each character for us in a few clear lines, along with their motivations. Or so we think, because Biggins may be easy, but is never cheap, and even the most obvious of stereotypes have some surprises up their sleeves: what seemed to be a pleasant comedy winds up its first Act with strong emotion and genuine tension.
The second act might be summed up as The Fete Worse Than Death. I've read pieces suggesting Australia Day is based on the Ayckbourn micro-play Gosforth's Fete, but I don't think that's fair; yes there are some similarities, but that's because all of these events are similar, from the plastic chairs to the sausage-on-a-bun cuisine to the dodgy riff from Smoke on the Water played by three schoolkids on tubas. It's the very familiarity of all of these tropes that makes it so damn funny. We've been to these events, eaten the sausages on white bread, heard the execrable brass band, watched the school play, sat on those white plastic chairs (or wandered about in the January sun trying to find one).
Of course, everything that can go wrong does go wrong, and the mere fact that you can see most of it coming makes it not one whit less hilarious. Some of the tension is resolved, albeit a little readily, but as the litany of everyday catastrophes mounts, the characters are put through their paces, and not everyone comes up smelling of roses. (In fact, after a debacle with the portaloos, nothing's smelling any good at all.) And as petty politics of self-interest vie with a commitment to the greater good, we're asked: when do the ends justify the means? Do you have to be a good person to achieve good things, and how far can you bend the rules before you stop being one?
These things give the play a depth that make it more than the average farce, but truly the reason to go to see this is that it is funny and witty (not always the same thing) and hugely entertaining.
I caught this locally, at the Playhouse, and have spent so long writing it up that thought I'd missed my posting window. But in the meantime it has moved on to Sydney and is now playing at the Sydney Opera House until 27 October. So there's plenty of time to get there, and it's worth the trip.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Street Two: Widowbird
There's a convention, which is oft-repeated but I've been unable to verify, that more people write poetry than read it. By which is meant - more people fancy themselves as poets than will actually fork out hard cash for someone else's book of poems and thus support the art and inform themselves about it.
Similarly, there sometimes seem to be more people involved in amateur theatre in Canberra than actually go to watch professional theatre. I've been to some wonderful theatre lately that has played to depressingly small audiences; apart from the critics I haven't recognised many of the faces in those little crowds.
So, here's where I fall back on my "dilettante" handle.
I'm not going to review Widowbird right now.
I have seen it, and I think it is flawed, but I also think it is valuable.
So, if you do support theatre, then this would be a great opportunity to demonstrate that support by investing in a ticket to see a new work by a local author (Emma Gibson, who also wrote the 2010 Street Theatre production Love Cupboard and won the 2009 'Logues with Morally Bankrupt), performed by local professional actors (props to Leigh Arundell and Dene Kermond in particular) and a composer/musician (Stephen Fitzgerald), with the sound, lighting and stage managing support of the Street Theatre and significant additional investment from the Street, including bringing over New York director Joanne Schultz.
After the run, I may post a review, and if so I hope people will comment, because I think this is really worthy of discussion.
Fair enough?
Similarly, there sometimes seem to be more people involved in amateur theatre in Canberra than actually go to watch professional theatre. I've been to some wonderful theatre lately that has played to depressingly small audiences; apart from the critics I haven't recognised many of the faces in those little crowds.
So, here's where I fall back on my "dilettante" handle.
I'm not going to review Widowbird right now.
I have seen it, and I think it is flawed, but I also think it is valuable.
So, if you do support theatre, then this would be a great opportunity to demonstrate that support by investing in a ticket to see a new work by a local author (Emma Gibson, who also wrote the 2010 Street Theatre production Love Cupboard and won the 2009 'Logues with Morally Bankrupt), performed by local professional actors (props to Leigh Arundell and Dene Kermond in particular) and a composer/musician (Stephen Fitzgerald), with the sound, lighting and stage managing support of the Street Theatre and significant additional investment from the Street, including bringing over New York director Joanne Schultz.
After the run, I may post a review, and if so I hope people will comment, because I think this is really worthy of discussion.
Fair enough?
At the Q: Biddies
Actually, I saw this at the Street, a few months ago, before reviving this blog, but it oddly had a separately leg of the tour at the Q a few days ago, and my information is that it hadn't changed. So really this is probably only for the benefit of those who might be unhappy to have missed it.
It's probably best summed up as: the flesh was willing but the spirit was weak. The set - a primary schoolroom where the ladies are locked in - was good. Costuming, sound, lighting - all perfectly fine. The actors are all very strong indeed.
But it's a limp script with a weak plot, and a singalong let's-put-on-a-show-in-the-old-barn ending that is frankly embarrassing for cast and audience alike.
The premise is that five ladies of mature years (who the hell uses the expression "biddies" anyway?) get locked in the schoolroom where they have their weekend stitch-and-bitch session. It's always very obvious that the ladies are going to get themselves locked in, and one of the better aspects of the script is that it recognises this and so lampshades it with a long series of fake-outs where you think they're going to be locked in, but aren't. Once they are: cue lots of deep discussions about life, the universe and everything. It's a bit cliched and predictable until their old schoolteacher turns up to let them out, but insteads locks herself in as well and starts to lecture them on what failures they all are - then it just gets surreal, and not in a good way. One by one the women reclaim their self-esteem and apparently the way to demonstrate this is to get them done up in sequins and singing disco numbers.
While the whole "get the audience to clap and sing along" thing is a particular dislike of mine (Music Hall and similar tropes excepted), I recognise that a lot of people enjoy it, but the audience struggled to engage the night I saw this, and I've heard similar reports from a couple of other nights, too. It doesn't fit.
The cast is stellar: Annie Byron is the dizzy and unhappily married Jess; Maggie Blinco the wise and erudite spinster Agnes; Linden Wilkinson the relatively normal (but incontinent) widow; Julie Hudspeth the purse-lipped prude Ruth;, Donna Lee the attention-seeking and much-married Connie, and Victoria Garrett the cartoonishly nasty schoolteacher Miss Cantwell. But the script doesn't give them a lot to work with - the only memorable line comes when Connie bleats down the phone to yet another in a line of useless husbands: "I am not a nag! I'm just a woman who wasn't listened to the first time!"
Playwright Don Reid had reasonable success with Codgers, a similar story of men of advancing years. But his insights into women, while respectful, rarely ring as truly, and he is treading ground that has been much more hashed over. So while not an entirely wasted evening, in my view these misses were not a hit.
It's probably best summed up as: the flesh was willing but the spirit was weak. The set - a primary schoolroom where the ladies are locked in - was good. Costuming, sound, lighting - all perfectly fine. The actors are all very strong indeed.
But it's a limp script with a weak plot, and a singalong let's-put-on-a-show-in-the-old-barn ending that is frankly embarrassing for cast and audience alike.
The premise is that five ladies of mature years (who the hell uses the expression "biddies" anyway?) get locked in the schoolroom where they have their weekend stitch-and-bitch session. It's always very obvious that the ladies are going to get themselves locked in, and one of the better aspects of the script is that it recognises this and so lampshades it with a long series of fake-outs where you think they're going to be locked in, but aren't. Once they are: cue lots of deep discussions about life, the universe and everything. It's a bit cliched and predictable until their old schoolteacher turns up to let them out, but insteads locks herself in as well and starts to lecture them on what failures they all are - then it just gets surreal, and not in a good way. One by one the women reclaim their self-esteem and apparently the way to demonstrate this is to get them done up in sequins and singing disco numbers.
While the whole "get the audience to clap and sing along" thing is a particular dislike of mine (Music Hall and similar tropes excepted), I recognise that a lot of people enjoy it, but the audience struggled to engage the night I saw this, and I've heard similar reports from a couple of other nights, too. It doesn't fit.
The cast is stellar: Annie Byron is the dizzy and unhappily married Jess; Maggie Blinco the wise and erudite spinster Agnes; Linden Wilkinson the relatively normal (but incontinent) widow; Julie Hudspeth the purse-lipped prude Ruth;, Donna Lee the attention-seeking and much-married Connie, and Victoria Garrett the cartoonishly nasty schoolteacher Miss Cantwell. But the script doesn't give them a lot to work with - the only memorable line comes when Connie bleats down the phone to yet another in a line of useless husbands: "I am not a nag! I'm just a woman who wasn't listened to the first time!"
Playwright Don Reid had reasonable success with Codgers, a similar story of men of advancing years. But his insights into women, while respectful, rarely ring as truly, and he is treading ground that has been much more hashed over. So while not an entirely wasted evening, in my view these misses were not a hit.
Nick Parnell: Bach to Brazil
There's a vibraphone convention going on in Canberra at the moment, not that we've heard a lot about it. Alas, American vibes legend Joe Locke has withdrawn from both the conference and his scheduled gig at the Street, but we were still in luck with a Street performance by home-grown (Adelaide) visiting wunderkind Nick Parnell.
Parnell's star has been steadily in ascendance over the last few years; he's been working with everyone from the Russian Ballet to Musica Viva and has a recent CD release through ABC Classics. So it was surprising that so few people turned out to hear this fantastic programme.
The concert started out with a gorgeous but predictable programme: the three Gershwin preludes, some Bach, Satie's Gymnopaedie1, Debussy's Claire de Lune. Absolutely beautiful (for a few bars in the Gershwin I did think Parnell and pianist Matthew Binion were an iota out of synch, but then I decided it was just the arrangement), but not exactly ground-breaking. But, honestly, so wonderful to listen to that I forgot to care about having my horizons stretched.
I should have known better, given the calibre of this artist. After a piece I hadn't heard, the deeply soothing Crystal Mallets by Arthur Lipman, Parnell explained to the audience that he had a strategy to stop us from drifting off - apparently it has happened - and launched into a massive percussion extravaganza of his own devising, Spanish Drum Solo. GAME ON.
The first set closed with a deceptively simple but quite brilliant work by Steve Reich, Clapping Music. Parnell and Binion involved the audience in clapping a simple rhythm: 3-2-1-2; half the audience then shifted that forward a beat and clapped the same rhythm in counterpoint. Fun! And tricky. And then - Binion kept up the original pattern, but at triple the tempo, while Parnell moved forward a beat with every iteration, until the piece came full circle. It was quite remarkable and I've never heard anything quite like it - though as it was written in 1972 that's obviously entirely my own fault.
The second set was mainly taken up by Ney Rosauro's vast Brazilian Rhapsody. When Parnell announced that this was a 27 minute percussive piece I had uneasy flashbacks to Farewell Cream, but I need not have feared - what we received was a musical tour de force in which Parnell played every piece of percussion on stage - I counted at least 40 - from evocative rainforest sounds made with wine glasses, chimes and the tiniest tom I've ever seen, through Latin rhythms with guiros, djembes and bongos to full on storms of crashing cymbals and bass drum. Suck it, Ginger Baker.
Our encore was a pretty, lively little vibraphone piece called Burlesquo, the cherry on a rich and interesting cake. Parnell is a lovely musician, and I am looking forward to his next visit already.
The concert started out with a gorgeous but predictable programme: the three Gershwin preludes, some Bach, Satie's Gymnopaedie1, Debussy's Claire de Lune. Absolutely beautiful (for a few bars in the Gershwin I did think Parnell and pianist Matthew Binion were an iota out of synch, but then I decided it was just the arrangement), but not exactly ground-breaking. But, honestly, so wonderful to listen to that I forgot to care about having my horizons stretched.
I should have known better, given the calibre of this artist. After a piece I hadn't heard, the deeply soothing Crystal Mallets by Arthur Lipman, Parnell explained to the audience that he had a strategy to stop us from drifting off - apparently it has happened - and launched into a massive percussion extravaganza of his own devising, Spanish Drum Solo. GAME ON.
The first set closed with a deceptively simple but quite brilliant work by Steve Reich, Clapping Music. Parnell and Binion involved the audience in clapping a simple rhythm: 3-2-1-2; half the audience then shifted that forward a beat and clapped the same rhythm in counterpoint. Fun! And tricky. And then - Binion kept up the original pattern, but at triple the tempo, while Parnell moved forward a beat with every iteration, until the piece came full circle. It was quite remarkable and I've never heard anything quite like it - though as it was written in 1972 that's obviously entirely my own fault.
The second set was mainly taken up by Ney Rosauro's vast Brazilian Rhapsody. When Parnell announced that this was a 27 minute percussive piece I had uneasy flashbacks to Farewell Cream, but I need not have feared - what we received was a musical tour de force in which Parnell played every piece of percussion on stage - I counted at least 40 - from evocative rainforest sounds made with wine glasses, chimes and the tiniest tom I've ever seen, through Latin rhythms with guiros, djembes and bongos to full on storms of crashing cymbals and bass drum. Suck it, Ginger Baker.
Our encore was a pretty, lively little vibraphone piece called Burlesquo, the cherry on a rich and interesting cake. Parnell is a lovely musician, and I am looking forward to his next visit already.
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