Issue 01 - 2005
Prompt Corner 
The other day I was stupid enough to lock myself out of my flat, without cards or phone as well as keys. I walked the few streets to my nearest friend's flat, hoping to phone the locksmith from there. And that's how I found a front door being opened to me by Tim Fountain, clad only in a dressing gown. Apparently he'd started taking afternoon naps to marshal his resources before performing each evening.
Tim's show elicited a lot of outrage, which was of course almost entirely the point. Forget all the guff about wanting to show how the Internet has altered sexual behaviour or about the culture of "reality" media coverage: what this boiled down to is that, after writing plays which lionised the likes of Julie Burchill and Toby Young on stage, Tim was eager for some notoriety of his own. And... actually, this is where reality culture does come into it... the simplest way to achieve that goal was to become well-known for what he is: a voracious Yorkshire queen. And, lo and behold, the likes of the Daily Mail duly obliged; even the noxious Taki, in his column in the Spectator, denounced Tim (without seeing the show, of course) as "a freak-cum-pervert poofter", which equally naturally pleased him no end.
Charming
I was, I suppose, rather surprised by the strength of the negative critical reaction. I mean, obviously it's not theatre and obviously it has no business being at the Royal Court; I said as much six months ago when I reviewed it on the Edinburgh Fringe. But once those points are taken as read, I actually found this version of the show quite charming. Big, bright and brash, often crass, but still charming. Because, having known Tim for more than 15 years, I can testify that that, too, is what he is. In Edinburgh he had cultivated something of a stage persona, which was bizarrely muted. This time, he presented himself au naturel, so to speak: the passion for hi-tech boys' toys, the gift for bluntly obscene anecdotes as well as marvellous turns of phrase... all unfiltered Fountain, and the better for it. I think the remark he most appreciated was that of a mutual friend: after the night when Tim was so publicity-hungry he performed a half-hearted sex act in Sloane Square in front of the Court, and noting the famous department store opposite, our friend said, "It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'I'm just slipping into Peter Jones'."
It's interesting, too, that so soon after the major kerfuffles about Behzti and Jerry Springer: The Opera, an issue that could upset quite secular notions of decorum and morality - that of a live audience sanctioning and even encouraging promiscuous casual sex on a nightly basis, and therefore complicit in all the health issues that entails - generated no comparable hoo-hah. Quentin Letts harrumphed predictably about the Court's public subsidy in a "must we pay for this filth?" way, but that's surely a trivial point in comparison. It strikes me that, in ignoring this issue, we're performing the opposite of the conventional theatrical transaction, and willingly suspending belief: belief that it matters or is anything to do with us. And I think that's the most pernicious fall-out from reality culture. Cue Germaine Greer.
Schemer
As regards suspending disbelief, January offered a vexing instance of the limits of this facility. One of the worst things you can do, as a spectator, is to write off an entire production just because one person doesn't look right to you. And Simon Russell Beale is perhaps the best British stage actor around. He brings a terrific light of intelligence and bitter humour to every role he plays. Unfortunately, what stops John Caird's Almeida Macbeth being epochal is Beale's appearance.
It's not that he's portly - I, of all people, could hardly complain about that. Nor is it that he's not very tall, and spends several scenes beside the gigantic Silas Carson as Banquo. The point is that Beale knows as a general principle that he's not built for action, and always plays his roles accordingly. This is no exception Yet Macbeth needs action. Beale's thane is a brilliant infernal schemer, but in Acts One and Five we need to see the warrior, first as a plausible candidate for a martial kingship and latterly as someone who can plausibly throw all into the lists even as fate stacks up the fulfilled double-talk prophecies against him. We just don't see that crucial aspect of Macbeth's character here.
It's all the more tantalising a lack because during the middle phase of the play, every other moment drips with extra significance and portent. Beale's performance is simply without peer in this respect. He uses pauses, hesitations and his natural gift for slightly curdled bathos to find levels of nuance in virtually every line. Pretty much every other character gets similar moments of insight at one time or another. The conversations between third parties about events at court are exemplary in this respect: not only does everyone know exactly what evil is afoot yet dares show it only in sly glances, but everyone is also gauging their interlocutor as a possible informer. This complexity leads to a lot of significant pauses and considered delivery of lines, which in turn means that the production clocks in at nearly three hours; in this respect the overlap of scenes in and around Christopher Oram's huge roundel of a stage design serves to buy some much-needed time. There is a great deal of brilliance on display in Caird's production, but it's crucially undermined through no fault of anyone's but Mother Nature.
(I really, truly have no call complaining about persons of generous build: the promenade performance of Tejas Verdes I attended at the Gate was annoyingly interrupted by an audience member crashing to the floor. It was me, as a combination of personal stress and sheer obesity simply caused my legs to fold up under me without warning. It was immensely embarrassing; the excellent cast of Thea Sharrock's fine production deserved rapt and immobile silence, not a dull thud. My profuse, and almost literally prostrate, apologies to them, and to the rest of the audience I unfortunately distracted.)
Cleverness
There were other disappointments this month, of which let me approach the biggest in a roundabout way. I have a quirk of checking programme biographies to see how many members of the cast have appeared in The Bill. I reckon a proportion of 30-50% is respectable; only once have I scored a full house, when all six members of a cast including a 13-year-old boy had appeared in the long-running TV series. (I know a broadsheet critic who prefers to tot up cast appearances in ITV's The Bill as against those on the BBC's Casualty.) It would, however, be much easier to count up those whose biogs declare that they trained with Jacques Lecoq. Indeed, it's sometimes hard to avoid whole castsful of the specimens.
For
A theory that's not, it must be admitted, borne out by the majority of the reviews. Only Alastair Macaulay is candid about finding A Minute Too Late underwhelming, not just in terms of the physical shtick but of engagement with the supposed themes of death, bereavement, coping etc. I have to agree: my own bent in this area is excessively morbid - I'll reminisce about family losses at the drop of a hat - yet this show left me entirely unmoved, even when I consciously tried to feel something on a personal level. And I can't believe it's because I've suddenly discovered how to deal with it all.
Smug
By the same token, Ta main dans la mienne is a prime example of the "exquisite miniature" side of Peter Brook's work. It's infused with an unfussy, precise naturalness, and Michel piccolo and Natasha Parry both command attention in a less-is-more way, but it's a bagatelle of a piece. Sometimes less is less.
And a final gobbet of smug self-congratulation. Nine months ago in this column, I recommended the great 1970s Brit-horror film Theatre Of Blood. Lo and behold, what has Nicholas Hytner just announced as the surprise inclusion in the Olivier's third Travelex £10 season? I wonder whether adaptors Phelim McDermott and Lee Simpson will update the serially murdered critics to more recognisable contemporary caricatures? And where should we send the bundles of used fivers?
Ian Shuttleworth: ian@theatrerecord.com
At the Back
It's hard to think of London as a leader in visual theatre, but the London International Mime Festival has just finished its 27th edition, and claims to be the longest established of its kind. Last year Verena, with typical industry, saw almost all the shows in the 26th LIMF. In my laziness I could only manage less than half a dozen, but you'll see from the body of this issue that this year's event suffered from a certain shortage of reviewing all round. It's a shame, because over those 27 years our attention has been increasingly drawn to what mime and visual theatre is capable of, and we are now taking for granted the use of big visual and physical statement - not to mention puppet techniques - in shows as mainstream as The Lion King and His Dark Materials.
Clown allergy
The enduring trouble comes from our resistance to that word mime, which still conjures up shivering if clichéd memories of white-faced Marcel Marceau clones and equally white-faced Grock epigones. This year's festival didn't help its cause by offering an alarming number of the second group, led by the ghastly Akhe. (Fortunately I was excused Akhe, since the Boss got them.)
However, like Lyn Gardner, who shares my clown allergy, I have to admit to being much diverted by two examples of the species, both of which I'd been rather dreading. First came Camille Boitel, who had in his favour the fact that he had worked with the lovable James Thierrée, but against him the title of his show, L'Homme d'Hus, which (oh, the excitement!) promised us a version of the Job story. It turned out to be not so much a variation on Job, but more a study in Sisyphus, endlessly pushing his stone uphill, or even Ixion, stuck in his wheel. It's a pity Trestle Theatre have already taken what should have been the company's title: Boitel's evening started with a Rowan Atkinson-like attempt to erect a trestle table, which turned into an epic battle with the two trestles, then progressed to an hour's experiment into what could be done with trestles, scores of them, more and more of them, piled up on stage, hurled across it, stacked and restacked, and at times, as I've said, converted into an enormous Ixion wheel. What starts as a solo show broadens out, as Boitel is helped by a number of black-clad assistants in his unending struggle with his props, even using an assistant as a stunt double at one point. At first you resist the fairly basic, traditional clowning, but as it develops into a zany, frenetic ballet of man versus prop-mountain, it acquires a richness that is beautiful as well as funny.
Rogue jerrycan
The same fears assailed me at the start of Les Witloof's Sous Pression, a title which refers to draught beer as well as people under pressure. Enter two very typical clowns - no white faces, thank God, but off-the-shelf hangdog expressions and, oh blimey, red noses. They sing a closing-time song about mateship, then take out large brown paper bags and wait for beer to drop out of the sky - which it does, for one but not the other. This draws us into the very charming world inhabited by these two Belgians, a world of missing pints, neat prestidigitation, acrobatic balancing on giant playing cards, polished rope tricks and some very dangerous-looking play with fire and a rogue jerrycan of petrol. All that they do, they do very well, and they sustain it with the age-old double act tension of the big successful guy and the little one who messes up. The result is an hour and more of gentle, but almost continuous laughter - at least the smile seldom leaves your face. And when the beer does finally arrive for both of them, in quantity, you surely can't forbear to cheer.
Alas, I found it all too easy to forbear from almost any positive reaction to El Tricicle's Sit. I seem to remember moderate enjoyment of these three Catalans' satire on Olympic sport, Slastic, back in 1991, but this time, nothing. Unlike the two previous shows described, which have an improvised, haphazard air about them which is most alluring, this was a capital-B Big production, with masses of props, filmed extracts, smarmy voice-overs and all kinds of ways to get your goat. El Tricicle had the great idea to present a history of the chair in Sit, so started with a 2001-inspired (wrong word, but never mind) parody featuring woolly cavemen; having taken this to unbearable lengths, they proceeded to offer chair-gags large and small, mostly small, for what seemed like another hour. Relief at last - but no, this was only the interval. It was enough for me, I'm afraid - I did a Toby. (You're fired - Ed.)
A welcome return to minimalism came with Stephen Mottram's one-night-only contribution, The Seed Carriers. Mottram and his man-hunting marionettes have been around a while, since 1996 at least, but this was my first opportunity to catch up with them. It's remarkable that such an intimate show, which its creator performs on a space not much larger than a child's climbing frame, could hold the rapt attention of a packed Purcell Room. Some of the credit goes to Glyn Perrin's continuous soundtrack, but it is Mottram's work with his "animate" that stands out. He explains in a programme note that the piece was inspired by watching crayfish being caught and eaten. He has invented a race of mini-humans who are valued for the seeds they carry, hunted and exploited by larger, sometimes more shadowy beings, often personified by himself, the puppet master, whose huge legs and hands invade the puppets' miniature world. As well as skilled puppetry, Mottram uses an array of Heath Robinson machines to accompany his story and sometimes bring light relief, but the action is underpinned by a frightening sense of the macabre, and one becomes deeply involved in the plight of these harmless creatures. In a post-show talk the unassuming Mr Mottram told us he was not a vegetarian, but it wouldn't have surprised you to find that he was.
Up his jumper
Lyn wasn't happy with Gecko's The Race, which can only mean that their Taylor's Dummies must have been pretty impressive, because this first sight for me of Gecko at work was a very happy one. The story is slight enough, and begins with a "man on the way to work" sequence that could have come from any of the last 26 Mime Festivals, but it goes on to a riot of inventive anxiety, with its characters in almost constant movement across the stage, up the wall and swinging out in free space. The thread is expectant fatherhood, and Gecko manage to convey the sheer joy and release of the birth experience against a backdrop of frenetic yuppie social whirling. Is there life after latte? Yes, say Gecko, and it's worth all the fuss. They use simple means to create big effects, rather like Robert Lepage, and there's one moment when the father-to-be swings in the air with a lantern up his jumper, thinking about the child to come, that is up there with Lepage's Far Side of the Moon spacemen. Special mention for Kristina Hjelm's clever, low-budget lighting.
Woolly hats
All in all it was a good festival, if rather low-key. Presumably the preponderance of solo shows had an economic reason, but the full houses I saw should encourage Joseph Seelig and Helen Lannaghan to lash out a little more next year (my tip would be the Kazakhs Art y Chok that I saw in Yerevan). The Mime Festival has its own special audience, a friendly mix of middle-agers in cardigans and young folk in woolly hats, who deserve the best. Good news for them and clown fans is that Mimirichi, the Ukrainian paper-tearers who created such an impression on the Edinburgh Fringe last year, will be appearing at Riverside in the summer; less inspiring is the news that Akhe will be there, too.
Dollop of philosophy
There's not much else to report from a quiet January. I saw a couple
of little shows that were special because they represented a strong belief
form those presenting them that they were worthwhile. Of course, they
didn't get a lot of sympathy from critics who were busy comparing them
with some work of genius from an ideal world. At Southwark Playhouse,
Amélie Nothomb's Human Rites was a first production by Eleanor
Lloyd, and a professional directing debut for its translator Natalie
Abrahami, given a fine set by Linbury finalist Colin Richmond and equally
fine lighting and sound. It's a very French piece - Belgian, to be precise - which
uses a lot of words and a fair dollop of philosophy to comment on a world
in which civilisation succumbs so easily to barbarism, be it in the Middle
East or in the Balkans. So much chat when people are starving to death
is not to the taste of the pragmatic British, which is as good a reason
as any to put the play on. Likewise, there were obvious faults in Tim
Marriott's Meeting Mary at Jermyn Street, but far more interesting
were the moments of truth - plenty of them - reinforced by some very
good dialogue and the committed performances of its author and a splendid
young cast. Marriott probably mortgaged his house to put this show on,
but who cares? He's white and middle-aged, not grant-worthy.
Ian Herbert: ian@herbertknott.com
Contents / Reviews
London |
||||
THE ANNIVERSARY Revival of play by Bill McIlwraith |
Garrick |
26 Jan |
1 Jan |
78 |
BE MY BABY / SNAPSHOTS Revival of play by Amanda Whittington / new play byAndrew Neil |
Old Red Lion |
18 Jan |
5 Feb |
18 |
BITES New play by Kay Adshead |
Bush |
14 Jan |
5 Feb |
47 |
DANELAW New play by Peter Hamilton |
White Bear |
27 Jan |
12 Feb |
40 |
DRALION Cirque du Soleil presentation |
Royal Albert Hall |
6 Jan |
6 Feb |
10 |
THE EROTICA PROJECT New play by Lillian Ann Slugocki and Erin Cressida Wilson |
Greenwich Playhouse |
12 Jan |
6 Feb |
34 |
HAVE A NICE LIFE Revival of musical by Conor Mitchell |
Union |
14 Jan |
29 Jan |
33 |
HEAD/CASE New play by Ron Hutchinson |
Soho |
13 Jan |
29 Jan |
38 |
HUMAN RITES New play by Amélie Nothomb |
Southwark Playhouse |
6 Jan |
22 Jan |
15 |
JACQUES AND HIS MASTER Revival of play by Milan Kundera |
White Bear |
4 Jan |
23 Jan |
5 |
JEROME KERN GOES TO HOLLYWOOD Revival of musical revue |
King's Head |
5 Jan |
20 Feb |
6 |
JOHNJO New play by Tom O'Brien |
Courtyard |
11 Jan |
30 Jan |
51 |
KING LEAR Revival of play by Shakespeare |
Albery |
18 Jan |
5 Feb |
60 |
LOSING LOUIS New play by Simon Mendes da Costa |
Hampstead |
24 Jan |
19 Feb |
67 |
MACBETH Transfer of revival of play by Shakespeare |
Wilton's Music Hall |
6 Jan |
5 Feb |
58 |
MACBETH Revival of play by Shakespeare |
Almeida |
20 Jan |
5 Mar |
52 |
THE MAIDS Revival of play by Jean Genet in version by Martin Crimp |
Lyric Studio |
24 Jan |
5 Feb |
22 |
MANCHESTER GIRL Solo piece by Sue Turner-Cray |
Riverside |
6 Jan |
30 Jan |
21 |
MEETING MARY New musical by Tim Marriott |
Jermyn Street |
7 Jan |
22 Jan |
26 |
A MINUTE TOO LATE Revival of piece by Complicité |
Lyttelton |
27 Jan |
26 Feb |
86 |
MONTY PYTHON'S FLYING CIRCUS performed in French New stage version of TV show |
Riverside |
28 Jan |
19 Feb |
90 |
PATIENCE New play by Jason Sherman |
Finborough |
6 Jan |
29 Jan |
23 |
THE PIANO TUNER New play by Barry Fantoni |
Landor |
11 Jan |
22 Jan |
27 |
THE PLOUGH AND THE STARS Revival of play by Sean O'Casey |
Barbican |
19 Jan |
29 Jan |
64 |
POWERLESS New play by Alice Kahrmann |
Baron's Court |
7 Jan |
23 Jan |
41 |
PRETTY BOY New musical by Rikki Beadle-Blair |
Oval House |
13 Jan |
29 Jan |
9 |
THE RACE New piece by Gecko |
BAC |
26 Jan |
13 Feb |
92 |
REFERENCES TO SALVADOR DALI MAKE ME HOT New play by Jose Rivera |
Arcola |
19 Jan |
5 Feb |
50 |
THE SINGULARITY / STRANGERS MAKE THE BEST CANDY New plays by Matt Hawkins / Louise Woodruffe |
Clapham Grand |
26 Jan |
5 Feb |
37 |
SUCH ART SUCH BEAUTY New play by Graham Billing |
Etcetera |
20 Jan |
6 Feb |
49 |
TA MAIN DANS LA MIENNE (YOUR HAND IN MINE) New play by Carol Rocamora |
The Pit |
26 Jan |
12 Feb |
83 |
TAPE revival of play by Stephen Belber |
Etcetera |
4 Jan |
16 Jan |
14 |
TEJAS VERDES New play by Fermin Cabal |
Gate |
13 Jan |
5 Feb |
42 |
THE TEMPEST Revival of play by William Shakespeare |
Southwark Playhouse |
25 Jan |
12 Feb |
46 |
TIM FOUNTAIN: SEX ADDICT Transfer of solo show |
Royal Court Upstairs |
10 Jan |
5 Feb |
28 |
TONIGHT: LOLA BLAU Revival of cabaret piece by Georg Kreisler |
New End |
10 Jan |
30 Jan |
32 |
TWO MAN RUMBLE New play by Alasdair Satchel |
Etcetera |
12 Jan |
16 Jan |
25 |
WHOSE LIFE IS IT ANYWAY? Revival of play by Brian Clark |
Comedy |
25 Jan |
30 Apr |
71 |
LONDON INTERNATIONAL MIME FESTIVAL 2005 includes reviews of |
||||
CIRCUS SPACE CABARET |
Circus Space |
27 Jan |
30 Jan |
96 |
EXIT NAPOLEON PURSUED BY RABBITS presented by Nola Rae |
Purcell Room |
18 Jan |
19 Jan |
94 |
FAUT-IL CROIRE LES MÊMES SUR PAROLE presented by Théátre du Mouvement / Ivan Bacciocchi |
Institut Français |
16 Jan |
16 Jan |
93 |
FENÊTRES presented by Mathurin Bolze |
Laban Centre |
24 Jan |
26 Jan |
95 |
INTÉRIEUR NUIT presented by Jean-Baptiste André |
Purcell Room |
15 Jan |
17 Jan |
93 |
LOSER presented by Company F.Z |
Purcell Room |
25 Jan |
27 Jan |
95 |
MISTER CARMEN presented by Akhe Theatre |
ICA |
16 Jan |
19 Jan |
93 |
SOUS PRESSION presented by Les Witloof |
Purcell Room |
20 Jan |
23 Jan |
94 |
TMESIS presented by Momentum |
BAC |
25 Jan |
27 Jan |
96 |
Regions |
||||
GRAVEL New piece by Vox Motus |
Glasgow, Arches |
21 Jan |
22 Jan |
107 |
KITTY AND KATE New play by Claire Luckham |
Newcastle-under-Lyme, New Vic |
21 Jan |
12 Feb |
99 |
LOOK BACK IN ANGER Revival of play by John Osborne |
Edinburgh, Royal Lyceum |
15 Jan |
12 Feb |
104 |
RELATIVE VALUES Revival of play by Noël Coward |
Salisbury Playhouse |
28 Jan |
26 Feb |
103 |
RUTHERFORD AND SON Revival of play by Githa Sowerby |
Manchester, Royal Exchange |
24 Jan |
19 Feb |
99 |
A SENSE OF JUSTICE New play by Vivien Adam |
Perth |
28 Jan |
12 Feb |
107 |
THE SHADOW OF A GUNMAN Revival of play by Sean O'Casey |
Belfast, Lyric |
15 Jan |
26 Feb |
103 |
SITTING PRETTY Revival of play by Amy Rosenthal |
Watford Palace |
27 Jan |
12 Feb |
100 |
TWO'S COMPANY/CHILD OF THE SNOW Revival of short plays by Lee Hall |
Bristol Old Vic Studio |
27 Jan |
12 Feb |
103 |
THE WINTER'S TALE Revival of play by Shakespeare |
Newbury, Watermill |
26 Jan |
19 Mar |
101 |