ondheim’s gift with words and music is very distinctive. One of his many talents, and he does it continuously in Into The Woods, is to blend anapaests and dactyls in the lyrics to create short rhyming lines which he then usually sets in 6|8 time resulting in that characteristic lilting, witty conversational style. And it’s all articulated with commendable clarity by this well directed (Francene Harris) cast nicely lifted by an accomplished 13-strong live band led by MD, Peter Bailey. Into the Woods is an ambitious choice for a non-pro company but GDS meets the challenge head on with a lot of success. The quartet in Act 2 with Scott Highway as Baker and Lewyss Banfield as Jack – on Central Theatre’s stage right balcony – and Carley Caller as Cinderalla and Claire Scholes as Little Red Riding Hood far away at stage left is utterly beautiful. It’s a terrific piece of writing and these four sing it with magnificent tenderness and musicality. The thrust of the show and James Lapine’s ingenious book, of course, is to spend the first half weaving traditional fairy stories together (Chas Alder is an engaging narrator in this production) and the second half unpicking the reality of “happily ever after”. Interestingly too it often goes back to the original versions with bits being chopped off feet, eyes being pecked out and quite nice characters being brutally felled rather than the saccharine retellings most people are used to these days. Rachel Anne Crane-Herbert, a skilled actor and accomplished singer is good value (as usual) as Jack’s mother. I really liked Tonia Plowman’s pro-standard work as the Baker’s wife too, She is a compelling actor and sings exquisitely especially in the upper reaches of her register. Another well developed performance is Carly Caller as a rueful but quite feisty Cinderella. And Jake Pearse is terrific fun as Cinderella’s hilariously lanky, chocolate-voiced, wild-haired prince. He and Adam Waters, as Rapunzel’s hammed up, wet, Etonian Prince have some lively scenes together. All in all, then, it’s a reliably strong cast presenting a show which really glitters with quality, partly because of the way it’s written but not least, also because GDS has tackled it so ably. It’s a pity then that it isn’t attracting better audiences. I suppose a show which isn’t an obvious popular choice is a hard sell in Chatham. The night I was there it was poorly attended by a thin stalls-only audience although I understand that other performances have done better. Get to Chatham before Saturday, 13 October if you can. This Into The Woods is well worth catching. |
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| This review was first published by Sardines: http://www.sardinesmagazine.co.uk/reviews/review.php?REVIEW-GDS%20Productions-Into%20the%20Woods&reviewsID=3344 | |||
★★★
Photo: Nikki Leigh Scott
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society/company: West End & Fringe
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performance date: 09 Oct 2018
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venue: Tristan Bates Theatre, London
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They do things differently at Shake-Scene. Actors are given their parts and their cues but do not see the rest of the play or rehearse together in advance. This is, of course, how it was done in Shakespeare’s time – when there was no copyright law – to prevent actors from selling play texts to other companies.
I saw the second performance of The Taming of the Shrew rather than the first so these eleven actors, directed by Lizzie Conrad Hughes who sits at the side on the stage “on the book” were beginning to cohere although their clearly not knowing quite what to expect confers an engaging freshness.
The piece is set (without the tedious framing device) in a modern-ish environment – with 21st Century clothes and food served in a Pret bag – on a bare stage with audience on two sides. You sense that the lack of blocking and there’s rather a lot of standing around when a bit of stage business wouldn’t come amiss. On the other hand each of these actors is sufficiently skilled and engaging that they carry most of the play off simply on the power of personality. There’s a lot of nicely differentiated doubling. And all things considered it zips along at a surprising brisk base so the interest rarely dips.
We start with Petruchio (Matt Williams) looking for a rich wife and deciding to take on, and “tame,” the challenging Katherina (Helen Rose-Hampton) for reasons of his own. Eventually, of course, it’s ‘Kiss me Kate’, unexpected mutual falling in love and a private deal so that he wins his wager against the other men.
Williams is splendid as the dictatorial chauvinistic Petruchio. He shifts adeptly between fortissimo tyranny and dangerously, pretended, calculated gentle pleading. And his falconry soliloquy which makes his full intentions clear is pretty chilling. Williams makes the character charismatically entertaining but, my goodness, you wouldn’t, really wouldn’t. want him in your life.
Rose-Hampton finds an appealing vulnerability in Katherina. Yes she’s feisty and bitterly angry at the way her younger sister Bianca (Nell Bradbury) is always favoured but she’s also hurt and troubled and Rose-Hampton never lets us forget that.
Nell Bradbury turns in a lovely performance as Bianca – actually quite spiteful with a wonderful repertoire of dirty looks and smouldering rage when she’s not flirting. Also noteworthy are Jonathan McGarrity’s urbane Hortensio, Alexandra Kataigida’s knowing, simpering Widow and Linda Mathis as a sexy, laid back Vincentio.
Because these actors don’t know each other’s parts they often forget their own – that’s part of how Shake-Scene works so they call “line” to Conrad Hughes who prompts them. It’s quite an entertaining device that they do this firmly in character or in the tone of the moment so that the prompts almost become an integrated part of the play.
The review was first published by Sardines http://www.sardinesmagazine.co.uk/reviews/review.php?REVIEW-West%20End%20&%20Fringe-The%20Taming%20Of%20The%20Shrew%20-%20%E2%98%85%E2%98%85%E2%98%85&reviewsID=3342
Money, money, money … managing it gets ever more difficult when you have destructive, unhelpful Ms Alzheimer’s as your new partner.
Like most people we don’t use much cash these days. But last week, by chance, we had to collect the cat from the cattery, pay the window cleaner and the garden odd job man, who dug out a couple of small, ugly mini conifers – all within twenty four hours. And they all expect cash.
On the day in question I was rushed off my feet trying to meet deadlines with two features, get the ironing done, take in a supermarket delivery and loads of other things before setting off do a late afternoon magazine interview in north London. So when My Loved One said “I could walk round to the cash machine and get what we need” I agreed to it.
Of course that was a very stupid decision and I’m now jolly cross with myself. I really ought to know better by now but he sounded sort of grown up when he offered. I had misgivings because I’m well aware how frail he looks and although it was broad daylight, south London is not exactly free of lawlessness. I was therefore pleased to see him home safely a few minutes later.
Then he gave me the receipt and the money. He was £80 short.
I don’t know what happened. There was some confusion about having to take it out in two lots. Perhaps he left it there. Returning to the machine – as you’d expect – was fruitless and the crosser I got the less coherent he became. Then, while I felt ever more remorseful at having lost my temper with him, he spent most of the remainder of the afternoon sitting on the sofa gazing miserably into the distance. “I don’t feel very well” he said, when I pressed him.
Well, infuriating as this is, the loss of £80 is not going to sink the ship but I’ve learned an important lesson: MLO can no longer be “trusted” with money and I need to treat him as if he’s a child of, say, seven. That’s what Ms A does to people – insidiously saps away their adult status.
We have a personal account each and two joint accounts. I have been operating his personal account through Power of Attorney for several months and have now “confiscated” (still a teacher at heart) all his other cards.
“I’ll need that purple one, though won’t I?” he said in confusion. “Yes”, I replied. “You can keep your bus pass. It’s MONEY I’m concerned about.” Cue for vacant, blank look.
Later I went to a bank and withdrew the rest of cash we needed to pay our dues. When I got home I gave him £15 so that if we go into a coffee shop together and he wants to feel gallant, he can pay. Pocket money – literally. I’ll replenish it when it’s gone.
It’s so difficult to safeguard the last vestiges of self-worth in all this. MLO is an adult, until recently perfectly able to manage money, and being treated like a child must be awful although the worst complaint I ever get is: “Oh you’re so bossy”.
And what on earth do I do about Christmas, now on the horizon? Since we first stopped being “just friends” and became a “proper item” in 1967 we have bought each other nice – usually surprise – Christmas presents every year. There’s nothing either of us needs of course but it’s an enjoyable tradition. Of course I have a present planned for him. But he won’t be able to reciprocate and he’ll fret – especially on Christmas day and Boxing Day when others are exchanging presents.
I expect I shall end up choosing and buying a present for myself using his personal account. I shall then hand it to him to give back to me (maybe wrapped after a fashion if Ms A lets up for an hour or two at some point) on Christmas morning. Seems absolutely daft. But it will allow him to feel like a proper participant – and that matters very much.
One of the things I miss most in my new hard-to-adjust-to, Alzheimer’s-polluted marriage, is companionable walks.
We used to walk miles together. In the early 1990s we did, in sections, both the North Downs Way (Medway to Dover) and the Stour Valley Walk (Ashford to Sandwich) and I wrote about them for Kent Life. Later, even after MLO fell off a ladder and smashed his foot in 2002 and could do longer manage a full 12 mile day, we had a whole battery of favourite Kent 5/6 mile walks which we did, with great pleasure, over and over again.
When we moved “home” to South London in 2016 I had lots of plans for our doing the Green Chain Walk and the Thames River Path in bits along with casually and routinely walking a couple of miles to nearby places rather than taking the car or bus. Alas Ms Alzheimer’s arrived on the scene and none of that has happened.
MLO now walks very slowly indeed, dragging his feet in a sort of weary trudge. I reckon his new natural walking speed is about half the speed of mine which, of course, makes walking together impossible other than functionally – across a car park or through a station, for example. He gets awfully tired very quickly and shows no interest whatever in walking for pleasure. A grind to the (very close) railway station, to the doctors (maybe half a mile) or from our son’s house in Brighton to the Dome for a concert is one thing. Choosing to do it for no practical purpose is another.
When I walk with him over short distances I usually hang on to him for his safety and so that (as you would with a child) I know where he is. It often reminds me of taking a very reluctant dog for a walk because I’m constantly tugging while he resists because, however hard I try to adjust, his speed is slower and as soon as I stop thinking about it consciously I accelerate automatically. Hard work for the puller and, I presume, a bit irritating for the pulled.
The advice from all the medics, websites and people in the know (except that no one really “knows” this hideous and horrible disease) is that the sufferer should keep physically active. Well in a sense he does because he will walk short distances to places he needs to get to if there’s no alternative. If only I could persuade him to join me round the park occasionally. Alas, a combination of physical and mental blocks seem to get in the way. I’m never sure where or when “can’t” turns into “won’t”.
It’s oddly divisive because, for myself, I try – and have done so for decades – to walk as much and as briskly as I can usually by building it into daily life. If I have to go, for instance, to Little Angel Theatre I generally go to St Pancras and walk down Pentonville Road rather than going direct to Angel tube. If I’m heading for Covent Garden or the West End I try to build in enough time to walk from Blackfriars Station rather than taking District and Circle line – and so on and on. I also go out for walks from home whenever time permits even if it’s only 40 minutes round nearby streets. And yes, I have done several sections of the Green Chain on my own and discovered places and roads not far away from home but new to me. I’m afraid, moreover, that I’m also one of those irritating (smug?) people who chooses stairs rather than lift or escalators if it’s only a flight or two. These days I sometimes put MLO in the lift and then pop up the stairs myself. I’m usually there first.
Time was when MLO would have done all this and more with me – willingly and naturally because it was what we did. Now I wander (or stride more likely) lonely as a cloud.
I’ve been sorting out some clothes and other textiles for refugees in Syria because my daughter-in-law is organising a collection. I think I might as well put MLO’s walking boots on the pile. He isn’t going to wear them again and some poor – but younger and fitter – soul might be glad of them. It’s emotionally quite a hard thing to do, though. Another door clanging shut.
Every effort should be made for every show to start on time. Shows run late far too often and I reckon that’s usually avoidable.
For a start I think the industry owes it to the dozens, hundreds or thousands of ticket buyers who’ve made huge efforts to be there at the advertised time.
Some of these punters, moreover, will have checked the show’s run time and arranged, for instance, transport afterwards. Many will have travelled a considerable distance to be there. And it makes a mockery of anything they’ve planned if the show runs even ten minutes late.
Many’s the time I’ve watched the minutes tick by in the knowledge that I shall, because of a late start, miss the train I was aiming for which means I shall be at least half an hour later home at the end of the evening. And in my case that means even later midnight oil if I have a review to write.
Yes, of course, there are times when delays are completely unavoidable. I was at a fringe show in a pub theatre not so long ago when the stage manager fell off a ladder and was knocked unconscious just a few minutes before the show was due to go up.
On another occasion at a regional theatre for touring production of A Midsummer Night’s dream “Titania” had an accident during the interval and played the second half seated and with her ankle strapped up so of course there was a delay first while she was sorted out.
And once in the Royal Festival Hall, they announced that we’d have to wait a few more minutes because conductor Sir Simon Rattle was stuck in a taxi in a traffic jam.
These things happen – but not, I contend, all that often. Most performances could, and should start on the dot of the advertised time. Few do.
The worst problem is in small fringe theatres where the culture prevails that the house isn’t declared open until five minutes (or less) before the proposed start time. It’s almost impossible to get even a smallish group of people in, seated and settled in the time allowed so of course the show routinely starts late.
Why, in most cases, can’t the audience go in earlier? Surely performers and those who work with them are ready? And if they’re not then they jolly well ought to be other than under the most unusual, unforseen circumstances such as an accident or technical fault.
It isn’t just small theatres, though. Large scale theatre frequently starts late (no reason given – audience in place) too. Punctuality needs working harder at right across the industry. If it’s show “business” then we need to be more businesslike.
Most people get it. I’ve written before about the kind consideration My Loved One – Ms Alzheimer’s glowering menacingly over his shoulder – routinely gets from total strangers but it’s so very striking that I make no apology for returning to the subject.
Seats are readily vacated on buses and trains and there’s a lot of courteous standing back as soon as they spot that MLO is shaky on his pins – which, just to make sure, I routinely signal to all and sundry by saying clearly “Mind this step” or “Hold on to me” which is as much for those around us as for MLO himself.
On one occasion the tube train was very crowded. I managed to lever MLO into a priority seat but stood, “strap hanging” (as we used to call it) near the door myself. Inevitably lots more people got on and stood between him and me so I started to worry about how I was going to get him off when we reached our station. In the event I managed to weave an arm through the bodies. MLO got the message and reached towards me. Then the crowd miraculously moved, like a mini parting of the Red Sea, so that I could haul him out. All done in typically British silence of course – apart from my saying thank you – but so thoughtful and decent. I suppose it’s the same mentality as pulling over for an ambulance.
On our recent trip to the US we explored Arlington Cemetery (both interesting and powerfully poignant) via a hop-on hop-off bus tour of the site. MLO is no longer proficient at hopping and had to take the three steps on and off the bus very carefully – usually with me standing at the bottom to proffer a steadying hand. When we reached the place where they do the changing of the guard at the tomb of the unknown soldier (the only bit of the whole holiday MLO now remembers with clarity, by the way) there was a big brawny twenty-something in front of us. He was covered in tattoos and wearing a base ball cap which in another life might have made me leap to unreasonable, stereotypical conclusions. In fact, he bounded down the steps before turning to help MLO with exquisite courtesy. I was almost as moved by that as by the changing of the guard which, for the record, I thought was a rather repetitive 3* piece of theatre. Good to see “vets” in wheelchairs brought from all over the US by charities to witness it, though.
I am also impressed by the cheerful kindness of the people who provide “special assistance” at airports. The pleasant, chatty, caring young woman who was awaiting us with a wheelchair at the aircraft door in Washington took us all the way through immigration, baggage reclaim, customs, on an airport “train” and right out to a taxi outside. By then – maybe 45 minutes in her company – I’d heard her entire life story (grandmother in California with Alzheimer’s) and felt really welcome in her country. Yes, I know that’s her job but she clearly takes real pride in it and she earned every cent of the $5 I tipped her. The service is kind enough at Heathrow too but less efficient and with a lot more hanging about because, I gather, it’s “outsourced”.
Needing the loo frequently and urgently is an ongoing problem. In one coffee shop there were two unisex lavatories but one was out of order. I got the code number for the door from the counter and told MLO about six times what it was but he still came back to me inarticulate with panic. So I went round to said door and punched the number in myself. Of course it was occupied and there was, anyway, a woman waiting. “Well it’s a queue” I said. “You’ll have to stand behind this lady and wait.” She spotted the problem instantly: “No no, you go first” she said warmly. “What a star. The vast majority of people are fabulous. I rest my case.
Then there are other people’s perceptions of me and how I deal with it. Back in London we went to Next the other day where Costa is on the first floor and we decided to go up for coffee or , in my case, tea. Well I expect there’s a lift but I really do believe I have to keep MLO moving for as long as possible. When we’d finished our drinks we set off slowly down the steps with me, as usual, walking two steps in front holding his free hand firmly. We were watched by the fascinated security guard at the foot of the staircase by the main door. “I wish I had a wife as kind as you” he said, going on to inform us that his wife had left him and taken most of his money. Life with Ms Alzheimer’s certainly triggers some strange conversations.
When I was at school we didn’t have assembly. The whole-school morning gathering was unequivocally called “Prayers”. And once we were there, our deeply Christian headmistress regularly addressed her Almighty in these simple supplicatory words: “Help us to be kind”. Well I have no truck with her God but by golly she was right with that thought. Kindness is probably the most important factor in human behaviour. If we are kind to each other we can cope with almost anything.
I used to love visiting schools. Having taught for many years in secondary schools myself and visited, in various capacities, literally hundreds since I became first a part-time and then a full-time journalist, I always felt a real homecoming affinity. Not any more.
These days the most likely reason for my being invited to a school is to see a professional touring production which may or may not be linked to some sort of drama or other project. And the invitation always comes from the theatre company who then have to get “clearance” from the school. Sometimes the school refuses (the j-word upsets some of them) and we have to start again elsewhere.
Last week I was invited by the National Theatre to see their astonishingly good 90 minute version of The Curious Incident on the Dog in the Night-time which is being taken into 60 schools. I shall not name the school which was a tiresome, time consuming journey involving three trains and 15 minute walk from my base.
On arrival (after seeing a teacher on lunch break smoking in the car park in full view of the building – so much for “non smoking premises”) I was collected from reception by a businesslike drama teacher who took me to the room where the cast were prepping and left me. I apologised for my presence and had a joke with the actors about the cluelessness of some schools. Then a very brusque company manager appeared and demanded that I go with her saying “You can’t stay here. This is where the cast are working” as if I’d walked in there of my own volition.
She put me – nuisance as I was by now beginning to feel – in an empty auditorium where stage crew etc were sorting final details. There was still half an hour to go so I ate my lunch – an apple which I cut up with my in-bag knife. When I walked 20 feet from my seat to bin my rubbish someone snatched said knife and said “What’s this knife doing here?” I explained and put it away in my bag. Apart from the cast, who were delightful, no one had yet so much as smiled at me.
After the show, I slipped out and attempted to use a paperless loo in which the lights didn’t work. Then I tried the main door which was locked. In the end I left by a back door across a delivery yard where a security guard (whose two cats grinned at me cheerfully) let me out without stopping his phone conversation. I handed him my visitor’s badge and scuttled thankfully back to the station. I recall a rather warmer welcome when I visited Brixton Prison – and at the time I wasn’t much impressed by that either.
All this, of course, is in the interests of “child protection”. We have allowed the existence of a tiny evil minority to turn our schools into hostile lock-ups where common sense no longer seems to prevail. So in a sense the evil minority has won. It now dominates the lives of millions of innocent people.
At another school I went to in North London a while ago, by invitation, to see a small scale touring production I was accosted by a security guard as soon as I put a foot on the path from the street to Reception. “What do you want?” he asked rudely before marching me into the foyer (he had a key to the main door) and handing me over to the woman on the desk who wanted me to fill in a form before proceeding any further.
Then there was the school in Birmingham I visited with the RSC whose lovely press folk, whom I’ve known for over 20 years, had picked me, and two other journos, up from New Street. The woman manning reception at the school demanded ID from us journalists – despite the fact we were with the RSC who had a partnership with the school. Then we were allocated to a room to eat sandwiches but the only loo we were allowed to use had an infant school size WC. You can’t let journalists use the staff facilities – against the rules obviously.
It doesn’t have to be like that. Rules are open to interpretation – not to mention common sense and decent manners. Last year, also with RSC, I went to Springhead Primary School at Talke Pits, Stoke-on-Trent. Notice I AM naming this one. With pleasure. The purpose was to see the production of The Tempest which was touring schools and Springhead had turned it into term-long cross curricular project of which everyone on the premises was intensely proud.
We journalists, and some other guests, were taken into the staff room and plied with tea and coffee. Everyone was chatty and friendly and, best of all, the Headteacher asked me if I’d like to see the children’s work on The Tempest which was displayed around the school. When I jumped at the opportunity he popped his head out of the staffroom, found three Year 6 children and sent me on a conducted tour with them. I was most impressed by the children’s confident, articulate and knowledgeable enthusiasm as well as by the head’s sensible risk assessment methods. He knew that I was a long standing journalist, brought to his school by the RSC which made it infinitesimally unlikely that I’d morph into a child molester or paedophile the moment I was out of his sight.
If only more schools were like that. I admire actors and companies who take work to schools because they encounter all sorts of problems of which one of the commonest is not being allowed unescorted access to lavatories. It’s true schools were, back in the day, probably too slack but we have now gone far too far the other way. And until something changes, I shall probably give most school visits a miss from here on.
Photograph: Richard Davenport
Alexandra Dariescu & Desiree Ballantyne, King’s Place
Presented here as part of London Piano Festival at King’s Place, The Nutcracker and I is effectively a piano recital with attached ballet, both actual and projected. It’s an enticingly imaginative concept and a real joy to see/hear some of the most sublimely colourful music ever written uncompromisingly introduced to a new generation of (very) tiny future ballet lovers.
The music, played with passion and drama by Alexandra Dariescu on a concert grand, consists of fifteen piano transcriptions by composers as varied as Mikhail Pletnev, Stepan Esipoff, Percy Grainger and Gavin Sutherland. All manage to connote the original orchestration pretty fully and pack in a lot of notes, the challenge of which Dariescu rises to with warmth and aplomb.
The action is projected onto a downstage gauze screen with delightfully sympathetic animation by Yeast Culture. Their blue Trepak dancers are really fluid, their nutcracker prince lithe and their mice witty without becoming Disney-like. The only live dancer, Desiree Ballantyne, communicates and dances with them all, just as Dariescu, who plays from memory in half light, makes smiling eye contact and keeps pretty well in time with the dancers. It requires quite special skill to relate and react convincingly to something the audience can see but you can’t (think Dick Van Dyke and the penguins in Mary Poppins) and both performers bring it off effectively.
What I liked most about this 50 minute show was the lack of dumbing down. It’s simply music and movement with several quite long passages of piano only. There are no words or explanations but it works. Most of the children in the audience were engaged throughout.
Dariescu over-lards the Waltz of the Flowers for my taste and, for narrative cohesion, I’d prefer to return to Clara’s house as she wakes from her dream at the end in the usual way, instead of the rather untidy, unclear ending we get here but these are only quibbles. Generally I loved it and hope Dariescu might be planning similar versions of other ballets.
This show is touring worldwide this autumn and early in 2019. There are some further UK dates in December.
First published by Lark Reviews: http://www.larkreviews.co.uk/?cat=3