Travelling Light at The Lyttleton

I suppose disappointment with a production had to happen before long and such was the case with Travelling Light at The Lyttleton.  To my mind, the fault lies with the play itself, for although Act One is charming and entertaining, Act Two seems to lose its way.

The play by Nicholas Wright concerns Motl Mendl, who returns home to his remote village or Shtetl, after the death of his father, a Jewish photographer.  Whilst there he comes across his father’s 1896 Lumiere Brothers cinematograph and starts experimenting with the machine by filming life in the village.  Impressed with the youth’s talent, Jacob (a wealthy local timber merchant) becomes Motl’s backer.  Enter a pretty young girl assistant called Anna, add the stirring of the boy’s and Jacob’s heart strings and the scene is set for jealousy, a power struggle and the problems involved with making moving pictures on a budget.  Motl eventually tiring of these hindrances to making his beloved movies does a runner to Hollywood …. alone!  Anna, Motl’s muse and (it would seem) sexual plaything is abandoned.

May I mention a couple of niggles which start with the accent discrepencies between the older Motl, (now re-named Maurice Montgomery and played by Paul Jesson) and his younger version, the cold and rather usubtle, Damien Molony?  Can someone please explain to me why Motl has no accent at all and yet Maurice is full on Jewish in 1936?  In order to inform us (the audience) that he decided to embrace his Jewishness whilst in the US?  I don’t know, but it is irritating whatever the reason. Likewise, the usually wonderful Anthony Sher adopts a very over the top accent as Jacob.  Previous critics have likened his performance to an escapee from Fiddler on the Roof and I’m afraid I sadly have to agree.

The flickering black and white filmed sequences of the various villagers illuminated on the wall of the house are a charming and lovely touch, except that Maurice as the older and successful Hollywood film maker tends to be narrating at the same time, so the focus is lost.

For me the most believable character in a sea of Jewish stereotypes is Lauren O’Neil as Anna.  Her lovely face in close-up on the cinema screen is a perfect portrayal of a silent screen goddess and, although it stretches the imagination to believe that she should instinctively understand the process of cutting and editing film, it doesn’t really seem to matter.  What does is the schmaltzy scene in Act Two when Maurice discovers the identity of a young actor, Nate Dershowitz, also played by Damien Molony. 

I apologise if I’m sounding totally negative.  The play isn’t all doom and gloom and there are some clever and amusing touches, which is to be expected when Nicholas Hytner is directing.  I just feel that the amalgamation of film and theatre doesn’t quite work, with the filmed sequences upstaging the theatrical element at every turn.  I would prefer the play to be rooted in some kind of reality and have more dramatic depth.

September

I’ve succumbed to pressure (well three suggestions) from friends to do a theatre blog, seeing as how I spend far too much time, and money (according to certain people) on pursuing my passion.  Well shouldn’t a passion be indulged because, if not, why have one?   And if the passion is healthy, informative, fun and free from mortal sin, even more reason to continue sending yearly subscriptions to The National, Donmar and Old Vic.  So my three, four, sometimes more evenings a month, heading down the M11 to replace all things racehorse with all things thespian will continue ad infinitum with, hopefully, Pen, my partner in crime and Annie, my daughter, in tow.

SEPTEMBER was quite busy, with four new previews at The National and an unprecedented Saturday trip to The Vaudeville.

We started with Arnold Wesker’s The Kitchen at The Olivier.  It was fun to see that wonderful space transformed, thanks to the Designer Giles Cadle, into the Tivoli restaurant, especially as the last time we were there it housed the eerie, sombre world of Professor Frankenstein and his Creature.  I expected a naturalistic piece of theatre but instead, Director Bijan Shelbani cooked up a superbly choreographed dance, no mean feat when in charge of 30 or so characters.  The slight whoosh of gas being lit, glimmer of naked flames and bubbling of imaginary sauces being stirred enhanced the feeling that this was a real kitchen, despite there being no actual food, apart from what looked like olive oil.  The ensemble cast were flawless and the main character of Peter, a strung out German fish cook who persuaded me that he could explode with emotion at any time, was poignantly played by Tom Brooke. Various critiques have criticised the play as being imperfect, but perfection is rare and, for me, The Kitchen, served up an excellent evening.

Next up was Mike Leigh’s new play, Grief, at The Cottesloe. Being a huge fan, I was full of
excited anticipation on Monday, 19^th, especially as at this stage we still didn’t know the title of his new offering.  The acting couldn’t be faulted.  Lesley Manville, was at her dynamic best playing Dorothy, the sad, buttoned up mother, helpless as to how to get through to her equally depressed daughter, Victoria, played by a superb Ruby Bentall.  Sam Kelly, playing her older, bachelor brother Edwin, was mesmerising, whilst the other characters superbly brought snatches of light relief into this desperate suburban sitting room.  The despair was tangible, thanks to Mike Leigh’s attention to the smallest detail.  Every character was beautifully drawn;  no caricatures here, just tiny subtle gestures speaking volumes.  The many scene changes were not so much changes as rearrangements and, whilst they hindered Annie’s enjoyment, they enhanced mine, helping to portray the repetitive, desolation of this family’s daily life.  The devastating ending, although in a way expected, was still emotionally shattering.  More new plays please Mike – may I call you that?

We had the treble up with goodies, because the third preview, this time at The Lyttleton, was also excellent.  The Veil, Conor McPherson’s new play drew me in and kept me there for the whole 2 hours, 45 minutes.  Even Annie, who wasn’t so sure about the subject matter, namely psychics and hauntings, was completely captivated.  Rae Smith’s spooky Irish country estate house set the scene completely, aided and abetted by Lighting Designer, Neil Austin and Stephen Warbeck’s Sound Design.  I knew from the beginning that we were in for a treat, although, as in all good stories, I didn’t know exactly where it was going and was desperate to find out.  The characters who took us on the journey were beautifully portrayed, although I was rather bemused with Grandie;  presumably she was suffering from dementia?  For me, the three actors who particularly stood out were Jim Norton as The Reverend Berkeley, Peter McDonald playing Mr. Fingal the estate manager and the daughter, Hannah, played by Ursula Jones.  Fingal’s breakdown towards the end of the play moved me to tears and Hannah’s hysteria could so easily have been annoying and contrived in the wrong hands.  I’d also like to say that Peter McDonald is very easy on the eye!

Broken Glass at The Vaudeville was the final play of the month and I have a confession to make.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I admire Arthur Miller, Anthony Sher and Tara Fitzgerald enormously, but this production failed to engage.  I know, I know, it’s had wonderful reviews and, quite rightly, because Anthony Sher as Phillip Gellburg and Tara Fitzgerald as Sylvia, his wife are deeply moving, but, horror of horrors, I had to fight to stay awake.  This will probably stop anyone ever reading anything I write ever again (if they ever did) but I’m not prosecuting the production, more the space in which it is housed.  It was a very hot, muggy night in late September (remember that Indian summer) and our seats were in Row P, meaning that we had the balcony acting as a low ceiling, making the whole experience rather claustrophobic.  I felt as if I were sitting at the back of a long tunnel and totally failed to engage with what was going on on stage.  Maybe if the piece had been staged incorporating more “business”, my attention would have held, but however hard I tried – and try I did – there were long snatches of conversation I missed as my head drooped.  I’m sure if I’d seen it in a more intimate space, where the whites of the character’s eyes were visible, I would have enjoyed it more.  I should have gone to see it at The Tricycle.

Great, first blog done and dusted.  Who said I wouldn't get round to doing it?