The Crucible at The Old Vic

The Crucible at The Old Vic

I have seen many productions of Arthur Miller’s superb play, The Crucible, and none have moved me in the way Yael Farber’s offering does.  Everything conspires to turn this account of the Salem witchhunt into the thriller it should be.  From the inspired choice of performing it in the round, drawing in the audience from all sides, to Tim Lutkin’s murky lighting and the spine tingling opening, ensures that the tension is heightened from the word go.  It may last for an extraordinary three and a half hours, but not once does the director lose her grip by letting the tension and oppressive atmosphere lax. 
Arthur Miller wrote the play in the 1950’s as an allegory of McCarthyism, when the US government blacklisted accused communists.  It centres around the Salem witch trials that took place in Massachusetts during 1692 and 1693. 

A god-fearing community is left reeling when several of their young girls are rumoured to be dancing naked in the woods alongside Reverend Parris’s Barbadian slave, Tituba.  Hysteria rises when his, supposedly sick daughter, Betty, is accused of witchcraft.  If she is guilty of such a crime, then the majority of the local girls and women could be too. The main protagonist to all these shenanigans is Abigail Williams who, as a woman scorned, has a hidden agenda.  It transpires that local farmer, John Proctor, had an affair with the young Abigail whilst she worked for him and his then, sick, wife, Elizabeth.  He realises immediately what a mistake he has made, but has no idea at first as to what extent.  Not only is his marriage threatened but eventually his life.

I really cannot fault any performance in this spine tingling production.  The young girls are choreographed to within an inch of their lives.  Frequently speaking as one, writhing and shaking their long hair in unison, screeching and howling, they are a creepy tour de force.  Sitting in the front row, I was transfixed and for a split second wondered if indeed the devil was at work.  This aspect of the play can often seem contrived and embarrassing, but not here. 

 it isn’t all noise and hysteria.  The scene between the brooding hulk, John Proctor (an excellent Richard Armitage), and his wife, Elizabeth (Anna Madeley) is touchingly quiet and still.  Much is said without speech and they portray the wronged wife and guilty husband magnificently.  Their love for one another is never in question and totally affirmed in the final few moments of the play when they embrace for the final time.  Anna Madeley’s dignity is in such sharp contrast to Samantha Colley’s immoral Abigail and all credit to them both.  It is Samantha’s professional stage debut and will surely not be her last.  She is bewitching and my, how you dislike her.  It does seem churlish to single out individual performances but Adrian Schiller as the Reverend John Hale was excellent.  His realisation that justice has definitely not been done is beautifully portrayed.  And Natalie Gavin does an exquisite job playing the terrified Mary Warren.  Her fear of the very scary Abigail is extremely credible.

At times, the shouting can be overused, but this doesn’t detract from the fact that The Old Vic has done it again.  This Crucible is electrifying and because I was so gripped by the happenings on the almost bare, shadowy lit space in front of me, the long running time didn’t matter one jot.

Hotel at The Shed

Polly Stenham is becoming renowned for portraying the modern dysfunctional middle class family.  However her new play, Hotel, now premiering at The Shed, turns this scenario into something rather more terrifying.

House husband, Robert, and Vivienne, his high flying wife, along with their 17 year old son, Ralph and 14 year old daughter, Frankie, have just arrived on a remote, luxury resort somewhere off the coast of Kenya.  The trip has been organised because Vivienne has been forced to resign her post as a secretary for trade because Robert has been caught on the internet with “his trousers down”.  Having sacrificed his career to look after the children, whilst his wife pursues hers, he harbours nearly as much resentment as she does following his stupidity.  Not a harmonious start to a holiday by any stretch of the imagination. The two teenage children are more than aware of what is going on, with their behaviour belying their years and Ralph has promised Frankie he will share a dark secret with his father.  More tension building stuff.  We are certainly in thriller territory here and the disquiet wracks up and up until it blows into something extraordinary.

I don’t want to give too much away except to say that Nala, the black maid, who has us all wondering almost as soon as she appears on stage, harbours even more resentment than the warring couple.  This rancour is directed mainly towards Vivienne and her signing of aid deals affecting the Kenyan flower industry and builds to a destructive climax.  Included in this is a most vicious kicking, which in the small space of The Shed, is really shocking, especially as it is accompanied by real howls of pain and fear.  Not easy viewing by any means, especially when viewed from the front row

And that for me is one of the problems of this play.  Whilst the acting is, for the most part exemplary, the hell this family find themselves in does appear contrived.  Not because we can’t believe such a thing could happen, but by the way it does.  The whole thing appears studied and it’s difficult to ascertain why.  Maybe its because the dialogue at this point in the play shifts from realistic exchanges between the family into short bursts of almost rhetorical speeches on behalf of Nala.

Tom Rhys Harries is a superb Ralph and his relationship with Frankie, the excellent Shannon Tarbet, is utterly believable.  Hermione Gulliford and Tom Beard playing Vivienne and Robert are equally good, whilst Susan Wokoma’s Nala has her moments of excellence.  I totally believed she was suffering excruciating pain.
Naomi Dawson’s very smart hotel set works perfectly and its very elegance helps to highlight the resulting mayhem.  Equally Maria Aberg is expert at hinting at the mayhem to come, causing a rippling unease in the whole theatre from the outset.

It’s just a pity that for me the second half of the play didn’t work quite as well as the first.

Fathers and Sons at The Donmar

When a story by a famous Russian is adapted into a play by a famous Irishman one would hope that the outcome is well worth seeing.  When the people in question are Turgenev and Friel that hope is fulfilled and can be currently viewed at The Donmar.  Fathers and Sons, the novel, written by Turgenev in 1862 centres around the nihilist Bazarov and his impressionable friend Arkady who also supports this new philosophy.  The two friends’ beliefs are in sharp contrast to the senior members of their families and thus cause disruption when they all come together.

The play opens with the two friends visiting Arkady’s father, Nikolai, who, it transpires, loves and has sired a son by the housemaid Fenichka.  The rather inept Nikolai is thrilled to see his recently graduated son but this is not a cosy homecoming.  Bazarov manages to unsettle the whole household with his radical views and rather hostile manner.  And Arkady’s uncle Pavel bitterly despises him.  The younger generation however are not so negative in their thoughts, with the plump maid, Dunyasha, reduced to a quivering wreck when in his company.  When the young men then visit Bazarov’s humble parents, we quickly discover how contemptible he is of their values and seemingly embarrassed by their self-evident adoration of him.  Like Turgenev, we’re not sure whether to love or hate Bazarov and it is only when, despite his hatred of love and any display of affection, he quickly succumbs to the charms of the young, wealthy widow, Anna, that we see any hint of warmth in his character.

Although one might argue that not much happens (shades of Chekhov here) during Fathers and Sons, emotions are running riot under the surface and the cast manage to capture this superbly well.  There is also a rich seam of comedy flowing throughout the two and a half hours, mostly supplied by the excellent Tim McMullan as the foppish uncle and Susan Engel as the dotty Princess Olga.  Alongside the humour are periods of painful sadness.  Karl Johnson as Vassily, Bazarov’s father is particularly affecting.  Every one of his lines hit the spot and the lyricism of the writing is oh so safe in his capable hands. There actually isn’t a weak link with any of the cast, but Joshua James as Arkady and Anthony Calf as his father stand out.  Joshua is able to combine Arkady’s youthful idealism with a mature sensitivity and we believe every word he utters.  Anthony Calf, on the other hand, is amusing and utterly convincing as the benevolent ditherer.  The American actor Seth Numrich plays Bazarov, with no trace of an American accent and whilst suitably arrogant and insensitive is not quite as believable as his fellow actors.  Mind you his floppy hair does deserve a particular mention.

Nothing in this ensemble production is forced, thanks in no small measure to Lyndsey Turner’s brilliant direction.  Rob Howell’s clever design and James Farncombe’s superb lighting also help to enhance her work.

If tickets are still available, this production is well worth seeing.

A View From The Bridge at The Young Vic

Praise has already been heaped upon Belgian director Ivo Van Hove’s production of Arthur Miller’s A View From The Bridge at The Young Vic and luckily I managed to get to see it before the run ended last night.  I can’t think of enough superlatives to describe how good a production this is and as practically the whole theatre stood to applaud at the end, they obviously agree with me.

In a three sided, see through empty box, akin to a boxing ring, the barefooted actors pad around and encircle one another often with Faure’s Requiem playing in the background.  There are practical reasons for Jan Versweyveld’s bare staging, all of which are revealed at the end of the mesmerising two hours, when the cast, enveloped in a rugger type scrum get rained upon by a torrent of red “blood”.  Such is the racked-up tension by director Ivo Van Hove that we all know (even those not familiar with Miller’s take on a Greek tragedy) that the denouement won’t be pretty.  And such is the brilliance of the whole cast, that we are caught up, carried along and left exhausted, emotionally spent and elated when the die is cast.

A View From The Bridge centres around Eddie Carbone, inhabited here by the magnificent Mark Strong, who works as a longshoreman in 1950’s Brooklyn.  He and his wife, Beatrice, the equally brilliant Nicola Walker, have brought up her orphaned niece, Catherine since childhood.  Now seventeen, Catherine is ready to spread her wings, but Eddie is not so keen.  Still treating her like the child she often appears to be, we realise that his is a suffocating, all consuming, unhealthy love.  A love which bothers his long suffering wife, Bea and also eventually threatens to alienate the doting niece.  Eddie’s jealousy knows no bounds when Bea’s two Sicilian cousins arrive to stay with them, unleashing a series of events that have terrible consequences.  For Catherine falls in the love with Rodolpho, the younger brother, the love is reciprocated and Eddie is unable to come to terms with it.  Add the fact that the cousins have entered the States illegally and you have a tinder box situation where betrayal, seething resentment and ultimately violence is the outcome.  We, the audience watch appalled as the tragedy unfolds, as does the lawyer who is narrating the story.

There are outstanding performances from the whole cast.  Mark Strong captures the pain and emotional breakdown of Eddie with such raw emotion that we feel for him whilst at the same time despairing of his actions.    Nicola Walker’s despair at what her husband is doing to the family is heartbreaking to watch, whilst Phoebe Fox manages to portray Catherine’s childishness whilst at the same time highlighting her metamorphosis into a young woman.  Michael Gould as Alfieri the anguished lawyer helps to build the tension and there is also excellent work from Luke Norris as Rudolpho and Emun Elliot as his brother Marco.  Marco’s lifting of the chair in order to show his muscular superiority over Eddie is so threatening that the spine tingles. 

Ivo van Hove has surely produced a superlative piece of theatre and I left the Young Vic feeling I had witnessed something very special indeed.

Good People at The Noel Coward

I defy anyone not to agree that Imelda Staunton is one of our greatest actresses and if anyone is in any doubt they should go and see her playing Margaret in Good People at The Noel Coward Theatre.

Written by David Lindsay-Abaire, this American comedy with an edge explores the theme of “making your luck”, whilst exposing that, horror of horrors, America is guilty of harbouring a class system.  Set in “Southie”, a working class neighbourhood in South Boston, where Lindsay-Abaire spent his early years before escaping via a scholarship to a prestigious private school, Good People opens with Margaret getting the sack from yet another job for bad time keeping.  Her desperation is apparent from the onset. Being the sole carer of her severely disabled daughter, no wages coming in can mean the difference between a roof over their heads and living on the street. 

This desperation causes Margaret to heed the advice of her wise cracking, outspoken friend, Jean and ask an old school friend, Mike for help in the job seeking stakes.  Mike has managed to escape the drudgery of life in Southie by dint of hard work, intelligence and luck.  Enjoying a “comfortable” existence in more upmarket Chestnut Hill, Mike (the “lace-curtain Irish”) is a successful “reproductive endocrinologist” and is less than happy to see Margaret turn up in his smart, sterile office.  Guilt at being unable to add his, as it turns out, ex girlfriend to his payroll, causes Mike to grudgingly invite her to his house party.  After all, there may be someone there who can employ her.

When this party is cancelled at the last minute, Margaret smells a rat and turns up anyway.  What follows is an at times heated confrontation between Mike’s glamorous and uber friendly African-American wife, Kate and the two old flames.  Secrets that Mike would prefer were kept hidden from Kate are uncovered and we begin to doubt if either he or Margaret are “good people”.  This scene highlights the cleverness of Lindsay-Abaire’s writing, for, underneath the sparkling, whip cracking dialogue, nothing is as straightforward as it looks. I’m sorry but a spoiler alert comes into play here so I cannot reveal more about the outcome except to say that one isn’t necessarily always on the side of the underdog.  Margaret’s desperation sometimes makes her vindictive, whilst Mike’s dogged determination to better himself can’t be viewed as totally contemptible.

Imelda Staunton has some of the best lines, which she delivers with her characteristic aplomb.  She may be tiny, but is certainly not short of energy and whether she be wheedling, desperate, momentarily desolate or  wisecracking survivor, Staunton’s Margaret is above all human.

Jonathan Kent ensures that the action never falters.  The pace whizzes along and his excellent cast always come up to the mark. 
 
Alongside Staunton, Angel Coulby achieves a wonderful brittle civility as the glamorous wife to the excellent Lloyd Owen’s Mike.  The support from Susan Brown as Margaret’s ascerbic land-lady, Dottie, Lorraine Ashbourne as the outspoken friend, Jean and Matthew Barker as the bingo loving (but not gay!) dollar store manager is terrific.  Add Hildegard Bechtler’s clever design to this mix and no wonder the West End was so keen to transfer this wonderful production from Hampstead

Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies at The Aldwych

There will be those who aren’t familiar with Hilary Mantel and her two consecutive Man Booker prizewinning novels Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies, but I suspect not many.  Similarly, there will be others, a bit like myself, who, on reading Wolf Hall, had some difficulty adjusting to the novelist’s format of setting the books in the present and in the third person, thus making it tricky to work out who is speaking and when.  No dipping in and out of these highly praised tomes, charting the rise and fall of Thomas Cromwell. But then came Saturday and now I can’t wait to finish the first book and devour the second.  Thanks for this must go to Playful Productions in coming up with the brilliant idea of adapting both novels into two stage plays, bringing the RSC on board and, following a sell out run at Stratford, transferring them to The Aldwych. 

These new dramatisations by Mike Poulton, with assistance from Hilary Mantel herself cannot be faulted.  The two almost three hour sessions sped by, gripped and transfixed as I was by the machinations of the court of Henry VIII.  The re-telling of the 1,246 pages of print has been so, so skillfully done, thanks, in no small measure to Jeremy Herrin’s direction and the mighty Christopher Oram’s set and costume design.  There is live music, dancing, and humour, whilst the actor’s move around the pared down box like grey set like chess pieces all the while portraying every character with the clarity Mantel evokes in her books.

I love the pace of the two plays.  Every move, every speech economically moves the plot forward and keeps the tension taught.  There is no need for a lavish set, a minimalist one, that by clever lighting becomes at once home, court, prison cell, even a boat on the Thames, wonderful period costumes and brilliant actor portrayals are enough.  The whole experience reawakens our acquaintance with this part of British history and makes us rethink the personalities and motivations of the likes of Thomases Cromwell, Wolsey and More, Henry VIII and his first three wives.

The main thrust of the plot is the fact that King Henry still has no son, always a problem for the English monarchy.  Poor old first wife, Katherine of Aragon, is now too old to produce another child, let alone a male one to go with her religiously resentful daughter Mary, so, what now?  Enter Anne Boleyn, an intelligently ambitious and sexy young thing who promises she has what it takes to produce a male heir, but only with a ring on her finger.  Be careful what you wish for springs to mind, for, before long, Henry’s eyes wander to the even younger Jane Seymour, whose family home gives the first book/play its title.  Mantel’s main character,Thomas Cromwell, the lowly blacksmith’s son, by dint of his hard work, low cunning and quick humour, quickly becomes Henry’s right hand man, picking up enemies along the way.  In England’s Tudor Court, the walls definitely did have ears and we quickly realise that the volatile Henry, swiftly changing from charm to alarming rage has to be handled with the softest of kid gloves.  Even though we all (at least I’m assuming all) know the outcome, Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies still have the ability to have us gripped.

Several of the actors take on multiple roles and it is to their credit that we are never in any doubt as to which character they are portraying.  It seems rather churlish to single out any performances but because they inhabit the major roles, I will mention Ben Miles, Nathaniel Parker, Paul Jesson and Lydia Leonard.  Ben Miles is Thomas Cromwell, “is” being the operative word.  Charismatic, quick witted, kind, but also chilling at times, the emotional man we see within the pages of the book is also brought into focus on stage following the death of his wife, Lizzie.  The production doesn’t linger on her untimely demise, but depicts it by having her vanish from the stage.  Likewise Ben Miles doesn’t linger on his grief and doesn’t have to.  The initial pain and grief etched on his face is palpable.

Nat Parker makes an excellent Henry VIII.  Lulling us into a false sense of security with his charm and good humour when things are going his way, when they’re not his fearsome temper is even more terrifying.  His Henry is a living, breathing king, vulnerable, spoilt, regal and dangerous.

Lydia Leonard is responsible for bringing Anne Boleyn to life and we’re aware of who she is and what she wants right from the word go.  The play opens with a lively dance and we see her suggestively stroking Henry’s fur collar.  There is no doubt as to what is on her mind and when we eventually hear her speak, we are also in no doubt that this is one intelligent, if peevish young woman.

Clad in scarlet, Paul Jesson’s Cardinal Wolsey is sublime.  Hedonistic and with a wonderful sense of humour, his exchanges with Cromwell are a joy.  How glad I was that his ghost kept returning, the voice of his and the other apparitions in Cromwell’s mind turned into disembodied echoes by the Sound Designer, Nick Powell.

These two plays can be watched separately but I am so glad I was lucky enough to watch both on one day.  The cliff hanger ending of Wolf Hall certainly left me wanting more and, wow, the evening performance did not disappoint.  Please hurry up and finish The Mirror and the Light, Hilary Mantel.  I can’t wait to see how you complete your trilogy.

Birdland at The Royal Court

There was one aspect of the staging of Simon Stephen’s new play, Birdland, at The Royal Court that left me slightly nonplussed.  I mean, why all the water towards the end?  I’m afraid I couldn’t work out the metaphor for that one.  But really that is my only quibble, perhaps because the brilliant Andrew Scott takes the title role of rock star, Paul and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  Charming, nasty, dangerous, intelligent, sexy, outrageous and electrifying. He is all of these things and much, much more. And my, oh my, what a mover.

Paul, you see is an extremely successful rock star.  He is adored by the fans who go and watch him sing in huge arenas around the world, and can have anything he wants.  Anything that money can buy.  But when it comes to things spiritual he is bereft.  Drugs and adulation have left him wondering who on earth he is.  He has lost his ability to empathise, which costs him the friendship and love of those he once held dear, especially his best friend, Johnny.  He does and says things we will him not to.  His off switch doesn’t function, which ultimately results in the suicide of Johnny’s girlfriend and his cringingly tactless meeting with her grieving parents.

Loneliness drives him to take Jenny, a girl working in one of the many hotels in which he stays, with him on the last leg of his tour, but he ultimately drives her away with his appalling behaviour.  It’s when we see his awkward backstage encounter with the father for which he has lost total regard, that we understand the reason for the title, Birdland (Simon Stephens says that the play was charged by the spirit of the Patti Smith song of the same name).

This is when we begin to realize that there is no way back.  And here’s the rub.  The man who has acquired everything but lost his soul ends up with nothing at all.

The remaining cast, who take on various roles, are exemplary.  Ian MacNeil’s spartan design of plastic chairs and not much else, highlight Paul’s cold and meaningless existence and Carrie Cracknell’s direction is spot on.  But it is Andrew Scott who amazes.  Dead behind the eyes and toxic his Paul may be, but we still somehow feel pity for this poor creature.  What price fame?

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