Rules For Living at The Dorfman

We all develop ways of coping with the stresses and strains of modern life but most of us don’t adhere to them as fanatically as the family depicted in Rules for Living, a new play by Sam Holcroft, currently playing in rep at The Dorfman.

An article at the front of the programme describes the whys and wherefores of CBT (Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy), which, I’m guessing, was the starting point for this cleverly devised comedy.  The goal of CBT is to make “patients” recognise their various emotional traps and ultimately help them discontinue the coping strategies (Rules for Living) they have devised.  In a nutshell it ultimately makes them feel better and more confident.

The problem is that the family gathered for Christmas in Rules For Living seem unaware that they are in need of a dose of CBT.  Indeed the therapy is only mentioned as a possible course of action to combat the negative attitude of Emma, the teenager who spends most of the play off stage.

As Alan Ayckbourn brilliantly portrayed in Seasons Greetings, Christmas is often the catalyst for family tensions and so it is with this play. Edith, the mother, who is hosting Christmas lunch, plans everything with a military precision, is desperate for everything to run like clockwork and for everyone to have the best time ever.  The trouble is that her two sons, Matthew and Adam, have unresolved issues with one another, Adam and his wife, Sheena are in the throes of splitting up and Matthew’s girlfriend, Carrie feels inadequate and, as a consequence, is embarrassingly loud.  Add to this the fact that her domineering husband, Francis, has a few hours respite from hospital and her nerves are as highly strung as a Stradivarius.

How does she cope?  Well, displayed on a games board above the stage is “Edith must clean to keep calm”.  And she’s not the only one.  The other members of the family have similar strategies relayed for all to see.  Matthew “must sit to tell a lie”, Carrie “must stand to tell a joke” and so on and so forth.  As a result we’re totally aware of what is to come and thus the humour is intensified, especially when later on their rituals become even more involved.  We soon realise the problems each character faces and the descent into chaos for each is inevitable, especially when we are forewarned with the playing of a board game entitled Bedlam.

Marianne Elliott’s direction is spot on, whilst Chloe Lamford’s open plan kitchen, complete with Aga, is a joy.  The performances, too, are exemplary.  The excellent Stephen Mangan as Adam, the failed would-be cricketer, is brilliant at hiding his self loathing behind a quick, sardonic wit.  His wife, Sheena, played by Claudie Blakley, excellently portrays her disappointment with life in general and succour in the odd drink or four in particular.  Miles Jupp’s Matthew turns insincerity into an art form, whilst Deborah Findlay’s Edna, is a mother we all recognise.  My daughter certainly did when Adam was handed a coaster for his mug so that a mark wasn’t left on the table;  I received a hefty dig in the ribs as acknowledgement!

Rules for Living will have its detractors, but I’m not one of them.

Closer at The Donmar

The Donmar Warehouse is one of London’s little gems and paying my yearly membership is money well spent.   I’m usually lucky enough to secure a downstairs seat, but not for their latest production, unfortunately.  The size of the Donmar means that there are really no bad seats, but an intimate play such as Closer is so much better viewed at “closer” quarters. There is no question that Patrick Marber’s play deserved the accolades it received back in 1997 and this first revival at the Donmar is, I am sure just as good.  It is a great play, which really does capture the havoc that sex and infidelity can produce and the four actors involved deliver good performances. So why wasn’t I totally convinced?   Probably because sitting side on, upstairs, means little nuances and facial expressions are lost and total involvement is somewhat impaired.

Closer is the story of two men, Dan and Larry and two women, Alice and Anna.  Their lives intertwine, the common denominator being sex.  Dan, an obituarist meets Alice after she’s been run over by a taxi.  He takes her to hospital where she is examined by dermatologist Larry.  Dan and Alice become an item.  Following the publication of his first book based on Anna’s experiences he meets Alice, a photographer.  He is immediately smitten and his persistence eventually pays off.  Another conquest.  In the meantime, Larry, via an internet chat room, has been lured to meet Alice, having been wrongly under the impression that she’s keen to indulge in whatever sexual ideas he can come up with.  I say wrongly, because he’s actually chatting to Dan!  So, Larry and Anna meet and eventually marry.  And so it goes on.  Ring-a-ring-a-couples.

The content is explicit and “in your face”.  The sexual dialogue that takes place over the internet is shown on a large screen and Act Two opens in a strip club.  Neither is supposedly as shocking nowadays as it would have been when the play was first performed, but a handful of the audience obviously thought so, as they didn’t return after the interval.  But then Patrick Marber obviously expects a strong reaction.  He pulls no punches in showing the two men’s preoccupation with sex and feels no compulsion to portray them in a good light.  It’s a very honest insight into certain men’s phsyche and the pursuit of sex and love by both sexes.  Closer is as much a play about lying (or at least concealing the truth) as anything else.  Alice’s whole existence is based on fiction, Dan pretends to be Anna and Larry hides the fact that he isn’t averse to using the internet to pick up a woman for casual sex.  And when they’re not lying, their unburdening of the truth to their prospective partners wounds, even fatally in one instance.

This may sound too depressing for words, but David Leveaux gives Patrick Marber’s play a lightness of touch that highlights the playwright’s great way with words.  It is a very original piece with some great dialogue and laugh out loud moments and Bunny Christie’s neutral set reconfigures well into whatever location is needed.

The four actors deliver assured performances, if not always producing the fizzling sexual chemistry in their relationships with one another.  Rufus Sewell  is the handsome Larry, at times cruelly calculating, at others seemingly insecure.  Rachel Redford imbues Alice with the right amount of needy vulnerabilityy on the one hand and a superficial steely confidence on the other, whilst Nancy Carroll is predictably good as the manipulative and sensual Anna.  The least convincing is the usually excellent Oliver Chris, who fails to produce much sex appeal.

Closer, located in an area north of St Pauls where Patrick Marber lives, is a play I wish I’d seen first time round, or at least seen it in my normal downstairs seat.

A View From The Bridge At Wyndhams Theatre

Second time around and this superlative production still manges to enthral.  The venue is different but the quality remains, although The Young Vic staging was slightly more effective than the proscenium stage here at The Wyndhams Theatre.  I only say this because sitting in Row B, the faces of the actors, whilst seated, are sometimes obscured by the three sided glass “boxing ring”.  Plus, the director, Ivo Van Hove has decided not to break the tension of this taut, powerful production by having an interval.  An inconsiderate decision by two front row audience members to pay the loo a visit half way through nearly undermined this. The Young Vic audience on the other hand were much more involved.  One could hear a pin drop during the entire two hours.

The review I did in June last year still stands and is re-produced below.

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.

Man and Superman at The Lyttleton

There are two overriding factors regarding this revival of Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman; it is extremely long and Ralph Fiennes is a brilliant John Tanner.  Written in 1903, this play is rarely revived, which is not surprising seeing its running time of three hours, forty minutes (the uncut version a whopping five hours) and the fact that there is very little action by the characters who all talk too much.  It is a preachy tome, which ultimately highlights Shaw’s disinterest in romance and obsession with putting forward his own philosophical views.  Only an actor of the calibre of Mr. Fiennes could begin to make this play not only watchable, but extremely funny.  And my oh my how difficult the script must have been to learn, for John Tanner spews forth endless swathes of repetitive dialogue. 

In a nutshell, the main plot of the story is that a wily woman gets her man in the end, despite him being a commitment phobe and totally opposed to the idea of being in love.  Tanner, the object of her affection, spends the play highlighting the reasons for this objection in the form of contradictory speeches.  Boring?  Mostly no, for Ralph Fiennes injects the part with so much light and shade and humour that really the only somewhat tedious bit is that which is often omitted from productions of this play.  This being the act that sees Fiennes’s Tanner turning into Don Juan and arguing with the Devil in Hell about willpower and idealism.  Strange?  Very.

The woman in question is Ann Whitefield (Indira Varma) who, on the death of her father, inherits two guardians.  One is the wealthy Tanner, author of The Revolutionist’s Handbook, whilst the other is Roebuck Ramsden (Nicholas Le Provost).  Ramsden, is a conservative, boring old hypocrite, totally disapproving of Tanner and his ideals.  On realising that his ward is out to “nab” him, Tanner and his chauffeur (Elliot Barnes-Worrell) escape to Spain, where they are captured by bandits, the leader of whom is the lovelorn Mendoza (Tim McMullan).  Needless to say, Ann catches up with them in Granada in the final act.

The Director, Simon Godwin, has set the play in modern day and his opening really makes one sit up and take notice, for the first words we hear spoken are by Kirsty Young.  She is introducing her castaway, the “provocateur protagonist and author of a handbook designed to “set a new direction” for society.  The strains of Mozart’s Don Giovanni then burst forth, this being Jack Tanner’s first choice on his Desert Island Discs.  The brilliant Designer Christopher Oram lives up to his high standard with an evocative set and there is excellent work from the large cast.

Particular mention must go to Indira Varma, who not only brings a strength of character to the role of Ana, but also a sexual frisson, so no-one is at all surprised when Mr. Tanner finally capitulates.  Tim McMullan is also excellent playing an exceptionally funny brigand and debonair Devil.  What a captivating voice this actor has.

This production may be a tad too long and yet another one I didn’t always totally understand (some of the speeches went totally over my head), but it is really worth seeing, not just for the perfomances mentioned, but to see Mr. Fiennes manoeuvre a superb white Jaguar soft top off the huge Lyttleton stage.  On the night I saw it, he very nearly took out part of Christopher Oram’s set.  Now that would have been interesting!

How To Hold Your Breath

The Royal Court is one of my favourite theatres and Maxine Peake one of my favourite actresses, but if How To Hold Your Breath is anything to go by, I don’t somehow think I’ll ever say that about Zinnie Harris.

Her new play is billed as a darkly witty and magical thriller that delves into our recent European history.  That synopsis, coupled with the fact that the magnificent Maxine Peake takes the main role of Dana determined that it was a must see.  And to its credit the play starts well enough, with Dana embarking on a one night stand with a guy called Jarron (well played by Michael Shaeffer).  He has a problem with forming emotional attachments, offers her 45 euros for their night together and then claims he is a demon.  She is outraged and refuses to accept.  From then on in, what seems like a straightforward type of morality tale descends into what I assume is a surreal metaphor for Europe’s debt crisis, our preoccupation with money and that there is an easy solution to every difficult situation.   The problem is that the plot is weak, Zinnie Harris’s knowledge of geography isn’t great and there is very little cohesion.  It turns from realism to surrealism in a heartbeat.  What on earth is happening and why?

The basic story is that Dana and her sister, Jasmin (Christine Bottomley) embark on a work related train journey, during which Europe suddenly collapses overnight.  No mention earlier, so how did that happen?  Having spent what little money they have and with no means of getting any, as all the banks are closed, the sisters end up stranded in Hartenharten.  Perhaps Dana should have accepted the 45 euros.  A librarian who Dana met back in Berlin turns up in the same town, offering her various “How To” books (no marks for guessing what the final one is) and we eventually discover that Jasmin is pregnant.  What follows is 110 minutes of material that is deeply depressing, with no hint of the black humour promised in the synopsis.

Thank goodness for the wonderful acting abilities of Maxine Peake, who at least makes Dana a believable and sympathetic character.  She manages to portray vulnerability and femininity on the one hand and strength of character and resilience on the other.  It was worth the price of a ticket just to see her indefatigable gaze and expressive features at close quarters.

Vicky Featherstone, the new Artistic Director at The Royal Court directs How To Hold Your Breath and is a friend of Zinnie Harris.  Does friendship sometimes cloud ones judgement?  A lot of people who see the play will enjoy it and answer, no, but then that’s the delight of live theatre.  It’s all subjective;  one man’s meat and all that.

Whilst I applaud writers who put their point across in a symbolic way and ask the audience to form their own opinion as to what they’re getting at, I get very frustrated when it’s all at the expense of clarity.  I came away thinking that Zinnie Harris is just trying to be too clever by half.  But then maybe I’m just not bright enough to understand.

The Ruling Class at Trafalgar Studios

Jamie Lloyd has certainly transformed Trafalgar Studios.  Thanks to a brave choice of material and excellent direction, his productions in Studio 1 of this great little theatre in Westminster are always interesting, different and hotly anticipated.  His latest offering, The Ruling Class, by the late playwright, Peter Barnes, is yet another notch on his director’s chair.  By casting the mesmerising James McAvoy as paranoid schizophrenic, Jack, 14^th Earl of Gurney, Jamie Lloyd has ensured that this satirical play, written in 1968, is well worth reviving.  It may be entrenched in the sixties (Summer of Love and all that) but the accusations of class privilege are still relevant in 2015.

This black comedy parodying the upper classes might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but as a lover of the likes of Monty Python, I enjoyed every minute.  Well, not exactly every minute, as there is a moment half way through where it does threaten to lose its way and it does tend to flog many of its jokes to death but, hey, who cares, taken as a whole last night was a theatrical treat. 

Jack inherits his title thanks to his father’s (a Judge and peer of the realm) proclivity for dressing up in a tutu, donning a pointed hat and indulging in a spot of auto-erotic asphyxiation.  Needless to say he does it once too often.  No one in the family would mind his untimely death if it weren’t for the fact that his only son, Jack, has spent the last seven years in a psychiatric hospital due to his conviction that he is God incarnate.  Whoops, the head of such a distinguished family can’t seem to be headed by a madman, not such an obvious one at any rate.  Thus follows a plot devised by his Uncle, Sir Charles Gurney (the always watchable Ron Cook), to marry Jack off and make sure a baby soon follows.  A sane heir will mean that the mad father can then be committed.  Job sorted.  But this is fiction, so of course things don’t turn out quite as planned.

We first see the new Earl dressed in a monk’s habit, impishly peeping out from his hood.  His meek “hello” belies his capabilities.  And what capabilities they are.  Mr. McAvoy dances, unicycles, sings, throws himself about as if on springs and, most importantly, draws us into his parallel universe with glinting blue eyes, beatific smile and an impish charm that had me hooked from the “hello”.  In McAvoys’ hands the Earl’s mad mercuriality is infused with charm and an enormous amount of wit.  His mood swings are unnerving, by turn hanging quietly on his large wooden cross before taking tea, to frenziedly railing against reality. He is totally unhinged and hilarious.

Following an intervention from Jack’s psychiatrist, the Second Act sees Jack no longer under the illusion that he is the God of Love.  Far from it, for he is now endorsing the values of vengeance.  This being more in keeping with the familiy’s own doctrine makes him much more acceptable.   They are thus unable, or unwilling, to see that, rather than being cured of his schizophrenia, he has just done an about turn.  He may have stopped seeing himself as God and, is  espousing the name Jack, but it’s not Jack the Earl of Gurney with whom he’s identifying, but a much more dangerous individual.  

Although James McAlvoy is the main reason most of the audience will gather at Trafalgar Studios, the remaining cast mustn’t be forgotten.  They are all excellent, especially Paul Leonard who plays a variety of roles including the “hanging Judge” and Mrs. Piggot-Jones and Anthony O’Donnell as the closet Marxist butler, Tucker.  On receiving £20,000 from the dead Earl’s will, this hilarious of butlers takes to the bottle and reveals his true feelings about the toffs.  His various bursts into song are a joy to behold.

Subtle this ‘aint, but entertaining it surely is.

The Hard Problem at The Dorfman

What is clear is that Tom Stoppard’s latest play, after a break of eight years, is very wordy.  What isn’t quite so clear, for me at any rate, is what all these words mean.  The characters don’t so much talk to one another as expound theories and, apart from the main character, Hilary (an excellent Olivia Vinall) are, for the most part, one dimensional and unlikeable.  

The play is called The Hard Problem because of the difficulty scientists and philosophers have in working out the nature of human consciousness.  My difficulty is understanding why the God versus Scientist question has to be so damned shallow.  The long speeches and clever debating, with no small talk and proper interaction made by head hurt with all the information overload. 

The play opens with young psychology student, Hilary, having a flirtatious debate about Darwinism and the logical impossibility of altruism with her older tutor, Spike (Damien Molony).  He is helping her prepare for an interview at the Krohl Institute for Brain Science when he’s not climbing into her bed.  Much to his disgust, Hilary likes to kneel and pray before bedtime.  No, it’s not to ask God to make sure she’s successful in the interview but something much more maternal.  For as a teenager Hilary gave her baby daughter up for adoption and is desperate that the child is well and happy.  Praying helps to alleviate the worry and sadness.

Much to her surprise, Hilary lands a job at Krohl and thus comes across the egomaniacal hedge-fund billionaire owner (Anthony Calf) and his daughter, Cathy.  Not to give the game away but what happens later is termed a coincidence but is, to my mind, a contrivance.  But, no matter, at least it does bring some warmth to the proceedings.

As ever Bob Crowley has come up with a stylish and sleek, if minimal, design, aided and abetted by Mark Henderson’s clever lighting.  By the use of lit overhead wires and rods that burst into pretty multi-coloured movement between scenes, we get the impression of a brain whirring.  And Sound Designer, Paul Arditti has added evocative piano music to each scene change.  They, along with Nick Hytner’s impeccable direction ensure that the production isn’t all negative.  It’s just a shame that the excitement surrounding a new play by Sir Tom Stoppard and Sir Nicholas Hytner’s swansong as The National’s Artistic Director isn’t as exciting as it promised to be. 

Mind you, my mind has since whirred like those multi-coloured wires as I try to understand dualism and monism, so that’s a positive outcome from a trip to the theatre.