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.

Three Winters at The Lyttleton

I didn’t immediately book to see this new play by the Croatian playwright, Tena Stivicic, initially feeling that it wasn’t for me.  How wrong I was and how glad I am that I did eventually book tickets.  My knowledge of Croatian history could be written on one side of a postage stamp and the play emphasises the complexity of the country.  Tena Stivicic’s storytelling is also complex, moving to and fro between 1945, 1990 and 2011.  It charts the progress of one family and their changing attitudes towards Croatia’s move from Communism to Capitalism and is set in one house, almost a character in its own right.

Howard Davies directs and his and the playwright’s subtle approach give the whole thing emotional depth.  Whilst there is very much a political backdrop to the whole proceedings, the play isn’t bogged down by it.  A slow burner to begin with, the excellent performances and humorous light touches ensure the audience soon gets involved.  Although it isn’t immediately clear who is who and what is what, the various strands eventually weave together and we begin to understand what makes this family of strong females tick.

We’re first introduced to Rose, her baby Masha and mother Monika.  Rose is made of stern stuff and because of her closeness (we’re never totally sure of how close) to a general in Tito’s army is able to take advantage of Communism’s property grab.  The house, or at least a room in the house, that she has chosen, is the one in which she was born.  Monika was a servant to the family who originally owned the house and we soon realise that, Karolina, a member of this aristocratic family is still there, in hiding. 

When we jump to 1990, Rose has just died, leaving the house inhabited by her daughter, Masha, two grand-daughters Alisa and Lucia, son-in-law Vlado and Karolina.  The backdrop is the bloody break-up of Yugoslavia and how everyone will be affected.

When the family is visited in 2011, it’s the eve of Lucia’s marriage to a capitalist property man.  Alisa, now a liberal minded PhD student is visiting from England in order to attend the wedding and we’re left in no doubt that the two sisters are like chalk and cheese.  There is talk of evicting the tenants of the house and whilst Alisa abhors the idea, Lucia is all for it.

There are excellent performances throughout.  Siobhan Finneran imbues Masha with a quiet resilience.  She will endure no matter what.  James Laurenson is very effecting as Rose’s surviving old soldier husband, Alexander, whilst Jodie McNee as Alisa and Sophie Rundle as Lucia excellently portray the two modern-day sisters with such conflicting views.

Praise must also be heaped upon the Designer Tim Hatley who, with the clever use of newsreel footage displayed on shifting screens, skilfully and effortlessly changes the scenes backwards and forwards.

The two hours, forty minutes don’t drag for one minute and what a treat to watch an excellent domestic drama with a beginning, middle and end, beautifully acted and staged.

The Cherry Orchard at The Young Vic

I expected great things from Simon Stephen’s new version of Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard at The Young Vic and I’m sorry to say that I was bitterly disappointed.

Set in modern times, this paired down version (it last two hours with no interval) directed by Katie Mitchell, left me in no doubt that here less is definitely not more.  I felt no connection with what was happening on stage and thereby totally uninvolved.  I’ve seen the play several times, so know the plot and that Chekhov was railing against mass deforestation.  Also in previous productions, the irony and humour has come through.  But not here and my companion, who was new to play, needed to go home and actually read a full length version to gain any sense of the why’s and wherefores. 

Chekhov’s main character, Madam Ranevskaya returns to her childhood home after five year’s absence and discovers that all is definitely not well.  Her affairs have been so badly managed that, not only does her beloved cherry orchard have to go, but also the house that goes with it.  Her only choice is to return to exile in France, but, being in denial, it takes her most of the play to come to terms with this turn of events.

One usually feels for the poor woman but here I just wanted her and her retinue to up sticks and leave as soon as possible.  The largely miscast, Kate Duchene is partly to blame, spending far too much time clattering around on the bare wooden floorboard when she isn’t weeping and wailing about her drowned son.  Nothing about her performance is subtle and, like the majority of the cast, so much of her speeches are lost because Katie Mitchell has a thing about making her actors talk upstage with their backs to the audience.  Realism?  Possibly but what’s the point if the audience can’t hear what they’re saying.  Certain actors can accomplish this, but unfortunately not many of these are appearing on the Young Vic’s stage this time around.  Another strange stage direction is to make the majority of the cast enter and exit down stage at what is almost a run.  The floor of the set is bare floorboards, so this results in much clomping and not much subtlety.  Talking of lack of subtlety the governess played by Sarah Malin has it in spades.

There are one or two good performances.  Dominic Rowan makes a believable, Lopakhin, the son of a serf who is the eventual purchaser of the estate, whilst Gawn Grainger is a touching and understated Firs.  In fact he really is the only likeable character and the only one to elicit any sympathy. Paul Hilton as Peter Trofimov is an excellent actor and delivers an amusing performance, as the clumsy perpetual student but, unfortunately, the majority of his funny lines are muffled and inaudible.

The lighting is irritatingly dim, the atmosphere is always depressing and the sounds suggest something spooky in the wood shed.  Chekhov’s lightness of touch is gone, along with the felled trees.

The Play That Goes Wrong at The Duchess Theatre

The clue as to the content of the latest production at The Duchess Theatre is in the title.  In fact it does exactly as it says on the tin and does so even before curtain up.  Whilst the audience are settling into their seats, the stage management team are still putting the finishes touches to the set and enlisting the help of a person in the front row to hold up a mantelpiece that won’t stay up on its own.  This is arguably the funniest part of the whole play with the running gag being that a door won’t keep shut and the aforementioned shelf over the fireplace keeps falling down.

This play highlighting the worst that can happen with am-dram was a great success at Edinburgh and the cast, three of whom wrote it, must be rightly thrilled with it’s transfer to the West End, following stints at The Old Red Lion and Trafalgar Studios.  Although one could say it’s a poor man’s Noises Off and not as clever, it is hilarious in places.  I imagine it has been extended for the London run and this is where it falls down.  The running gags run out of steam, with much of the visual comedy carrying on far too long.  Half way through, the mishaps that happen to the actors and set are all too predictable and although it did manage to make me laugh, I have to say that those people around me seemed to laugh that much more.  But then maybe I’m a jaded old grouch.

The cast play members of the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society who are trying (and spectacularly failing) to stage a dreadful murder mystery entitled Murder at Haversham Manor.  The set has a mind of it’s own and, as one would expect, there is more ham on stage than in a pork butcher’s shop.

Some of the cast ham it up better than others.  I particularly enjoyed Dave Hearn as Max Bennett, a gangly twerp of the highest order, who is spectacularly good at milking laughs whilst simultaneously upstaging everyone else.  The soundman, played by Leonard Cook, proves what can be done with a lesser role whilst Charlie Russell in trying to portray a vamp (Sandra Wilkinson) postures and preens.  A less sexy female is hard to imagine.  Because the characters being played are useless and thereby irritating, it’s easy for this irritation to cloud everything else.  And, unfortunately, a couple of the cast irritated me so much, I was willing them to be hit by flying scenery and not be seen until curtain call.  For this, read Jonathan Sayer’s butler character, Dennis Tyde.  He, along with, Henry Lewis and Jonathan Sayer wrote the play, which is where his strengths must lay.

The director, Mark Bell, does a handsome job with pace and alacrity, Nigel Hook’s set design works a treat, whilst the costumes designed by Roberto Surace are spot on.

All in all credit must go to the group of graduates from LAMDA who, instead of bemoaning their lot at not getting acting work, founded Mischief Theatre.  Thanks to determination and hard work, they have a ‘Company That Goes Right’.

Neville's Island at The Duke of York's Theatre

The main adjective to describe Neville’s Island now playing at The Duke of Yorks Theatre, having transferred from Chichester but with a different cast, is damp.  Not a damp squib exactly, at least not for the majority of the playing time, but a dampness pervading the stage.  This is because the four employees of a Salford water company (I rest my case) who are on a team building exercise and get lost in the rain, end up on a small island in the Lake District, which the designer, Robert Innes Hopkins, has brilliantly created.   The trees on stage drip, as do the actors, who arrive on stage via a downstage river (well stream) but with enough water in it to send splashes over the audience in the front row. Hence the reason why they’ve been supplied with plastic macs.

Whilst the play is often very funny, it also seems rather forced and not sure whether to be comedy, drama, psychological thriller or satire.  The four comic actors, Adrian Edmondson (Gordon), Miles Jupp (Angus), Neil Morrissey (Neville) and Robert Webb (Roy) are all excellent, although their characters not so.  Gordon is a relentless nasty cynic who you long to show one redeeming feature but doesn’t.  Angus is the insecure ‘anorak’ who keeps everything but the kitchen sink in his rucksack.  Neville is the ‘keep everyone happy at all times’ team leader who is keen to appear cleverer than he actually is, whilst Roy is recovering from some kind of nervous breakdown and grieving over the death of his wife.  He is a religious ‘anorak’ who spends much of the play perched up a tree, talking to the birds (in particular a rare breed of falcon). 

It’s a great pity that these four work colleagues are the ones to get marooned together, as there is a general feel that they disliked one another even before they set out.  It is an ensemble piece with each character doing their own thing.  None of them are in tune with each other, thanks in no small measure to Gordon.  He constantly gripes at Neville for thinking each instruction they were given was some kind of cryptic crossword clue, which is the reason they are 180 degrees off course.   He continuously ridicules the poor, hapless Roy, having no sympathy whatsoever for a man teetering on the edge.  And as for his dealings with Angus, he drips feeds several seeds of doubt into Angus’s mind that his beloved wife is playing away whilst he’s away.

Nothing is really resolved during the course of the play and none of the four men appear to learn anything from their experiences.  The only thing it might do is persuade anyone coming to see it that a team building, outward bound exercise is a pointless one.