Mayfly, Orange Tree
“It’s the little stuff that counts, isn’t it?”
Short and sweet, Mayfly continues the Orange Tree’s strong recent record of showcasing new writing by supporting debut writer Joe White with this glistening production by Guy Jones. A low-key trip through rural English life impacted by tragedy, its ephemeral nature shows much promise.
In a tiny Shropshire community where village life is withering away, a family are further struggling to deal with the one-year anniversary of a particular tragedy. Grief has pole-axed mother, father, and daughter in different ways and it takes the arrival of a stranger who interacts with each to hint at light at the end of this tunnel. Continue reading “Review: Mayfly, Orange Tree”
“A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man”
There’s nowt so queer as folk, at least not in Simon Godwin’s version of Illyria here. A gender-swapped Malvolia longs after her mistress Olivia, hipster-fop Sir Andrew Aguecheek is entirely smitten by a flirtatious Toby Belch, Antonio follows up his snog with Sebastian by inviting him to a rendez-vous at local drag bar The Elephant. And that’s before we’ve even dealt with the sexual confusion that Shakespeare himself engineered in Twelfth Night, as shipwreck survivor Viola disguises herself as her presumed drowned twin brother and wreaks havoc on the libidos of Olivia and Orsino alike.
It’s a mark of the success of Godwin’s production that it wears this all so lightly. It’s a modern-dress version for a modern sensibility (if not for the audience member who gasped audibly at the first gay kiss) and one that is rooted in a real sense of playfulness, as an expertly cast ensemble just have a huge amount of fun with it. Phoebe Fox’s delicious Olivia, who gives new life to the phrase ‘dance like nobody’s watching’; Oliver Chris’ Chelsea playboy of an Orsino, in the throes of a mid-life crisis having just turned 40; Tim McMullan’s swaggeringly confident Sir Toby ever accompanied by Niky Wardley’s spirited Maria and the comic masterpiece that is Daniel Rigby’s Sir Andrew. Continue reading “Review: Twelfth Night, National”
“I said hip, hop, Santa’s gonna stop”
Has ever a movie franchise fallen from grace quite so sadly as Debbie Isitt’s Nativity films? It was made worse for me as I watched them all for the first time this year and so the decline has been compressed into a couple of weeks. The first film utterly enchanted me, the second somewhat disappointed by the third – Nativity 3: Dude, Where’s My Donkey – thoroughly junked everything that worked about the original.
Once again, a new teacher is introduced to St Bernadette’s (this time, Martin Clunes’ Mr Shepherd) and once again, inimitable (and irritating) teaching assistant Mr Poppy (Marc Wootton) is on hand to cause mayhem with his unruly antics leading his class astray. But where the first film was rooted in the universal appeal of school nativities, this sequel opts for the bandwagon-jumping of focusing on flashmobs, which meant it was probably out-of-date as it arrived in cinemas last winter, never mind now in 2015. Continue reading “DVD review: Nativity 3 – Dude, Where’s My Donkey”
“That’s what we do, we destroy lives…but it’s on your behalf, because you like to read about it”
It’s not quite Beyoncé releasing her latest album without prior notice but it’s not far off. Richard Bean’s new play for the National was something of an open secret even if its specifics were unknown but still, announcing it with five days’ notice and no previews is a pretty bold move. What Great Britain has going for it though is a right-up-to-the-minute immediacy as Bean responds with speed to the scandals that have engulfed certain sections of the tabloid media in recent times and a court case that may or may not have just reached a verdict…
We’re in a satirical, pseudo-recognisable world – a ratings-hungry red-top (called The Free Press) is owned by a foreign-born media mogul who wants to buy a television station (an Irishman called Paschal O’Leary if you will) and has a fiercely ambitious news editor at its helm (a blonde woman called Paige Britain, she didn’t say she was “vindicated” so I have no idea who she was meant to be…). Manipulating their way to a position of huge influence with both Police and Parliament under their thumb, it seems nothing could go wrong. That is, until a little thing called phone hacking breaks into the national consciousness. Continue reading “Review: Great Britain, National Theatre”
“Everybody else works little fiddles, because that’s what the system is designed for”
Who knows what hold Alan Ayckbourn has over the theatrical establishment but by heavens, it is a strong one. As prolific a playwright as they come, the appetite for his plays is seemingly insatiable with what must be a constant stream of productions – I imagine one would be hard-pressed to find a week where there isn’t at least one of his plays being performed somewhere in the country. But his charms have never really worked on me, it is with a heavy heart that I hear there’s a new Ayckbourn somewhere with a cast I can’t resist (although I did only see one of his plays last year) and this time round, it is all Nigel Lindsay’s fault.
A Small Family Business is a 1987 play that was hailed as a searching examination of how Thatcherite values eroded societal links through the experience of one man realising that the family furniture business he has inherited is rife with corruption. But in 2014 it feels a little neutered, what once might have appeared daring has been nullified by a quarter century of rapacious capitalism and so what is left is the well-trodden farcical shenanigans that Ayckbourn loves so much, accompanied by an attempt at a darker side that sits very awkwardly indeed with the dated comedy. Continue reading “Review: A Small Family Business, National Theatre”
“I’m exhausted, sweating like a fucking dyslexic on Countdown”
The Donmar Warehouse has two levels, stalls and a circle. It’s fairly obvious, you can’t really miss it – about half the audience is upstairs. Yet watching The Same Deep Water As Me, directed by John Crowley and designed by Scott Pask, you’d think they’d forgotten that simple fact, or else considered that those in the ‘cheap’ seats would simply have to make do. Pask’s reconstruction of a non-descript office stops at room height, as does the second half’s courtroom and Crowley has much of the action throughout inward-facing, somehow contriving to make even this intimate studio feel as distant as a West End house.
Perhaps you just get what you pay for – I opted for a £7.50 standing ticket in the circle and was promoted to front row circle for the second half but the nagging feeling of neglect never left me, as I gazed on the wiring in the ceiling for the lights in the office below and the backs of many peoples’ heads during the courtroom conversations. And as a ticket-payer (even at that price), it’s hard not to feel a little disheartened at what feels perilously close to disregard with a set that simply stops at stalls level. It is somewhat of a shame that this is the primary thought in my head after seeing Nick Payne’s new play but I have to be honest about what my experience was like. Continue reading “Review: The Same Deep Water As Me, Donmar Warehouse”