Posts tagged ‘time out’

16 March, 2009

Scar Stories

Battersea Arts Centre, 12 – 28 March 2009

Reviewed for the British Theatre Guide

“I am hoping that in this hour something is going to happen,” confides diminutive Italian Patrizia Paolini. “Of course, it is possible nothing will happen.”

She’s playing the averages on this point. Her meandering one-woman show, Scar Stories, skates over so many topics that, as the show goes on, it becomes statistically less and less likely that you’ll leave without being affected in some way.

Loosely speaking, the show revolves around Paolini’s search for a man. She has a scar on her chin; somewhere out there, she reckons, there must be a man with an identical scar. She’s decided she’s going to find him and kiss him.

To this end she’s been out filming interviews with every scar-chinned man she happens upon in the pub. Each one recounts both the origin of his scar and the story of his first kiss. The stories range from falling out of taxis to falling foul of bouncers or landmines, and from chucklesome to uncomfortable.

Beyond the uniformity of the interviews, Scar Stories seems to have very little about it in the way of structure. In fact, it hardly feels like a piece of theatre at all. Staged in-the-round in Battersea Arts Centre’s General Office – a cosily gloomy black box studio – it’s more akin to an informal seminar led by an accessible but scatterbrained lecturer.

While her digital radio quietly broadcasts BBC Radio 4, Paolini wanders the space and rambles, in imperfect and sometimes incomprehensibly gabbled English, about love, sex, politics, life, strange encounters and scars. When she loses her thread or tires herself out, she plays us another interview on her TV/DVD combo.

Her monologues come across as streams of consciousness, taking the interlinked stories of her scar and her first crush, Franco the Communist, and blossoming outward from there in a tangential web of association. But some recollections are accompanied by rehearsed movement sequences that suggest a degree of premeditation. It’s difficult to gauge how much is scripted and how much off-the-cuff.

The closest analogy is probably a stand-up comedy routine. Paolini most likely has goalposts to shoot for – anecdotes and ruminations she must get into the show – but how she reaches them is not predetermined.

The result, as is the danger with improvisation, is of debatable import, but is a tangibly warm and intimate experience. Paolini is eager for audience response: she searches out eye contact and encourages active agreement or dissension with her hypotheses. This is a two-way flow, a conversation.

Something of Scar Stories is bound to linger beyond the bounds of the auditorium, whether it’s the themed stuff about scars as reminders of our vulnerability, one of the 10,000 other ideas Paolini flings out between goalposts, or the memory of Paolini herself: frank, uninhibited, her issues with the English language giving rise to some delightfully unusual turns of phrase.

Scar Stories may be an event of no great consequence, but it’s an undoubtedly pleasant way to spend an hour – an hour during which, contrary to Paolini’s fears, something, however unimportant, is bound to happen.

Written by Patrizia Paolini

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12 March, 2009

Stovepipe

Bush Theatre Unit 18 (West 12 Shopping Centre), 3 March – 26 April 2009

Reviewed for the London Theatre Blog

It’s all too easy to remain detached from the subject of Iraq. It’s thousands of miles away, it no longer makes daily headlines and the combined British and American military is gradually washing its hands of the place.

Stovepipe aims to pick us up off the sidelines and deposit us bodily into the midst of the relief effort. Based out of the Bush Theatre’s new bar venue, Unit 18, the production transforms the boiler rooms and dead spaces below the West 12 shopping complex into a promenade performance space.

Designer takis’s sets are nothing short of lavish – and little wonder, with Hightide, the Bush and the National Theatre all backing the play in some capacity. There’s a conference centre, a hotel room, a café bar, a war-torn city street and more, and every new environment is further evidence of high production values and attention to detail. With the audience free to roam, everything – from the posters promoting fictional investors in the rebuilding programme to the papers in the office in-tray – must stand up to close scrutiny, and it does.

The performances, too, are consistently convincing and engaging. Shaun Dooley doesn’t quite reconcile British mercenary Alan’s caring and violent sides into a unified character, but as our guide it’s important he remain sympathetic, and keeping the lid on the violence helps achieve that. Eleanor Matsuura, meanwhile, infuses every female character in the show with distinct but equally potent varieties of strength, independence and (occasionally) warmth, in the hands-down best performance of the night. As Sargon Yelda’s Arabic interpreter puts it, “the Americans have a phrase: ball-breaker.”

So why does Stovepipe still fail to suck the audience in?

Maybe it’s because the design is too slick. The bar and office furniture looks like it was bought yesterday, brand new. Maybe it’s because the one time we actually visit Iraq is the one time the staging is necessarily representative rather than realistic, and the rest of our time is spent in Amman, Jordan, a staging post for forays into Iraq; like Alan, we feel like we’re between places, waiting for the real action to begin.

Or maybe it’s because of the play’s scattergun chronology, which flashes backwards and forwards with nearly every scene and offers very few narrative signposts to help us find our place in Alan’s story. Trusting the audience’s intelligence rather than patronising them is always the right call, but in this case the complexity of the plot requires us to keep disengaging from the moment in order to look at the bigger picture and see where the latest piece slots in – and getting lost in the moment is what allows us to care.

Written by Adam Brace

Crew includes Michael Longhurst (director) and takis (designer)

Cast includes Christian Bradley (Andre/Grif), Shaun Dooley (Alan), Niall MacGregor (Eddy/Harry), Eleanor Matsuura (Carolyn/Masha/Sally) and Sargon Yelda (Saad/Marty/Rami)

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11 January, 2009

Dorian Gray

Leicester Square Theatre, 9 January – 1 February 2009

Reviewed for the British Theatre Guide

Oscar Wilde’s only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, is a short and very enjoyable book; Ruby in the Dust have adapted it into a frustrating and interminable piece of theatre.

Wilde is rightly still admired for his wit, but in adapting the novel writer and director Linnie Reedman has allowed admiration to override common sense. Hardly a line of Wilde’s dialogue has been cut, hardly a scene omitted. Due reverence to the source material is one thing; copy-pasting an entire novel, however short, onto the stage is taking it too far.

The few cuts Reedman does make are those dictated by the size of her ensemble, but even in these situations she ties herself in knots trying to hang on to as much of Wilde’s dialogue as possible.

For instance, no one is available to play the mother of Sybil Vane, the young actress that captures Dorian Gray’s heart, so to retain the mother-daughter conversation Sybil (Joanna Hickman) gets a scene with her manager Mr Isaacs (James Lloyd Pegg) instead. But Pegg is doubling as Sybil’s brother James, so the siblings’ following conversation – which has much more bearing on the plot – has to be transplanted into a letter, which demands that Sybil infodump James’ backstory to Mr Isaacs.

Confoundingly, Reedman even adds her own subplots, expanding the backstory of an opium den prostitute to a ten-minute monologue and having Dorian ‘groom’ his young valet, Leaf (whom Dorian remarks looks strikingly like his fiancée Sybil, in case the audience don’t understand doubling up).

The Leaf subplot is part of an effort to update Wilde’s novel by making explicit some of the excesses to which Wilde only alludes. This is a fair goal: laws and attitudes of the time prevented Wilde from explicitly mentioning homosexuality and thankfully today’s society is more accepting. But the result is a scattershot attempt at sexing up the material; an unexpected gay kiss here, young Leaf going down obligingly on his knees there.

Mostyn James gives an unconventional interpretation of Dorian, the beautiful young man whose rash prayer allows him to remain young and unsullied while his portrait ages and bears the marks of his moral decline.

James’s Dorian is a sneering public-school boy. He’s entitled by his wealth and he knows it. The arrogance, not the innocence, of youth is the focus of his performance; his position and his good looks give him natural advantages of which he is well aware and makes full use.

While this is probably a more honest portrayal of a young man with Dorian’s gifts than Wilde’s character, it is also a more pessimistic and less sympathetic one. The novel is a redemption fable; James’s Dorian is an irredeemable cad.

J. William Davis’s design is almost faultless, the disadvantage of this being that it raises expectations the adaptation cannot meet.

The Leicester Square Theatre’s Basement is now a Victorian gentlemen’s club, with the audience seated round candlelit café tables. Dorian’s quest to satiate his senses is echoed by a design that touches every sense: there is smooth velvet everywhere, a pianist plays lounge music, entertainers in half-masks offer satsumas and ginger beer and on the piano, a stick of incense burns.

The intimate atmosphere – plus readily available lubrication from the bar – does its job admirably, relaxing the audience into a content and receptive mood – which, of course, the play then proceeds to erode.

The only design flaw is in the representation of the portrait itself, the bête noir of anyone adaptating Wilde’s novel. For much of the play it’s hidden offstage, which forces the actors to admire it while standing in a poorly lit doorway, through which a lift shaft is clearly visible.

The whole production appears to have been prepared with the best of intentions and a genuine love for Wilde’s work. Unfortunately good intentions don’t always make good theatre, and Dorian Gray is, like its protagonist, beautiful only at first glance.

Written by Linnie Reedman after Oscar Wilde

Crew includes Linnie Reedman (director) and J. William Davis (designer)

Cast includes Robert Donnelly (Basil Hallward), Joanna Hickman (Sybil Vane), Mostyn James (Dorian Gray) and Vincent Manna (Lord Henry Wotton)

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21 November, 2008

You Me Bum Bum Train

Cordy House, 20 November – 20 December 2008

Reviewed for the British Theatre Guide

It’s seven o’clock in the evening and there’s a crowd forming outside Cordy House in Shoreditch. Enormous inflatable tentacles reach out across the street from the building’s roof. Three people are hard at work in the loading bay, building a Rube Goldberg water feature. Their hard hats occasionally spray the queue with water.

No one in the crowd seems sure of what’s going on. Most have turned up on the recommendations of friends, with little or no idea of what awaits. Even the door staff are confused by the ridiculous phrase, “I’m here for You Me Bum Bum Train”.

On some levels this is strange, because You Me Bum Bum Train has been running in one form or another for around eight years. Part theatre piece, part installation and part rollercoaster, it began life in Brighton and returns every so often like Brigadoon.

Once past security the source of the confusion becomes apparent: Cordy House is also home to the Mutate Britain exhibition, which accounts for the majority of the crowd. You Me Bum Bum Train occupies a tiny booth in the corner of the gallery.

Beyond the sign-in booth is the world’s smallest karaoke bar. Free rum cocktails are available – and necessary to loosen up the inhibitions, both for the karaoke and the Bum Bum Train itself.

The Train is a labyrinth of rooms, scenes and situations through which the participants (“audience” is definitely the wrong word) pass one at a time, wandering, crawling or being pushed in wheelchairs.

Each room is joltingly incongruous with the last. Emerge from the trapdoor at the end of the ice tunnel and find yourself in a boxing ring; push your way through the nightclub queue to find yourself in a frail old lady’s bedroom.

The seventy or eighty performers populating the maze don’t allow anyone to loiter. Sometimes this is a relief; sometimes it feels a shame not to linger longer, continuing conversations with some of the Train’s more colourful characters.

There’s no overarching theme or narrative. The emphasis is on a personal experience: of flying blind into the unknown, of being an active participant yet still a helpless observer, and of a seemingly exclusive artistic underground.

There’s a sense of élitism that comes from simply having found out about the event, and that feeling of having discovered something exclusive is part of the attraction.

But there’s something problematic about it as well. It isn’t only the uninformed who are excluded: narrow crawlspaces and steep stairs place certain physical restrictions on who can and cannot take part.

Additionally, the conclusion of the Train – in which participants are ejected without ceremony or aftercare back into the Mutate Britain exhibition – rapidly dissolves that sense of belonging.

The experience is designed to be fleeting. Many of the scenes in the maze feel cut short before you can fully sink into the situation, and the Train as a whole feels unjustly brief considering the £15 entry fee. Realising that this is an intentional part of the mystique does nothing to dilute the sense of disappointment.

Yet, having said that, the first thing I did after leaving was recommend the experience to several local friends, if only to have someone else with whom to discuss it. The creators can apparently manufacture the marketing Holy Grail, positive word of mouth – an impressive achievement above and beyond the event itself.

You Me Bum Bum Train is not something everyone can enjoy. But whether it’s a cynical comment on exclusivism or an encouragement to theatregoers to abandon their role as passive observers, it’s evidence of experimentation in British theatre – something the industry can’t do without.

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