A Classic of its Time.
Dial M for Murder
by Frederick Knott
OHADS at Hampton Hill Theatre until 14th October
Review by Eleanor Marsh
Having recently seen the professional tour of Frederick Knott’s Wait until Dark, with which I was distinctly underwhelmed, it was with some trepidation that I anticipated OHADS’ Dial M for Murder by the same author (this week at Hampton Hill Playhouse). This fear was compounded by a Sunday afternoon viewing of the Hitchcock movie of Dial M for Murder , which, despite the presence of Grace Kelly and Ray Milland, even Hitchcock himself did not rate as one of his best. I needn’t have worried. Where the professionals tried to be far too clever and tricksy, hamming up the tension until the play bordered on farce and quite frankly confusing the audience, OHADS, under the direction of Asha Gill, opted for a more traditional approach. This style was pitch perfect for what is a classic of its time.
From the moment one steps into the theatre disbelief is – as it should be – suspended; Junis Olmscheid’s magnificent set takes the breath away, both in terms of scale and attention to period detail, from the tennis rackets on the wall and display of sporting trophies to the drinks decanters. Costume and lighting design and some very atmospheric piano music all add to the period feel and combine to build up the tension of this classic thriller in all the right places. There were, however some pretty long scene changes where nothing much was changed and perhaps an extra member of stage crew would have speeded these changes – and therefore the action – up a little. No spoilers in this review, but there is also a particular sound effect in the first half that nearly served to undo all the good work being done elsewhere and resulted in some definite giggles from the audience where there should have been gasps; a lesson in “less is more” perhaps.
There is certainly capacity for boredom to creep in to this play for a modern day audience whose attention span may not be quite the same as that of its mid-20th Century counterpart, especially in the first act, which is predominantly a scene-setting duologue. Terry Bedell as Tony Wendice and Neelaksh Sadhoo as the unfortunate Captain Lesgate succeeded in keeping the audience engaged and are to be commended for their storytelling skills. This kind of exposition is rare in modern theatre but it does force the audience into concentrating and also covers up any plot holes that we might otherwise ponder.
As Sheila Wendice, Dionne King was alternately glacially sophisticated and desperately distraught, never going over the top in her portrayal of a basically decent woman caught in a love triangle. The love triangle itself however was never totally believable, with little chemistry between Sheila and Max Halliday the lover fresh from the US. In fact Matt Ludbrook’s Max seemed to have a much better relationship with husband than wife and had I not known the outcome in advance I could have imagined quite a different end to the play! Every thriller needs its detective and in this case Maida Vale Police Station’s Inspector Hubbard was brought to us with aplomb by Daniel Wain. Wain channelled a tidier version of Peter Falk and it did cross my mind that perhaps this could be where the Columbo character originated, thus possibly proving the theory that there are no new ideas….
All in all this was a great evening out. OHADS have produced a highly entertaining play that is well worth seeing.
Eleanor Marsh
October 2017
Photography by Adam Sutter and Tom Shore
Loving or Losing?
The Real Thing
by Tom Stoppard
Co-Production by RTK, Theatre Royal Bath and Cambridge Arts Theatre
at The Rose Theatre, Kingston until 14th October
Review by Mark Aspen
Is it …? Everyone who has been in love, or thought they might be in love, asks themselves, “is it the Real Thing?”. But in Tom Stoppard’s densely interwoven play, The Real Thing, the question is extended to ask, might it be …, or even, could it be …? With typical intellectual gymnastics, Stoppard writes about belonging and betrayal, about jealousy and forgiveness; but with atypical humanity he writes about the agonies caused by infidelity. However, he extends the question further to ask about the Real Thing in writing, in music, in politics, as a metaphor for the lives of the characters of the play. It is a theatrical riddle, constantly keeping us guessing.
The Real Thing has been viewed as a coded autobiography, albeit a somewhat uncomplimentary exposé. It concerns Henry, a skilled playwright, who is so enthralled by his lover Annie that he finds that he cannot write meaningfully about love. Annie is an actress for whom he has left his wife Charlotte. Annie divorces her husband Max and marries Henry.
However, at the play’s opening Stoppard teases us with a scene in which Max and Charlotte appear to be married and Max accuses her of adultery. We then discover that this is a play within a play. It is Henry’s play House of Cards. There are two other plays within the play that Stoppard uses to create the hall of mirrors in which we remain unsure what is fiction and what is the Real Thing. Is Annie rehearsing a production of ‘Tis Pity She’s A Whore up in Glasgow, or is she having an affair with Billy, a fellow actor, on the Glasgow train? Is Annie having an unwelcome discussion with a fan on a train, or is she acting in a play about Brodie, a resentful anarchist and convicted arsonist, whom Annie is championing as an ill-judged political cause? Adding to the smoke and mirrors, Henry has been coerced by Annie into ghost writing Brodie’s play.
These artful games could be Ayckbourn-esque parlour pastimes, but in Stoppard’s hands there is a subtle development of the drama into an erudite examination of emotions, but with a deep understanding of the impact of loss and of the value of lasting love.
Designer Jonathan Fensom’s set reflects Henry’s personality. His home is depicted as without any lived-in feel, although it speaks loudly of the stylistic aspirations of the 1970s (the play premiered in 1982) all G-plan, Ercol and Trimphone. However, the costumes seem more Wilson era than the power-dressing early Thatcher years.
Even without the power-dressing, the power of the production comes from Flora Spencer-Longhurst, whose freewheeling flirting Annie, one moment kittenish sensuality, the next misplaced political zeal. Spencer-Longhurst has vivacity and a vigour that lifts the pace, although sometimes at the expense of over-stating the role.
The opposite can be said of Laurence Fox, in the lead role as Henry, who seems to be very much under-stating the role. Maybe it is just his affecting a plummy voice for Henry, but at first I found Fox’s dictation unclear. Henry is a sardonic, laid-back, cynic, which suggests a languid delivery, but then again the quick-fire intellectual aerobatics and scintillating wit of Henry’s penetrating dialogue implies a delivery with more zing. Maybe this is the acting equivalent of too posh to push.
There is a nice minute detail that says something about Henry. In the first half he is wearing odd socks (and no shoes). He is a cerebral eccentric after all. In the second half his socks match. But now everyone is provoking everyone else, and emotionally things are getting more like the Real Thing. Now there comes out a deep passion of Henry’s; for the English language. In his articulate defence of his craft, “Writers aren’t sacred: words are” there is for him a certain knowledge of one Real Thing. He uses the cricket bat analogy. A cricket bat is not a lump of wood, but a skilfully crafted instrument that makes the ball spring forth. Thus the writer sends words to the boundaries of their world. Alas for Henry, he does not have that certain knowledge of the Real Thing that matters to him, finding a love that endures. His wives are not cricket balls: they have wills of their own.
Henry’s first wife Charlotte is more rational and realistic. Rebecca Johnson portrays her as adult in her approach, but frustrated in her emotions. In the second half she inclines towards cynicism, as she admits having a number of affairs when they were married, and then goes on to explain that he should have taken his affair with Annie less seriously.
Their daughter seventeen year-old Debbie has clearly inherited the cynicism of her parents, the pragmatism of Henry and the gift with language of Henry. Her radical views on marriage shocks both of them, but then she is going off on a gap-year adventure to Australia, no doubt to try to find the Real Thing. Venice Van Someren gives a brightly pitched performance as the devil-may-care Debbie.
Annie’s ex, Max, is an accepting straightforward man, lost in events just out of his control. Adam Jackson-Smith plays the character in a nicely nuanced way. As the fictitious Max the architect in the opening play-within a play, he exhibits all the verbal dexterity of Henry, his creator, but as the real life Max the actor facing the reality of his wife’s adultery, he cannot find the words and is devastated. Jackson-Smith differentiates the two Maxes with great subtlety.
Annie’s diversions, Billy and Brodie, are both well characterised: Billy, the enthusiastic eager young actor, by Kit Young and the crass coarse convict Brodie by Santino Smith. They are strongly played as characters in their own right, as well as bright foils to Spencer-Longhurst’s spirited Annie.
As the play ends Max phones to announce his engagement. Henry offers his congratulations, “I’m delighted. Isn’t love wonderful”, as he leaves the phone dangling and runs off to the bedroom with Annie.
Max may have found the Real Thing, but has Henry? Henry at the beginning of the play says, “Loving and being loved is very unliterary. It’s happiness expressed in banality and lust”. By the end he says, “It’s no trick loving somebody at their best. Love is loving them at their worst”.
In the course of the play, Henry may have found the Real Thing in writing, in music, and in politics, but in love does the Real Thing remain elusive?
Mark Aspen
October 2017
Photography by Edmond Terakopian
Aida
by Giuseppe Verdi, libretto by Antonio Ghislanzoni
English National Opera at The London Coliseum until 2nd December
Review by Mark Aspen
Take the eternal triangle, set it during a war, add in passion and sacrifice for love, and you have the perfect recipe for the grand romance. But when the setting is ancient Egypt, you can cook up a spectacle. Such is Aida, the operatic epitome of romantic spectacle. The appetite for spectacle has brought live horses and even elephants to early productions and has attracted filmmakers, notably Fracassi’s 1953 version with a lip-synced Sophia Loren.
English National Opera’s past-master in spectacle is Phelim McDermott, directing epic productions such as Phillip Glass’s operas Satyagraha and Akhnaten, the latter, also based in ancient Egypt, earning him an Olivier Award for Best New Opera Production. So there was much expectation of innovative spectacle from ENO’s new production of Aida with McDermott again at the wheel.
However, McDermott’s wonted spectacle is much subdued: the visual fireworks being more from the colour fountain box than the rockets and bangers box of Satyagraha. The design, by ENO veteran Tom Pye, is based on an Egyptian hieroglyph, which we first see as light escaping from the swaged front curtain as it is slowly lifted; and on an ubiquitous obelisk. Apart from these images, most of the design references are difficult to unravel, in particular Kevin Pollard’s flamboyant cleverly-crafted costumes: eclectic, anachronistic and with much emphasis of the outpourings of a turbo-charged millinery department. In an early appearance of Princess Amneris, she wears a dress that resembles a giant merengue, and the Egyptian temple guards look like Star Wars’ Stormtroopers.
The baffling extravagance of the design is redeemed by the interplay of large-scale silks, the work of the appropriately named Basil Twist, a “silk effects choreographer”, which give an ethereal feel and soften the angular architecture of the set. Aerial silk is ubiquitous: in billowing swells, it comments on Radamès’ declaration of love of Aida which opens the opera; it forms zephyrs of incense smoke when Amneris is led to prayer; and, at its most fantastical, forms the streaming crimson gown of the High Priestess (Eleanor Dennis’ radiant soprano firing this role). This is a fiery placenta bringing forth a brood of priest-ette attendants, fluidly multi-tasking as they tumble, march and dance with banners, poi, and silk streamers. These, performed by the dozen strong female acrobats of contemporary circus-skills company Mimbre within the opera’s ballet sequences, were designed by movement choreographer Lina Johansson.
The score of Aida is recognised as one of Verdi’s best, and conductor Keri-Lynn Wilson tackles it with emotional verve, bringing out all the nuances and all the story-telling potential from the music. The prelude opens very quietly and the opera concludes quietly, but in between there are wonderful full-on moments, the concertato moment being after the famous Grand March when voices and music combine to celebrate the victory of the Egyptians over the Ethiopians. The fanfare is with on-stage trumpets, an exciting opening. In contrast, there are beautifully lyrical moments, some solo, such as the plaintive flute at the beginning of Act III. Wilson interprets all in an easy but spirited style.
The fateful love triangle comprises Princess Amneris and the captive Aida, whom she holds in bondage, and the Egyptian military hero Radamès, with whom they are both in love. However, the vicissitudes of war with neighbouring Ethiopia, of which Aida is a princess, make this an explosive situation, heightened by jealousy.
Making her ENO debut, American soprano Latonia Moore excels as Aida. Whether in its impressive full power, or in the most delicate passages, the quality of her singing does not change, and my, how she can act! Aida’s anguish is palpable in arias such as “How could I bear this cruel deadly weight” delightfully ornamented. When the dissembling Amneris tricks Aida into admitting her love for Radamès, and threatens to destroy them both, Aida’s “Ye gods above, pity my cry”, delivered with full coloratura, is heart-rending. Even when not singing, Moore’s Aida can speak of sadness, anger or joy.
Michelle DeYoung’s statuesque presence makes an imposing Amneris, as torn emotionally as Aida is, but deadly in her jealousy. She looks much more regal in her golden sunburst costume, and later we see her in a white gown edged with blood-red. Her voice holds great menace, delivered in her rounded mezzo-soprano. However, its richness does sometimes seem to be at the expense of distorted vowels. DeYoung’s acting comes into its own after the trial of Radamès when Amneris is permeated with guilt … but she also has a great line in curses.
Radamès only has eyes for Aida, and in this role Gwyn Hughes-Jones expresses Radamès’ love magnificently in his opening aria, “Heavenly Aida, fair as a vision”. This piece is notorious in that Verdi throws the tenor in at the deep end and then asks for a pianissimo B flat to finish, but Hughes-Jones’ dynamic voice brings passionate to the aria with a skilful final diminuendo. However, his body language did not have the passion of the words, and as the opera progresses, one does not feel the ardour of a man who would throw away all he had for love.
Radamès’ downfall starts when, amongst the spoils of war, a cage full of Ethiopian prisoners is triumphantly dragged in. Amongst them, unknown to his captors, is Amonasro, the Ethiopian king and Aida’s father. South African bass-baritone Musa Ngqungwana, making his UK debut, gave great energy to the part, his seething anger expressed in a rich resounding tone.
Aida is appalled when Amonasro suggests she uses pillow-talk find out Radamès’ plan of attack in the forthcoming incursion into Ethiopian territory. Nevertheless, when planning their elopement, Radamès reveals his prepared ambush in the Gorges of Napata. The trap is sprung and Radamès is smeared as a traitor, “My honour lost … every pleasure turned to ashes”.
The Egyptian aristocracy is represented by Egyptian King attended by Ramfis, the Chief Priest. Matthew Best, whose last major ENO role was as Tiresias in The Thebans, brings a fine bass voice to the noble King. The bass register is also finely exhibited by Robert Winslade Anderson as Ramfis, hawkish in his regard for the enemy. While perhaps not hard enough in his acting, Anderson’s voice cannot be faulted, honed in the ENO Chorus.
Indeed, as always, the ENO Chorus provides a faultless base for the company. Aida shows off its versatility: from in Act I singing with monastic clarity, a gentle haunting sound, “Who from the void created earth, and sea and sky”, to the full-on victory chorus at the climax of Act II. All clad in jet, they thunder into the stretta “Glory to Isis, goddess fair”.
At his trial for treason, Radamès offers no defence and is sentenced to death by immurement in sealed tomb. Pye’s set peeks into the tomb as a cut-out in the earth of a funereal-black fore-drop. But Aida has already secreted herself in Radamès tomb. “Farewell, valley of sorrows” they sing. Their final duets give a sense of finality that is piercing in its pain and at the same time both touching in its tenderness.
Another cut-out opens higher up, where we see Amneris, full of remorse, who softly offers the final word of the opera, “Pardon”. And the love triangle becomes a tragedy of love.
Mark Aspen
October 2017
Photographs by Tristram Kenton, courtesy of English National Opera.
The Best Man
by Gore Vidal
Richmond Theatre until 7th October, then on tour until 21st October
Review by Eleanor Lewis
Gore Vidal’s The Best Man was written in 1960 but its prescience is unnerving. Monday’s press night audience at Richmond rippled with laughter and murmurs of recognition at lines or exchanges between characters created 57 years ago who were experiencing or dreading the prospect of things that have in fact come to pass in the America of 2017.
In a Philadelphia hotel, two candidates compete for the presidential nomination for a party which is never named. One, the Harvard educated, intellectual William Russell (Martin Shaw) the other a self-made populist Joseph Cantwell (Jeff Fahey). Courted by both of them during this power struggle is the outgoing President Hockstader (Jack Shepherd) who acts as part referee, part power broker about to bestow his endorsement on one candidate. It is Hockstader with his failing health who personifies the beleaguered democratic process. Jack Shepherd, in a striking performance, reels around the stage, driven almost demented by the urgency of maintaining some sanity in the proceedings and getting the right man into the job “to keep us all safe a bit longer”.
What follows is the political equivalent of the Rumble in the Jungle. Power dangles between the two candidates. Martin Shaw’s Russell is a contained, ethical man, resisting pressure to compromise or fight on Cantwell’s terms until he is pushed too far at which point his fury at the abandonment of principle erupts. Jeff Fahey plays Joe Cantwell as the shrewd, unscrupulous character consumed by ambition that he clearly is, but leaves him a shred of humanity with his kindly treatment of his ruthless, relentless southern belle of a wife Mabel, ably played by Honeysuckle Weeks. Conflict ensues as Cantwell produces a file questioning Russell’s past mental health and Russell, provided with damaging information on Cantwell’s army service, struggles with the idea of using it and therefore descending to the same level. Both men are driven to a point of no return.
Russell’s relationship with his neglected but loyal wife, whom he now considers “a friend” is an interesting addition to the mix. Glynis Barber portrays Alice Russell, a woman let down by her husband’s womanising, as a hugely dignified, good humoured and philosophical woman, aiming to achieve the best of outcomes. She’s possibly the most noble of the human beings on offer, but she isn’t running for office.
Action switches between the candidates’ rooms. The marvellous set – a hotel suite which included sitting room, bedroom, entry hall and two doors off to the corridor and an office – worked seamlessly to echo the shifts of power. Soft furnishings and small details altered for each candidate’s room behind a large campaign banner being carried across the stage. The press is a constant, badgering presence in the corridor at every opening of the door.
The script is strewn with quotable lines but one exchange in particular resonated more than most:
Cantwell: I don’t understand you.
Russell: I know you don’t. Because you have no sense of responsibility toward anybody or anything. That is a tragedy in a man but it is a disaster in a president.
This is a great production on several levels: it’s a great story; it’s beautifully cast (it contains two members of Team Foyle, a.k.a. Foyle’s War, for those who like to see telly stars on stage); it’s efficiently directed and well-staged, and everyone in it is convincing. It’s strangely comforting to watch a political thriller which sets out in no uncertain terms the worst possibilities of a political power struggle and predicts the worst potential outcomes. Why this should be the case I don’t know but The Best Man is ultimately about whether decency must be sacrificed to achieve power and whilst it is questionable as to whether the best man wins in this particular power struggle, Vidal leaves his audience with a distinct sense of hope which is all we can really cling to.
Eleanor Lewis
October 2017
Photography by Geraint Lewis
Turn of the Screw
by Henry James, adaption by Rebecca Lenkiewicz
Teddington Theatre Club
at Hampton Hill Theatre until 7th October
Review by Melissa Syversen
The days are getting increasingly darker, the leaves are changing and a chill is settling in the air … ‘tis the season for ghost stories. And the TTC have chosen a particularly good one to tell. Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw was published at the very end of the Victorian Era and is one of the most famous ghost stories ever told. In the original story, we follow as a man reads a manuscript to a friend, written by his former governess detailing her experiences whilst employed at a manor in Essex. The story follows as the governess accepts a post from the children’s absentee uncle to look after Flora and her older brother Miles who has been recently been expelled from his boarding school. Soon the governess becomes convinced that the spirits of the deceased former governess Miss Jessel and her lover Peter Quint are after the children with malevolent intent.
It has long been speculated whether there really are ghosts haunting the children at Bly or if it is all in the head of the governess, making her an unreliable narrator. It is arguably one of the main strengths of the novella, the uncertainty and eerie feeling that nothing is what it seems, including our heroine. Undoubtedly, such ambiguity can be tricky to translate onto the stage. And it is unfortunate that through much of this production is unsuccessfully at doing so. It is not that the story is too clear or obvious, however, it is that it all just becomes quite muddled. We are led to believe the reality of the ghosts, yet it seems to be heavily implied that not all is well with the governess either. Played as a woman of fraying nerves by Mia Skytte Jensen, she clutches her head and is seemingly in a constant state of being unwell. Mrs Gross, though warmly played by Dorothy Duffy, seems to flip-flop from line to line between seemingly blindly believing and not believing the governesses claims and it is very unclear whether the children see ghosts or not. We touch on many themes such as sexuality, coming of age and obsession but none seems to really stick.
It all produces a sense of an adaptation that wants to have its cake and eat it too. It felt unclear to the point that I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might have missed something vital, or if we had somehow skipped an entire and important scene. How did the governess suddenly know that Peter Quint is after Miles for instance? The revelation that she had developed passionate feelings for the children’s absent uncle came completely out of left field. I have not read the original novella, but I do suspect that some of these issues, at least in part, might stem from the script adapted by Rebecca Lenkiewicz and by the direction of Harry Medawar. The cast gives it their all, though I suspect there might have been some first-night jitters. More than once did cast members jump the lines of their scene partner and there were a few fumbles here and there. Such details, however, do usually iron out themselves as premiere nerves subside and confidence surges. Scene changes will we hope also flow better as the week progresses to aid the overall pacing. But I must say that Juliet Hill is wonderfully charming and self-assured as the young Flora. Together with a solid Joshua Stainer as her recently returned older brother Miles, they successfully conjure both a heart-warming yet unnerving connection that these young siblings seem to have.
And as always, the TTC creative team has knocked it out of the park. Lizzie Lattimore and Jenna Powell have designed a strikingly complex Victorian style set made up of dark woods and deep colours and creates a chillingly haunted atmosphere. I was particularly impressed with the view from the centre stage window and how the weather would change seamlessly. The costumes were beautiful and there are excellent lighting tricks such as a fireplace and lightning in the night. All of this together with clever use of projections and music creates a suitably beautiful yet unnerving environment for our ghost story.
I do think The Teddington Theatre Club deserves praise for their ambitious programming and willingness to take on challenging scripts. They consistently make strong choices, like their excellent production of Jez Butterworths Jerusalem. (See review) This time, however, they, unfortunately, do not successfully pull it off. Horror stories in the gothic style are very difficult to get right. The best ones, such as The Turn of the Screw are all a masterclass in pacing, anticipation and tension. If the timing of the story is not racer, sharp, it crumbles. Too fast and you can’t build tension. Too slow and people become impatient. I feel that the pacing is one of the main issues here. The first half of the first act moves along slowly, almost frustratingly, but it works in a way because it makes you wonder where this might be going. But the first haunting scene where the governess spots a figure in the tower is rushed and hasty, to the point that one almost gets a whiplash. And so, it continues through the evening, dragging on when providing exposition, yet ghostly spotting is so rushed and seemingly out of left field they hardly get the build-up or pay-off they deserve. (Though there was one moment that worked very well and had me nearly jump out of my seat. I won’t spoil by saying when though!) In the end, it strikes me that this adaptation could have benefited from making stronger choices, regarding characters, the nature of the presence of Mr Quint and Miss Jessel and what themes of the story to explore. One can’t play ambiguity. The ambiguity is in the story and clearer choices would have served the unsettling and dualistic elements of the play better. Even if the script adaptation were not the strongest, the director and cast need to make strong choices and trust that the multifaceted nature of the source material will shine through. Such is the quality of the original story.
Melissa Syversen
October 2017
Photographs by Sarch Carter
Pillars of This Classical Genre
The Doric String Quartet
The Richmond Concert Society at St. Mary’s Church, Twickenham, 26th September
Review by William Ormerod
The Doric Quartet is a British ensemble (now with one French member) which has won multiple awards both for recordings and in performance competitions. Regulars at the Wigmore Hall, and widely-travelled across Europe and the U.S.A, they were in 2015 appointed by the Royal Academy of Music as their Teaching Quartet in Association. The opportunity afforded to local residents by the Richmond Concert Society in their 56th Season to hear them live was eagerly awaited by me, and they did not disappoint – in fact they greatly exceeded my already high expectations.
In the fluid, changing world of chamber music, the Doric Quartet has remarkably stood firm for two decades – next year is their 20th anniversary; though they have had their fair share of personnel changes: two founder members remain, the leader, Alex Redington, and the ’cellist, John Myerscough. Jonathan Stone is the second second-violinist they have had, and Hélène Clément their fourth violist. Yet they gelled together so well that they might have been playing together all their lives. They also looked smartly turned-out, in shiny black shoes – apart from Hélène, who wore sparkling gold shoes, matching her golden hair!
The programme consisted of three quartets by – in order of performance – Joseph Haydn (1732-1809), Thomas Adès (b.1971) and Franz Schubert (1797-1828). Each was given a short, informative and entertaining spoken introduction by John, the ’cellist. They began with Haydn’s Quartet in D (Hob.III:34), No. 4 of his six ‘Sun’ quartets Op.20, so nicknamed, not because of the music itself, but because in an early (unauthorised) edition “the title page carried an emblem of a midday sun.” Perhaps this was intended by the publisher, J.J. Hummel, to symbolise the dawning of a new era with these illuminating and ground-breaking quartets. Haydn wrote them in 1772, at the height of his Sturm und Drang period, apparently suffering from loneliness and his wife Anna’s infidelity. He used to compose in his garden shed at Esterháza, doubtless to get out from under Frau Haydn’s feet!
Movement I : Allegro di molto. This began, as our ’cellist compère John put it, “in an extraordinary, expansive way,” and immediately the skill of the performers became apparent. The intonation, togetherness and balance were impeccable; their sense of phrasing, attention to detail and a subtleness of rubato was as one. Their style of performance was extrovert: there was no wanton showmanship, but the leader was not ashamed to breathe audibly, and they clearly enjoyed their playing, as if dancing in their seats. I particularly approved of the ’cellist’s flexible seating posture – with feet sometimes tucked underneath (rather than planted foursquare for stability, as taught by generations of great ’cello masters).
Haydn here developed a ‘dot-dot-dot-dash’ rhythm, reminiscent of the Morse code ‘V’ motif opening his pupil Beethoven’s 5th symphony. This morphed, with a lot of variety in figuration, dynamics, expression and mood (alternating calm repose, mystery, and agitation) into a ‘diddley-diddley-diddley-um’ rhythm. I was struck both by the players’ well-controlled energy in fast, loud and rhythmic passages, and especially by their very sensitive rendering of piano passages. After a beautifully controlled crescendo punctuated by sensitive sforzando’s, and some soloistic passages for viola and ’cello for Haydn to show off those players’ virtuoso technique, the movement tailed off untraditionally into a graceful ‘V-motif’ ending.
II : Un poco adagio affettuoso, with just the right amount of adagio. Affettuoso means not exactly with affection, nor with affectation, but with feeling, and this the performers gave it in spades. This was a theme with four variations, the first violin playing the tune in the theme (with a cheeky but graceful portamento or two), the second half of which was a passage of Mozartian beauty and intensity. The second violin took up the first variation, duetting with the viola, occasionally decorating with the slightest of grace notes, in addition to Haydn’s trills. The ’cello was very much the soloist in variation II, though not overpowering the other instruments, again with decorative trills. Variation III brought back the first violin, over a simple accompaniment, making all the more heartfelt the ‘Mozart’ theme, with sensitive variation of the tempo. Variation IV was a reprise of the theme, dramatically sotto voce; daring modulations led to a unison ‘call to attention’ heralding a vigorous coda, with a mini-cadenza on the first violin before again fading away to nothing.
III : Menuetto: Allegretto alla zingarese (in ‘Gypsy style’) – more a scherzo-and-trio than a minuet-and-trio, prefiguring Haydn’s Op. 33 quartets. An extraordinary, syncopated romp at a fast and furious tempo with a virtuoso solo ’cello, at times with a ‘musette’ (bagpipe-drone) accompaniment. The ensemble kept immaculately together while the rhythms went all over the place, as Haydn intended.
IV : Presto scherzando – an energetic finale, written in the ‘Hungarian’ or ‘Gypsy’ minor scale: Haydn playing with rhythmic motifs as in the first movement, and plenty of special effects: trills, fanfares, staccato first violin over legato lower strings, a brief affettuoso minor-key section, a slightly strident unison call to attention, before the music took off again like a runaway train (or perhaps a coach-and-horses in Haydn’s day) towards a dramatic and unexpected close. The players certainly showed what an emotional ride Haydn can take you on.
The English pianist, conductor and prolific composer Thomas Adès has three operas and a dozen orchestral works under his belt. We heard his second string quartet, Op.28, entitled The Four Quarters, dating from 2010, which John Myerscough told us is one of the group’s most cherished contemporary works to play. He explained that the piece traces the passing of a day, in four movements: 1. Nightfall; 2. Serenade: Morning dew; 3. Days; 4. The twenty-fifth hour. This was clearly programme music. At the start, the sun has set, and we discern, in high staccato harmonics on the violins, stars shining – over sustained “ominous growling chords” on the viola and ’cello – “an atmosphere of quite a lot of suppression.” I sensed a feeling of angst pervading the whole piece. After forte dissonance and beautiful piano playing, a controlled crescendo dissolved into silence broken by scintillating stars again. These blurred into gentle downward glissando’s (a passage of shooting stars before daybreak?) as morning approached in a mysterious dissonant fade-out.
In the un-serenade-like second movement frenetic, sometimes quite jazzy pizzicato represented the refraction of sunlight on frosty or dewy grass. Perhaps a tribute to the Allegretto pizzicato in Bartók’s String Quartet No. 4? Arco flourishes were passed round the players (gusts of wind?) before the pizzicato playing came together in a jig-like rhythm before a final flash of discord. The third ’quarter’ (afternoon?) apparently stretched into days – representing the passage of time, to the accompaniment of an ostinato ‘tick-tick-tock’ (U in Morse code) and ‘tick-tock’ (A) repeated on a low C# on the second violin, taken up by the whole quartet in an off-beat 3/4 time like a distorted Mazurka; the composer seemed to be playing an unsettled and unsettling waiting game. We heard mysterious harmonics on the ’cello near the movement’s end, and the three lower strings had the last morendo chord after the first violin had died (metaphorically), as if representing the fading of time into eternity.
The fourth quarter, ‘The twenty-fifth hour’, John explained, was related to the human body clock (incidentally the subject for which the Nobel Prize for Physiology or Medicine 2017 was announced on 2 October): specifically, the theory that for humans it “is programmed for more than 24 hours.” (Research has suggested that the period of the circadian rhythm in humans is on average about 24hr. 12 min.). The movement had a symbolic 25/16 time signature, and according to the programme note, referred to a feeling of ‘time beyond….’. We heard more harmonics from the violins, and gentle pizzicato in the viola and ’cello, with extraordinary technique, especially from the leader, yet made to seem effortless. This was the most traditionally harmonic of the four movements, having a pastoral feel – with passing hints of Vaughan Williams – and did I detect evening birdsong (nightingales?) in the first violin? The angst subsided to a peaceful conclusion, with, I fancy, an added second in the final, repeated D-major chord – or was this just another mysterious harmonic overtone?
After the interval came Schubert’s monumental last string quartet – No. 15 in G, D.887. From the opening ‘dot-dash’ (Morse ‘A’) of the first movement, Allegro molto moderato, we encountered drama tempered with sensitivity from the players. Indeed Hélène almost threw away her bow with enthusiasm near the start, very professionally recovering with grace and aplomb, before a gentle and gracious ’cello solo took over – then handed on to the viola. The movement – indeed the whole piece – was characterised by solos or duets on various instruments, with sensitive accompaniment from the others, Schubert following Haydn’s (and Mozart’s) example in giving the ’cello in particular plenty of limelight. Schubert’s relentless beat was less susceptible to rubato, though the group carefully observed his tempo changes. The movement was full of rhythmic, harmonic and structural experimentation – notably the oscillation (continued throughout the work) between major and minor keys, the energetic drama interspersed with mysterious pauses, a beautiful Romanze tune on the first violin in the major key and a lyrical ‘lullaby’ section towards the end, when the buzzing bee of the ’cello chased us into the coda – itself a long-drawn out Beethovenian cadence.
As with the Haydn quartet, I was struck by the richness and variety of the tone colours, and not just because of the generous acoustics of the church – not too dry, nor too reverberant. The viola was impressively strong in its important notes within block chords near the end of the Schubert. The performers evidently play on instruments of high quality – two antique Italian ones: a 1708 Carlo Tononi [the elder? – “il Bolognese”] first violin and an 1830’s Gagliano brothers [Rafaele & Antonio] ’cello; and two marvellous 21st-century German creations: a violin by Haat-Hedlef Uilderks (2005) and viola by Stefan Becker (2008). Despite the instruments’ time-span of 300 years, so well-balanced were they in tone quality, whether playing together or separately, that I could not have distinguished between ancient and modern.
The second movement, Andante un poco moto, with just the right amount of moto, was characterised by deceptively jaunty rhythms with an underlying feeling of sorrow and resentment, starting with a ’cello dance over ‘musette’ drones in the other strings, and moving to an exaggeratedly strident tone, deliberately contrived, before the end, suggesting not just grief, but anger. Schubert must already have known, when writing the quartet in 1826, that he was dying from his long-term degenerative illness – probably syphilis – and here one can sense him railing against his fate. Nevertheless, a jaunty ‘Oh, well – heigh, ho’ attitude returns, the theme passed around the instruments before being taken up in unison and fading into the distance with a gentle ‘falling asleep’ codetta.
The Scherzo (in minor key), the programme notes told us, was a tarantella; with a lightness of touch reminiscent of Mendelssohn, but with a depth of emotion all Schubert’s own. Mendelssohn could not have known this piece when he wrote his famous scherzo from A Midsummer Night’s Dream with a very similar rhythm (‘diddle-iddle-iddle-dum-dum-dum’), though he might have met one or two scherzo’s from Schubert’s published piano sonatas. The contrasting Trio section (in the major) was a gentle pastoral tune started by the ’cello over an Alberti ‘bass’ – a sweet dream brought gently back to reality by the return of the frenetic scherzo.
The deceptively light-hearted opening of the final Allegro assai took us on a roller-coaster ride of folk-dance cross-rhythms (a trick picked up from Beethoven?) and confused and conflicting emotions alternating as the music switched rapidly between major and minor keys. The first violin’s virtuoso filigree arpeggio’s were made to seem effortless. This breathless dance (actually another tarantella) was relieved by short-lived breathers in the minor key – Schubert calling a halt to reassess the position and gather the troops before they all skipped off again into the distance – reminiscent of the Haydn finale heard earlier; before the final recapitulation of the opening theme led to an unexpected, resigned but firm, simple perfect cadence.
I was struck by the common themes and feelings of the three quartets in this imaginative programme – an all-pervading angst, punctuated with flashes of despair and ecstasy, and tempered with resignation and calm repose. The performers extracted the maximum from these pieces, taking the audience on an exhausting but inspiring emotional journey.
William Ormerod
September 2017
The Life to Come
by Louis Mander, libretto Stephen Fry based on a short story by E.M. Forster.
World Premiere at The Harlequin Theatre, Redhill, then on tour until 29th October
Review by Thomas Forsythe
Opera, whilst presenting a heightened exposure of emotions, often has a clear moral message. In its earliest forms it grew out of the long tradition of scared church music, music that looks towards the lux aeterna. Louis Mander’s The Life to Come, however, offers neither message nor light, eternal or otherwise. Quite the opposite, instead it merely comprises a relentless polemic against established religion, and the Church of England in particular, and presents a barren, negative view that is devoid of any light.
The premiere of the opera, which took place this week in the municipal space of The Harlequin Theatre at Redhill, was produced by Surrey Opera, a well-regarded semi-professional company. Musically the production is admirable, but one wonders why the company has taken such a risk on a piece that is clearly designed to inflame controversy.
The story tells of the attempts of a group of Anglican missionaries to convert an African tribe, where “Catholics and Methodists have failed”. Along comes a young missionary, Paul Pinmay, confident that God has told him to “take love to the darkest jungle”. Pinmay goes forth, “strong in the armour of the Lord” to meet the recalcitrant chief Vithobai. However, Pinmay and Vithobai have crossed interpretations of the message of the scriptures, resulting in Pinmay being sexually compromised. Although Vithobai is converted, Pinmay is consumed with guilt.
Swedish tenor, Martin Lindau gives a very strong performance as the eager and zealous Paul Pinmay. Lindau has a powerful and clearly defined voice and contrasts Pinmay’s torment of shame against his fiery-eyed fervour of conviction. Themba Mvula is convincing as the trusting Vithobai. Here the contrast is between Vitobai’s kingliness and his naivety, and Mvula’s remarkable vocal range is well demonstrated in making this distinction. Together they give an effective portrayal of a clash of cultures and personalities.
Martin Lindau and Themba Mvula
Vitobai takes on the name of Barnabas and it is worth noting that, in the Acts of the Apostles, we are told that St Barnabas and St Paul, erstwhile companions in spreading the Gospel, fall out over their interpretation of the scriptures. And it is the cultural differences in Pinmay and Vitobai’s interpretation of the scriptures that leads to the story’s fatal conclusion.
Jonathan Forbes Kennedy brings a rich baritone and authoritarian presence to the role of Rev. Tregold, the senior cleric for the region, whereas Hannah Pouslom’s soft mezzo nicely figures the role of the hapless Verily Romily, the missionary nurse whom Pinmay marries.
Lighting designer, Alan Bishop provides interest and atmosphere to the setting of the piece, with a luminesce use of the cyclorama; but the otherwise simple cruciform set is marred by extraneous scenery where a minimalist approach may have worked better.
Mander’s score is expertly handled by conductor-director Jonathan Butcher, Surrey Opera’s artistic director, with a well-paced and expressive approach. His thirty-piece orchestra includes, unusually, the celeste and the harmonium, providing a sense of contrasting spiritual detachment and of mission-hall reminiscences respectively. The lyrical overture features clarinet and oboe, and throughout the piece the mood is underlined by cameos from variously flute, harp, piccolo and the exotic end of the percussion section.
However, the musical artistry is blighted by the text. Librettist, Stephen Fry, has taken a short story by E.M. Forster stripped it of any degree of subtlety and restraint to give a puerile interpretation of Forster’s tale of cultural incompatibilities. It is left without soul, without wit. Fry has allowed his militant atheism to get in the way of any literary value in the work.
Moreover, the text is historically and factually warped. Are we really to believe that Africa before the coming missionaries had no disease, no poverty, no violence, no hunger, no slavery? The poor old C of E is blamed of everything short of global warming.
The insensitivity towards the scriptures becomes marked in the parodying of the well-known passages in 1 Corinthians 13 (faith, hope and charity). Notwithstanding that this is pertinent to the plot, Vitobai homing in on “love is kind”, whereas Pinmay is obsessed with “love is never unseemly”, its intemperate use would seem offensive to anyone with a vestige of faith.
If The Life to Come is a story about exploitation, then in truth each protagonist exploits the other. It is a story that ends without hope, in the tenebris aeterna, the eternal darkness of darkest Africa. But modern Africa is no longer regarded as darkest Africa. That is the progression of history, a history that The Life to Come tries to rewrite.
Thomas Forsythe
September 2017
The Wipers Times
by Ian Hislop and Nick Newman
Trademark Touring and Watermill Theatre
at Richmond Theatre until 30th September
Review by Mark Aspen
Whiz Bang! Earlier this month, when I was driving back home through Europe, I stayed overnight near Verdun. In the drizzle the next morning, I passed Douaumont, an area which had been in the thick of the longest-fought single battle of the First World War. There stands an impressive tower over 150ft tall, shaped like an artillery shell, standing on massive cloister which stretches out east to west. This cloister, 450ft long, contains the shattered bones of at least 130,000 human beings, unidentified combatants in the battle. This place, more than the serried ranks crosses over the graves of 16,000 known soldiers, the remains of the once-thriving village, or the thought that 160,000 men from that battle remain missing, spoke for me of the futility of this conflict. The Douaumont Ossuary resembles the hilt of a gigantean sword thrust into the earth.
Therefore I had doubts when asked to review a satirical play about the First Word War, The Wipers Times. Wipers was the Tommies’ anglicised pronunciation of the Belgian town of Ypres, notorious as the site of a series of battles throughout the whole of the war, which claimed the lives of millions of men. Four hundred miles from Verdun, I had seen the Menin Gate, poignant memorial to the Battle of Ypres, where hundreds of thousands of Tommies fell.
The Wipers Times is however, not so much a satirical play, but a play about satire. A squad of sappers finds an old printing press in a ruined building and decides to produce a paper for the troops. It became a light-hearted medley of parodies, poems, and puns, full of Punch -style cartoons that aimed to lift the spirits of the men in the trenches, not a newspaper with the harsh news of the war. Steadfastly breezy, often subversive, but full of trench humour, it was both read on the frontline and produced on the frontline.
Written by broadcaster Ian Hislop and cartoonist Nick Newman, both established journalists, The Wipers Times steers the fine line between trivialising the epic losses of the war and missing the irrepressible stoicism and good humour that provided a vital uplift to those horrifically involved. The writing is full of sensitivity and understanding yet delivers stacks of, let’s face it, very funny moments.
How do you create an interesting setting that is all brown: mud, khaki, muck, wood? Designer Dora Schweitzer achieves this in a versatile set that works seamlessly with the action, using multiple levels. The claustrophobia of the trenches is contrasted with the wide open skyscape beyond. It hints at an opera set (Schweitzer studied with Alison Chitty’s Motley Theatre Design). Combined with lighting designer James Smith’s clever coloured highlighting, we have bright flashes into the world of music hall as the squaddies enact the spoofs in their newspaper, or when we move with their imaginations from the brown world of their reality.
War is far from quiet, and sound designer Steve Mayo has worked with composer Nick Green to re-create this world. The music is tense, impatient. The rat-tat-tat of the machine gun merges into the rat-tat-tat of the typewriter. The omnipresent sound is of shells bursting all around. Oddly, for the soldiers it is silence that spells danger: the moment before going over the top.
Ironically, it is at these moments when we realise that the therapeutic effect of humour, indeed as the officer in charge of the sappers says “It is having a sense of humour that helps us survive”.
Hislop and Newman’s characters are all drawn from real people and true events. It is almost verbatim theatre in that much of the dialogue is taken from copies of The Wipers Times itself.
The play is parenthesised by Fred Roberts in a job interview after the war. He is unable to get a position as a journalist, in spite of having been the editor of The Wipers Times. Previously a mining engineer, Captain Roberts was awarded the Military Cross during the war. In a strong performance, James Dutton plays Roberts as a warm up-beat character with great charisma. The chary and more reflective Lieutenant Jack Pearson is played with great insight by George Kemp. Together, Dutton and Kemp live these characters portraying a grasp of their mutual loyalty under the old-school tie public-school camaraderie. Pearson also won the Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Order.
Their NCO is Sergeant Tyler, a printer in civvy-street, and one who knows his trade backwards, in a “we’ll soon get this double-movement-manual-feed Blogs and Blogson pattern-actuated press that we found wrecked in the rubble working again” sort of way. Dan Mersh not only portrays the fearless Tyler with great panache, but with remarkable versatility also acts the Deputy Editor who interviews Roberts after the war, and also the bluff General Mitford.
Mitford understood the ironies of war and its reality. He empathised with his troops, and thought the humour of The Wipers Times was good for morale. Not all his high command were so relaxed about this periodical, which made fun of the ineptitude of the staff officers in conducing the war. Many thought it reeked of subordination and even treason, and was certainly bad for morale. One such officer was Lieutenant-Colonel Howfield, young and zealous. Sam Ducane’s Howfield fairly bristles with indignation at all that this subversive paper stands for. The staff officers go off inspect the troops, urging their troops not to get bogged down in the trenches and to attack the enemy, asking, “Are we as offensive as we might be?”. Roberts immediately embraced this as the slogan for The Wipers Times, encouraging all its contributors “to be as offensive as possible”.
When our squaddies present some of the contributions in song and dance, we see the influence of the music hall, as we are lifted to another side of their lives very different from the trenches. This technique may have been used before as in Oh What a Lovely War, but The Wipers Times manages it without being irreverent or dishonouring the fallen. So no-man’s-land becomes a different place. Musical director Paul Herbert, and movement director Emily Holt, have created concise vignettes which work with energy and humour. In these musical interludes, the cast work very much as an ensemble, but without losing the individuality of each of the soldiers.
The effect of war on families left at home is underlined in a scene when Roberts, briefly on leave for the award of the MC, is dining at The Ritz (which he cannot afford) with his wife, Kate. There is a change of mood as he reflects on the dangers. He is worried, not about being killed, but of returning badly wounded. Kate replies “Half of you is better than twice another man”, whatever the “vilest disaster”. Emilia Williams’ portrayal of Kate shows great depth and this moment is particularly moving.
There are indeed many moving moments in this play, but what shines through is the British resolve never to complain but to “make do and mend”, however extreme the circumstances. There is native understatement: describing grenades as “used to cause annoyance to any luckless person who happens to be near them”. And it is that British sense of humour that can change the focus away from the pain. As one of soldiers says of The Wipers Times, “It is important because it is not important”.
At one point, when Col. Howfield reads disapprovingly from the newspaper an article that which makes Gen. Mitford laugh, Howfield asks him what he finds so funny. Mitford replies “It’s a lot funnier than what I’m reading at the moment.” He is studying the casualty lists. This maybe explains why, when the Armistice is declared, it is greeted with a sort of anti-climax. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating?”, asks Roberts.
Looking today at the hundreds of thousands of war graves that spread out beyond the Menin Gate, across the battlefields of Ypres, we can understand what he means.
Notwithstanding the tragic and futile losses, and whilst recognising them with honour, The Wipers Times is a play that takes a different viewpoint, and recognises, with real people who were actually there, the importance that humour played in survival, at least survival of the spirit, in the horror of large-scale war. Whiz Bang!
Mark Aspen
September 2017
Photographs by Alastair Muir and Philip Tull
Kindertransport
by Diane Samuels
Richmond Shakespeare Society at Mary Wallace Theatre until 23rd September
As a reminder of the reality behind this story of parted families, a regular reader of this website has sent a photograph of the suitcase that his mother and her younger sister used when, as young children, they travelled with the Kindertransport from Vienna to the Britain, about three months before the Second World War was declared.
September 2017
Under Milk Wood
by Dylan Thomas
Teddington Theatre Club at Hampton Hill Theatre until 23rd September
Review by Matthew Grierson
Tucked to one side in the foyer of Hampton Hill Theatre are two glass cabinets of souvenirs from Wales – a flag, seashells, toy boats and wooden gulls, as well as a travel guide and a copy of Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood – which give a nostalgic, touristic impression of somewhere remote in time and space.
There is always a danger that the play too, beloved by so many, and the production itself – nicely packaged in a Bible-black-box studio and tricked out with trinkets including watercolour views, fishing nets and a washing line strung with smalls – becomes a souvenir, bringing a doubly distant Llareggub to the suburban studio space. Director Paul Turnbull even says rather glibly in a programme note that he saw the play as one of ‘quick characters who didn’t need masses of back story’.
But the text – naturally – and the performance – thankfully – go deeper. After the stillness of the narrator’s prologue, we are in the depths, both literal and metaphorical, of Captain Cat’s memory with his drowned shipmates and lost love, Rosie Probert. This depth is stirringly animated, the dead dancing the Captain into a whirlpool like Eliot’s Phlebas. (After this episode, though, Cat rather oddly strolls off into the back with a sureness of step that seems one of very few directorial missteps in this staging.) Most of the first half continues the ebb between surface and depth, conjuring the dreams, desires and ghosts of the Llareggubbians into the harbour shaped by the audience, and this strategy effectively transforms Thomas’ ‘play for voices’ into a stage piece, an effect only disrupted by the peculiar decision to retain an ‘On Air’ sign among the stage paraphernalia, its red presence a niggling reminder of the play’s doubly vocal and visual quality.
Fortunately, in keeping with Thomas’ verse, which moves musically rather than metrically, the action on the stage is constant, so there is much else to keep my eye on. Even as the townsfolk sleep, they stand and lie like a row of ‘quiet dominoes’, and in their very particularity each character becomes universal. Indeed, the Anglo-Welsh vernacular enables the poet to name them as they are known to the rest of the community – ‘Butcher Beynon’, ‘Evans the Death’, ‘Polly Garter’ or ‘Nogood Boyo’, for instance – so they are all themselves surface and depth. Actor Jim Trimmer is aptly enough named to be one of their number, and he casts a watchful, wistful eye (blind or otherwise) over proceedings from opposite corners, in the roles of Captain Cat and Sinbad respectively, among others.
Whether Cat himself or the ‘voice’ provides narration, it frames and complements most of the action of the play, working most effectively when they talk over the silent comings and goings of the townsfolk – the postman’s rounds, schoolyard games – and the cast weave their way through the words to chime in occasionally with a line of their own where required. Only on a couple of occasions does this not quite work, when the text calls attention to something that is manifestly not shown on stage – Jack Black not wearing a nightshirt tied at his ankles, or narrator Jenny Hobson inviting a seated audience to ‘Come closer’, but then backing away.
Hobson, in the unenviable position of having to equal Thomas’ script while exorcising the ghost of Richard Burton’s performance, does well to acquit herself, the quiet, presiding spirit among the fleshier creatures that live under Milk Wood; once or twice, though, she stumbles on the poet’s mischievous sprung rhythm, and hesitates over the pronunciation of ‘Llareggub’, which can fox the rest of the cast in places as well. But among them all there seem to be no egregious offences against the Welsh accent, and only as Myfanwy Price does Linda Sirker’s voice resemble that of Hi-de-Hi ’s Gladys Pugh, which even then I sense is characterisation rather than caricature.
Indeed, that we can distinguish one character’s voice from another when each of the cast, Hobson excepted, is required to assume the role of half a dozen or so named parts is testament to their versatility. They convey these differences impressively through a combination of tone, mannerism and wardrobe, meaning that, through the course of the play, there are more costume changes than a Shirley Bassey concert. These transformations are worked fluently into the rhythm of the piece, all the actors falling deftly and expertly into the appropriate personae, but special mention must be made of Tom Nunan, who effects sharp volte-faces between the endearing kick-stepping postman Mr Willy Nilly and verse-speaking Rev. Eli Jenkins and the twisted precision of Jack Black and wannabe poisoner Mr Pugh. Along with the latter grotesques, Zoë Arden’s turn as the formidable Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard, forcing the ghosts of her husbands to recite the health regimens she imposed on them, show that there is more to Thomas’s – and Turnbull’s – vision of Llareggub than rosy-eyed nostalgia, and this positions the town midway between Joyce’s Dublin and The League of Gentlemen’s Royston Vaysey.
The mixture of tones – ‘soppy-stern’, perhaps, to quote an unlikely inheritor of Thomas’ craft – is essential to the play, and we move from the music of the spheres above Milk Wood to Gwenny’s kissing rhyme in the schoolyard under it, or from the grand declarations of love to the parsimonious gossip in Mog Edwards’ love letter to Myfanwy Price. There is balance, too, to the population of Llarregub, so to match Mrs O-P’s brace of spooked ghosts are Mr Dai Bread’s pair of lively wives, Arden again as a sensual fortune-teller leading her counterpart, Sirker, bustling ‘like a jelly’ after her and her crystal ball as she spins her destiny. Meanwhile, Edz Barrett is himself two husbands in one man – Cherry Owen sober and Cherry Owen drunk – and an equally capable housewife, Mrs Floyd, when wrapped in a shawl. And then there is the parade of Waldo’s would-be wives, rotated through his hand at the altar while he jilts each of them. Stock-still and terrified here, Jeremy Gill later returns as Lord Cut-Glass, unbuttoned and circling the space dottily as he surveys the clocks that until now I have not noticed hanging from the curtain rail above the audience, foregrounding the ‘tick-tock’ that underlies the play.
The constant momentum is necessary to follow all the lives lived under Milk Wood as a single day turns (the play’s most evident debt to Ulysses), because the characters always work in relation to one another, their stories going round and round but remaining unresolved. As Myfanwy silently scans a love letter from Mog she faces one row of the audience, while Mog himself declaims its contents to the audience lining the other wall, but as the pair turn and back towards one another, they exit before their love is consummated in bumped behinds. Similarly star-crossed are Sinbad and young schoolmarm Gossamer Beynon, the publican carousing with his patrons until breaking off to stare as the object of his affections forces herself to walk past him. Even at the play’s close, when Waldo lies with Polly Garter in Milk Wood and she loves him back, her own mind is in the depths with Captain Cat’s, remembering her lost love Willy Wee, as she has done at points throughout the piece in reveries beautifully sung by Helen Geldert.
Opening and closing with the drowned, the play signals that the lives of Llarregub go round and round, and on, even beyond death, and though the play has to end, it does so with a ‘goodbye – but just for now’ in the words of the Rev. Jenkins. Perhaps this is where our affection for the play begins, because we know we can always go back and read, listen to or watch it once more, as night turns again to day, revisiting a beloved town that no trip to Wales as a tourist will ever take us to.
Mark Aspen 