Monday, 19 September 2016

#ReadaPlayaWeek: Two Lips Indifferent Red

It’s not always possible to see every play. This initiative (in its third year) encourages us (and hopefully others) to read more widely. And, as achieved in 2015, we shall try to choose 26 male playwrights and 26 female playwrights for our play choices. The plays from the first half of this year can be seen here.

Week 38: Tamsin Oglesby’s Two Lips Indifferent Red (1995)

This play is interested in a world of surfaces. Set in the world of cat walks, models, beauty parlours and cosmetic surgeons, Two Lips Indifferent Red focuses on the moral implications of changing your body in the name of beauty. Angela is considering several operations that her cosmetic surgeon husband Andrew has offered her for her birthday. If this makes Andrew sound like a bit of a dick then you’re not wrong. He comes up with crude limericks about his clients, it seems like he couldn’t cope being married to a fat person, and he has shattered his relationship with his daughter by making her have a nose job. He also comes packaged with some under baked ideas about copies of art which invites parallels to be made about fake body parts. He’s an unsympathetic character that perhaps seems cartoonish. In fact, when we first see Andrew he is holding a ‘scalpel menacingly over Angela’ in a nightmare sequence. The other major characters in the play are more rounded. Angela and Andrew’s daughter Jo is a model and although she’s a rather good one she has more substance than her peers and decides to train as a photographer.

Oglesby’s play skewers the nineties obsession with excess. In many ways it reminds me of Absolutely Fabulous, no more so in a scene between Jo and Angela where after a while I gave up and started imagining Julia Sawalha and Jennifer Saunders. Their sense of humour and character dynamics are very similar to that of Saffie and Eddy in the sitcom. The surgeons, the models and the beauticians are all to some extent obsessed with aesthetic beauty. The beauticians talk about the ugliest person they know and the models vie to be noticed by a photographer. It is a play which satirises what we apparently value (or did in the nineties). As one character says, ‘I don’t want to be interesting. I want to be sexy’.

Sometimes when reading a play, I suppose that it is natural to play director, trying to imagine how it might be staged. Two Lips Indifferent Red flits between multiple settings. To create some sort of unity on the stage (especially in as small a space as the Bush Theatre where it was originally staged) I guess it would be interesting to see how the brilliant white of a fashion photoshoot is visually similar to but also different (in terms of mood) from the sterile white of a surgeon’s clinic.

Oglesby’s play is an entertaining, often very funny one about surface appearances. However beneath that there is a lot of substance to the mother and daughter relationship at its heart.

Monday, 12 September 2016

King Lear

Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
10th September, 2016, matinee

‘Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are,/ That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,/ How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,/ Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you/ From seasons such as these?’ (3.4.29-33).

This is one of my all-time favourite Shakespearean passages. I like it for its poetic beauty, for its compounding of the many themes of the play, as well as the astute social commentary it induces, both then and now. Inspired by this, Gregory Doran’s production of King Lear begins by preluding the action with ragged, poverty stricken ‘wretches’ cowering upon the stage; hooded, veiled, anonymous. In contrast, the proceeding scene is rich in texture, as the bejewelled aristocracy meet under Lear’s desire to explicitly divide his kingdom. Antony Sher’s Lear is heralded by a procession of underlings carrying branches and golden orbs, evocative of natural and universal spirituality, and the apparent absolutism of the monarchy. Dwarfed by gigantic Russian furs, he enters within a transparent palanquin, reminiscent of the pope-mobile, he is separated in stature from his subjects rich and poor; a visual manifestation of his hubristic neglect.

The themes of nature, division and poverty are also tremendously wrought in the storm scene. Doran’s simplistic staging sees Lear and his Fool (Graham Turner) lifted high, upon a gigantic billowing sheet, physically exemplifying Lear’s call to ‘smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!’ and ‘crack nature’s molds’. The unnaturalness of this tragedy is subsequently entwined with the suffering of the poor, creating a heady mixture of nihilism, injustice, and divine abstinence as Lear wanders the moors of his land, in an ironic reformation wrought by simultaneous madness and reason.

Despite Lear’s inherent hubris, Sher is delightfully pragmatic in performance. While his frailty is constantly foregrounded – from his palanquin mode of travel, to his hand tremors, and his final entrance upon a cart, too weak to carry the fallen Cordelia, Sher exhibits all the tremulous rage of an elderly, cantankerous man, convincing of a once all-powerful ruler, now belittled by the constraints of old-age. Yet, for me, he really excels in moments of quiet incredulity. During a confrontation with Goneril (Nia Gwynne), Sher’s eyes are lucid and piercing, his hushed words resound as he fixes his daughter with an almightily withering glare.

While King Lear may seem to be a star-vehicle for the Shakespearean greats, that is to deny its epic scope and true ensemble nature. I particularly admire Shakespeare’s ability here to render all characters and all plotlines coherent and rounded (an aspect, I feel, which is neglected in some of his other sweeping tragedies). As such, amongst a strong ensemble, David Troughton’s Gloucester is masterful as an initially powerful statesman before toppling into sympathetic despair. His scenes with the unbeknownst to him Edgar (Oliver Johnstone) are particularly touching. Paapa Essiedu wrings Edmund for all his sarcastic wit, eliciting the majority of the humour in this production. His is an interesting take on the character, making the bastard seem deceptively benign as we are impelled to empathise with his eye-rolling frustrations concerning the ‘natural order’ and his old man’s superstitions. On a semi-off topic note, Bryon Mondahl’s Oswald reminded me, not unkindly, of Conleth Hill’s Varys from the Game of Thrones series – a minor observation, but one that tickled me.

In a production of admirable performances and classical thematic focus, Doran smartly eschews concept-driven direction, preferring to foreground the text (tonally and visually it reminds me of his successful 2013 production of Richard II). The only deviant is the neon-lit Perspex chamber within which Gloucester receives his torture. While a fun idea (if ‘fun’ can be used to describe such a harrowing moment in British drama), it remains rather tame and is not as blood-splattered as it could be if intending to shock. Moreover, stylistically this scene jars with the remainder of the production aesthetic of ostensibly pagan natural divinity. Thus it is a memorable moment, but not as a piquant example of Doran’s overall vision; it appears more as an anomaly in the otherwise pretty traditional theatrical style associated with his direction.

There are moments in this production that will linger in my mind – the effective staging of the storm, Sher’s performance of intense human frailty, and the sheer scope and spectacle of seeing a large cast populate the RST stage in an accessible, un-divisive telling of one of my favourite Shakespeare plays. And if Doran is a little safe as a director, I cannot complain too much as he delivers everything a wide-ranging audience would wish of a visit to the RST.

King Lear plays at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre until 15th October before transferring to the Barbican where it plays from 10th November – 23rd December 2016.

Sunday, 11 September 2016

#ReadaPlayaWeek: The Humans

It’s not always possible to see every play. They are not complete on the page, certainly in contemporary theatre where plays can be more collaboratively made than ever before. However, this initiative (in its third year) encourages us (and hopefully others) to read more widely.And, as achieved in 2015, we shall try to choose 26 male playwrights and 26 female playwrights for our play choices. The plays from the first half of this year can be seen here.

Week 37: Stephen Karam’s The Humans (2014)

This year’s Tony winner for Best Play was The Humans by Stephen Karam. Played out in one scene, the play is about the Blake family coming to New York to have Thanksgiving with Erik’s youngest daughter and her partner in their new Chinatown duplex.

Erik has been having nightmares and is struggling with his back; his wife Deidre has been helping the Bhutanese refugees back home in small town Scranton, PA; their eldest daughter Aimee has broken up with her long term girlfriend and has intestinal problems; youngest daughter Brigid is struggling to pursue her dream career whilst trying to cover the bills; her older boyfriend Richard is back in college and pushing 40. I don’t want to drop any spoilers but suffice to say Karam paints a well-observed, warm portrait of family life, with all its imperfections, in-jokes, strange traditions, tensions and worries. It strikes a chord on many levels, whether we recognise worries about money or elderly relatives, ill health or being out of work.

Karam’s text is meticulously detailed. Characters interrupt each other, overlap, trail off and repeat themselves. There might be a conversation going on in one room while another is happening in another room – or other floor. That brings me to the other really distinct feature of The Humans: it is set over two floors, each with separate rooms so we can wander our attentions into whichever room we wish. It’s a slow-burner of a play, but over the course of the get-together, we learn how the events of 9/11 still haunt this family, we hear the daughters rebelling against their parents especially concerning views on religion and marriage, and we see the Blakes’ familial instinct to help each other out. On one level this play is an insightful psychological family drama but it also operates on another, more ambivalent and mysterious level. Karam blends concrete family drama with elements of the supernatural. It is gripping until its uncanny, moving end. I wonder if we’ll see it in London sometime soon.

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

#ReadaPlayaWeek: Sucker Punch

It’s not always possible to see every play. They are not complete on the page, certainly in contemporary theatre where plays can be more collaboratively made than ever before. However, this initiative (in its third year) encourages us (and hopefully others) to read more widely.And, as achieved in 2015, we shall try to choose 26 male playwrights and 26 female playwrights for our play choices. The plays from the first half of this year can be seen here.

Week 36: Roy Williams’ Sucker Punch (2010)

I remember an academic once claiming that the only contemporary comparison to the groundling experience at a Shakespeare play is the rowdy atmosphere of a football match. The thrill of sport combined with the thrill of live theatre is something often exploited by Roy Williams, notably in his plays Sing Yer Heart Out for the Lads (2002), Joe Guy (2007), and There’s Only One Wayne Matthews (2007). While these plays use football as a cipher for exploring British society, William’s 2010 play, Sucker Punch, turns towards the world of boxing to scrutinise aspects of racial identity amidst Thatcherite Britain in the 1980’s.
We first meet young Leon and Troy arguing over the chores they’ve been ordered to do as punishment for breaking into a local boxing club. They soon catch the attention of Charlie, who decides to train them to fight. The play follows the two boys as they progress down different paths; Leon growing in stature as a serious UK boxing contender, while Troy compromises his talent as he rails against the police, eventually leaving Britain for a new life in the US.

The boys also embody diverse attitudes towards the prejudice and injustice they encounter on a daily basis; Troy is angry, lashing out against institutionalised racism, while Leon takes a more fatalistic view, longing to be accepted by his white trainer-cum-father-figure, Charlie, and Charlie’s daughter, Becky. Charlie is an interesting character, because there is a sense that he is genuinely affectionate and proud of Leon, yet he cannot hide his bigotry when he discovers the interracial relationship between Becky and Leon.

This is just one example of the casual racism that litters the play, alien to someone of my generation, but recent enough to shock. These attitudes and the subsequent backlash, such as the Brixton riots which Williams references, thoroughly evoke Thatcher’s Britain, highlighting the culture of social and racial division. What’s more, showing that these issues are just as apparent today, Sucker Punch premiered at the Royal Court just one year before the London riots in 2011, ignited by the police shooting of Mark Duggan, a young black man (and even more recently evidenced in the USA with the ongoing Black Lives Matter campaign against institutionalised racism). Yet, in more ways than one, Thatcher’s Britain comes under criticism. The 80’s culture of economic greed bites back as Charlie’s faith in ‘Maggie’ leads to his financial downfall, investing all the profits from Leon’s matches in the stock market (and we all know what happened there…).

What is perhaps most striking is Williams’ unflinching portrayal of the boxing world and how it is entwined with identity. Ironically, Troy’s anger and sense of racial identity culminates in his being scouted by a boxing promoter after a brawl with US police officers. However, it becomes increasingly obvious that the boys have little control over their own lives. They are owned; the imposing Ray tells Troy ‘I made you […] You are mine’, and Charlie manipulates his bigoted relationship with Leon for his own gain. He presents him with an ultimatum; he will become Leon’s manager, but only if he stops seeing Becky.
Furthermore, while seemingly embodying black empowerment by excelling in sport, Williams highlights the inevitable contradictions in the boxers’ roles. At the end of Act 1, Leon fights Charlie’s ex-pupil, Tommy, where the ‘white, pale faces […] cheering Tommy on, telling him to bury me’, demonstrate the way boxing, in its legitimised violence, can, in the worst cases, become a vicarious and legitimised outlet for racial hatred. Despite the two protagonists being set up as opposites, in character, attitude and philosophy, in one of the most elucidating passages, Leon’s father offers some home truths ahead of the climactic Leon vs. Troy match; ‘You can’t win, neither of you […] they love nothing better than to see two black men beat up on each other. They too afraid to do it themselves, so they get you to do it’. Racism is shown to be not only a casual aspect of 80’s culture, but a form of passive brutality in the form of spectator sport.

In this time of UKIP, Black Lives Matter, and the horrifying possibility of ‘President Trump’ the themes explored in Sucker Punch echo through the decades, presenting us with the bleak reality that racism and violence is perhaps even more of a pressing issue now than it was then - scarily so. While casual racism is now taboo, bigoted views manifest in ever more brutal ways, with no (justifiably sickening) joviality to hide behind, racism is unveiled and is more catastrophic and loathsome than ever.

Wednesday, 31 August 2016

#ReadaPlayaWeek: Stacy

It’s not always possible to see every play. They are not complete on the page, certainly in contemporary theatre where plays can be more collaboratively made than ever before. However, this initiative (in its third year) encourages us (and hopefully others) to read more widely. And, as achieved in 2015, we shall try to choose 26 male playwrights and 26 female playwrights for our play choices. The plays from the first half of this year can be seen here.

Week 35: Jack Thorne’s Stacy (2007)

A few weeks ago I was travelling through South London on the train from Brighton to London Bridge. I don’t live in London so it’s not a common journey for me. At East Croydon three people in their late twenties/ early thirties got on. They spoke fairly loudly about cats following them home in the early hours, looking after a (different) lost scrawny cat, the importance of making time for yourself and about a friend in need who’s stretching the limits of their friendship. Their conversation (throughout most of which I was earwigging) seemed fairly theatrical to me. Their chit chat seemed much more articulate and occasionally profound than you often hear. They imbued their stories with a lot of detail. They were talking about everyday matters and yet it also sounded as if they were investing their conversation with something more significant as well. From this snippet of conversation I conjured what their daily lives might look like, who they were and what they did.

Rob, who is 26, ordinary looking and lives in East Croydon, is at the centre of Thorne’s monologue Stacy. First performed by Arthur Darvill at the Arcola Theatre before transferring to Trafalgar Studios with Ralf Little, the play features Rob and a slide projector which shows the people and places closest to Rob whilst he tells his story. We hear how Rob has just had a one night stand with his best friend (so he says) and about his journey to her house after work in order to talk it through. He also goes further back a bit to talk about his childhood as a ‘beautiful child’, about his sister’s death, and about the time his dad attempted to kill an injured dog and all of the neighbours were too polite to tell him he wasn’t successful. He’s fairly engaging and occasionally funny. But then his story changes and there’s much about it that’s troubling, namely his rape of Stacy’s flatmate and how he reacts to it. Rob begins to unravel as he tells us about his tube journey back to Croydon, how his ineffective brother tries to help, and his next morning at work.

What works really well is that Thorne conjures these couple of days and memories from Rob’s childhood with such clarity and detail which is helped by us seeing his loved ones etc. on the projector. He also talks with the imperfections of every day conversation: he meanders off topic, he omits things and he stumbles over bits. But we still get a pretty comprehensive portrait of his life (or do we?). He lives with his brother in a house which is a bit studenty and he doesn’t love his job at a call centre for which he’s overqualified but has saved up a lot of money from it. He’s sort of finding adult life more difficult than when he was younger.

There have been a few plays this year (Yen, The Suicide, Boy) which have been given the label of poverty porn – although plays being given this label isn’t a new phenomenon. You can tell that the label could also be given to Stacy, however Thorne cleverly skirts around that. Rob’s home and work may be a tad shit but it’s not terrible. His house is a bit grotty, they don’t eat like kings, his family is perhaps a bit emotionally stunted and his job might be a bit bleak, but he’s young and you get the impression that he’s still living like a student. Thorne doesn’t diagnose. There’s not the suggestion that ‘this and this and this’ lead to Rob feeling like this which makes him do this (Matt Trueman’s review of Yen particularly focused on the oversimplified, reductive nature of that play’s prognosis). Stacy is undoubtedly troubling but is more complex and deserves deeper consideration particularly as we only see a snippet, albeit a detailed one, of Rob’s life. Where is Stacy? What is the bigger picture with Rob? Why is he only working in a call centre? Why doesn’t he travel or live somewhere else? Thorne gives us just enough to wonder about Rob’s life without making quick final decisions about it.

Wednesday, 24 August 2016

Burning Doors

Curve, Leicester
23rd August, 2016

*Please note that this was the first performance of Burning Doors and there were some technical difficulties with the surtitles projector, unless this was meant to reflect the themes of censorship, in which case, great job! Furthermore, I wrote about Stoppard’s Every Good Boy Deserves Favour earlier this month which may be a worthwhile accompanying piece.

‘Do you recognise me?’ a woman asks at the start of Burning Doors. ‘How about now?’ she says as she puts on a coloured balaclava. The image of course conjures new stories of Pussy Riot being arrested in 2012 for performing in a Moscow cathedral. Burning Doors brings together stories of Russian and Ukrainian artists including Pussy Riot’s Maria Alyokhina, Petr Pavolvsky and Oleg Sentsov who have been persecuted for speaking against the state. It is presented through a hotchpotch of different forms, some more enduring than others, but the result is an (often) extraordinary kaleidoscopic exploration and dissection of the oppression that contemporary artists suffer in some parts of the world.

It is not every day that a piece of theatre is performed by people so invested in the piece’s subject matters, thus making for a piece of very intense and rewarding theatre. At times, the cast go to extreme lengths to evoke the artists’ stories. It is this line between performance and reality that runs through Burning Doors. The scenes vary between dialogue, physical theatre, literary extracts and verbatim, so we can go from watching scripted scenes (I suppose something we’re more familiar with in British theatre) to hearing real bits of uncomfortable testimonial and seeing slides of extreme protest art. Using multiple forms like this suggests that art can go from the comfortable world of an exchange between two characters in a clearly defined setting to very dramatic and public forms of performance art that can resemble protest and sometimes be perceived as hooliganism.

And so it is unsurprising that many of the scenes in Burning Doors are shocking not only visually but also in the limited ideas about art expressed by two Russian officials. In one scene, they chat whilst sat on the toilet. It is this striking, if crude, setting which frames their opinions on art for the duration of the scene. ‘Before Picasso’, one says, ‘art was normal’. The pair then wipe their arses with the paper on which Petr Pavlensky’s statement defending his act of setting fire to a government building’s door is written. There’s a difference, they see, between art as in paintings and art that is nailing your scrotum to a public square or setting fire to something. What are the limitations of art and when does it stop being considered art? Elsewhere in the performance, someone recites a poem (the surtitles of which we are aptly denied) in a bath whilst another performer repeatedly tries to drown her. It is uncomfortable to watch not least because it is clear that her head is apparently forcibly underwater for some time. Later, there is a prolonged section where two men fight, a birds’ eye view of which is projected onto the screen. It isn’t too forceful and is perhaps choreographed but the energy and physicality afforded to it and the subtle application of an ice pack afterwards suggests that it was more ‘real’ than perhaps first thought.

Burning Doors also gives insight into how, for the artists, daily life can be as suppressive as prison life, and it goes one step further by suggesting different forms of torture are commonplace in Russia. We hear an introspective account of one person waiting to be executed by shooting range before being let off – a similar situation to that of Dostoyevsky apparently. Later we see three men forced to hold piles of plates, visibly sweating and struggling to do so. The piece also impressively incorporates a lot vigorous physical theatre, ranging from aerial skills to convey the brutality of the Russian prison system to choreographed ensemble work to conjure the media circus surrounding Pussy Riot’s trial. Another effective scene shows the interrogation and torment that the artists can suffer, repeating itself over and over, getting louder each time until they’re shouting.

Burning Doors is vital theatre. The final image of three flaming doors is a reminder of the symbolism of the gates of hell and the difficulties of artists in Russia being labelled political dissidents and enemies of the state because of their art.

Finally, as the applause died down at the end of the play, a northern man from the balcony shouted: ‘Gail, Gail, I’ll meet you out front’. I’m unsure whether he enjoyed it or not but it was a joyous reminder that theatre can be revolutionary but is also often divisive and surely much more rich for it.

Burning Doors plays at Curve, Leicester until 27th August before playing Soho Theatre, London from 31st August to 24th September. It then tours nationally and internationally until 3rd December. It will be screened online on 12th October.

Tuesday, 23 August 2016

#ReadaPlayaWeek: One Flea Spare

Plays, of course, are meant to be seen and not read, but it’s not always possible to see every play. They are not complete on the page, certainly in contemporary theatre where plays can be more collaboratively made than ever before. However, it encourages us (and hopefully others) to read more widely. For the third year, here is our #ReadaPlayaWeek initiative. And, as achieved in 2015, we shall try to choose 26 male playwrights and 26 female playwrights for our play choices. The plays from the first half of this year can be seen here.

Week 34: Naomi Wallace’s One Flea Spare (1995)

There is no doubting the originality of One Flea Spare. Wallace chooses the setting of a Plague riddled London in 1665 to let us consider class inequalities anew. In the afterword, Wallace writes about specific recent global relations such as the Mexican/US border and how social inequality today in the nineties is akin to the Depression in American and to Victorian times in the UK. In 2016, I wonder, how much has this changed? What One Flea Spare successfully does and timelessly does is to create a defamiliarised setting to allow us to consider who poverty and disease affects now, how it is treated, and what the effect is on wider society.

London, 1665 and the body count from the Plague is on the up. Locked in their own home in quarantine are upper class couple William and Darcy Snelgrave. Their marriage hasn’t been the same since Darcy was injured in a fire when younger. Their servants have died but a sailor, Bunce, and a girl claiming to be the daughter of some friends, Morse, are also stuck there. In one confined space, characters of different social standing are forced to cohabitate. In one very affecting scene (scene six), Snelgrave cruelly allows Bunce to wear his fine leather shoes saying that history doesn’t usually allow the poor man to wear the rich man’s shoes and admits that he is only teasing Bunce, his status still only that of a lower class sailor.

The play inspires thoughts on social roles and gender roles, and it seemed to me that the characters, just as they are locked in the one house/room, are locked in the roles given to them. Snelgrave plays the part of the unloving, dusty old man; Darcy the part of the unloved, sexless burnt wife; Bunce the part of the nomad sailor apparently living up to the image of a pirate pillaging his way around the pubs and brothels of the world. But there are moments in the play – often very subtle – where they open up to show something more tender and complex. Then there’s Morse, who’s not only the keystone of the piece but who also poses a significant challenge to a young actress. She won’t let the older characters trample on her irrespective of gender or class, and a question is posed asking who she really is and whether she’s something more spiritual. She also has the ability to bring characters together and gets them to realise that they can still feel for each other. Bunce and Darcy fall for each other and he touches her burnt skin, something which Snelgrave hasn’t done for years. Yet they either don’t have the depth of feeling or the capability to express them to transcend their social barriers. On one hand, this perhaps is an unsatisfying ending but on the other Wallace suggests that happy endings are harder to achieve when class inequalities and such poverty as this exists in the play.

Wallace has a firm grasp on her characters: from Morse’s lyrical language to guard Kabe’s swindling and his sharp tongued critique of those in power: ‘The hungry. The dirty. The abandoned. That’s who dies. Not the fancy and the wealthy. Clergymen, physicians and surgeons, all fled’ (Wallace p.302). Finally, scene nine of the second act is missing: an editorial typo or elusive cut scene?