Theatre Review – Turcaret

Theatre Review TFTV presents Turcaret by Alain-René Lesage
Translation by John Norman, directed by Alex Urquhart, Amy Noriko Ward and Sam Duffy

Swooning & swindling is the name of the game in Lesage’s critical eighteenth-century class farce. Oafish, dissolute financier Turcaret (Nick Newman) lavishes his affections on the coquettish Baronne (Annabel Redgate), who coyly berates him for his flood of gifts before happily bestowing them upon her own lover, the knavish Chevalier (George Doughty), who of course is also in it for the goods alone. But the goods don’t stop there; this is a game of pass the parcel that, of course, the help will ultimately win.

As carefully noted by the trio of directors, the downfall of the rich and the triumph of the subjugated is a tale we will always have time for, though the script does undo itself slightly in its own dripping working-class snobbery. The language remains rooted in the pas, while the action is framed with modern costume and a fresh, angular set. The jury is out on the sensibilities.

Newman is fantastic in the titular role, playfully saluting both Turcaret’s innuendos and more tender moments of genuine expression. Chris Casbon plays a snake-like, scheming Frontin, confiding in the audience with soliloquies to send up the frivolity of the upper echelons that he is ripping off. Harry Elletson gives excellent performances both as the ruthless Rafle and the deceptive Furet, though the real star of the show is Samantha Finlay, whose delightfully sarcastic Marine serves as a mere hors d’oeuvre to her superb Comtesse, who delivers the physicality of a saturated weeble and the comic timing of a grenade.

The other female roles are slightly thankless, as straight-women confined to either plain exposition or sardonic remarks and eye-rolling, though Redgate plays her part with wry grace, and Kat Spencer’s Lisette is enjoyable to watch as an outsider with the advantage of a moment to smell the roses and consider her true emotional response to the situation.

Casbon delivers the final twists with urgency and aplomb, and you can’t help but applaud his duplicitous heist.

The Siren Call of The Grotesque

My acting ambitions have changed somewhat since I first set my sights on treading the boards. Since I was young I have admired the graceful, feminine icons of the silver screen: Audrey Hepburn, Tippi Hedren ,Grace Kelly. The flawless, fashionable glamour was the height of sophistication; if I could pull off that aura, if I could be eloquent and graceful through anything, I would be untouchable.

Since then I’ve read a few plays. I’ve heard stories about characters that are damaged, desperate, marginalised, fascinating. I’ve acquired a taste for the grotesque.

One of my university lecturers, Harold, who passed away a couple of years ago, introduced me to Jean Genet. He impressed upon us the essence of Genet. The homeless man in town with a bleeding head. The pair of old women who always walked side by side wearing identical clothes.

I began searching for a kind of tragic truth in everything I read and wrote. Detail, pain, wildness.

Around the time of his death, I got the opportunity to act in my first Genet production; The Maids. A friend of mine runs a theatre company and shares a Harold-inspired love for Genet’s works, and we found ourselves very much on the same page. Our maids were feral women in lapdogs’ clothing. They were wild, hurt, angry, fired.

Perhaps there’s something of my old ambitions living in the hearts of Claire and Solange. The desire to be glamorous, fashionable, loved, untouchable. Despite their hatred of the bourgeoisie, while they’re chewing it up, they suck up all the juice. Why not take for yourself the best of both worlds?

Claire and Solange are ugly, twisted, animalistic rebels whose pain and frustrations might just resonate a little loudly with the public of today.

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Photograph courtesy of www.hedgepigtheatre.com

Hell in the rehearsal room

Six years ago I had the displeasure of working with an insidiously passive-aggressive actor. Native to small towns rich in comfort-zone entitlement, this thankfully rare breed was one I had not quite encountered before, but one I certainly hope never to encounter again, and one that perhaps others have also met. There is fresh breath in sharing these experiences.

We that tread the boards have all met our fair share of the more common and harmless eyeroll-inducing diva, making inappropriate comments and demands that can be calmed and washed under the bridge. This is not they.

Scene: I had co-written, and was producing, a play. One of the cast was less than pleasant. Consistently late or absent for rehearsals with no reason or apology, including the tech-dress (turning up halfway through, in trainers, for the photo shoot, amongst a full set of Victorians, distracted and distracting as hell, subsequently demanding detailed feedback as though we were watching his performance and his alone as it would be in the show. Critical of others’ performances past the point of suggestion, forgetting that he was playing a minor, one-scene role, stealing off with other actors for private chats pre-show to make his own directorial enforcements and generally contributing a sickening kind of uneasiness to the room, this man was unbearable. But we bore it. He was alright as an actor when he didn’t let his ego take over (in case you doubt that they know best – improvisation needs to be capped when your director shows you the yellow card; if you don’t trust the script, you’re not doing your job properly.) We were as civil and professional as we knew how to be, and gave him as much as we could. We arranged extra workshops for him. Which he was late for. We exchanged hopefully reassuring glances and quiet words with the rest of the cast.

The main sticking point was the recording of the show. He wanted a copy, and he wanted it now. Now, as a general rule, we didn’t do that. We made theatre. I ensured recordings were made wherever possible for my personal portfolio, and, as a second priority, for the company (this had previously only mattered to me, and could, of course, have encroached too far and spoiled the live experience.) We were but three women, we worked full time, were in the middle of a crazily intensive six-shows-in-six-months programme, and we did not then possess that magical unicorn that poops out time enough to edit and send off copies of all our shows to everyone involved. Additionally, the company ran on volunteer power, and the kindness of friends, and our running and resources were heavily dependent on those people. Records of various shows and the means to edit them lay with the different people who could provide us that help at the time, and so editing the footage, even collecting it, meant coordinating our ‘days off’ (I’ve heard of these) with those who held the footage. I mention all this not to labour a defense but hopefully to shed some light on the process for others experiencing similar problems from either end. The task sounds simple enough, yes, if we were working 4/5 day weeks with regular hours and didn’t run a fucking theatre company in every spare minute we could grab. Days off consisted of the odd hour on a random day of the week in which I might lie in a little longer because I was physically exhausted, or one day in a few months when I actually had a full 24 hours in which no doctor’s appointments, laundry, rehearsals, meetings or chores were inescapable. On these days, because they came so rarely, I often literally needed to sleep all day. My brain required a few YouTube kicks before I made it downstairs, and after that everything was just a blur.

This ugly soul sent me a hideous, threatening email a whole year after the show closed, to reinforce just how angry he was that we had not yet provided him with a full video recording of his performance; a voluntary role he accepted without that caveat, which he then raised during the run. Such was his fury that we could not immediately deliver on his last-minute, never-promised request that he vowed a vendetta to upend our script, our experience of the show, and our reputation.

We would gratefully have accepted his withdrawal from the project at this point, and needless to say, certainly would never be hiring him again.

So goodnight unto you all, aggressive, strained egos seeking out a target. Take your leave. And everyone else – it is not.your.fault.

Acting is the lifelong sting of not being chosen

I wrote the following passage a few months ago now, and it felt a bit too ripe to publish in the heat of the moment, but the sentiment stands, and is, I imagine, something that recurs for other actor-creators too, and perhaps sharing it now it is at a safe distance can be of some worth.

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It’s been a while since I had something to say. It’s been a while since I had something to say that meant something to me. Since this blog has been less anonymous, I’ve also been less carelessly candid. It’s been a dry spell. But pain and writing have long been intertwined in my life, and right now I’m kinda hurtin’.

An actor dating a director, I’ve developed a nasty habit of typecasting myself. I am constantly hearing actors being ruled out for being too comic, too straight, too camp, too hulky, too silly, too homely, etc., etc. I’m sure this doesn’t make directors bad people, it’s just how they’ve learned to function efficiently. Conversely, in acting training I’ve always believed (was I taught to believe it? I don’t remember) that any great actor can perform any role. THE MAGIC OF THEATRE. If you believe it, they believe it. Etc. But… I’ve started to internalise the typecasting, physical and otherwise. Actors beware; if you’re going to put yourself on that side of the table and keep up the acting too, the perspective will take its toll on your ego.

Instead of being the go-getting ambitious actor I was a few years ago who created her own roles, writing new scripts every week for the fun of it with the tireless belief that each piece might be the next exciting project I got to act in, I’ve written less and less, and mentally cast myself in less and less roles. Why? I’m hearing myself say things like “So-and-so would be really good at that actually.” “I can’t do ____.” “My nose is too round.” “I’m not Hollywood enough. You want her instead. She’ll enjoy that.” Which is very selfless of me, bravo me. But no fucker else is going to be doing that for you, and they shouldn’t be either.

Now, I’ve long been in the habit of pretending I care less than I do, because it’s not cool to care. Not in interviews, not in auditions, not in relationships. “Oh, you care how this turns out? Um… O-kaayyyyy…” *Makes ‘help me’ and ‘crazy’ gestures at someone behind you, as if you’re so blind with crazy that you can’t see them.* I’ve been taught over and over that I’m not welcome at the party if I want the thing at the party.

Recently I discovered a TV series which made my heart sing and my brain buzz and I thought, “That’s it. That’s what I want to be doing.” It crept inside me and I started singing out loud and practicing accents and expressions and seeking out auditions and acting classes and agents again. (Don’t get me started on the endlessly deflating catch-22 of needing drama school to get an acting job to get Equity to get Spotlight to get an agent to get an acting job to get Equity…)

I suggested it to my partner while cat-sitting at a friend’s house, we watched it together, and it was all great fun and dreams were ignited. Kittens literally gamboled. And now that friend is making something in the vein of said musical wonderment, and they’re making it for someone else. And they happened to mention to my partner that they discovered it because he had watched it on their TV. So, not only am I not  in the running for my dream roles, (not putting myself in the running?) I’m being written out entirely from my own mini tale of self-pity about it. What am I left with? My own fucking ideas?  Have you forgotten what my brain’s doing to me? No thanks, I hate that guy.

I’m all for loving one’s own company, and building one’s own dreams, but fuck pretending not to care. I am fucking burning with want. It feels ridiculous to even have to say. I’m an actor, of course I want all the goddamn roles that have ever been written. I want to perform every classic as a one-woman show in downtown New York unused fire stations, I want to be shimmying across Broadway under the spotlight, I want to be standing next to Spielberg in photographs where he’s explaining how he wants me to do something emotionally complicated. I want all the lead roles, now and always, all the best and most demanding ones, all the ones that show range and give me a chance to be loved and hated  by committed audiences. And the funny ones.

And I will hunt those down. But it would be nice for the phone to ring sometimes too.

Theatre Review – The Rivals by York Settlement Community Players

York Thearte Royal Studio, Wednesday 16th November 2016 

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Photograph by Michael J. Oakes featuring Mike Hickman as Bob Acres and Jamie McKeller as Captain Jack Absolute

Sheridan’s The Rivals is a comedy of manners in five (too many) acts. Its 1775 sensibilities are rather politically outdated and can now serve only as a satire of the trivial and detestable upper classes to whom true compassion and interest in others is a joke. This sedate production’s charming cast give it an unnatural timelessness by making us care for those who would never care for any but themselves. 

 

“O, Gemini!” 

Jill Maris’ apt, simple design consists of twin banners sporting a peacock’s plumage, through and around which the cast can slip, and Georgian parlour music plays the audience in and out of the black-box theatre. Helen Taylor’s costume is mostly authentic with a few fitting appropriations such as servant Lucy’s hints of denim and flashes of pink, bringing the piece up to date.

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Photograph by Michael J. Oakes featuring Catherine Edge as Julia Melville and Matt Pattison as Faulkland

Jamie McKeller brings his considerable theatrical prowess to the character of Captain Jack Absolute, the playful cad moonlighting in hand as Ensign Beverley, entreating all to look elsewhere while he hoodwinks in the name of love. 

 

I intended only to have teased him three days and a half.” 

Speaking of his love, Jessica Murray lavishly doles out the conceited, conniving Lydia Languish to complement a timid Mrs Malaprop (Sue Skirrow) and a haughty but pure-hearted Julia (Catherine Edge). Matt Pattison delivers a perfectly whiney Faulkland you can’t help but root for, Alexander King a deliciously smug and sycophantic Fag, and Paul Mason the put-upon servants Thomas and David. Director Graham Sanderson himself plays the outraged Sir Anthony with remarkable smiling calm, alongside Simon Tompsett’s lascivious Sir Lucius O’Trigger and Mike Hickman’s brilliantly buffoonish Bob Acres. Sonia Di Lorenzo brings us a delightfully crooked Lucy to cross the t’s and dot the i‘s.

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Photograph by Michael J. Oakes featuring Jessica Murray as Lydia Languish and Jamie McKeller as Captain Jack Absolute

Heigh-ho!”

The charm of the cast elevates the show, although the text could do with some ruthless cuts, appearing unabridged at two and a half hours’ run time. 
 
Performances are 7:45pm nightly with 2pm Saturday matinees until 26th November at York Theatre Royal Studio. Tickets are available from York Theatre Royal’s box office on 01904 623568 / https://goo.gl/G1L7hI.

Theatre Review – Moby Dick by Theatre Mill

Adapted by Nick Lane and John Godber, directed by Gareth Tudor Price
York Guildhall, Wednesday 26th October, 2016

Clay-faced sailors advise us of our journey’s weekly cost before ushering us into a driftwood arena complete with mobile bar. Captain’s barrel tables dot the stage, ladders and oars leaning against the majestic historical pillars of the Guildhall. Graham Kirk’s design is a sight to behold, making up for the lack of [spoiler alert] any actual appearance of the mythical whale from the novel.

Strings of lanterns and soft lightbulbs line the heights of the great hall, dropping a nostalgic veil over the decks of the Pequod for this adaptation of the tale of bloody-minded revenge.

While visually stunning, the text falls short of delivering the right build of tension – characters remain on a level throughout the story, without an initial sense of camaraderie to serve the payoff of Ahab’s fatal determination, or any real character development. Ahab is gnarled and feared from the first; the crew wary, the storytelling a little too knowing of its fate.

The framework is a relocation to a deserted Hull pub – a setting which seems to suit the home comforts of the company more than the adventurous thrill of the story. An entirely new set of characters from another era relate their own stories tenuously linked to the main arc, which leaves those unfamiliar with it a bit adrift. The sense of grandeur and adventure are missing and the climax low-key, despite the lofty surroundings and Joshua Goodman’s beautiful soundtrack. Actors hop from one character and locale to another adeptly, although rarely engaging with convincing emotion as they’re too busy telling the story.

There are however some touching moments, such as the breaking of Pip’s spirit, all greatly augmented with live music played by the lead storyteller, and Queequeg is endearing throughout. It must also be noted that the choreography capably avoids the in-the-round curse of forgotten angles, and does rather swim.

Moby Dick is showing at York Guildhall at 7:30pm nightly until 3rd November. Tickets are available here: https://www.yorktheatreroyal.co.uk/event/moby_dick.php#.WBX8m-CLTIU

Theatre Review – Sherlock Holmes: The Hound of the Baskervilles

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Photograph by Anthony Robling

York Theatre Royal, Tuesday 2nd August 2016

 Damian Cruden’s Sherlock Holmes: The Hound of the Baskervilles is an original family-oriented devised musical dressed handsomely in an appropriated Victorian circus-theatre aesthetic involving model cityscapes, shadowplay and scrolling captions.

Designer Mark Walters creates a world akin to Tim Burton’s Coraline, in which Mr Henry Dimmell and Mrs Rose Dimmell’s travelling theatre troupe enact the famous moody mystery in a somewhat confused homage to various dramatic styles including early German film. The cast commit to these styles in varying degrees, leaving the audience to imagine a cohesive flow.

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Photograph by Anthony Robling

The pantomime banter and pandering in-jokes of traditional theatre such as the obligatory characters running aimlessly through the audience are tiresome, and are saved only by the charm of the cast. Elexi Walker stands out as the sprightly Miss Hilda Stanley/Dr John Watson, as does Joanna Holden as the charismatic Mrs Rose Dimmell/Mrs Hudson. The Barrymores (Holden and David Leonard) are a particular dark delight. Holmes himself (Leonard) lacks enthusiasm, which is disappointing for the world-loved character.

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Photograph by Anthony Robling

The show is elevated by the original live score by Rob Castell and the company, though even this is held up in a painfully pointless sequence in which cellist Rachel Dawson is hoisted from the stage in an aerial hoop for a short minute before returning to the ground. The applause-begging present here is the show’s most consistent irritation. In designing the show for ‘all ages’, the company has made the old mistake of believing that ‘family-friendly’ means dumbed-down. The harking back to ye olde sensibilities and expectations is at its best jolly, at its worst condescending.

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Photograph by Anthony Robling

This is a show for those who like their theatre full of slapstick and distractions, and don’t mind an underwhelming climax. It could be developed into a rousing musical storytelling cabaret piece if willing to shed its more forced lyrics and find a little more purpose and passion.

The show runs at York Theatre Royal until 27th August 7pm (Tues,Thurs to Sat) 2.30pm (Weds, Thurs to Sat). Tickets are available here.