nineveh_uk (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nineveh_uk) wrote2010-05-11 01:18 pm
nineveh_uk) wrote2010-05-11 01:18 pm
The play's the thing
I spent the weekend in London, in a veritable orgy of theatre-going.
The Real Thing, Tom Stoppard, The Old Vic. I know almost nothing about Stoppard (the only play of his I have previously seen being Rock and Roll), had read few reviews, and was essentially there to watch Toby Stephens. Fortunately even for those of us on caffeine tablets by this point, Stephens is a terrific stage actor, and I had no difficulty in keeping awake, though my brain ended up a bit confused by the end. Unlike some of the critics, I was not bowled over by Hattie Morahan’s performance as Annie: my companion and I were grateful to the Daily Mail’s theatre critic for subsequently informing us that the play was written when Stoppard was having an affair with Felicity Kendal, at which point the bouncy ponytail and supernatural perkiness fell into place. As a play, it seems to be largely about itself, though the reviews tell me it is also about the nature of reality, love, and so on. I still think it is largely about itself. But it was very entertaining, and anchored by an excellent performance from Toby Stephens who made Henry – the playwright main character – humanly arrogant, and a good evening.
The Habit of Art, Alan Bennett, National Theatre. Not as good as The History Boys, but entertaining and decidedly Bennett. It is a play within a play (my second in a row), the setting the rehearsals for a play about Auden and Britten. To be honest, I felt that I’d rather have had the play about Auden and Britten, or at least only the framing device of the rehearsal. I really didn’t think that the presence of the dramatist character, objecting to what the actors are doing to his play, as they object to what he is doing to their play, added a great deal. Rather, it added comedy, but the real strengths of the play lie in the people, in the ultimately moving encounter of the two men, and in the actors (characters) revealing themselves (thankfully, despite the jokes, not literally) as they assemble the drama. Alex Jennings (Britten) and Richard Griffiths (Auden) were both very good – I’d have liked to see more of them as their subjects. That said, it was funny, well put together, and only occasionally obvious (did we need the phrase “The Habit of Art” repeated three times?), and reminded me that I have read Humphrey Carpenter’s biographies of both men and should probably do so again. I think that perhaps what I wanted was something more confrontational. But it was a good evening, and I’ll look forward to seeing it again at some point – hopefully it will be adapted for the radio.
Women Beware Women, Thomas Middleton, National Theatre. It was during the final compulsory bloodbath that I felt the force of the reviews that had suggested that this play is rarely produced due to the difficulty of pulling of said bloodbath. I can certainly imagine that student productions probably end with audience members throwing themselves over the balcony to escape the grim horror of student drama tackling revenge tragedy. As it was, the National managed it magnificently, delivering a hypnotic masked ball in which one by one the protagonists fall. The plot of the play is fairly simple – everyone ends up corrupted, obsessed with sex and revenge, and even the sole-survivor, the Cardinal, survives by luck and not being around long enough to have more than one person want to murder him; even here there is the whisper that the elder brother dying is not a bad thing for the next heir. The general level of corruption can be gauged by the most wholesome relationship being an incestuous one between Hippolito, Livia’s brother, and his niece, again, set up by Livia because she herself fancies her brother. That’s Jacobean tragedy for you. Harriet Walter is, unsurprisingly, perfectly cast as Livia, the bored widow amusing herself by setting up younger women, getting herself a toyboy in the process, and ultimately gunning for revenge. Walter is good enough to do this sort of thing in her sleep; wide awake as she is throughout, the show can’t possibly go wrong. There are strong performances all round, and even the compulsory vulgar and idiotic Ward is funny – a revelation from Dudley Dursley’s Harry Melling.
The Real Thing, Tom Stoppard, The Old Vic. I know almost nothing about Stoppard (the only play of his I have previously seen being Rock and Roll), had read few reviews, and was essentially there to watch Toby Stephens. Fortunately even for those of us on caffeine tablets by this point, Stephens is a terrific stage actor, and I had no difficulty in keeping awake, though my brain ended up a bit confused by the end. Unlike some of the critics, I was not bowled over by Hattie Morahan’s performance as Annie: my companion and I were grateful to the Daily Mail’s theatre critic for subsequently informing us that the play was written when Stoppard was having an affair with Felicity Kendal, at which point the bouncy ponytail and supernatural perkiness fell into place. As a play, it seems to be largely about itself, though the reviews tell me it is also about the nature of reality, love, and so on. I still think it is largely about itself. But it was very entertaining, and anchored by an excellent performance from Toby Stephens who made Henry – the playwright main character – humanly arrogant, and a good evening.
The Habit of Art, Alan Bennett, National Theatre. Not as good as The History Boys, but entertaining and decidedly Bennett. It is a play within a play (my second in a row), the setting the rehearsals for a play about Auden and Britten. To be honest, I felt that I’d rather have had the play about Auden and Britten, or at least only the framing device of the rehearsal. I really didn’t think that the presence of the dramatist character, objecting to what the actors are doing to his play, as they object to what he is doing to their play, added a great deal. Rather, it added comedy, but the real strengths of the play lie in the people, in the ultimately moving encounter of the two men, and in the actors (characters) revealing themselves (thankfully, despite the jokes, not literally) as they assemble the drama. Alex Jennings (Britten) and Richard Griffiths (Auden) were both very good – I’d have liked to see more of them as their subjects. That said, it was funny, well put together, and only occasionally obvious (did we need the phrase “The Habit of Art” repeated three times?), and reminded me that I have read Humphrey Carpenter’s biographies of both men and should probably do so again. I think that perhaps what I wanted was something more confrontational. But it was a good evening, and I’ll look forward to seeing it again at some point – hopefully it will be adapted for the radio.
Women Beware Women, Thomas Middleton, National Theatre. It was during the final compulsory bloodbath that I felt the force of the reviews that had suggested that this play is rarely produced due to the difficulty of pulling of said bloodbath. I can certainly imagine that student productions probably end with audience members throwing themselves over the balcony to escape the grim horror of student drama tackling revenge tragedy. As it was, the National managed it magnificently, delivering a hypnotic masked ball in which one by one the protagonists fall. The plot of the play is fairly simple – everyone ends up corrupted, obsessed with sex and revenge, and even the sole-survivor, the Cardinal, survives by luck and not being around long enough to have more than one person want to murder him; even here there is the whisper that the elder brother dying is not a bad thing for the next heir. The general level of corruption can be gauged by the most wholesome relationship being an incestuous one between Hippolito, Livia’s brother, and his niece, again, set up by Livia because she herself fancies her brother. That’s Jacobean tragedy for you. Harriet Walter is, unsurprisingly, perfectly cast as Livia, the bored widow amusing herself by setting up younger women, getting herself a toyboy in the process, and ultimately gunning for revenge. Walter is good enough to do this sort of thing in her sleep; wide awake as she is throughout, the show can’t possibly go wrong. There are strong performances all round, and even the compulsory vulgar and idiotic Ward is funny – a revelation from Dudley Dursley’s Harry Melling.
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