Well, what’s really the whole toss about bloody poetry, anyway? Must it “sing” to us, as Shelley and his cavorting concubines insist, or is Wordsworth’s poetry nothing more than a “slap of cold fish in the face”? The place is Lake Geneva, the year is 1816, and Howard Brenton’s study recreates that famous, unbridled friendship between Lord Byron and Mr Shelley.  The play concerns itself with romanticism, and the pair and their (appropriately dubbed)  “ball girls” question the very nature of poetry, of dreams, of idealism and personal depravity. Welcome, Oxford, to the O’Reilly and to Romantics behaving badly; a play of playthings, free love, books and red wine. 

Caught in the thunderstorm of a “new experiment of living,” the four self-imposed exiles are revived by director James Fennemore in a production that does elaborate textual justice both to its unruly comedy, and to its poignant, tragic undercurrents.  Our two main men, Byron – played by Arty Bolour-Froushan – and “Bysshe” Shelley – by Tim Schneider – superbly reconstruct the tension between Byron’s apparent cynicism and the younger man’s passion for all things “feeling”.

“Shakespeare was a little shit”, Byron announces to the room, just a “bugger who wrote a great deal.” Bolour-Froushan swaggers the length of the stage, his gaudy presence demanding the full attention of his audience, as it does the drawing room’s occupants on stage. We cannot ignore Byron, and the audience is left with no doubt as to the sincerity of Lady Caroline’s diary; this is a man who really is “mad, bad and dangerous to know.”

And Schneider matches his fellow protagonist’s polished performance, highlighting the contrast in temperament between the two poets. Stony, cool and reserved at times, and at others, spirited and palpably the younger, erratic Shelley welcomes his hero into the literati. And the female members, fervent Claire Clairemont (Claudia King) and bright-eyed Mary Shelley (Amelia Sparling), are only too willing to oblige. The intimacy between the trio, and later between the quartet, is obvious from the very first glimpse we are given of the stage. The audience filter in to welcoming pastoral strings, Shelley and his women frolicking, lounging, relaxing, in an intimacy that cannot be faked.

Costumed to period dress by Holly Morse, and the stage bolstered only by dusty books, empty bottles and wooden trunks, Glaser’s design is stark and understating. The nautical white backdrop is styled to resemble a main sail, and is apt for a play that leaps across oceans in a matter of minutes. The flexible set design helps the audience to imagine this voyage without any distraction, the lighting acting as the main indicator for place and time. But as well as the simplistic set allowing for a functional scene change, the sail and recordings of waves and storms reminds us of something else. It reminds us of the tempestuous waters that surround any well-intended project, and that romanticism itself is never clean sailing; the apparition of Shelley’s dead wife is always lurking beneath the waters.

It would be hard not to enjoy Fennemore’s revival, and slight technical quibbles don’t detract from this enjoyment. The recordings had the tendency to drown out our protagonists’ voices, and Brenton’s script itself got ever-so-slightly confusing during the last act. But the direction and acting was commendable, the energy high and the action gripping. What’s the whole toss about Bloody Poetry, then? Well, it’s a bloody good piece of theatre, and decisively not like a slap of cold fish in the face.

 FOUR STARS

Attempting to portray the intensity of love and heartbreak through the medium of a musical is a very ambitious task. Add to that the complexity of a narrative that follows the life of one character in chronological order and the life of the other in reverse chronological order and you have the potential for theatrical disaster. Luckily, the talented directors avoided catastrophe to deliver a version of The Last Five Years worthy of praise.

Kezia Lock and Samuel Newhouse responded to the challenge of Jason Robert Brown’s musical with a moving depiction of the rise and fall of a modern relationship. Their skilfulness was matched by the excellent performances from Heather Young and Nick Barstow. The combination of superb directing and powerful acting resulted in a fascinating exploration of the frailty of love.

Barstow’s interpretation of Jamie Wellerstein was undoubtedly the most successful element of the play. It is no mean feat to render sympathetic a character that is shown to have caused such anguish to his former wife and Barstow was inspiring in his ability to create a realistic representation of an imperfect human. His portrayal of the narcissistic and over-ambitious Jamie was balanced by his enduring charisma and the agony exposed in the final scenes.

Equally commendable was Young’s performance. The difficulties involved in portraying a relationship from the breakdown to the first moments of infatuation were mostly masked by Young’s touching portrayal of a woman desperately clinging on to a love that is slowly, yet constantly, slipping away from her. Throughout the play Young maintained the focus on Cathy’s sacrifices, giving a strong indication of the causes of the relationship’s failure.

Whilst the acting was exceptional, the play was not wholly perfect. There were several moments at which the chronology became confusing. However, these problems were due to the lack of technical components, which will soon be added to the performance. The incorporation of projections of the key dates in the play should remedy this issue entirely.

The orchestra were incredible in their ability to simultaneously emphasise the joy experienced at the beginning of the relationship and the frustration felt by Jamie and Cathy during the breakdown. Again, there were occasional fumbles made by the orchestra but none so serious that they could not be prevented by further practice in the run up to the first performance.

Ultimately, I was amazed by the ability of the directors to successfully retain the poignancy of the play whilst staying true to the structure of the musical. The Last Five Years is a wonderful production that is well worth a view.

FOUR STARS

With its tales of lost love and the heart-rending death of a main character, it is fair to say that Puccini’s La bohème has its share of heartbreak. This production by the Welsh National Opera approached the opera from a tragicomic perspective, resulting in a heart-warming interpretation of this opera house staple.

First performed in 1896,  La bohème tells of the lives of a group of young bohemian artists who live in Paris. The opera focuses upon the relationship between the writer Rodolfo and his neighbour, Mimì. After a chance meeting on Christmas Eve, the two fall deeply in love. Fast-forward a few months, and the pair’s relationship is disintegrating: Rodolfo tells of his concern for Mimì, whose illness is getting worse. Although they separate in spring, a severely ill Mimì returns months later to die near Rodolfo. 

Annabel Arden’s production set the scene in Edwardian Paris, the palette of greys suited to the grimy conditions in which the friends live. Not only was the production an auditory treat, but a visual one too: the thin veil hanging at the front of the stage had snow flurries projected onto it, and powdered snow fell while Mimì told Marcello of her desperate situation. Mimì’s costumes and makeup were particularly effective, tracing her declining health to great effect.

Act 2 (set in the Latin Quarter) was brilliantly surreal, mixing drag and debauchery in a visual feast. The chorus movement in this act was immaculately managed, but the tricky musical junction at the appearance of Parpignol (the toy seller) saw the singing children fall out of sync with the orchestra. On top of this, the first scene change seemed slightly messy. However, these were very minor flaws, and conductor Simon Phillippo’s interpretation was welljudged overall.

Alex Vicens’ velvety-voiced Rodolfo was brilliantly cast, and his Act 1 aria ‘Che gelida manina!’ was the high point of the entire opera. He also proved himself to be more than capable in terms of acting: his utterly devoted Rodolfo made the opera’s conclusion even more  heartbreaking.    Giselle  Allen’s  Mimì,  although initially detached, came into her own in the fraught final two acts and Kate Valentine brilliantly fulfilled Musetta’s role as showstealer. She gave a commanding performance of ‘Quando me’n vo’’, and her presence in a scene seemed to push the cast to another level. Although the cast generally interacted well, it was David Kempster’s performance as a sympathetic Marcello which added cohesion to the group. 

The WNO Orchestra were impressive in their ability to capture the changes the mood, conjuring completely different sounds for the rowdy apartment scenes and the bleakness of Act 3.   Although the orchestral playing could have done with more dynamic variation in the first two Acts of the opera, they had clearly adjusted to the less-than-perfect acoustics of the New Theatre in Acts 3 and 4. Particularly notable were the string section, whose sweeping romantic sound captured perfectly the idealistic bliss of the lovers. At times, though, the orchestra could have gone even further in capturing the subtleties of the music: for example, the entrance of Benoit (who owns the garret that the friends live in) didn’t seem to take advantage of the satire embedded in the score.  

The evening watching this top-class production flew by. The singers did justice to the soaring melodies, while the orchestra brought off Puccini’s score with style. This interpretation was unashamedly sentimental, but was tastefully done and certainly tugged at the heartstrings in all the right places.  

Tom Stoppard’s name is all over Oxford. There’s simply no escaping it. OUDS finished their rendition of the kooky whodunit spoof only last Saturday, and here we are again, watching The Real Inspector Hound come alive as part of a Cuppers performance – and by Trinity Freshers, no less. Add Exeter’s stab at the same murder mystery to the mix, a murder conveniently scheduled for Thursday, and we’ve got a positive shrine to the guy behind the Hound.  And thankfully, Trinity paid him all the right respects. 

It’s always hard cutting and pasting bits of an original play to cater for a 30 minute production, but this adaption was succinct as well as funny – no mean feat for the pressed for time script editor. Walking into the crammed, slightly stuffy studio space, my attention was instantly drawn to the disheveled mannequin on the floor – the corpse – it would seem, and the impetus for theatre critics Moon and Birdboot to begin their dialogue. Rimmed eyed, overinflated Moon was cast perfectly, and the actor succeeded in tickling out roars of laughter from his (albeit Trinity dominated) audience. The exchanges between Birdboot and Moon confidently anchored the play-within-a-play conceit, and we watched as an outright groaner of an Agatha Christie knockoff unfolded on the makeshift stage before us.

Because the murder mystery was terrible, worse than terrible if we’re judging by Agatha’s high standards. But that’s what makes Stoppard’s production so brilliant, and Trinity’s realization of the play the enjoyable experience it was. Set in the fog-cloaked environ of Muldoon Manor, the play-within-a-play got rolling into action when the housekeeper, Mrs Drudge, discovered of an escaped madman on the loose. And although the actress had a tendency to ‘speak’ the lines rather than perform in character, I found this didn’t matter, and if anything, added to the hilarity of a piece intended to be bad. That’s not to say all the actors suffered from delving in and out of character at regular intervals. Indeed, ‘Cynthia Muldoon’ was a notable performance, the actress propelling the piece forwards with her high energy and tittering ‘posh gal’ performance.

So the radio may have broken half way, and some of the cast may have been stronger actors than others, but this didn’t detract from the overall effectiveness of this brief play. The faulty radio, if anything, was flawlessly integrated into the script and ‘Simon Gascoyne’ revealed his superb ability to adapt to unforeseen circumstances, with his ‘I appear to have found a newspaper,’ line. It was an entertaining romp that made my Tuesday evening so much more the brighter, and is a play I want to see more of, despite Oxford’s already inundated Stoppard fan club. 

When handed the program to Rough Justice, I sat down amongst a rather elderly audience in the Playhouse feeling skeptical about what was about to occur. Featuring a small but experienced cast, such as Tom Conti, a.k.a Miranda Hart’s dad, and David Michaels, a.k.a Jon Welch off Coronation Street, one might question how they would cope with Terrence Frisby’s gritty court drama of a well-loved television journalist (Conti) on trial for the murder of his severely brain-damaged son, Cabby. Highland admits to manslaughter but claims he suffocated the child on “impulse”. Throw in the fact that Highland chooses to be his own defense against a prolific and sharp-tongued lawyer (Liz Payne) and that he is merely covering up for his wife (Carol Starks…Holby City) who is the real killer, you’re looking at a script that is rich, textured, and darkly humorous.

In terms of performances, the real star of Rough Justice was prosecution lawyer Elizabeth Payne. She maintained a sharp delivery and revealed a number of levels to her character through her flirtatious interchanges with the judge and her seemingly genuine sympathy for Highwood. Conti’s performance as James Highwood was good but did not live up to expectations; his one-liners were badly-timed and although his nervous breakdown at the end of the first half was more convincing, the relationship between him and Carol Starks was detached and awkward to watch. The judge and the Highwood’s legal advisor (David Michaels) fulfilled the comedic action particularly well, Michael’s reactions to every legal faux pas made by Highland were impeccably timed and often drew a laugh from the audience.

The setting was impressive but unnecessary – although it was successful in transforming a large stage into what felt like more intimate court room, the scene changes from the courtroom to the cell-like back room were noisy and distracting. The nature of the setting limited movement throughout the performance; all bar prosecution lawyer Margaret Casely seemed incapable of movement once they were assigned their designated box or bench. Effective use is made of the upper balcony in the playhouse as a public gallery implement the feeling that the audience were a part of the jury. 

Overall, although the power of the script surpassed the quality of what simply was an unpolished performance, this play challenges who holds the power, the judge or the jury? Can common sense appeal in a court of law? A nice touch at the curtain was when the cast asked us to vote on whether we would have judged Highland as guilty or not guilty. Thought-provoking, impeccably constructed and not just for the law students. I recommend.

Let me call everyone’s attention to David Todd’s The Oxford Arts Stream. Here is a new, weekly arts festival which brings with it fresh air. It is fusion cuisine, stirring variously spiced drama, poetry, music and dance all together in one delectable show. And the latest instalment – its second – made for an appetising evening. Most performers proved very capable. Their strongest merit was intimacy. One felt bathed in warming lamplight, rather than bonfire blaze.

This worked especially well with the two feelingly sung settings of ‘Drop, drop, slow tears’. I hesitate, then, in urging the organisers of The Stream to add weight and muscle to their project: intimacy is a difficult virtue to transfer onto a grander scale. But I would like to, trusting they will manage. Like most fusion food, The Stream pleases, but falls short of being haute cuisine. The only solution is to establish a standard and tradition of its own. Give it an imposing name too, if needs be, like Gesamtkunstwerk. For this one requires a more lucid display of the show’s structure and dramatic purpose, to whet the blunt knife sharp.

There is also want of lengthier, more substantial pieces, to boast impressive feats outwards as well as cursive retreats inwards. Then The Stream may truly leave its mark on the Oxford arts scene. One last proposal, since I always try to be constructive: the venue ought perhaps to move away from College chapels, not least because the readings of Gillian Clarke and Wordsworth were perilously close to sounding more like lessons from the Gospel of St Matthew.