4 stars

As has been noted in several esteemed publications, Oxford is not exactly lacking in Pinter this Spring.  Pinter himself said that ‘If you have only one of something you can’t say it’s the best of anything,’ and while it is not for me to say whether this production will be the best of the Pinters on display in the next eight weeks; it should certainly be in the running.

Celebration, Pinter’s last play, is a social satire that viciously exposes the vacuity of its ill-spoken, middle class characters.  The three couples we watch at dinner are served by three increasingly sinister members of restaurant staff, and the overriding atmosphere of the play is one of barely contained, animalistic anger.  Special mention must go to Eleanor Wade as Suki, for the slow, smiling rage she maintained throughout.  

The tension onstage did not reduce the humour of Pinter’s script, however, and the production was a very funny one. Some sections of the play did, perhaps, favour punchlines over pacing, and the quickfire dialogue could perhaps have been broken up a little more. However, comic timing was, on the whole, strong, with Paciti and Carslaw as the waiter and hostess adding an air of absurdism through their inappropriate anecdotes. The role of the Waiter, a character who ends the play and plagues the diners throughout with stories about his grandfather, is a difficult one, but Paciti with his restrained delivery achieved a convincing air of ambiguity.

Staged in the little-known Michael Pilch studio, this was a polished, elegant take on Pinter’s last work. Yes, The Hothouse will no doubt be more extravagant, but Celebration focussed on the heart of Pinter’s work: his difficult, morally complex characters.  Here, we have only six people eating dinner, yet it is a testament to Pinter’s genius and to these actors that each character becomes so well delineated by the meal’s end.  

Celebration runs until  Saturday 28^th of January, 7:15pm at the Michael Pilch Studio, Jowett Walk 

Watching anything in the sold-out downstairs section of the O2 is a little bit like spending an evening at a swamp gig. This is partly due to the incredibly low ceilings; partly due to the viscous combination of sweat and saliva that clings to the walls and aforementioned ceilings; and partly thanks to the atmospheric haze that rises from a close mass of overheating bodies. (This could probably all be remedied by turning on the fans a little bit earlier.) M83’s particular band of stadium shoegaze pop misses out a bit when they lose out on the whole ‘stadium’ thing: the sounds are just too big and too full for a space with all of the charm – and space – of a nuclear bunker.

Whiny preamble aside, Tuesday’s gig had much to recommend it. Despite a lengthy technical hitch, the band did some really great things with the space, helped by an army of six MacBook Pros to the left of the stage. The lighting, for example, was some of the more interesting I’ve seen at the venue (a mysterious set of illuminated Stars of Davids clustered at the top made much more sense when I remembered that M83 is actually a spiral galaxy). The performance itself was really quite inspired, and characterized by long – but extremely skilful – instrumental sections, most memorable of which was a clever bit of strumming pizzicato overplaying whistling. Somehow, the group managed to hone in on precisely the right frequency to make all of the hairs in my nostrils (sorry, boys) start to vibrate.

One thing that really could not be faulted in the evening’s performance was their sheer dedication and enthusiasm. They lack the personableness, perhaps, of groups more comfortable with a setting as intimate, but made up for it with lots of cries and whoops of ‘Oxford!’. (Gonzalez’ French accent is much more notable in person.) Actual singing was unremarkable, at least in comparison to the instrumentals, but certainly not bad at all. Overall: a great group, with a great set, in entirely the wrong setting. A jolly good job, though, considering.

Perhaps it isn’t an easy thing to concoct a play that establishes, portrays and executes a culture of emerging feminism, draped with other leading ladies who have their own reasons for being proud of what they have done and ending with chilling sacrifice.  But the director, Max Stafford-Clark who directed both the premiere and this revival, has succeeded in reminding us why this play is a theatre classic.    

On entering, the eye was initially drawn to a fine looking dining table with the words ‘La Prima Donna’ shining out at the top – a herald of what we are about to experience.  What I enjoyed so much about the staging in general was its vibrancy and the efficacy with which it was produced.  Physical nuance was ever present. 

I was reminded, on more than one occasion, of ITV’s Loose Women, each with their constant babbling and seemingly inherent inability to listen to each other, ending in what might be described as a female equivalent of last term’s POSH.  These women are confident, loyal, clever, but not everyone was strong, which was highlighted by Marlene, perhaps typifying what woman had become by 1982. We imagine, therefore, that she is perfect by virtue of the fact that she is not like other women.  But as the play goes on, this pillar of a woman, Churchill appears to be trying to destroy before the very eyes of the audience.  And what is fascinating about it is that it is never quite clear if she succeeds or not. 

For the most part the acting, costumes and timing were good, but it took some time for them to warm up; in the first act, faces weren’t quite expressive enough and in the other two acts, accents (with one shining exception)  wobble a little bit.  The actors hold themselves well on stage, each personifying a different female nature with varied and distinguished features.  The changes that these women (or actors) have to go through is challenging, yet none shirked from giving it her all.

And now a trivial, yet curious thing – there are two intervals, which produced some confusion for some who left the theatre without realising the lack of applause.  Unless, of course, I’ve got it entirely wrong and a relatively high percentage people left due to offensive behaviour (of which there is almost none), parking tickets (but it was after 6pm) or boredom (I’ve never spent two and a bit hours so grossly absorbed).  So be warned.    

The content of the play really made me think – I found myself rooting for Marlene in adversity and, almost, weeping for any in grief.  Yet, despite an insistence on still being relevant today, I don’t think that’s quite true; Churchill captures a unique moment in history, an extraordinary zeitgeist, but one that seems almost comically dated today.  But I think that nonetheless ‘at what cost’ should be the question asked by everyone considering it.    

4 stars

Be warned. When you go to see Stephen Fry’s Latin! Or tobacco and Boys you’ll find yourself back in school. Chartham Prepatory School for boys, to be precise. Fierce insults when you do not know your Latin declensions abound, though the promise of Chelsea buns in the interview is certainly compensation enough. Fry’s darkly comic tale centers on the highly inappropriate longing of one Dominic Clarke (Barnabas Iley-Williamson) for the blonde, blue eyed Cartwright (never seen). His efforts to take over the school, seduce young Cartwright and secure his young charges a place at Ampleforth are constantly undermined by the wonderfully creepy Herbert Brookshaw (Louis Fletcher), his jaded, equally perverse colleague.

In a production with only two actors, the strengths and weaknesses of both quickly become apparent. Both performed admirably; Iley-Williamson, despite his rather abhorrent tendencies (an avenue never, and I think, rightly, fully explored), was superb at evoking the audience’s sympathy. Fletcher was equally able at doing the reverse, teasing out his rather cringe inducing lines in a way that was uncomfortably convincing. The occasional slip or line fluff can be forgiven in the wake of such impressive direction from Fiamma Mazzochi-Alemanni, though Fletchers slight tendency to drop off at the end of his lines let down what was an almost seamless performance on his part.

The set greatly contributes to the school feel that this play creates. Being invited to sit on the benches on stage, the audience becomes part of the show; in the end I was rather glad I declined to sit on one of the benches for fear for being clipped by an exercise book tossed nonchalantly by Iley-Williamson, or rapped by the cane brandished with blustery conviction by Fletcher. It was a shame that the production had been unable to source convincing prep school furniture – the desk and chair were unmistakably at odds with the classroom aesthetic Mazzochi-Alemanni clearly sought to evoke – but again, these are small qualms, and ought not to put anyone off. Latin! is a funny play, rarely performed, and this production has done the piece justice. That is reason enough to head down to the Burton Taylor and enjoy some great acting and serious seventies nostalgia.                            

4 STARS

Spamalot is fantastic. Really, really, fantastic. In my opinion, that’s all that needs to be said, but I don’t think that would go down too well with the editors. This Tony Award-winning musical is feisty, riotous, and completely flipping mental. If you’ve got an unsated desire to see a catapulted cow, rude Frenchmen, and dancing, fish-toting Fins, then this is the musical for you. If you’re a boring, lifeless misery with no zeal for the wondrously eclectic pleasures of life, give it a miss. And get some help.

The scheduling of the show feels particularly appropriate. Just as the last remnants of the pantomime season can be seen gentle fluttering away in the post-epiphany wind, Spamalot lands with a satisfying ‘thunk’ in its place. It really does have an awful lot in common with its festive counterpart. The set is a brightly coloured affair, resembling a cardboard cut-out that has been slotted together in a child’s playroom. The horses of Arthur and his retinue are enacted by men with coconut shells. There’s even a little audience interaction. Yet Spamalot is oh so much more than pantomime. The humour, as any Python connoisseur will tell you, is at once delightfully silly and juvenile, yet at the same time masterfully clever and surreal. The attention to detail is remarkably deft; milk bottles, for example, have been surreptitiously placed outside the door to Camelot Castle, playing no ostensible part in the play. They’re just there for fun.

Fans of Monty Python will have already noticed from just the few things I have mentioned how much this production lifts from the original films and television series. Spamalot is billed as ‘A new musical lovingly ripped off from Monty Python and the Holy Grail’. They’re not lying. Huge chunks of the script and plot of the 1974 film have been written straight into the play. This is fine by me. It’s a pleasure to see live on stage some of the most memorable routines in film history: Dennis the Constitutional Peasant; the relentlessly committed Black Knight; the killer rabbit that guards the Holy Grail. But, on stage, there is freedom for experiment. Python’s favourite musical number, ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ appears, but with the added delight of background dancing from one of the giant Knights Who Say “Ni”. The excitement from the audience as Eric Idle’s projected face delivers God’s message is testament to the respect that the Pythons still inspire.

For all its channelling of the pre-established grail canon, Terry Jones, co-director of the original film and initial sceptic of the enterprise said, ‘I think the best parts of the musical are the new things.’ One of Spamalot’s strengths is its superb ability to make fun of the conventions of musical theatre. The production grasps the tail of the fish of parody firmly in both hands, and proceeds to repeatedly beat you around the face with it. ‘The Song That Goes Like This’ and ‘Diva’s Lament’ both give a hearty ribbing to the maudlin overblown ballads of Lloyd Webber and Co. The initial Broadway run’s ‘You Won’t Succeed on Broadway if You Don’t Have Any Jews’ has been replaced with ‘You Won’t Succeed in Oxford if You Don’t Have Any Stars’. This gives a delightful nod to the shameless audience-grabbing casting of Marcus Brigstocke as King Arthur. Spamalot is a show that knows exactly what it’s doing, and doesn’t take itself too seriously.

For that reason, it’s not getting five stars. It wouldn’t want five stars. But please, please, go along to the New Theatre this week. It’ll make you happy to be alive.

4 stars

Baz Luhrman’s Romeo and Juliet came immediately to mind with the guitar-strummed opening. Feste (Orowa Sikder), the clown, and Radiohead, share roles as purveyor of unrequited love. Duke Orsino (Matt Ball) is the victim of one-sided desire in Shakespeare’s comedy, and in this O’Reilly production is played rather effeminately nicely reinforcing the ambiguity of gender and identity central to the plot.

Music is certainly the food of love and audience members will be forgiven for shouting “play on” for the Johnny Flynn style interludes which are integral to the triumph of the play. Nevertheless reducing the experience to a great gig would be unrepresentative of Declan Clowry’s creation in which physicality and movement is delighted in.  A dramatic lunge at Olivia in Malvolio’s passion is synchronised with the well known “thrust” of the climax to “some are born great, some achieve greatness….” while the Renaissance concept of the characters as Victims of Fortune is brought across in the whirling and turning of the choreography. (Even Orsino has recourse to the terrestrial domain with a steadying of his unstable situation by leaning on the bar.)

With the staging the directors have kept the influence of medieval culture on Shakespeare’s work; a split stage of two mansions representing the different realms of Orsino and Olivia while the platea is a shared space. The two worlds are most noticeably bridged by the Clown whose blues-emitting guitar penetrates both ruling spheres. The sartorial choices reflect the prohibition era Illyria with a sensational trench coat catching my eye.

Maria’s (Alice Fraser) Little Black Dress makes this “good wench” a very sexy waiting-woman to counterpart the equally sultry Olivia (Imogen O’Sullivan). In a play where gender is obfuscated and disguise is adopted, these two women stand out as clear bastions of femininity and Renaissance girl power.  Viola (Kate O’Connor) is brilliant at fixing the irony of her situation and dons her mask convincingly to entrench Cesario in the camp of “we men.”

The duality of the play is built into the set and played out in the myriad combinations of character pairs. The element of twice was even extended to the number of improvisations appearing in the preview, with musician acting messenger; “err, there’s a man at the gate” and Sir Toby Belch (David Cochrane) attempting to commence a quite different scene to the rest of the cast.

This chaos only added to the jocular nature of the play in keeping with the Christmas festival of Twelth Night –a characteristically riotous season. The two drunkards enforced this joviality with some side-splitting dancing and stumbling. Whether chaos comes from order of order from chaos the ordered chaos or chaotic order of the production makes the play a success.

4 stars