The Lincoln Players’ take on the classic musical modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet plays homage to the perfect blend of Bernstein’s music and Sondheim’s lyrics. The cosy Michael Pilch Studio seemed an unusual and challenging setting for a large cast production, a far cry from the West Side Story we imagine from the film. Only two boards stood on the black stage as the audience entered, adorned with the scrawl of the two gangs, a marking out of territory, and setting the atmosphere for a sparse production that used the intimacy of the venue and minimal props to allow the cast the space to move and dance with ease, and showing a high quality of direction from Laura Knight. The other challenge was squeezing a band into the studio as well as an audience, but the musical director, Joe Mason, did an excellent job of reworking the score to suit a small five piece band.

The leader of the Jets, Riff (Cameron Cook) gave an engaging performance, and was well supported by his lively gang of Jets. A particular highlight was the rendition of ‘Gee, Officer Krupke!’ which was performed with all the energy it deserves. From the opening prologue the antipathy between the Sharks and the Jets was clear, with some nicely directed hostile interplay. The dancing choreography was generally effective, especially as the show progressed, with the lively Mambo at the gym leading into the surreal but touching meeting between Tony and Maria. Henry De Berker made a charming Tony, giving an excellent vocal performance and hitting a highly impressive note in ‘Maria’, while Ellie Parkes gave an enchanting performance that climaxed with an intense, heartbreaking final speech, which undoubtedly caused some welling up from the audience at the least. Mitch Byrne’s Bernardo was suitably tense, with an impressive accent, the chemistry between him and the excellent Anita (Daisy Fannin) another highlight of the show. The rest of the cast were all impressive, including the few but menacing Sharks, Doc (Patrick Reid), Shrank (Howard McDonald), and the Shark Girls whose ‘America’ and ‘I Feel Pretty’ were suitably lively and fun. 

For a show that clearly had a limited budget, a very limited space, and had been put together in just five weeks, West Side Story didn’t attempt to do anything spectacular or be anything bigger than it could, but in doing so it became an enjoyable and intense production which I wish I could see again.

Impresario, dilettante and businessman; while Sergei Diaghilev (1872 – 1929) rather defies a single label, he remains best known as the founder of the hugely influential dance company, The Ballets Russes. Embracing all things modern and avant-garde, Diaghilev aspired to create new ballets instead of repeating classical favourites through the synthesis of dance, music and art. As a melting pot of artists, musicians and dancers who lived, performed and travelled together (touring Europe, the United States and South America) the company cultivated an international reputation that attracted stellar collaborations with the likes of Jean Cocteau, Igor Stravinsky, Coco Chanel, Pablo Picasso, Natalia Goncharova, Vaslav Nijinsky and Henri Matisse.

It is perhaps no wonder that the V&A launched the centenary celebrations of the company’s first London tour with a sumptuous, interdisciplinary exhibition, ‘Diaghilev and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes 1909-1929’, that ran from September 2010 to January 2011. Diaghilev-fever seeped into the glossy pages of October Vogue with the ‘Russian Dolls’ feature, demonstrating the company’s enduring influence on women’s fashion by introducing an exotic individualism with harem pants, turbans and dramatic black kohl, encouraging a more androgynous sensuality in fashion.

In its contribution to the celebrations in April, The London Coliseum offered the Maris Leipa Charitable Foundation’s ‘Les Saisons Russes XXI’ performed by the Kremlin Ballet Theatre and St Petersburg State Academic Symphony Orchestra under Alexander Titov. Seven reconstructed and newly produced ballets were presented over three nights, opening with ‘The Blue God’, a short, one-act ballet set in an ancient Indian shrine. The original 1912 production was a combination of Mikhail Fokine’s choreography with music by Reynaldo Hahn, a libretto by Jean Cocteau and designs by Léon Bakst; yet the details of its initial performances in Paris have been lost, with only photographs, designs and the musical score remaining. Since the ballet was never hugely popular in its time, Andris Liepa seized this opportunity not to revive, but to recreate the ballet for ‘Les Saisons Russes XXI’, setting the libretto to an alternative score and employing artistic director of the English National Ballet, Wayne Eagling, to choreograph the piece. The choice of ‘The Divine Poem’ and ‘The Ecstatic Poem’ by Russian composer, Alexander Scriabin was apt since the works were intended for performance in India with the idea of movement and lighting appealing to Scriabin’s aesthetic; whether it lent itself to the libretto and Eagling’s more modern style of movement was another matter since the contemporary choreography appeared more athletic than balletic. The exquisite and sensual pas de deux between the Blue God (Nikolai Tsiskaridze) and Goddess of Lotus (Ilze Liepa) almost redeemed the repetitive movements which characterised much of the performance.

The recreation of Bakst’s costume and set designs is best summarised in the words of my theatre companion: ‘nuts’. Whilst the costumes were identifiably Bakstian with their gaudy colours and strangely convincing Indian-meets-Russian-folk aspect, the giant snake projecting laser beams seemed, if not inauthentic, a little kitsch. ‘The Blue God’ was followed by a rendition of more eminent ‘Firebird’ which in contrast, was composed and choreographed simultaneously as Stravinsky and Fokine collaborated closely from its inception, resulting in an uniquely embodied performance. Whilst this integration of music and movement made for a much more satisfying second half, there was still something compelling about the unapologetic bizarreness and audacity of the former.

The events of the last eight months have brought this enigmatic dance company back to the fore, demonstrating its relevance through its legacy. Though celebrations are coming to a close, The National Portrait Gallery is showing the evocative ‘Ballet In Focus’ exhibition, featuring the photography of Bassano Ltd., Hoppé and Bert that captures the leading ballet stars of the twentieth century. It is worth even a short visit as you’ll still leave mildly infected by Diaghilev-fever.

This is an intriguing production in many ways. Heavily cut down and reconceptualised, Corpus Christi Owlet’s production of Othello sidesteps the question of race and instead concentrates on ‘the enemy within’; hence why it has been translated to a Cold War (German?) state and takes the appearance of a murder inquiry into the death of Desdemona. It’s a nice idea, although without the set it’s hard to get a feel of the aesthetic that I hope such an interpretation will conjure up. Particularly notable however is that Iago dictatates his speeches to a female typewriter sitting at a desk on the side of the stage whom he often interacts with. I am not sure whether it quite works or not, I didn’t get to see enough of the play to find out how it all ties together, and whether it is just a one trick pony used in the scene I saw, and then forgotten about for the rest of the play. It’s either genius or completely unnecessary. Time will tell.

Nevertheless, the cast is good, especially Sophie Ablett who plays Desdemona and Amelia Sparling as Emilia, who demonstrate a strong command of the script and of on stage chemistry, giving thoroughly enjoyable, moving and charming performances. Alexander Stutt as Iago also gives a menacingly wily twist to the famous role, which successfully becomes increasingly aggressive and haunting as the play reaches its climax. The same however can not be said for Othello himself, played by Moritz Borrmann. He can at times be electrifying, especially in scenes with Desdemona. In others, particularly those moments where he descends into madness, his characterisation becomes all too shouty, giving his audience little more than a shallow and unimaginative performance. The direction probably doesn’t help; there is a lot of walking around in circles, people squeezing past each other and crowds standing in lines. Borrman however, needs to show more purpose on stage and make us believe that Othello really is a commanding military figure. To really succeed he needs to entice his audience through a more carefully nuanced portrayal. Hopefully this will come with an extra weeks practice. 

3 stars

Lars Sorken, director Ed Bell solemnly informed me at the beginning of this press preview, is a Norwegian theatre academic who uses his theatrical nous to solve mysteries. A dead body lies sprawled across the stage as I enter, and the director debates with his cast whether or not they ought to use the “sex harness” in the preview.  I confess, I saw about twenty minutes of the play, and despite having the basic plotline explained, I spent many of those minutes rather bewildered, which really, is only right and apt: the play markets itself as a classic Noir piece, “searching for a truth when there may not be any”. The writer was clearly heavily inspired by the filmic genre, and several classic Noir elements have been retained, from the accompanying music to the use of several stock characters that wouldn’t be out of place on the silver screen.

The actors were generally well cast, and though the production occasionally strayed into the realms of the unpolished, I am sure the majority of small qualms I had will be resolved by opening night. Dan Draper as Lars Sorken was a delight, and exhibited a real commitment to his characterization. Watching Lars swan about the stage winding up the rest of the cast, in a most cutting, disparaging manner was enjoyable, and even his mumbled asides in Norwegian, which had the potential to be rather cringe inducing, were nicely pulled off.  Chemistry was good with seductress Sofie Heller (Carolin Kreuzer), the perfect noir leading lady. Antti Lane’s Andrew Guardian also did a good job, and with his conniving and snarling demeanor, was among the most enjoyable of the cast to watch.

While most of the excerpt that I witnessed, corpse aside, was rather light hearted, I am informed that the play will get darker, which I hope will mean more of the excellent black humor that I witnessed at the preview. The monochrome set and costumes, with the occasional flash of colour, as well as the continued rehearsal of what is already a very slick, impressive piece of theatre will no doubt ensure that Lars Sorken: A Norwegian Noir is something rather special. I guarantee at least that it will be very different to anything else you see at Oxford, which is surely reason enough sit back and enjoy this striking, rather strange play.

Before discussing this production of The Truth, I must make a confession.  I am a massive, unrepentant, card-carrying Terry Pratchett fan; I therefore approached St. Hilda’s Dramatic Society’s production of Stephen Briggs’ stage adaptation with certain expectations.  This goes some way towards explaining me alternating between gleeful, childish excitement as some characters materialised on stage exactly as I had always imagined, and confused disappointment as some did not.  Unfortunately, my reaction was mostly the latter.

This isn’t just because, like every fan, I have my own idea of how the story should appear.  Watching the production, I got the overwhelming impression of a good pool of talent spread too thin.  Really bringing Pratchett’s story to life requires incredibly strong characterization, something the cast just can’t pull off for every role.  The dearth of male actors shows particularly strongly; despite a heroic effort on the parts Rowena Francis and Victoria White, they never quite convince in parts that simply don’t fit.  A few of the performances, however, are truly exceptional: director Dominic Hall doubling as Commander Vimes is excellent, as is Rosalind Gealy as the wonderfully prim Sacharissa Crisplock, although James Phillips as a perfectly executed zombie lawyer Mr Slant stands head and shoulders above them all.  Many others, however, just fall flat as performances.  When the core cast is offstage, the play simply begins to drag.

Part of this is down to the script itself; Pratchett’s work doesn’t translate brilliantly to stage, and at nigh-on three hours it requires a continuous level of energy not everyone involved can achieve.  It’s made worse by the director’s failure to really address the difficulties of the script; the staging is thoroughly unoriginal, and the total lack of set (apart from the toastie machine standing in as a printing press) doesn’t help. With no real sense of dynamism or atmosphere, the more lacklustre scenes really have nothing to fall back on.

Ultimately, the whole production comes across as distinctly amateurish, though in the best possible sense of the word.  Lighting cues are missed, props are lost, but the cast holds character, rectifies the problem, and the audience laughs along with them.  Enthusiasm and a friendly crowd can only go so far though; for every laugh and every golden scene, there is a corresponding period of dull, tedious exposition.  You can almost feel the cast rushing through these scenes, so they can get to the comedy, to the bits they really enjoy.

This is quite obviously not a recipe for a professional standard of theatre.  But St. Hilda’s Drama Society almost succeeded without really trying – with all its flaws and unfinished feel,   The Truth is just about watchable, and frequently enjoyable.  It survives only on the strength being based on the work of Terry Pratchett: but if you are a Discworld fan, come with an open mind, and not too many high expectations.  If you’re not, just try to enjoy the jokes.

 3 stars

Mephisto is a play about plays, about the boundaries between art and life; about where one ends and the other begins. How can one be “just an actor” when the world outside the theatre is in political turmoil? How can one be “just an actor” in 1930s Berlin? Mephisto interrogates these questions through its depiction of The Peppermill theatre, a radical Bolshevik theatre troupe set up in 1929 with the aim of promoting Communism through the medium of theatre, depicting their rise to prominence and fall from greatness as the Nazis gain power. In this theatre, we find the play’s Faust, the young actor Hendrik Hofgen, who sells his artistic integrity for fame and fortune under the Nazi regime through his performance of Goethe’s Mephistopheles.

Not only is this play intensely concerned with the question of the meaning of art, but in its own status as a work of art. Whilst the rehearsal was in a room in Hertford, the production  team promise to turn the Playhouse’s stage into the backstage of The Peppermill’s own theatre, complete with exposed rigging, cable drums and clutter. Indeed, the play begins with the cast bowing, not to the audience for whom they will perform, to the audience for whom they have just performed, with the cast facing away from the Playhouse audience to bow to the Hamburg Theatre’s spectators. 

The first scene that we were shown, a snapshot of the Peppermill’s cabaret, a ‘rehearsal’ of a satire of Weimar bureaucracy, set in an office for social security,  was pure Brecht. Histrionic dialogue being bellowed out, waving limbs and human furniture all created a sense of dislocation that was only heightened when the skit finished and the cast turn to discussing their next scene in an entirely naturalistic fashion, before rapidly shifting between these two modes in order to explain hyperinflation to a confused cast member. Mephisto seems to be a highly strung balancing act, gaining its dramatic power through the contrast of these two modes. Another scene, set on a railway bridge, a powerful piece of dialogue about the victims of the Nazi regime was delivered by Georgia Waters without any such conceit: rather, it gained its power through her straightforward, forthright delivery of the lines.

The play’s concerns with theatricality are enmeshed not only in the script of the play, but in its production. As well as acting out scenes from the play, we were treated to an insight into the ‘mind’ of the production in the form of a rehearsal of a scene. Rather than simply acting through the scene, each actor was given a prompt, a command to fulfil. For example, Nick Howard-Brown had to play his character, Hendrik Hofgen, as though he was desperate for the toilet; Gottchalk, played by Joseph Allan, had to act stone deaf. This conceit is not just confined to the rehearsal space, but will be a part of every performance of Mephisto. Every night, each actor will be given a different prompt, and so no two performances will be the same. Each performance will reveal a different subtext, a different aspect of what is shaping up to be a fascinating production.

Four stars