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