Friday, 14 May 2010
The Tudor Tarantino, BBC iPlayer
Dominic Awkwright charts the rise and fall of Thomas Middleton, with help from Gary Taylor and opinions from Professor Jonathan Bate, Professor Sir Brian Vickers, and actress Harriet Walter. Available here on BBC iPlayer until 12.02 pm on Tuesday the 18th of May. Well worth a listen.
Wednesday, 12 May 2010
Middleton: Renaissance Man, Gary Taylor, National Theatre, Monday 10th May
Gary Taylor is a bit of a rock star to me. He's largely responsible for the revival of Middleton's reputation, and shared responsibility with John Lavagnino for producing The Collected Works of Thomas Middleton, as fine a piece of scholarship as you are ever likely to stub your toe on. But, see, Middleton's cool. He's the Rolling Stones to Shakespeare's Beatles. So when Gary Taylor rocks up on stage, with his long hair and his black painted fingernails (on later inspection, actually a rather fetching metallic blue), it's looking like a good evening to me. Under the glittering chandeliers of the Felliniesque set for Women Beware Women, his lecture-lite (geared towards the London theatre crowd, and pretty accessible) concentrated on how Middleton writes women. Taylor points out that while some of Middleton's work is undoubtedly misogynist, in Women Beware Women the ladies always have more lines than their lovers, something otherwise unknown in Early Modern drama. They're not always nice to other women. They can like sex with men a lot or reject it utterly, buy sex for money or refuse to sell it. They're rarely idealised - I'm not sure Middleton ever idealised a single character. What's interesting is that the first revival of Women Beware Women was at the Arts Theatre, a private members club that could get round the censorship of the Lord Chamberlain's office. Thirty-nine year old widows who enjoy themselves with younger men of relatively lowly status apparently used to need a lot of censoring. Taylor is, as one would expect, a practiced and compelling speaker, particularly when in defence of Middleton's talents. And he's right. Middleton excelled in as many forms as Shakespeare - comedy and tragedy alike. The most popular play that ever played at what is now called 'Shakespeare's Globe' was actually one of Middleton's. I think they should rename it, personally...
Friday, 7 May 2010
The Duchess of Malfi, New Players Theatre, Tuesday 4th May
The Duchess of Malfi's getting a good airing at the moment, in Greenwich, here under the arches of Charing Cross, and later in the year with a collaborative operatic treatment from English National Opera and scary interactive theatrical groundbreakers Punchdrunk. Greenwich stuck to a predictable, if effective, fascist-lite setting, and I have absolutely no idea what dark madness to expect from Punchdrunk. Vaulting Ambition, at the New Players, went with...the circus. It could have worked - perhaps some kind of totalitarian ringmaster regime? But it doesn't stick, and a Cardinal is still a Cardinal, even if he's Cardinaling in spangly pants. Only a few of the performers are circus trained; they are mesmerising enough to completely detract at times from the action of the play, and talented enough to make the main actors' attempts at circus stylings seem woefully inadequate. The only real gift of the design is to James Sobol Kelly as Bosola, whose pancake make-up creeps across his face, becoming more and more skull-like as he piles up the body-count. He's a grisly Buster Keaton, a haunted outsider in this production, and it's a testament to the greatness of the writing that this interpretation works as well as any of the other, more macho portrayals I've seen. Just when I thought I couldn't find clowns any more frightening...
The design's a pity - there are some excellent performances, and the production could have stood up perfectly well without the big-top malarkey. The whole Malfi family seem creepily intimate, making Ferdinand's advances to the Duchess easier to reconcile, and our Cardinal, Andrew Piper is quite clearly after Alan Rickman's job. Alinka Wright's a very foxy Julia, who provides an excellent counterpoint to Tilly Middleton's Duchess, whose wooing of Antonio is charmingly tentative, for all her insistence. There are some nice touches in terms of costume design - Alex Humes' werewolf turn is greatly helped by leather and fur, and the lighting is innovative.
With circus arts enjoying a renaissance of their own at the moment, it does them a disservice to crowbar them into renaissance drama. If you want circus, get yourself over to the Roundhouse. Better yet, get thyself to Circus Space and learn how to do it yourself.
The design's a pity - there are some excellent performances, and the production could have stood up perfectly well without the big-top malarkey. The whole Malfi family seem creepily intimate, making Ferdinand's advances to the Duchess easier to reconcile, and our Cardinal, Andrew Piper is quite clearly after Alan Rickman's job. Alinka Wright's a very foxy Julia, who provides an excellent counterpoint to Tilly Middleton's Duchess, whose wooing of Antonio is charmingly tentative, for all her insistence. There are some nice touches in terms of costume design - Alex Humes' werewolf turn is greatly helped by leather and fur, and the lighting is innovative.
With circus arts enjoying a renaissance of their own at the moment, it does them a disservice to crowbar them into renaissance drama. If you want circus, get yourself over to the Roundhouse. Better yet, get thyself to Circus Space and learn how to do it yourself.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Tudor Gallery, The Queen's House, Greenwich, Monday 3rd May
The Queen's House in Greenwich sits on the site of the much older Palace of Placentia, birthplace of Henry VIII, holiday home of Elizabeth I (good distance from the plague) and subsequently the residence (although sometimes briefly) of all the Stuart queens of England. The best way to get there is to get the boat downriver from the Tower, because the Royal Naval College, which stands between the Queen's House and the Thames, is most imposing when seen from the water.
Most of the collection housed here relates to England's maritime history, but there are two tiny rooms devoted to portraits of the Tudor monarchs. There's the ubiquitous Holbein Henry VIII, of course, in between Henry VII (who always looks like a criminal to me - I wouldn't buy a used car from someone with that face) and Mary I and Philip II of Spain, who win the prize for most awkward looking couple ever. There's a marvellously gloomy painting for Francis Drake, 'Sic Magna Parvis' hovering over his head, which I like very much.
It seems appropriate, given the forthcoming election, to dwell briefly on the anonymous painting that hangs here, of the Somerset House Conference of August 1604. The Treaty of London was signed at the conference, bringing an end to nineteen years of war with the Spanish, whose delegation sit on the left of this picture, their English opposite numbers on the right, around a lushly carpeted table. I have studied this picture at length, and I can say with some certainty that not a single one of the politicians depicted looks as if he would apologise for calling you a bigot. At least two of them look like they'd have you quietly done away with first, and call you a bigot later. Call me old fashioned, but I miss that.
The highlight, for me, is Elizabeth I, British School, c. 1590, well into her fifties, and looking half of that. Elizabeth was one of the first English monarchs to exert such rigid control over her own image, and it's hard not to think, while gazing on her pale, perfect face, that we've not changed much. If she could have PhotoShopped herself, she would have - image is everything. It's not quite the same, of course - morally less dubious, perhaps. I'm not suggesting that spotty Tudor boys were sneaking crude woodcut equivalents of Nuts up to the hayloft to have one off the wrist over Her Majesty, and growing up all warped thinking that all the Tudor girls look like that, but... Well, maybe I am.
Most of the collection housed here relates to England's maritime history, but there are two tiny rooms devoted to portraits of the Tudor monarchs. There's the ubiquitous Holbein Henry VIII, of course, in between Henry VII (who always looks like a criminal to me - I wouldn't buy a used car from someone with that face) and Mary I and Philip II of Spain, who win the prize for most awkward looking couple ever. There's a marvellously gloomy painting for Francis Drake, 'Sic Magna Parvis' hovering over his head, which I like very much.
It seems appropriate, given the forthcoming election, to dwell briefly on the anonymous painting that hangs here, of the Somerset House Conference of August 1604. The Treaty of London was signed at the conference, bringing an end to nineteen years of war with the Spanish, whose delegation sit on the left of this picture, their English opposite numbers on the right, around a lushly carpeted table. I have studied this picture at length, and I can say with some certainty that not a single one of the politicians depicted looks as if he would apologise for calling you a bigot. At least two of them look like they'd have you quietly done away with first, and call you a bigot later. Call me old fashioned, but I miss that.
The highlight, for me, is Elizabeth I, British School, c. 1590, well into her fifties, and looking half of that. Elizabeth was one of the first English monarchs to exert such rigid control over her own image, and it's hard not to think, while gazing on her pale, perfect face, that we've not changed much. If she could have PhotoShopped herself, she would have - image is everything. It's not quite the same, of course - morally less dubious, perhaps. I'm not suggesting that spotty Tudor boys were sneaking crude woodcut equivalents of Nuts up to the hayloft to have one off the wrist over Her Majesty, and growing up all warped thinking that all the Tudor girls look like that, but... Well, maybe I am.
Monday, 12 April 2010
The Duchess of Malfi, March 27th and Volpone, April 10th at Greenwich Theatre
It's good to see Greenwich Theatre making a return to in-house production, since their past few years have been marred by a string of travelling flops. Their collaboration with the Stage on Screen company looks like a fruitful one, and choosing to stage classic works is sensible.
The Duchess of Malfi is here set in the inter-war years, starting with the 1918 Armistice, thus explaining the death of the Duchess' husband and creating a little background tension in the lead-up to the outbreak of a further war which turns the Cardinal into a mini-Mussolini and explodes family tensions into murder and madness. It's a decent production - there are some unfortunate stumblings over lines, and the pace would have been helped by some judicious cutting, but it's all very forgivable. Bosola's the real star turn here, although his diction is initially alarmingly mannered, the effect wears off, and Tim Treloar's performance is impeccable. It's a difficult part, but he brings a gritty sort of determination to the role, which works well. Tim Steed as the incestuous Ferdinand also deserves a mention for his oily, uncomfortable solicitousness of the eponymous Duchess. I can't really get away without mentioning her - Aislin McGuckin has a good stab at it, and has an appropriate wiry determination. She could tone down the hammy choking in the death throes, though - there are few things more guaranteed to curl an audience's toes.
The same cast for Volpone, with Richard Bremmer and Mark Hadfield duetting marvellously as Volpone and Mosca, with strong support from those cast members who had already distinguished themselves in The Duchess of Malfi. This play contains one of my favourite lines in English drama, from Lady Would-Be; 'I pray you sir, let me borrow your dwarf'. There was a severe lack of dwarf, and he was much missed. Incidentally, if anyone can explain to me what exactly it is that Jonson has against the Dutch, I'd be very grateful.
Despite the fact that by the end of Webster's work the stage is littered with bodies, I can't help but think Jonson's the nastier work, and his view of humanity the bleaker. Webster's characters kill and kill and kill, in the pursuit of money or revenge. There's a bloody sort of simplicity to his world, an internal logic. In Volpone (as in The Alchemist) Jonson's stupid, greedy simpletons queue up madly to be gulled and gulled again by sharper wits. Webster may seek to expose the darkness of the human soul, but Jonson finds the human body and its human needs grubby enough.
The Duchess of Malfi is here set in the inter-war years, starting with the 1918 Armistice, thus explaining the death of the Duchess' husband and creating a little background tension in the lead-up to the outbreak of a further war which turns the Cardinal into a mini-Mussolini and explodes family tensions into murder and madness. It's a decent production - there are some unfortunate stumblings over lines, and the pace would have been helped by some judicious cutting, but it's all very forgivable. Bosola's the real star turn here, although his diction is initially alarmingly mannered, the effect wears off, and Tim Treloar's performance is impeccable. It's a difficult part, but he brings a gritty sort of determination to the role, which works well. Tim Steed as the incestuous Ferdinand also deserves a mention for his oily, uncomfortable solicitousness of the eponymous Duchess. I can't really get away without mentioning her - Aislin McGuckin has a good stab at it, and has an appropriate wiry determination. She could tone down the hammy choking in the death throes, though - there are few things more guaranteed to curl an audience's toes.
The same cast for Volpone, with Richard Bremmer and Mark Hadfield duetting marvellously as Volpone and Mosca, with strong support from those cast members who had already distinguished themselves in The Duchess of Malfi. This play contains one of my favourite lines in English drama, from Lady Would-Be; 'I pray you sir, let me borrow your dwarf'. There was a severe lack of dwarf, and he was much missed. Incidentally, if anyone can explain to me what exactly it is that Jonson has against the Dutch, I'd be very grateful.
Despite the fact that by the end of Webster's work the stage is littered with bodies, I can't help but think Jonson's the nastier work, and his view of humanity the bleaker. Webster's characters kill and kill and kill, in the pursuit of money or revenge. There's a bloody sort of simplicity to his world, an internal logic. In Volpone (as in The Alchemist) Jonson's stupid, greedy simpletons queue up madly to be gulled and gulled again by sharper wits. Webster may seek to expose the darkness of the human soul, but Jonson finds the human body and its human needs grubby enough.
Monday, 22 March 2010
A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Rose, Kingston, Thursday 11th March 2010
Now, Judi Dench is, of course, a National Treasure (TM). The Rose, Kingston (not to be confused with the barely excavated original on Bankside) was always guaranteed selling every seat in the house on this basis alone, but this staging is much more than a mere vehicle for the lady's talents.
First of all, the Rose is a charming venue. A copy of the fourth of London's public theatres, built by Philip Henslowe on Bankside in 1587, its enclosing circular layout lends a certain intimacy to performances, far more appropriate to the works of the Bard than the standoffish proscenium arch theatres of the West End. The Kingston Rose is very bare bones - towering metal girders instead of the Globe's kitschy authentique wood and marble. It's a very workmanlike theatre, and what romance it offers is entirely up to the production.
This one's got it in spades. An opening masque provides a speaking show whereby a court of players are given permission to perform by the ever regal Dench as Elizabeth I, who then translates herself into Titania. This is very much a play about patronage, and what might have seemed a clumsy paralleling of the Queen of England with the Queen of the Fairies is legitimised by the text. Titania is always surrounded by her fairy players, who sing and dance on her command, while Oberon is quite solitary, but for his henchman Puck. Our rude mechanicals too (with their obligatory regional accents - it's Liverpool this time) shine on the night, clinging to the hope of sixpence a day for life from Theseus.
The frantic lovers are all I'd hoped - they were always going to be somewhat overshadowed by the greatness of the leading lady, but there is talent here. Lysander and Demetrius are rather insignificant, comically interchangable, as Helena and Hermia are not, but this is and always has been a play about women's desires. Annabel Scholey does a fine job in the slight role of Hermia, but Rachael Stirling brings real depth to her portrayal of Helena with a husky-voiced desperation that hints at real self-loathing.
But it was always going to be about Dench. And so it is. There's a ripple of indrawn breath when she first appears as Titania, and it's a lot to live up to. But how could she not? This woman *breathes* Shakespeare. She's occasionally been criticised (I name no names) as a haughty sort of performer, and one suspects a hint of self-parody in her first addresses to Oberon, in front of their audience of fairies. She's a commanding presence, but never an overpowering one, and Charles Edwards' Oberon stands up very well to her, bringing a certain petulance to the part. There's something about his Oberon that suggests a boy grown to manhood too fast, not quite in control of his emotions, but very much in love with his queen.
I have not yet read a review of this staging that didn't make mention of Dench's age. I do not know why. As someone rather more down-to-earth than myself pointed out to me, they're not human. They're fairies. And one of Shakespeare's favourite themes is that we're all (whatever age) fools for love.
Titania certainly is. Beautifully, stupidly, madly in love. Dench's performance demonstrates how love transforms us - she blossoms in the company of Bottom and his asses head (which was lovely - whatever charity deals with donkeys should have passed round a hat - they'd have been coining it) and it only makes the tragedy of her love worse. Everyone who's ever watched in dismay as their best friend giggled in infatuation at the dreadful jokes of the latest dreadful lover knows this feeling. And Judi Dench has a lovely giggle. As plot-devices go, 'and then she falls in love with the donkey' is pretty far-fetched, but that giggle clinches it. She's head-over-heels.
The verse speaking from the whole cast is impeccable. Peter Hall has long been noted for his respect for Shakespeare's lines, for leaving them be. There's no running on of lines over the long speeches, and rhymes are allowed the space they deserve. It pays off in that the whole play breathes - it isn't overworked, and there's no hint of actorliness even in the soliloquies. It lends new comedy to Puck (a delightfully clowning, loose-limbed Reece Ritchie), who got laughs for lines I've never heard an audience enjoy so much before.
I've seen A Midsummer Night's Dream more times than any other play. I've seen some absolute shockers, and I've seen some I thought were perfect. This was better. This one proves it. The play really is the thing.
First of all, the Rose is a charming venue. A copy of the fourth of London's public theatres, built by Philip Henslowe on Bankside in 1587, its enclosing circular layout lends a certain intimacy to performances, far more appropriate to the works of the Bard than the standoffish proscenium arch theatres of the West End. The Kingston Rose is very bare bones - towering metal girders instead of the Globe's kitschy authentique wood and marble. It's a very workmanlike theatre, and what romance it offers is entirely up to the production.
This one's got it in spades. An opening masque provides a speaking show whereby a court of players are given permission to perform by the ever regal Dench as Elizabeth I, who then translates herself into Titania. This is very much a play about patronage, and what might have seemed a clumsy paralleling of the Queen of England with the Queen of the Fairies is legitimised by the text. Titania is always surrounded by her fairy players, who sing and dance on her command, while Oberon is quite solitary, but for his henchman Puck. Our rude mechanicals too (with their obligatory regional accents - it's Liverpool this time) shine on the night, clinging to the hope of sixpence a day for life from Theseus.
The frantic lovers are all I'd hoped - they were always going to be somewhat overshadowed by the greatness of the leading lady, but there is talent here. Lysander and Demetrius are rather insignificant, comically interchangable, as Helena and Hermia are not, but this is and always has been a play about women's desires. Annabel Scholey does a fine job in the slight role of Hermia, but Rachael Stirling brings real depth to her portrayal of Helena with a husky-voiced desperation that hints at real self-loathing.
But it was always going to be about Dench. And so it is. There's a ripple of indrawn breath when she first appears as Titania, and it's a lot to live up to. But how could she not? This woman *breathes* Shakespeare. She's occasionally been criticised (I name no names) as a haughty sort of performer, and one suspects a hint of self-parody in her first addresses to Oberon, in front of their audience of fairies. She's a commanding presence, but never an overpowering one, and Charles Edwards' Oberon stands up very well to her, bringing a certain petulance to the part. There's something about his Oberon that suggests a boy grown to manhood too fast, not quite in control of his emotions, but very much in love with his queen.
I have not yet read a review of this staging that didn't make mention of Dench's age. I do not know why. As someone rather more down-to-earth than myself pointed out to me, they're not human. They're fairies. And one of Shakespeare's favourite themes is that we're all (whatever age) fools for love.
Titania certainly is. Beautifully, stupidly, madly in love. Dench's performance demonstrates how love transforms us - she blossoms in the company of Bottom and his asses head (which was lovely - whatever charity deals with donkeys should have passed round a hat - they'd have been coining it) and it only makes the tragedy of her love worse. Everyone who's ever watched in dismay as their best friend giggled in infatuation at the dreadful jokes of the latest dreadful lover knows this feeling. And Judi Dench has a lovely giggle. As plot-devices go, 'and then she falls in love with the donkey' is pretty far-fetched, but that giggle clinches it. She's head-over-heels.
The verse speaking from the whole cast is impeccable. Peter Hall has long been noted for his respect for Shakespeare's lines, for leaving them be. There's no running on of lines over the long speeches, and rhymes are allowed the space they deserve. It pays off in that the whole play breathes - it isn't overworked, and there's no hint of actorliness even in the soliloquies. It lends new comedy to Puck (a delightfully clowning, loose-limbed Reece Ritchie), who got laughs for lines I've never heard an audience enjoy so much before.
I've seen A Midsummer Night's Dream more times than any other play. I've seen some absolute shockers, and I've seen some I thought were perfect. This was better. This one proves it. The play really is the thing.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Fanfare please...
Alarums and Excursions is dead chuffed to announce that it has got its sticky fingers on a pair of tickets for (the completely sold out) A Midsummer Night's Dream, at the Rose Theatre, Kingston, starring the inestimable Judi Dench. Much excitement!
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