Picture this. The Whingers at the Young Vic, seated between two fat ladies (88), forcing them to squeeze their legs (11) tightly together before getting their eyes down for Bingo.

Partick Stewart stars; what else could it be but a full house?

Edward Bond‘s play (full title Bingo: Scenes of Death and Money) comes to us from the Chichester Festival Theatre which is currently enjoying as many transfers as a restless footballer. Though sadly, for us, the play turns out to have nothing to do with the game of chance so beloved of working class women of popular imagination and Victoria Wood sketches. Would that it had been.

Mr Stewart plays an ageing Shakespeare (although on the evidence of Act 1 it could be anyone) who has signed a contract to protect his rented land on condition that he won’t interfere with land enclosures which will shaft the local peasants.

And if the opening scene where a seemingly defeated Shakespeare is in a state (28) as he struggles with his conscience over this decision sounds dull to you, believe us it is. Listening to someone describe a delayed journey into work stuck on the Brighton line (59) would surely prove more electrifying.

To perk this tedium up and to add dramatic tension an old man clips a hedge affecting an accent and look which put Andrew in mind of Bayleaf the gardener from The Herbs before getting up to tricks (46) with a dirty Gertie (30) behind this neatly clipped bush. The peasants are getting shafted all over the place.

It’s all so dreary that the Whingers were grasping at straws to get them through to the interval. They admired the bark strewn on the YV’s stage pitying the stagehands who have to clean the floor (54) the use of a garden gate (8) on the steps (39) of one of the aisles, were astonished when Shakespeare revealed that his property didn’t have a thatch and perked considerably when Stewart called out “House!” thinking the play was going to spin on it’s head and suddenly live up to the title.*

The one saving grace (68) (SPOILER ALERT) was the body of the beggar woman who has been executed for arson and having droopy drawers (44) positioned on a gibbet high above the back of the stage in scene 3 (cup of tea). So convincing is the dummy, we assumed it was the actress exercising an extraordinary feat of breath control. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else and was a most welcome distraction from the humourless plodding of the play.

So what do we conclude from what we saw of Bingo? That Mr Bond is a bit PC (49) and is airing his strop that Shakespeare was a bit of a shit, more interested in number one (Kelly’s eye) and his old age pension (65) than the welfare of others despite being widely considered a keen chronicler of the human condition? Impossible to care.

And anyway, we have no way of knowing: the Whingers were asked to leave their front row seats at the interval (“for the set change”) and despite being halfway there (45) took no persuading to get up and run (31). The clickety click (66) of their heels could be heard on The Cut as they hoofed it back to their respective housey-houseys.

We were certainly not alone. It may have been a full house for Act 1, but we could only feel that for those who stayed  it would be unlucky for some (13).

Footnote

* Well, not entirely unrelated to the game apparently. If you’re wondering about the title (we were) Bond once explained the title in an interview, “Art has very practical consequences. Most ‘cultural appreciation’ ignores this and is no more relevant than a game of ‘Bingo’ and less honest.” Indeed.

Rating

60 years on the throne. Andrew is laying odds that the Queen will still be around to get that telegram off to Phil should he hang on a few more years. But what does the Jubilee really mean to the Whingers?

Royal cupcakes? Cliff, Elton and Shirley on a traffic island in the Mall? Huge anticipation that Princess Beatrice might turn up in a new hat? The Whingers’ preferred Jubilee line is that it’s an excuse (should we need one) for a few tinctures.

But before we unravel our bunting there is a coronation to celebrate. King Michael (Grandage) has abdicated after his ten-year reign – topically eschewing male primogeniture – leaving theatrically-minded eyes agog to see how comfortably the jewel-laden Donmar crown balances on the head on his successor Queen Josie (O’Rourke).

Prince Harry has taken his grandmother’s 5p and kicked off the Jubilee revels in the Falklands. Let us hope he wasn’t coerced like the soldiers bamboozled into taking the king’s shilling in Josie Rourke’s inaugural Donmar production The Recruiting Officer.

There was some debate before and after the show as to what is (and what isn’t) Restoration comedy. Some desultory research revealed George Farquhar‘s 1706 comedy sneaked in before the end of the period, which cleared things up for the Whingers, whose previous understanding of Restoration comedy assumed it referred to Joan Rivers’ latest facial surgery.

Sadly Restoration is all about overly complicated plotting, in this case men in love with women of position and fortune, people posing as each other, cross-dressing and in Shrewsbury no less. We got the idea, it’s Shakespeare but with some laughs. Very convoluted and confusing. We barely kept up.

But we have our excuses. Designers Lucy Osborne and James Farncombe (lighting) have opted for a set that gives no real sense of location and involves a lot of candles; hundreds of them (Phil’s abacus was overheating too) dripping from a large screen at the back of the stage and from massive ‘chandeliers’ above it, not to mention the flickering electric ones surrounding the circle. It appears no nook of the Donmar has been left uncandled.

Now this is all very pretty and appropriately festive and would have been all very well a few days ago when we were enjoying that rather chilly snap. In fact it would have made economic sense to save on fuel bills by turning down the thermostat and purchasing a £10 seat in the Donmar circle. But not now, with relatively clement weather; the Whingers had no idea cp could be this intense. It wasn’t only the candles that were melting in the circle; it was very hard to find our wits, let alone keep them about us..

Was this why we initially found things a a bit of a slog? Now the Whingers love silly shenanigans like the best of them, yet somehow things never hit the giddy heights of She Stoops to Conquer (which is not Restoration apparently).

Ms Rourke has left no stop unpulled. She has assembled a most starry cast all delivering satisfyingly robust performances: Mackenzie Crook as the recruiting officer Sergeant Kite, Tobias Menzies‘ dashing, womanising Captain Plume in love with Nancy Carroll‘s cross-dressing Silvia (putting Phil in mind of Juliet Mills in Carry On Jack – see right), Nicholas Burns‘ Mr Worthy who is in love with Rachael Sterling‘s camp and heavily panniered Melinda, plus Gawn Grainger dithering effectively as Justice Balance and Aimee-Ffion Edwards‘ impressive chicken-wrangling Rose/Mary.

Yes chickens! Live ones! Andrew perked up briefly and clucked appreciatively. Does Mr Crook have it in his contract that he won’t appear on stage without them? We haven’t seen a chicken on stage since Jerusalem (which also featured Miss Edwards). Nice to see they weren’t ‘resting’ for too long.

But even the poultry (and indeed the whole cast) were upstaged when Mark Gatiss finally teetered on in Act 1 as the magnificently foppish Captain Brazen giving the show a much needed flourish.

The best moments come in Act 2 when things had warmed up almost to the circle’s temperature and many involve Gatiss fopping wildly. A duelling scene when he affects an accent so absurdly amusing suggested that it’s a shame he didn’t keep it up for the whole evening. But the play’s funniest scene lands when Sgt Kite disguises himself as a fortune-teller - for romantic interference and recruitment purposes - especially when Brazen wafts in for a consultation.

The evening would have been much shorter without the extensive (though well delivered) musical interludes suggesting director Rourke is suffering from a touch of Hytneritis. The singing and instrument-playing quintet who interrupt the play finish it off with a rendition of “Over the Hills and Far Away” as they march off to fight. A strangely late attempt at poignancy after the over-the-top jolly romping which precedes it.

But that may be Farquhar*. Or maybe it was just us? The Whingers have no previous history with this play apart from Timberlake Wertenbaker‘s Our Country’s Good about a group of convicts putting on a production of TRO in an Australian penal colony. Discussing this of course led Andrew to reflect on his friend David Cottis’s greatest wish that Wertenbaker might one day marry Justin Timberlake, thus aquiring the moniker, well, you get the idea…

Footnote

*The trouble with the name Farquhar is that its mention instantly clears everything from the Whingers’ minds apart from this:

Rating

Can say that one shouldn’t be misled by the title: it is not about aiming to foster personal growth and social skills using challenging expeditions in the outdoors. Can say it doesn’t involve canoeing, abseiling or hillwalking. Can say it’s not set in Wales and that it is a great relief to say there is not a backpack or damp chunky knit sock in sight. And before the lawyers write in, yes, ® Outward Bound is a registered trade mark of The Outward Bound Trust 

Can say that it is at the justly award-winning Finborough Theatre and that it’s set in the bar of a ship and that the saloon is brilliantly realised by the most impressive set (Alex Marker) ever seen by Whingers’ eyes at this tiny venue (that is until the audience filter in and fill up the seating round the edges of the stage and ruin the look).

Can say that it was a huge hit in 1923, that it has been filmed twice (in 1930 and 1944) and that it is by a British actor and playwright called Sutton Vane who was the son of an author and playwright called Sutton Vane which led to great confusion at the time apparently. How Mr Vane Jr must have cursed Mr Vane Snr. Can say that the play hasn’t been performed in London for 50 years. But must ask the question why?

And that’s because Outward Bound is a treat, that most Whingerish of delights: an entertaining, absorbing, well-constructed, solid piece of drama with plenty of humour about a voyage that sets sail with a strong moral compass.

On board we have a collection of types. There is a reverend (Paul Westwood), a class-obsessed snob Mrs Cliveden-Banks (Carmen Rodriguez) who is “particular about my hyphen”, a pair of young lovers (Claire Redcliffe and Tom Davey), a pompous MP and business man “Mr Lingley of Lingley Ltd.” (Derek Howard) with a portfolio that includes 21 music halls and a Methodist chapel, a chirpy charlady Mrs Midget (Ursula Mohan) who has been “struck all of an ‘eap” and a drunk (Nicholas Karimi) who is kept well-oiled by the ships’s enigmatic barman (David Brett). Plus another character played by Martin Wimbush.

It’s unfair to single anyone out from this strong ensemble but it is worth mentioning that Ms Redcliffe is standing in for an indisposed Natalie Walter and given the nature of fringe and understudies was very assured and impressively off-book.

Director Louise Hill builds such an eerie atmosphere of mystery that one is anxious to get back to the story at both the play’s intervals. J B Priestley’s name was being bandied around post-show and if you see it you’ll know why.

So what else can one say? That it tackles issues of class and money in a most timeless and amusing fashion despite being set in the period when ships had Ladies’ Writing Rooms and the drinking salutation of choice was the satisfying “Cheer-oh!” That the drunk sees drinking as a hobby, has had a “jolly thick night” and can’t remember anything about it which played straight to the Whinger gallery. And if that inspires you to take your drink into the Finborough auditorium it must be transferred from a plastic cup to something more substantial “because of the cream carpet”.

And most definitely can say that one should consider setting ones own compass for the Finborough before the run ends on Feb 25th. A very satisfying entertainment indeed.

Rating

On achieving a certain maturity most sensible people (and the Whingers) come to accept that it is arguably the greatest movie musical ever made. So this theatrical version – like any other – sploshes down on the stage of the Palace Theatre from Chichester with an awful lot of soggy baggage.

And strangely enough it was a piece of baggage (a small valise to be specific) that proved the turning point in the Whingers’ evening.

We have no complaints about Jonathan Church‘s production being unfaithful to the film (book Betty Comden and Adolph Green who adapted their original screenplay): all the classic songs (lyrics Arthur Freed, music Nacio Herb Brown) are in place just as they should be and yet the Whingers found the first half hour or so, well, frankly extremely lacklustre to say the least.

Then something happened to elicit an approving nod from both Whingers: Daniel Crossley (playing the Donald O’ Connor role of Cosmo) performed ‘Make ‘em Laugh’ and did a rather impressive piece of mime with a suitcase. And with that minor moment the Whingers mentally donned their wellies, hitched up their hems and tentatively joined in the splashing about.

There must still be someone out there who hasn’t seen the film, so for that one person bear with us, we must explain that S’ITR is set in Hollywood at the moment that silent movies were giving way to the talkies. Don Lockwood (Adam Cooper) and Lina Lamont (Katherine Kingsley) are big stars but with the success of The Jazz Singer it is decided their new film must be a talking picture too. But unfortunately Lamont has a voice that is so grating it could easily polish off a very old block of parmesan…

As silent film is in vogue again with The Artist set to sweep up at the Academy Awards as it did at last night’s BAFTAs and ahem, Travelling Light at the National, you might think audiences are beginning to appreciate silence. You would be wrong. This is the sort of show that attracts people who like to delve into their bags of sweeties with complete disregard to those around them. Poop.

Several rather splendid excerpts of The Duelling Cavalier, the film (video design Ian William Galloway) in production, are projected for our amusement. One clip displays a dialogue card “I think I hear footsteps”, which couldn’t have been more timely coinciding as it did with much scurrying around the Palace’s auditorium. For reasons best known to the producers S’ITR has plumped for an early start time of 7pm on Mondays and Tuesdays and presumably many punters were unaware of this. The result was swathes of latecomers during the first half hour and ushers chatting with them at the back of the auditorium. There was more shushing than ushing as Phil was forced to take action.

Once the show and the audience settled down there was much to appreciate. Very decent interpretations of “Moses Supposes”, “Good Morning” and “Would You” amongst others and functional enough choreography (Andrew Wright) with lots of Whinger-pleasing tap dancing. We assume that by the time it opens the aviators – who were all over the shop during “Beautiful Girls”  - will be in step.

Then there’s the rain during the title number, which, for obvious reasons, falls just before the interval and is most spectacularly realised. An interesting article with designer Simon Higlett talking about the technicalities of the rain (and other on stage moisture) can be found here (incidentally, did you know that radio mics and their sensitivity to water are what did for panto slosh scenes? Eric Potts told us that).

Anyhoo as the rain did fall Phil couldn’t help but think of the famous – probably apocryphal, but we live in hope – story about the rain tank above the Palladium stage when Tommy Steele created the first stage version of Lockwood. For once the Whingers were pleased not to be sitting in the front few rows; Cooper kicks the water around playfully showering the audience. It’s a pity it couldn’t have dampened down others in the theatre earlier.

Interval entertainment is provided if you lurk around in the auditorium to watch the mopping up. There’s no sign of the safety curtain coming down to mask it, though, with the sprinkler system already given a healthy airing, perhaps there’s no need. Andrew marvelled at the speed and effectiveness of the stagehands’ squeegees and wonder why they don’t sell branded mops as merchandise rather than £18 T shirts, £30 umbrellas and £4 lanyards. The moppers (or perhaps the mops), quite rightly, received a round of applause when they finished. With a distinct whiff of chlorine during the number this must be the cleanest stage in the West End.

Cooper has charm and of course the dancing skills, if not quite a strong enough singing voice for Don. The wonderful KK is hilarious as LL and the talented Strallen clan is magnificently represented by Scarlett, forcing the Whingers to gush even more than the rain effects: her Kathy Selden is graceful and delightful, sings beautifully and is utterly beguiling whilst making it all look effortless. Enchanting.

Andrew drizzled out some uncharacteristic and somewhat unseemly excitement when he spotted David Tennant’s mother-in-law Sandra Dickinson‘s name on the poster outside the theatre, though during the performance his prosopagnosia came out of remission as he failed to recognise her, instead spotting Nicholas Hytner hoofing up a storm, though rather disappointingly this turned out to be Daniel Crossley.

Studio Head R F Simpson is gamely performed by Dempsey & Makepeace‘s Michael Brandon; Andrew had no problems confusing him with the gay porn actor of the same name because, as you might expect, he is innocent of such matters.

Despite a wonderful colour palette of costumes and some nice choreographic tricks Act 2′s ‘Broadway Melody’ remains over-faithful to the film in going on too long and being the number we’d cut to move this most agreeable showbiz tale along. But then Act 2 would be rather short and since the interval is immovable we must live with it.

But the show closes on such a high, with one of the best curtain calls we’ve ever witnessed, that Andrew was stirred to give an impromptu tap dance as he left the theatre. And if you’re wondering what Phil thought of Andrew’s brief but tantalising terpsichorean display he must report that Andrew seemed even lighter on his feet than usual.

The Whingers’ Singin’ in the Rain tickets were generously donated by Cheap Theatre Tickets

Rating

The Whingers found no challenge camouflaging themselves amongst the throng of gentlemen d’un certain âge cramming this Broadway transfer at the Vaudeville Theatre where further eavesdropping supplied wistful reminisces like “Well, I saw Sutherland, but I never saw Callas.”

Yet even if we superficially blended into this expensively fragrant crowd (Andrew sporting a cravat, Phil’s pashmina insouciantly thrown over his shoulder), cheap aftershave the only giveaway to our lack of class and money, the Whingers just aren’t the sort of chaps who do opera. Like Maria Callas it’s all Greek to us. Our loss no doubt. If Terrence McNally‘s hugely enjoyable entertainment (director Stephen Wadsworth) doesn’t convert us little will.

With the second star of Cagney and Lacey gracing the West End in a matter of months, Tyne Daly takes on the role of Maria Callas presiding over one of her Juilliard School opera master classes a few years before her early death (aged 53) when her legendary singing voice had all but gone.

What we see is Callas’ Ofsted unapproved teaching methods; which in McNally’s version of events consisted of berating her “victims”/students, teaching them not necessarily how to sing but how to be an artiste and how to feel the music, how not to walk on stage but how to make an entrance, how to have ‘a look’ and as the elderly gentleman so correctly stated, how to be a diva.

The Whingers would have taken copious notes on the last three but we didn’t dare. We were in the front row (day seats £15*) the same place Phil sat when he saw Pattie LuPone take on the role years ago. On that occasion he became one of LuPone’s victims, so beware if you sit near the front, the same may happen to you if you are on the receiving end of one of Daly/Callas’ scary looks-that-chill from her heavily made up eyes. Despite Callas screaming at her students to have a pencil and take notes, one look from her would definitely have shrivelled the lead in our pencils. Terrifying. If this were a courtroom imagine how Harry Redknapp might react.

With impressive wiggery (Paul Huntley, who appears to have tressed everyone from Bette Davis, Marlene Dietrich and Vivien Leigh to Mae West) Daly still doesn’t really look anything like Callas, though it matters not a jot, her presence is such that it’s impossible not to believe you’re watching a diva (and Andrew has considerable experience in such company). Daly’s Callas takes no prisoners, cuts other operatic legends down to size and switches magnificently between adjectives: fierce, formidable, impatient, playful, egotistical, hilarious and mesmerising throughout. Though never ever offer to lend her a tenor.

Even when Daly is left alone on the stage cruelly required to emote to recordings of Callas herself and fill in some biographical snippets she navigates successfully some tricky passages including where she has to act both sides of a conversation, including one with her lover Aristotle Onassis, without it feeling embarrassing.

We are occasionally allowed to take our eyes off her to appreciate the surrounding cast who are all allowed their brief moments: Jeremy Cohen as her amiably besotted pianist and her students played by Naomi O’Connell, Garrett Sorenson and Dianne Pilkington who produce impressively the requisite operatic noises (to our untutored ears); in the case of the latter, a voice and enough tears to warrant sticking her in the fly-tower of the Palace Theatre’s Singin’ in the Rain.

But this remains Daly’s show which is at its best when she’s interacting hilariously with her accompanist and pupils. Daly’s comedic skills are second to none – she can elicit laughter with a word, a pause, a glance or by simply leaving the stage and she seizes every opportunity afforded by McNally’s writing. Having spent the evening chiding her students to “listen to the music because everything you need is there.” she dismisses a passage of Verdi’s Macbeth with the words, “The music is ridiculous here. Ignore it.”

It is such a remarkable crowd-pleasing tour de force it’s a surprise to discover an understudy credited in the programme. One can only sympathise with poor Deborah Blake if Daly ever pulls a diva-ish sickie.

Footnotes

*Special thanks to the kind man who let Phil wait in the foyer before opening up the box office. It was so cold outside you could have swung a hammock between his nipples. Though why you should want to is anyone’s guess.

Despite ovating Phil still couldn’t help thinking of this though.

Rating

You may recall that Phil’s sister Elizabeth was once reduced to contributing to this site, penning a review of the 8 hour Oberammergau Passion Play so that we need never trouble ourselves with it.

Anyway, the poor woman undertook her inaugural Whingers’ trip last night, forced to accompany the Whingers because she’d read She Stoops to Conquer at school, really liked it and so was – relatively speaking – an expert.

Not only an expert, but one who could sit still for eight hours. Andrew tried to imagine Phil sitting still that long, or reading a text or liking anything and concluded that they could not possibly share the same DNA.

On the other hand there was clearly a bond at work for both Liz and Phil were equally thrilled that Katherine Kelly was making her National Theatre début. Who? As they impatiently explained to Andrew, Ms Kelly was until only last week the hugely popular Becky McDonald in the “serial drama” Coronation Street. Apparently one of the best characters of recent years, she left the cobbles, not looking over her shoulder in the back of a Street Cars cab, but whisked off to Barbados by a new love, conveniently freeing her up just in time for to begin Stooping at the National.

Kelly is the ‘She’ of the title of Oliver Goldsmith‘s 1773 romp, Kate is the daughter of wealthy countryman, Mr Hardcastle (Steve Pemberton), who stoops to conquer Marlow (Harry Hadden-Paton) son of a wealthy Londoner, at her fathers’s request. Stooping, not because Mr H-P is of restricted growth, but because Marlow is nervous around upper-class women yet comfortable among low-born ones. So she pretends she’s a barmaid to put him at his ease.

And, for those who follow such things and will want to know if the ex-Rover’s Return barmaid can hack it, well, yes she can. Kelly is completely at home on the stage; funny and assured, commanding the stage as though she’s never been away from it (she has previously done time at the RSC).

Happily there is also an excellent cast surrounding her in Jamie Lloyd‘s lively production. The splendidly monikered Cush Jumbo (as sub-plot love interest Constance) and Mr H-P further enhancing his WEW favourite status by delving deeply into a comedy bag and finding aspects we had not seen from him before (Phil was reminded of Rik Mayall, Andrew of Hugh Laurie).

He is more than ably supported by the wonderful John Heffernan looking like the love child of Steve Coogan and Grayson Perry as his silly-twittery sidekick Hastings who almost steals the show from a field of comedy veterans including Pemberton and WEW-fave Sophie Thompson as Mrs Hardcastle who gurns to enjoyably hilarious effect, producing such a host of funny voices one presumes she was tutored by the psychic Sally Morgan. She also has a lovely bit of curtseying business.

A top flight ensemble provide musical interludes which are almost as delightful as scenes between them (very catchy music by Ben & Max Ringham). We were also tickled to see a programme credit for Sue Lefton as an ‘Etiquette Consultant’, leading us to wonder about her day rate? The Whingers can surely offer her employment.

You will be relieved to hear that Phil’s sister enjoyed it tremendously and was thrilled to see the drum revolve utilised even if the jaded Whingers took the edge off it for her afterwards with a been-there-done-that world weariness and concealing that they too are always delighted to see it in use. Plus there was an enthusiastic full house, handsome mounting (design Mark Thompson), eating on stage (an orange), big wigs and copious amounts of skirt. And we were intrigued to hear a mention of tiff-taff-taffety cream. We have no idea what it is but we would love to see it back in fashion.

But, in one respect, hugely disappointing for Liz: hardly a whinge was uttered.

Rating

“If we can just get through the play once tonight – for doors and sardines. That’s what it’s all about, doors and sardines. Getting on, getting off. Getting the sardines on, getting the sardines off. That’s farce. That’s – that’s the theatre. That’s life.” 

Continuing our January mopping up of the theatrical spills we’ve somehow previously missed…

Phil is embarrassed to admit that he saw the original production (with its second cast) of Noises Off.  His even-ruddier-than-usual glow is partly down to the fact that it was almost 30 years ago and also because – unlike the majority of the world’s theatregoers – he emitted barely more than the occasional chuckle while the audience around him squealed with delight.

But time and not a little help from One Man, Two Guvnors seem to have gone some way to healing his long dysfunctional farce funny bone. Such miracles can happen: witness the Whingers volte face regarding mime, an art form previously given a very wide berth until The Boy With Tape On His Face and The Artist opened their eyes to its possibilities.

Anyhoo. Farce. And Mime. Despite Phil’s most sonorous guffaw resulting from some gloriously silly Act III business with a telephone, by far the funniest scene of Michael Frayn‘s now-considered-a-classic-comedy is the largely dialogue free Act II which left the Whingers wondering a) how on earth do the cast remember it all? and b) how on earth did Frayn work it all out? One might surmise Mr F is also a dab hand with a Rubik’s cube.

Noises Off opens with the final rehearsal of Act I of a touring farce Nothing On before its opening at the Grand Theatre Weston-super-Mare. After the interval we see their Act I again twice: from backstage a few weeks later on tour (our Act II) and then again in our Act III from the audience’s perspective near the end of the tour with an exhausted set of injured actors struggling with a performance that is going horribly wrong.

Over the course of the play liaisons among the cast and crew are formed and broken and the comical misunderstandings between them are even more complicated than the farce they try to perform. Everyone ends up in the wrong place at the right time (or the right place at the wrong time in the world of farce) and actors are late with their cues, did Frayn train by running the British railway network?

The top flight cast in Lindsay Posner‘s production includes Victoria Wood stalwart Celia Imrie as Dotty Otley, Janie Dee as Belinda and Robert Glenister as the long suffering director Lloyd Dallas

It’s all marvellous fun but its strength (Act II) throws its weakness (Acts I & III) into relief somewhat. Still, you’ve got to laugh.

Noises Off runs at The Old Vic until March 10th but we wouldn’t be at all surprised if it transfers.

Footnote
For once we must recommend purchasing the programme which contains Noises Off‘s traditional programme-within-a-programme for Nothing On. This contains cod (sardine?) biographies of the Nothing On cast and adverts for its Weston-super-Mare run, plus a splendidly pretentious essay about the semantics of farce. Very, very funny.

Rating

But on this occasion, to be fair, THOBA does open with something of an unexpected coup de théâtre - a promising start indeed. Not only did it introduce the clever conceit that Bijan Sheibani‘s production has adopted but it grabbed the Whingers’ limited attentions instantly making them wonder if this brilliantly timed stunt was the work of theatrical illusionist Paul Kieve.

Emily Mann‘s version of Federico García Lorca‘s play has relocated the action from rural Spain to contemporary rural Iran. Islam is the new Catholicism. Or the old one. Or something.

Domineering Bernarda Alba has imposed the traditional eight year period of mourning on her house following the death of her husband. She has banned her five daughters from forming any sort of relationship and they are under a house arrest of sorts. But at least it limits their sartorial choices one must make of a morning, and who doesn’t look reasonably turned out and at their slimmest in black? Phil is thinking of introducing it for the Whingers.

The prolific Bunny Christie has come up trumps again creating a set that wouldn’t look lost in the Lyttelton auditorium, transforming the Almeida‘s playing area into something larger than it can possibly be.

Post Mr Alba’s funeral this area is impressively filled with a host of black-clad mourners (have they dressed up all the backstage staff?). In a rather long, location-setting ritual they file in almost endlessly in a scene which manages to be both spellbinding and slightly tedious: they enter slowly enough for you to count them all (nearly 30), check your watch as they are individually served tea, indulge in a bit of showy mourning, have their tea glasses collected, then file out each paying their respects to Bernarda. Indeed there’s so little dialogue you wonder how long it’s going to take them to get through the actual text. But, as your attention wanders you can indulge in a La Cage Aux Folles-chorus-in-reverse chance to scan the crowd and see if you can spot the man in drag.

Iranian American actress Shohreh Aghdashloo is an imposing and glamorous Bernarda (one of the few in the cast to keep Lorca’s original character name) wielding her cane like Maleficent in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. Despite a somewhat stilted delivery she has a charisma that makes her strangely mesmerising to watch. Jane Bertish is an excellent Darya and it’s always good to see WEW favourites Pandora Colin (Asieh) and Amanda Hale (Elmira) even if Act 2 is so crepuscularly lit (Jon Clark) that it’s often difficult to tell which daughter is which.

Jasmina Daniel makes a couple of brief appearances as BA’s Miss Haversham-ish ma. She appears to be far too young to be her mother giving the production the feel of a girl’s school annual play. The eldest daughter has received a proposal from the village hearthrob and is forced to do her courting through a window. Andrew declared that all the Whingers’ affairs of the heart should henceforth be conducted thusly, in the unlikely event that Cupid should ever stray their way again.

Despite the appearance of a vacuum cleaner and a sewing machine to pep up the Whingers’ interest some of it drags. It splutters into life all too infrequently and never quite manages to ratchet up the tension sufficiently, so it feels like a long haul to the interval which finally arrives at 1 hour 25 minutes. But it would be churlish (even for us) to depart with only 35 minutes left to go and miss the extra chill added to the ultimate tragedy which relocating the story adds.

But, along with our new courting procedures we are also inspired to wear burkas which might prove a refreshing alternative to our signature hand-in-front-of-face posturings and thus increase our romantic prospects in the process. So perhaps not an altogether wasted evening then.

Rating

With a big canvas and a big subject the usually very reliable Nicholas Wright sensibly focuses on one aspect of the big screen by telling the tale through the eyes of one of the many Eastern European Jewish émigrés who played such a huge part in the development of motion pictures.

Successful director Maurice Montgomery (Paul Jesson) looks back from thirties Hollywood on his younger days in a shtetl (no, nor us, “small town” in Yiddish apparently) somewhere in Eastern Europe “around the dawn of the 20th century” where as an artistic photographer formerly known as Motl Mendl (Damien Molony) he “invents” aspects of cinema as we know it today. His initial efforts are so dreary he makes Terence Davies look like Roland Emmerich.

Filming in his shtetl with financial backing from local timber-merchant Jacob (Antony Sher) he stumbles upon dramatic narrative almost by chance with a lot of help in the editing suite from Anna (Lauren O’ Neil) who is displaying all the signs of turning into Thelma Schoonmaker.

Soon the whole town is acting, filming or adding their thoughts to the film being shot in the village. And everyone’s a critic!

One of the problems is the cloud of ironic hindsight which hangs over the proceedings as heavily as in The Lion in Winter. Gasp at the discovery of the cinema auditorium, marvel at the early ticket booking system (though no signs of iniquitous booking fees) and laugh at the first collaborative screenplay, rewrites and test screening for audience feedback. We can be thankful that he doesn’t invent popcorn, though copious amounts of plum brandy are knocked back, a much quieter option for the multiplexes. It’s a clever idea and really ought to be quite hilarious and whilst undemandingly amiable enough it’s not really as interesting as we may have made it sound.

There’s a twist of coincidence in Act 2 which is slightly irritating. Nicholas Hytner directs most of the play on a landing strip space at the front of the wide Lyttelton stage (design Bob Crowley) while we see Motl’s cinematic efforts projected above the back of the stage. There’s a collection of characters offering various levels of gentle amusement while Sher gives it large enough to fill the whole cavernous auditorium with an accent that suggests he’s auditioning for voice-over work on the next Meerkat advert.

Given the potential of the subject matter and Wright’s excellent track record (The Reporter, Vincent in Brixton, The Last of the Duchess, Mrs Klein etc) Travelling Light (good title) was a big disappointment. Rather 2D in fact, but perhaps we must be grateful that we do not have to watch it wearing silly specs. Although Andrew did of course.

Contains mild sexual references, moderate drinking (by our standards), infrequent action and scenes of occasional comedy and potato peeling.

Rating

Resolving not to go to things with expectations was a bit daft really. Critics claim to approach things with open minds but it’s easier to do that when the reviews aren’t out which is why we often try and see previews. But for most audiences it’s different; what punter could possibly go to Jerusalem or One Man, Two Guvnors or Matilda without wondering if it will live up to its promises?

On New Year’s day the resolution went straight out of the window with a visit to the pictures to see the highly praised The Artist.  Fortunately we were not at all disappointed and yes the dog(s) really is (are) as good as you’ve heard. Strangely the film begins in 1927, which is also the name of the theatre company behind The Animals and Children Took to the Streets which led to us striking such a daffy resolve.

Still, one resolution remains: Andrew has promised himself a dry January yet again, which will make life very dull for Phil who has no truck with such matters. So in our traditional January-catch-up-of-things-we’ve-missed we took in The Lion in Winter in a state of complete sobriety. And having already broken our resolve we were able to approach it with some assumptions, not because of the critics you understand (whose reviews, if we’re being polite, were mixed) but because it had come highly recommended by people whose opinions we trust.

Nailing our expectations to our masts we were geared up for a camp curiosity which frankly sounded rather up Whinger Alley. Common sense should have set off alarm bells. James Goldman‘s 1966 Broadway trifle has taken 45 years to receive a West End outing and it soon became clear why.

It’s Christmas 1183 in Henry II of England’s (Robert Lindsay) Chinon castle. The King has had his calculating estranged wifey Eleanor of Aquitane (Joanna Lumley) banged up for years yet has invited her to join him for a nice family celebration with their sons, his mistress Alais (Sonya Cassidy) and her brother King Philip II of France (Rory Fleck-Byrne) who is also happens to be the son of Eleanor’s ex and has shared trysts with Hal/Eleanor’s son Richard. Oh and if that wasn’t enough, Alais was promised to Richard in childhood before taking on the role of royal bed-warmer (got all that?).

To add to this jolly gathering Henry is trying to choose a successor from his three sons, Richard the-Lionheart-to-be (Tom Bateman), Geoffrey (James Norton) and pre-Magna Carta fame John (Joseph Drake). Unsurprisingly all three fancy taking a stab at not just ruling, but at each other. Presumably the word ‘trust’ doesn’t feature on the family motto. They put the diss in dysfuctional. You’d be hard pressed to find a group of people holed up together less likely to gel. Who knew Celebrity Big Brother originated in the Middle Ages?

Cat-and-mouse power struggles with deceit and betrayal ensue. If only they’d had telly in 1183 (they’ve got a Christmas tree and presents, so why not home entertainment?) and settled down to watch The Great Escape, the squabbles might have been limited to who was hogging the Quality Street.

Their familial scheming puts the Ewing clan in the shade. For Chinon read Southfork. They’re quite bonkers and it would be no shock to discover they all suffer from tertiary syphilis.

Unfortunately, despite their royal status, there appears to be no staff around to do the cooking or put up the decorations. The Whingers’ personal highlight was watching Eleanor and Henry decking their halls with boughs of holly (Fa la la la la, la la la la) and wonder if Ellie’s behaviour is symptomatic of Christmas stress. Perhaps she just wants to make things perfect for her boys; if not syphilitic, might her shenanigans boil down to her worries of overdoing the sprouts?

Lindsay growls and struts around the hokum with a knowing twinkle whilst sporting a hairdo that suggests he should send his barber to the tower (by the look of it perhaps he already has). A miscast Lumley snarls, preens and bears her impressive nashers whilst sporting her curtain fabric/end-of-the-pier waxworks museum gowns most regally. Mrs Aquitaine’s boys strop around displaying machismo or irritating petulance or both.

The handsome set (Stephen Brimson Lewis) is almost as arched as the script and most of the cast look pretty well turned out. Phil’s mother will be delighted to know that the 12th century was spotlessly clean.

One can only sympathise with Lindsay, who presumably has had more than his fill of turkey this season. After the first curtain call he rallied his fellow players with a less than sotto voce “Let’s get out of here!” Who could disagree with that?

Trevor Nunn directs. The big question is why?

Rating

The Whingers emerged from The Animals and Children Took to the Streets resolving never go to the theatre with preconceptions or expectations again. Mmm, how long do you think that’s going to last?

To say we weren’t expecting much is a mild understatement. But then Phil had no expectations anyway. He ran into someone he knew on the way to the theatre who asked what he was going to see. “No idea” he replied breezily.

Perhaps that’s the way to approach theatre so it can’t hurt you. But on paper 1927 theatre company‘s TAaCTttS doesn’t sound that enticing. A show in the Cottesloe auditorium set in an urban dystopia which with remarkable prescience anticipated the summer riots in this country (it was first performed at the Sydney Opera House in October 2010)?

If we tried to describe the plot you’d just think we’d been on the sauce. Agnes Eaves (Esme Appleton) and her animated (in the sense that she’s a projected cartoon) daughter Evie arrive at a stinking run down tenement block Bayou Mansions in a frighteningly run down part of a city. The place is awash with peeping-toms and other dubious characters but can the new residents change the lives of the unfortunates who exist here?

This bizarre and unsettlingly dark tale is performed by three women Suzanne Andrade (who also writes and directs), Appleton and Lillian Henley (who wrote and plays the music) in front of three screens upon which some remarkable animation (Paul Barritt) forms a huge part of the show.

The Whingers find their 'look' for 2012

We say perform, much of their “performance” is striking poses and extraordinarily timed interaction with projected material and speaking or singing the often witty script in a dangerously close to monotonous deadpan delivery. It shouldn’t work but it does.

Trust us on this one, out of context “Children need a bit of encouragement… and collage” may not sound laugh-out-loud hilarious but it is, and there are some very pleasing rhymes: “kitchen sink” with “Maeterlinck” took our particular fancy.

It’s all very strange and twisted – think Shockheaded Peter (but better) or Jan Švankmajer or if you’re old enough Crystal Tipps and Alistair fermented in expressionist cinema.

We managed to catch this on the New Year’s Eve matinee just before it finishes on January 3rd. But it tours the UK and abroad next and no doubt will return. The final sell is it’s only 70 minutes long and forced the Whingers to celebrate afterwards with a glass or two of wine, all of which wrapped up the Whingers’ 2011 most agreeably.

Quite remarkable.

Rating

Artistic excellence? Possibly. Realistically most of of our glittering awards would go north of the border after our uncharacteristically enthusiastic response to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, an unusual period where we packed in so much entertainment we feared we were turning into Mark Shenton.

But after momentary deliberation and decidedly tepid debate we have eventually settled on some worthy winners.

Least Worst Play of the Year

Not the Royal Court this year. They produced our last two winners in Jerusalem and Clybourne Park. This year it is the National’s turn with One Man, Two Guvnors which stands head and shoulders above the pack for providing unreasonable amounts of giddy delight. Of course we were there at the first preview so the usual caveats must apply, though for once no one seemed to complain about out 5 glass rave. We were so impressed we immediately booked for a second viewing and are pleased to report there were no visible signs of deterioration.

Worst Evening in the Theatre

Goodness, it’s just as well that we don’t see everything as we still inflicted unreasonable amounts of tedium on ourselves. There are so many strong contenders it’s almost impossible to choose. But narrowing down our long list we have selected Cool Hand Luke, the Almeida’s My City, Thandie Newton’s stage debut in Death and the Maiden, the Menier’s Terrible Advice, the National’s A Woman Killed With Kindness and Greenland and Pinter’s Moonlight at the Donmar. Strictly speaking it should go to Moonlight as that received a one-glass rating from us, but any of these are worthy of the accolade.

Least Worst Musical of the Year

In any other year we would have been purring with contentment awarding the Donmar’s The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee the National’s extraordinary London Road (if it is indeed classified as a musical) or the Riverside Studio’s delightful Salad Days, but sadly for them this was also the year of Matilda. So they are trumped by the RSC’s utterly charming, witty and brilliantly staged confection.

Biggest Frustration of the Year

One should never approach theatre with high expectations as disappointment will invariably ensue, but of course we do. Blithe Spirit was up against Betty Blue Eyes which was much lauded in most quarters though not by us despite promising all the ingredients of Whinger heaven. Andrew greedily insisted on the casting vote here and went wildly off piste, opting for the guillotine not going wrong as Phil placed his head inside it in Paul Daniel’s Edinburgh show.

Least Worst Actor in a Musical

Michael Ball’s Sweeney Todd was at Chichester and as these are our awards we can do what we like. His trophy has already been crafted for 2012 after he has performed the role in the West End. This leaves us free to suggest Bertie Carvel should be clearing his copious shelf now for the many awards that will be thrust upon him in the ensuing year. We are hoping he will give pride of place to ours. His Miss Trunchball in Matilda is a thing of wonder. Extraordinary.

Least Worst Actor

We sometimes look at other award lists and see things which didn’t even register on our radar. But from our limited field we were impressed by Jude Law’s transformation in Anna Christie, Dominic West’s engaging Butley, Joseph Millson in the National’s underrated Rocket to the Moon, Jamie Parker in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead and Kyle Soller in The Goverment Inspector. But the sheer bravery of waving his exposed feet so close to Andrew’s face means we must settle on Jonny Lee Miller‘s creature in Frankenstein (and yes we saw both versions).

Least Worst Actress/Supporting Actress

We’ve conflated this one this year. Andrew’s trophy workshop was getting behind straightening out the wire coat hangers and unusually he didn’t eat enough Cadbury’s Roses’ Golden Barrels this Christmas to supply the gold leaf, so we found ourselves a Whingie short. And what is a supporting role anyway? Siân Brooke and Billie Piper caught our eyes in Reasons To Be Pretty at the Almeida and Sheila Hancock and Anna Chancellor impressed in The Last of the Duchess at Hampstead. Lesley Manville’s grief in Mike Leigh’s Grief was more convincing than any on display in North Korea, but as Andrew enjoyed a lovely nap during the show she was ruled ineligible. There was impressive comedy from Claudie Blakley and Michelle Terry in The Comedy of Errors but Sheridan Smith was both comic and moving in Flare Path so Whingers’ bias must prevail to hand her the conjoined award. We hope she’ll understand that it made less work for Phil who complains each year that his hands are getting too shaky for all that engraving anyway.

Least Worst Performance by a Supporting Actor

Risteárd Cooper and Ronan Raftery were both in Juno and the Paycock so sadly cancel each other out in our twisted polling system. But we would have gone for Oliver Chris‘ 33.3333 (etc) percent titular ex-public school toff of One Man, Two Guvnors anyway.

The Duchess of Argyll Award for Least Worst Supporting Actor in a Musical

Was there ever a show lifted to such a dizzying new level by one single performance? We should perhaps say lowered in the case of one Nigel Harman whose utterly hilarious Lord Farquaad in Shrek was performed entirely on his knees. Sublime.

Least Worst Supporting Actress in a Musical

Very honourable mentions for Katherine Kingsley in Spelling Bee, Lauren Ward and Josie Walker in Matilda and Carly Bawden who survived The Umbrellas of Cherbourg to again impress in Pippin. But it is no mean task to step into Whoopi Goldberg’s shoes and make the role her own. Sharon D Clarke‘s Oda Mae in the splendidly staged but musically lackustre Ghost was sheer joy.

Most Controversial Moment of the Year

No, not the high-concept cyber space reinvention of Pippin at the Menier which seems to be dividing opinion most radically. Not our almost lone support for the heavily-panned Umbrellas of Cherbourg. Nor even the Whingers’ “sacking” from their theatre column in Beige magazine after just three months having being told that certain theatre groups (particularly one such theatre group allegedly) would not advertise if we continued to write for it, allegedly. These events were completely overshadowed by Sinéad Cusack‘s alleged sausage cooking in Juno and the Paycock. Was Ms Cusack really frying the bangers or not?

Least Worst Comedy Performance of the Year

We conveniently removed Oliver Chris from the mix to make it easier but there were still too many (James Corden, Tom Edden, Daniel Rigby) in One Man, Two Guvnors to sensibly choose. So perhaps Peter Capaldi in The Ladykillers? No, we must award it to the set for that very show which gives a sublimely silly performance and as a result of its reviews is apparently quite high maintenance yet still never needs an understudy.

The Whingers’ 2011 Internship 

The Whingers are offering their first internship this year and it was not difficult to select actor David Weston who writes in his book Covering McKellen: An Understudy’s Tale:

Almost the entire audience gives a standing ovation at the end – and they aren’t all Americans, who seem addicted to them.

and about Stratford’s Courtyard Theatre

The thrust stage has terrible sight lines so unless the actor is moving, he blocks the view of large numbers of the audience. Trevor is forced to put most of the action towards the back of the stage as if there’s a proscenium arch.

and again referring to Sir Trevor Nunn

The show is long (all Trevor’s productions are)

Double dip belt-tightening has scuppered our plans to let you handle our gongs in the O2 Arena this year. Rest assured we will raise a glass to you all over an economical stand up finger. Your awards will come courtesy of the Royal Mail, if you don’t receive them you know who to blame. However if someone would like to lend us the Gielgud Theatre for an evening we will be most happy to accept. At least we know The Ladykillers‘ set will turn up to accept.

The Importance of Being Earnest as a musical? But then again (and we know we really should have tried harder) the Whingers’ curiosity wasn’t even piqued enough by Ann Widdecombe’s panto debut to drag them to Dartford this season. But Gyles Brandreth giving his Lady Bracknell? This proved a USP big enough to brave the trek to Hammersmith’s Riverside Studios.

Dragged-up Lady Bs are of course nothing new. Brian Bedford has recently delivered one on Broadway, Geoffrey Rush is giving his down under. Heavens, Phil saw the brilliant Hinge and Bracket as Miss Prism and Lady B respectively at the then Whitehall Theatre. Mind you, it was execrable.

And this could so easily have turned out to go the same way but remarkably it is in fact really rather good.

Douglas Livingstone (book and lyrics) has neatly adapted the silliness about two silly young blades who fall for two silly young women who will only marry a man called Earnest by keeping the plot and numerous famous aphorisms more or less intact (which is no mean feat, as TIOBE is Oscar Wilde‘s Hamlet).

The songs are light and breezy and mostly don’t hold up the plot, frequently allowing dialogue to continue mid tune (composers Adam McGuinness and Zia Moranne), especially in the case of Lady B who sensibly speak-sings his/her numbers. On occasions they introduce some quite interesting diversions in heir own right – the duet “It all Began in a Garden” is undoubtedly a highlight thanks to the delicious comedic marriage of Susie Blake as Miss Prism and Edward Petherbridge as Canon Chasuble.

The lyrics are laudably audible and the cast are disarmingly charming. The Whingers found themselves moved to share particular enthusiasm for Anya Murphy and Flora Spencer-Longhurst‘s Gwendolen and Cecily.

Brandreth looks very comfortable in his “Queen Mary look” and plays it with applaudable restraint. Sailing through in a budget-defying blue-grey ensemble, an agreeable mix of hauteur and charm, more battleship than battleaxe, he sensibly reinterprets the iconic “A handbag” line which neatly leads into the next song which of course is called “Handbag”. Indeed, had we had a hand in this musicalisation, Handbag! would be have been our chosen moniker.

Iqbal Khan directs with a deft lightness, the costumes (Robert Worley) are surprisingly smart and the set (Samal Blak), appropriately appropriating various pieces of luggage, is a triumph of wit and imagination over economics. Even the programme contains more than one could reasonably expect and it puts the West End to shame, on offer as it is, at a mere 100 new pennies.

Worth the trip.

Rating

We may not be able to add much but the satirical singing cabaret trio have. Current line-up Dillie Keane, Adèle Anderson and relative newbie Sarah-Louise Young have worked up an extended version of that show which now comes with extra tunes, an interval but no excess baggage.

And it’s one of those rare occasions where more really does mean more. All their best numbers are safely in place. The usual mix of celebrities, politicians, institutions and trends are held up to acerbic inspection before being skewered in a most deliciously satisfying fashion. Despite having performed some of their older numbers countless times one of the many pleasures is seeing their own reactions to some of the things that come out of their mouths as if saying them for the first time.

To suggest some highlights is not to imply there are any lowlights. But, as ever, we were particularly taken by “One True Religion”, “Leider”, “Down with the Kids”, “Tesco Saves”, “Bored”, their YouTube sensation (now with over 8 million hits) “Cheap Flights” and the Whingers feel no shame in revealing they are extremely partial to “Dogging”.

Then there’s their now classic Bulgarian song cycle which any description would only spoil, but is structured to allow hilarious updating and a sharply observed and also cleverly updated number explaining how to write a best-selling novel.

The only fly in the ointment is the appropriately aeroplane cabin shaped auditorium of the Charing Cross Theatre which dictates that not very many people get to sit near the front. Thankfully the sound is clear a bell and not a word is lost.

We have previously declared our bias, but judging by the reaction of the full house and those we met experiencing FA for the first time there is little need to take our word for it. If you’ve never seen them the real question can only be why?

Rating

Well that’s what he appears to do. You see him fill the bucket from the sink, pour “salt” into it, drink the lot, then rush (disappointingly) off stage to vomit leaving only his bare feet visible as he retches. Yes, there are rather a lot of unclad feet on display here too.

But you have to feel for Ben Daniels (and it’s the only moment you do) having to perform the stunt. It’s a big ask of any performer. Calling it beyond the “pail” would only provide another disappointing gag.

Daniels’ Douglas has gone AWOL from his wife Julie (Sophie Okonedo) and bed-wetting young son Thomas (Jude Campbell at this performance) who don’t know whether he’s dead or alive. Has he had a mid-life crisis or a complete breakdown? Turns out he’s been living with a strange religious cult but has returned (almost) unbeknownst to his family and has been hiding in the attic.

When he suddenly comes down Julie’s a tad shocked, possibly because he seems to be affecting “the Mackenzie Crook look”. He is a completely changed person and it’s not unlike those moments in Coronation Street when a character disappears upstairs for some time and eventually comes down played by a new actor. Think Tracy Barlow with a touch of John Darwin.

Thomas takes it in his stride but Julie is understandably a little pissed off especially when he tells her about his group’s doctrines, which include eating boiled eggs, drinking buckets of salt water and eschewing music and sex. Happily though, masturbation is tolerated in new recruits. What a relief, as Douglas is clearly a tosser.

Things get worse as he appears to be putting his new “family” before his own, tries to impose his new values and attempts to persuade them to come and join him; Julie’s understandably not too keen. And boy does she (and the audience) have to hear about the cult. And thereby lies the problem.

Top marks to Okonedo and Daniels for doing what they can with their rather unsympathetic characters. The latter is saddled with having to expound an awful lot of crap and appear convinced by it. It’s always good to see a Bunny Christie set and director Jeremy Herrin squeezes what tension he can from the premise, but there’s lashings of tedium as we listen to Douglas banging on about his new life.

Penhall seems concerned with importance of family (which is about as seasonal as this show gets), the dangers of certain beliefs and with religious fundamentalists in particular. And is Douglas mending one of the family’s appliances in Act 2 or could he be making something more sinister? Hard to care.

But at least Haunted Child might be signifying a return of theatrical chundering after a spate of it in the West End a few years ago. The Whingers applaud it and will live in hope.

Rating

For although originally believed to exist only in the Whingers’ imagination it turns out they are as real as you and us although actually called the Dilton Players. This dedicated troupe of dedicated players numbers more than 40 and they DO present an annual panto*. Apologies due.

So, what to do? Dilton’s Sleeping Beauty or the New Wimbledon Theatre‘s Dick Whittington? Logistics dictated the latter, for despite the fact that Phil will be Christmassing a mere custard pie’s throw from Dilton Marsh their panto sadly isn’t until late January.

But the New Wimbledon had another card up its sleeve, having established itself as something of a boot camp for Johnny-foreign stars dipping their toes into the world of panto. The last two years saw Pamela Anderson in Aladdin and David Hasselhoff in Peter Pan. Despite Hasselhoff making a very game Captain Hook we didn’t care much for the show. Not a proper panto in our opinions – it didn’t even feature a dame. But the New Wimbledon has atoned for this sin in the most spectacular fashion: two dames in one show.

But who would possibly be up to the challenge of playing the dame when there’s a real dame on stage too? Especially when that Dame is Dame Edna Everage (playing the “Saviour of London”). You need a formidable veteran Dame and the New Wimbledon has one in spades: Eric Potts the panto supremo who also directs and wrote this Dick (and has written seven other pantos showing round the county this season). But who would get the most outrageous frocks? It’s a tie!

If last year was panto hell this is panto heaven. All the ingredients are in place**: opulent glittery scenery, singalongs, audience participation, kids up on stage, things thrown into the audience, local and topical references, corny and clever gags for kiddies and adults (even one referencing Tarka the otter) and an eclectic mix of songs from Michael Bublé to The Jam. And where else could you hear Village People’s “In the Navy” segue into “On the Good Ship Lollipop”?

There’s also a 3D sequence (viewed through Dame Edna-esque specs). But then what isn’t in 3D these days? Heck, even the Strictly Come Dancing final is being shown thus this weekend.

We had feared that Dame Edna’s role might be little more than a Pamela Anderson style cameo but there are very generous helpings of her. She plays up the fact she’s not really sure what it’s all about to great effect, is completely on form and hilariously subverting the genre (if that’s possible). Or, as she asks, who’s heard the word “genre” in a panto before? But then we’d never heard the Aramaic language mentioned in pantoland before either.

There is plenty of good support from Dancing on Ice champion Sam Attwater‘s Dick, Anna Williamson‘s Alice Fitzwarren, Richard Calkin‘s very boo-able King Rat and PRG Ben Goffe‘s breakdancing Captain Titchworth.

One of the highlights is a wonderfully physical musical number based on “The Twelve Days of Christmas” whose anarchy extends to quite literally “tripping a dwarf” for this is a panto which occasionally trips along a deliciously dangerous line and it seems only natural that Dame Edna should be at home here despite her protestations to the contrary.

We have already extolled the comic virtues of Kev Orkian who had us doubled up in his Edinburgh Fringe show this year. Watch his expressions after his far from idle Idle Jack has delivered the most groan-worthy of gags and his running “gag” (in two senses) with an imagined ugly member of the audience. He is also charming and hilarious with the kids on stage. Phil thought the panto had gone 4D and introduced Sensurround but it was Andrew rocking with laughter in his seat causing all the seismic tremors.

So, yes, you could say we liked it then. We’re sure they’re up to the task but the bar has been raised; the Dilton Players have much to live up to.

Footnote

* The Dilton Players’ panto, Sleeping Beauty, takes place on January 26th, 27th and 28th 2012. Tickets £7.00 and £4.00 (under 16). Available from December 10th at CrowningGlory, Spar/PO shop and all other major Dilton Marsh retailers. For further information e-mail alanverity@blueyonder.co.uk

** Except a proper slosh scene and a Principal Boy obviously.

Rating

Best to sidestep this intro if you find it too distressing to discover (or have no interest in and why would you?) what goes on in a Whinger’s mystifying unconscious.

People who insist on relating their dreams are about as enthralling as those who share their travel nightmares. But occasionally a Whinger will seek to inflict a condensed version of a previous night’s fancies on the other in the interests of seeking insight, analysis or at least a dribble of interest.

The last one Phil bestowed on Andrew went thus: “I was re-recording my album in a hotel room and Sir Bob Geldof asked if he could come and watch. I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t remember the words and the reel-to-reel tape recorder got tangled up and was spewing out tape all over the room. Bob was very nice about it.” Mmmm.

An article in the programme for The Ladykillers reveals the QI origins of the classic 1955 Ealing comedy. William Rose came up with the idea “five criminals were living in a little house with a charming little old lady” in a dream, woke up, told the entire plot and concept to his wife and promptly fell back to sleep. His wife was so struck by the idea that she stayed awake all night and asked him if he could remember it in the morning. He remembered nothing but went on to write the original screenplay from her retelling. How easily The Ladykillers might never have existed.

The next time Andrew nods off in a theatre Phil intends to interrogate him post-slumber to see if he has come up with such a brilliant conceit. What are the chances? 

The Ladykillers now comes to the Gielgud Theatre with what can only be described by us as a dream cast in a version by Father Ted and The IT Crowd writer Graham Lineham. Expectations were absurdly high.

Fortunately, on the whole, it works, the blackly comic plot and characters are intact and it’s been sensibly adapted and directed (Sean Foley) to add plenty of stage business, charmingly lo-tech effects and general silliness to keep things ticking along nicely.

Peter Capaldi has the almost impossible task of taking on the Alec-Guinness-as-Alastair-Sim role, “Professor” Marcus, who takes a room in Mrs Wilberforce’s King’s Cross home in order to plan a bank heist with his four cronies who pose as a rehearsing string quartet so that she won’t suspect what they’re up to.

Capaldi is more oily than sinister but frequently hilarious and as he contorts his mouth wildly produces understandably spectacular amounts of expectorate (we’d say avoid the front row if day seats weren’t available at a bargain £10). He and Marcia Warren as the old lady are wonderful together. Ms Warren’s profession is delightfully served: she’s perfectly cast, fussing around the house in initial blissful ignorance, apparently slightly dotty but not to be underestimated. And there’s healthily daft support from the gang Stephen Wight, Clive Rowe, Ben Miller* and especially James Fleet as a Major unable to repress his “specialist interest”.

The lopsided house (Michael Taylor) is deliciously realised, packed with plenty of entertaining old style stage effects by Scott Penrose (one earned a round of applause) and the whole thing spins to reveal the necessary exteriors. Don’t look too closely at the door furniture which look as though it came from Franchi’s bargain bin.

Capaldi has a running joke with his lengthy scarf which comes into its own at the end just after the gag has run out of steam (an expression which is rather appropriate, but would be unfair to reveal). There’s also one of the most splendid spot-the-understudy moments we’ve witnessed when Mrs Wilberforce invites her guests round to listen to the quartet. We were certain we guessed Clive Rowe’s stand-in seemingly making a nod to the fact he’s missing this year’s Hackney panto.

So all rather jolly and agreeable then? Pretty much. But if you’re looked at our rating already you may be thinking this reads like a four glass review. But the end result is curiously much less than the sum of its parts. Despite plenty of decent laughs there are times when things feel a bit laboured: the heist for instance is cleverly realised but clunks and needs speeding up (or cutting). And we’re no prudes but he mention of a “penis” stuck out like, er, a sore thumb. There are a few other moments which feel a bit heavy and things never quite fly as, say, One Man, Two Guvnors (yes, we know: almost impossible to live up to that). Preview performance and all that, but his was only Monday night before the official opening on Wednesday.

Perhaps we’d set our hopes unreasonably high, yet we were still able to watch The Ladykillers as a theatrical reimagining quite happily without thinking too much about the brilliant original as there’s still plenty of fun and charm to be had. If nothing else it will expunge memories of the terrible Coen brothers 2004 remake, which can only be a good thing.

Footnote

* Ben Miller had the misfortune to meet Phil at a party many years ago. Phil took a grape-induced opportunity to congratulate him on his performance in 900 Oneonta. “But I wasn’t in it!” he replied. “Yes you were” Phil insisted, “It was at the Old Vic, it was wonderful.” “Thanks” protested Mr Miller “but I’ve never appeared in the West End”. Phil was very discombobulated but eventually accepted that Miller really ought to be familiar with his own CV. He later realised he was confusing him with Ben Daniels, but is happy to report that Miller wore his long-suffering with aplomb and it is a pleasure to see him finally appearing in the West End. And he was very good.

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Or to be more specific in the hands of Phil who “studied” Juno and the Paycock at school. Naturally this was when Sean O’ Casey‘s play was practically a contemporary work so he can recall very little of it. He remembers his copy of the play came in a green cover with a strange texture which made a very agreeable sound as you ran your fingernails over it. How comforting to hear of an education that didn’t go to waste.

And nothing would stop Phil happily entertaining Andrew with his one almost correctly remembered quote “That’s the last time you’ll blow the froth off a pint of mine Joxer Daly” as they arrived at the National Theatre. How apt it should be a line involving alcohol.

This is the National’s first co-production with the Dublin’s Abbey Theatre who first staged the play in 1924. The Boyle family live in a shabby (Bob Crowley’s design is peculiarly roomy, several families of cat-swingers could move in) tenement in Dublin. Heavy drinking work-shy Captain Jack Boyle (Ciarán Hinds), his wife Juno (Sinéad Cusack), their son and daughter Johnny (Ronan Raftery who must feel a bit of a fraud, having no peculiar accents on any of the letters in his name) who has lost an arm in the civil war and Mary (Clare Dunne, ditto) who is on strike.

It wasn’t just Juno who was long-suffering for the first hour of Howard Davies production as there was very little to engage with. Hinds’ Captain Jack convincingly struts, blusters and moans “Th’ whole worl’s in a state o’ chassis” and goes off to have his froth blown by his ne’er-do-well mate Joxer Daly (an excellent Risteárd Cooper) returning to an earful from his wife as she brews endless “tay” and appears to fry sausages. Johnny (a part taken by Dad’s Army‘s John Laurie in the 1930 Hitchcock film version) mopes around moodily. As the curtains (almost) closed at the end of the first scene the Whingers were able to watch stage hands scurrying around changing the furniture happily declaring it “the best bit so far”. Oh dear.

Then at last something happens in the plot development department: the family receive news that they are in line for a considerable inheritance and their fortunes appear to be on the up and so was the play. Things also perked considerably when Janet Moran as neighbour Maisie Madigan popped in. But you’re not out of the woods yet; this is an Irish play, so of course the whole thing is marinated in such a thick solution of Oirishness you can’t get through it without at least one character breaking into a dreary song. Whingers’ panic set in at one juncture when it looked worryingly as if the whole cast was going to get up and do a turn.

The Whingers were very impressed by Raftery’s Johnny but had spent much of the opening scene studying his very believable one armedness. Was it strapped to his torso? Was his costume specially tailored to accommodate the effect so convincingly? On the other hand (so to speak) Phil was also fascinated by Cusack’s own handicap; an appallingly unconvincing wig. It’s a tribute to Phil’s ex-”stalker” that she overcame this distraction to deliver an ultimately moving turn.

According to the programme the success of the play enabled O’Casey to give up his job as a cement-mixer. Andrew remained unconvinced that it merits “classic” status. But the performances here are all very sound and in some cases excellent – the Whingers predict London will be seeing more of Ronan Raftery in the future; in the meantime his name will come to mind every time Andrew ventures into his attic. And although little happens in the first hour after the interval it’s just one thing after another thereafter.

For the record: the Whingers imbibed cups of tay in the interval (it was a matinee) but were back on course happily blowing each others froth afterwards.

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The Whingers make no secret of the fact that they usually find the the comedy in his plays and the wordplay in his comedies deeply unfunny. Yes, they sometimes laugh thanks to an actor’s delivery or a bit of business injected by a director aware that the text will not supply sufficient giggles for a modern audience. But at The Comedy of Errors they actually laughed at a line written by the Bard himself.

Just the once, you understand, but it’s a start. For the record it was in one of the Dromio’s “I could find out countries in her” speech referencing Belgium and the Netherlands. Shakespeare of course invented everything. Was he the first to discover the intrinsic comic value in Belgium too?

This was the Whingers’ first ever Comedy of Errors unless you count The Boys from Syracuse. It’s the one with the two pairs of identical twins, one set poor and purchased as slaves for the higher born pair. Think of it as Two Men, Two Guvnors if you will.

The sets of twins are separated shortly after birth by a shipwreck. The one from Syracuse (Lenny Henry) takes his servant (Lucian Msamati) to Ephesus seeking his long lost twin (Chris Jarman). Both pairs share the same names Antipholus and Dromio (Ephesus Dromio, Daniel Poyser), one pair having been renamed in honour of the other. And by this device Mr Shakespeare subtly enables endless comedic contrivances of mistaken identities to kick off. Suspension of disbelief higher even than Bunny Christie’s towering set is required. The design is also as complicated as the plot. The National Theatre‘s resources are playing at full tilt.

Updated to the present day (but we weren’t 100% sure where – Ephesus = London we assume) director Dominic Cooke throws in everything from pool tables to a real ambulance driven on stage (in one frenzied sequence) although the closest we spotted to the proverbial kitchen sink was a foot spa. A band comes on to cover the clever scene changes playing very agreeable covers of modern classics from Tears for Fears’ “Mad World” to Teddy Randazzo and Bobby Weinstein’s sublime “Goin’ Out Of My Head”*. Phil hopes the National will be releasing a CD.

Mr Henry’s performance is nicely modulated making the few times he’s less reigned in very amusing though the Caribbean accent he affects surely undermines the misunderstandings. Both Dromios play the fun engagingly and endearingly. But it is Claudie Blakley (daughter of one of 60s popsters The Tremeloes) as Adriana (wife to Antipholus of Ephesus**) and Michelle Terry as Luciana, her sister who provide a lot of the fun, though both Whingers looked on in horror as the former leapt on one of the pool tables in towering Essex girl-style heels not because we feared for her safety, but out of concern for the baize.

So again most of the chuckles came from the performances and business rather than the “comedy” itself which we suppose is to be expected. The lengthy wrapping up of the plot where the confusions are explained felt like an Agatha Christie denouement but was relieved by a few decent laughs.

It’s also Shakespeare’s shortest play apparently (we stand to be corrected on this) and runs a mere 2 hours 15 minutes including the interval which helped shoehorn the Whingers into fairly agreeable states of mind.

Footnotes

*

** If you don’t know the play the free cast list doesn’t help listing Adriana as wife to Antipholus of Syracuse despite being wife to Antipholus of Ephesus which is what the National has put in the synopsis, is this a playful nod to the on stage confusions?

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