At the end of last week’s cliffhanger episode our heroes zeros had vowed never - but never - to go to the theatre ever again until they could once again wave at a Dame of the British Empire through a proscenium arch in a crumbling West End theatre…

Who would have thought it would be so soon before the Whingers found themselves at the Vaudeville Theatre in The Strand waving happily at Dame Eileen Atkins through the proscenium arch.

Their only problem was: which way to face?

For while their front row seats afforded them a first rate view of said Dame, the simple expedient of facing the other way provided the unexpected vista of two of the Whingers’ favourite actresses sitting together six rows behind them: Geraldine McEwan and Anne Reid.

A Dame, a proscenium, a Miss Marple and a Victoria Wood stalwart: it was like all the Whingers’ Christmases had come at once. Could a mere play possibly improve the evening any further?

Their “very close”* seats were indeed very close. The stage overhang not only afforded copious leg room (handy for Phil who leg-wise is to Anne Miller what his fellow Whinger is to Jimmy Krankie) but also a cavernous space for Andrew to have a much needed lie-down after all the excitement, or should the uninterrupted 100 minute play prove too much for him.

Fortunately it wasn’t needed. Joanna Murray-Smith’s comedy proved to be most engaging.

TFOTS is “controversially” inspired by a real incident in which the noted Celebrity Big Brother contestant Germaine Greer was held prisoner in her own country home by a disturbed student.

In this version of events DEA plays feminist intellectual and writer Margot Mason who Atkins is at great pains to point out is not Germaine Greer. She has managed to get this across in her recent appearances on the chat show circuit despite interviewers only seem interested in her re-telling the story about turning down Colin Farrell’s sexual advances (You can see her telling the story to Jonathon Ross here).

Greer has seemingly taken great exception to everything about the play and the author voicing grand indignation at every turn. The playwright (who Greer has not met) is “an insane reactionary who boasts that she has not read a single feminist text” and the play (which Greer has not read or seen) is “threadbare”. Describing her reaction to an invitation from director Roger Michell to pop in for a chat, she said, “Pop in and chat? What kind of offer is that?” she said. “I’m a really busy person, whose time is precious. I will not waste it.”

None of which can have done the box office any harm.

Anyway, on viewing the play all the controversy evapourates: it is clear that Atkins Atkins is not playing Greer. Margaret Mason is an academic and writer who found fame writing an iconic feminist book called The Cerebral Vagina and becomes a hostage in her own country home when she’s visited by a disturbed student, Molly (Anna Maxwell Martin - excellent; completely forgiven for Cabaret). There isn’t a single mention of Celebrity Big Brother. Greer can relax - the Whingers could see no similarity at all.

There’s plenty to enjoy, many of the lines are funny (Madame Ovary is a great title for a popular feminist tract) but you do wonder how the writer is going to keep the conceit running as other characters (Mason’s daughter, son-in-law, publisher and a taxi driver) are introduced to the hostage situation.

Actually it’s done very adroitly. And the arguments - contrary to Greer’s assumptions - are not about feminism, but about the responsibility of authors to their readers. Mason’s philosophy - like Greer’s - has changed over the years, but the dogma of each book is fixed forever - the equivalent of speaking one’s thoughts carelessly aloud.

But it is really “just” a comedy (and, as Atkins has pointed out, quite different from her last comedy in that this one is funny) and the action fizzes along brightly between prisoner and captor until Mason’s daughter Tess (Sophie Thompson) arrives and completely steals the show.

But then the entire cast is good and everyone makes their mark - even Con O’Neill as a surprisingly articulate taxi driver who doesn’t even appear until the last 15 minutes. Ditto the wonderful Sam Kelly as Mason’s publisher who is squeezed into the last moments of the play.

The Whingers’ proximity to the stage resulted in a gun brandished inches from their noses (millimeteres in Andrew’s case) during an on-stage grapple. Had the cast seen them taking notes? Did Dame Eileen give the nod to take the Whingers out? Thankfully the play had no interval so there had been no opportunity for anyone to replace the blanks with live ammunition.

Greer may be frothing at the mouth at a play “inspired by” a terrible incident in her life but perhaps she should be more concerned by how much equality is taken for granted these days and how little feminism is discussed, especially given that the bunny girl is about bounce back as the Playboy Club is planning to make a comeback. Perhaps she ought to go and see it after all.

Phil is hoping that Late Review will get Greer back on the reviewing panel (he’s missing her anyway) and send her along to get her thoughts, but that’s clearly not going to happen, and seems unlikely that after this the programme will even touch it with a ten foot barge pole.

Greer’s sulk may be entertaining, but so is The Female of the Species and we cautiously recommend it as a very enjoyable way of passing an evening in the West End. Give DEA a wave from us.

Ticket Tips

* The Whingers acquired day seats for the marvellously bargainous sum of for £15. Strangely, these are not mentioned anywhere on The Female of the Species website but they go on sale at the Vaudeville Theatre box office from 10am. They are in the front row and the Whingers were warned that, “they’re very close” (the seats to the stage that is, not the Whingers to each other). The Whingers personally feel they can never be too close to a Dame of the British Empire. But if you have the choice, avoid the seats stage-left.

At time of writing The Female of the Species is also on the Tkts Booth Leicester Square and the newly opened one at Brent Cross, £47.50 reduced to £26.25.

There now Charles Spencer, you can’t say “I don’t think they’re very helpful” about the Whingers anymore can you?**

** Although, actually, it was ordinary-member-of-the-public Graham who found out about the day seats. He’s the helpful one really.

Always an early riser, Andrew has spent hours this morning counting his column inches over and over again and feeling rather self-satisfied at the result.

Yes, today’s Observer features a very long feature by food critic Jay Rayner entitled “Is it curtains for critics?” (geddit?) about an imagined battle between newspaper critics and bloggers.

Andrew is very proud indeed because the entire article was probably written with his pen which Jay Rayner still hasn’t returned following their night out.

Phil was up slightly later and at the time of writing has not read it all although he has read the bit about the West End Whingers three times. This is only partly in order to satisfy himself that there is nothing in it which might alarm his mother.

Highlights of the piece include this lovely quote from Charles Spencer of the Telegraph on the West End Whingers:

‘I don’t think they’re very helpful, Mildly entertaining, I suppose, but that brand of camp humour doesn’t do it for me. They’re not really critics. The last thing of theirs I read was them whingeing about squeaky seats at the Old Vic.’

We love you, Charlie!

The general view of the newspaper critics seems to be that to be a useful critic you have to be very old and have experienced a lot of whatever you are writing about - a theory instantly undermined by a cursory examination of Phil (whose “early rising days” are long behind him).

But there was nonetheless a highlight for Phil as the Whingers are described as being “middle-aged”. For the record, Jay Rayner is “about the same age” as Andrew.

Phil feels he’s found a new friend (and contemporary) in dance critic Clement Crisp (76) who says “I don’t really understand the beastly internet”. But is worried that Jay Rayner thought that there was “quite a lot of alcohol” the evening Jay accompanied them to the theatre. Phil thought they were being quite restrained, it seems the youth of today just can’t take it.

We also greatly enjoyed meeting book reviewer and recent fellow Enid Bagnold convert Lynne Hatwell.

Lowlights include the photograph for which the Whingers were made to wear tragedy masks. Still, it was an improvement on the first photoshoot in which they were handed one comedy mask and one tragedy mask which led us to believe that no-one had actually bothered looking at the blog. Which says it all really.

For some reason misguided souls often solicit the Whingers’ opinions and ask, “what’s really worth seeing?”

That’s sweet. But “friends” (and not in the Donmar sense of the word) actually ask us that. They say, “have you seen anything good lately?”. The Whingers smile indulgently before snapping back not to be so lazy and to go and look at our blog. We don’t write it all up for a hobby, you know. Well, actually we do. But we regret we are unable to enter into individual correspondence.

But really, as if we have any idea of whether anything’s good or not.

Now had they asked us where to get the cheapest wine, which theatres to avoid because of unreserved seating policies, which have (or used to have) the creakiest seats or which auditorium will elicit the most comfortable snooze for Andrew, we should probably be their first port of call.

But as to theatrical quality, does anyone really trust our over-inflated, prejudiced and vainglorious opinions?

Yet despite this, over the years friends, acquaintances, royalty, Dames of the British Empire, “men and women who seek refuge in the UK” and ambassadors (believe it or not that one is actually true) have all sought the Whingers’ seal of approval before they hand over their hard-earned (in some cases) boodle. And the answer is usually quite simple…

…not very much.

And if it as good as The Chalk Garden then it’s probably sold out anyway (day seats available). But at least Enid Bagnold gave the Whingers an opportunity to stop repeating Hairspray like a mantra when asked to recommend something. Indeed, The Chalk Garden is the new Hairspary.

For the rest:

The Pitman Painters was the Whingers’ second most successful theatre outing this year and amazingly this was at the National’s Cottesloe theatre.

We were more than thrilled when actor Ian “I don’t usually read reviews but…” Kelly was moved to answer our questions about his artistry.

It’s story of a group of miners doing an art class in the 1930s and it’s very good. Thankfully it is returning to the National Theatre in 2009. Booking opens 23 July.

For anyone whose appetite for theatre-going has been poisoned by Gone With The Wind - The Musical! there is a very effective antidote to hand in the form of the screwball comedy about the writing of the Gone With the Wind screenplay.

Moonlight and Magnolias has returned (albeit briefly and with 50% new cast) to the Tricycle. Yes, we know it’s in Kilburn and that certain tickets result in a very confusing unreserved seating scrum but it’s actually worth it. It ends 2nd August.

The Whingers have been pretty much pilloried for saying that the National Theatre of Scotland’s Black Watch at the Barbican is very, very good indeed when apparently what we should have said is “it’s the best thing ever to be staged in the history of the world”. It isn’t, but we acknowledge that it is very, very good indeed. Closes 20 July.

Thanks to the recent announcement by Usher 75 that the objectionably loud music problem has been solved, we can finally recommend Fat Pig at the Trafalgar Studios until 6 September.

The Whingers surprised themselves last year by actually enjoying a play (Saint Joan) by that avuncular old windbag George Bernard Shaw and continue their Shavian love-in with the enjoyable Pygmalion currently at the Old Vic.

This passionate affair showed no sign of abating with the excellent Major Barbara (which has unfortunately finished) at the National Theatre.

But there’s still plenty of time to see the lively production of Thomas Middleton’s (or was it Cyril Tourneur? - the Whingers aren’t that bothered) The Revenger’s Tragedy (until 28 August) which stars one of the Whingers’ favourite actors Rory Kinnear.

He’ll be huge one day (remember you heard it here first) if the Whingers’ recommendation doesn’t finish him off first.

Finally, if you think Nazi parties are confined to to the basements of Chelsea there are plenty goose-stepping on the London stage, with many on display at the enjoyable (when it opened we couldn’t possibly vouch for it now) The Sound of Music at The Palladium.

And Marguerite not only features them in another (better than expected) musical but gives the audience an eyeful of Ruthie Henshall’s kazongas to (Nazi) boot.

And speaking of Nazis: just as that Ohr des Schweins Cabaret reaches its long overdue final performance, up pops Michael Frayn’s truly appalling new play Afterlife, which, like The Sound of Music, charts the Anschluss but sadly with less insight and more tiresome verse replacing the songs.

But if you can’t get anough of Nazi atrocities, hang on until November when the Warsaw Ghetto will be set to music in a new musical - Imagine This -at the recently vacated (by audiences) New London Theatre. The Whingers can only imagine.

It all started when Andrew and Phil were idly filling in time waiting for some production or other (possibly Daddy Cool) to finish so that they could go to the pub.

They were reduced to reading the bits you don’t normally read in the programme (i.e. everything apart from who’s been in Midsomer Murders) and found a crossword in the back. They can even still remember the first clue:

“Oh, what a lovely -” (3)

[By the way, do they still have those crosswords in programmes? We wouldn't be surprised if not. It always seemed like a rather brazen admission that one might be in search of alternative entertainment while trapped in a theatre auditorium; a bit like those colouring books they give out to children on long distance train journeys.]

Anyway, the Whingers found themselves inspired and have been working feverishly ever since on their crossword during moments when they had nothing better to do (we got loads done during Fram) and here - a mere 18 months later - is the result of their exertions: a proper crossword with cryptic clues and everything!

So next time you are going to the theatre, take our advice: print off this PDF and take it with you - just in case the show turns out to be a bit on the dull side.

What’s more - there’s a prize for the first correct entry. We’re not sure what it is yet but it may be one of the much sought-after West End Whingers Snow Globes:

Or something of equal value.

Or possibly a night out with the West End Whingers themselves (worth considerably less).

It depends on whether we like the sound of you or not.

Anyway, to enter: either print off and fill in the PDF, then scan it. Or just write down the answers. Either way, send the results to prizecrossword@westendwhingers.net

THE FIRST WEST END WHINGERS CROSSWORD

Across
8/28    A great actress, but somehow I end much jaded.
( 4,4,5 )
9    Harold has a beer in front of the queen. ( 6 )
10    Tangled toga suggests an alternative to Sylvia. ( 4 )
11    On reflection, part of the effectiveness of a choreographer. ( 5 )
12    Get role by knocking back gin, for example. ( 4 )
13/16    Halo poisoned with strychnine for artistic director.
( 8,6 )
18    Dreary drama. Andrew forlorn. Ends… with this? ( 4 )
20    Queues formed lacking energy to see play. ( 5 )
21    Furthermore, Salome dances without me. ( 4 )
22    Farce doubles up high flyer. ( 6 )
23    Playwright found in one’s top. Pardon! ( 8 )
26    Bad time for Caesar - dies horribly! ( 4 )
28    See 8
30    Arse not shown, but artistes titillated - with these? ( 4 )
31    Did 39 steps! Need tea and bun to get over it. ( 6 )
32    Not all liberal arts become cheesy things. ( 8 )

Down
1    Erratic CIA job for Derek. ( 6 )
2    Corrupt play. ( 4 )
3    Take Homer out and revise rule of thumb for quantity of ice cream. ( 6 )
4    Here the orchestras are terrible. ( 4 )
5    Monologues bearing fruit to the audience. ( 8 )
6    Pans awful 1974 VD comedy with Maggie Smith and Barrie Ingham. Me too! ( 4 )
7    Asks how it went. Pants! But not any more? ( 8 )
14    Miss Saigon and end up here? ( 5 )
15    Drunk, left in USSR and is audibly affected by the vodka, say. ( 5 )
17    Estragon or Vladimir, say, found in vehicle at Phil’s opening. ( 5 )
19    Duo groan distractedly at production’s endurance.
( 1,4,3 )
20    Need a gin cocktail in Swiss town. ( 8 )
24    Love the audibly Hart-less Rodgers? Not us. ( 6 )
25    Are OTT, mad, and go round in circles. ( 6 )

27    A London theatre’s hopeless so with Othello closes. ( 4 )
29    Inhabitant of Senor Alba’s and of a much smaller house.
( 4 )
30    Actor Stephens intermittently took note, yes. ( 4 )

Yet another fussing letter the other day from from Michael Grandage and Kate Mitchell at the Donmar Warehouse.

It is one of the benefits of friendship.

Regular readers may recall that the Donmar’s friendship programme comes in levels of friendship: Props, Lights, Costumes and Scenery and that the West End Whingers have hitherto always opted for the lowest level of friendship (much as they do in real life).

Anyway, the letter announces that although the price of the Props membership level will remain at a minimum donation of £30 a year, these friends will now only be able to purchase up to two tickets per production as opposed to the four.

But in a masterstroke of marketing aimed squarely at the West End Whingers a new membership level has been introduced which offers four tickets per production. It is called “Wigs”.

The cost of this new friendship would be £50.

We have to say that we’re almost tempted…

Oh dear. How did we come to get so utterly out of our depth?

It seems that only yesterday the Whingers were paddling about on the comforting, crumbling shores of London’s famous West End Theatreland, waving happily at the occasional Dame of the British Empire through a proscenium arch and squealing with delight.

But on Monday night they found themselves sucked by the fierce undertow of the blogosphere into altogether choppier waters - the fringe. More fearsomely, into a storm of political fringe theatre: Unstated: Stories of Refuge at the Southwark Playhouse.

The security of their fourth-wall water-wings were torn violently from their scrawny arms even before it started…

Andrew joined Phil for a pre-show drink with a real cob on. “I don’t think I’m really in the mood for this,” he sighed, throwing what he imagined to be a look of engaging fatigue in Phil’s direction.

“Why?” snapped Phil, having none of it.

It transpired that when Andrew had tried to pick the tickets up from the theatre box office 30 minutes in advance (like the good theatrical citizen that he is) he had been ordered to go outside and wait behind a white line in an attempt to treat him (and the rest of the audience; he wasn’t being singled out; or so he claims) like asylum-seekers are apparently treated.

Now for all producers and artistic directors out there: the Whingers don’t ‘do’ participation except in the most extreme circumstances. If Carol Channing or Eartha Kitt begged them to get up on the stage and provide their backing vocals they might just be persuaded. Well, actually they would be up there like a shot even though neither can hold anything that could remotely be called a tune. But that’s not the point.

Anyway, determined not to allow Andrew to get out of it (it had been Andrew’s idea in the first place) Phil decided to cut his nose off to spite Andrew.

“Oh no we must do it - we must participate fully.”

And so it came to pass that Andrew and Phil turned up to be interrogated, searched (Phil insisted on this. Twice) and forced to sign forms before being admitted to the Southwark Playhouse to pick up the tickets.

Phil got into his role by pretending not to understand what the immigration officer was saying on the grounds that as one of the “men and women who seek refuge in the UK” (asylum seeker is now a disparaging term, apparently) he might very well not speak English.

Andrew was finding it much harder to get into character although eventually agreed to sign the form, albeit under the name of Lyn Gardner.

The hapless immigration officer was clearly growing tired of the Whingers and in the end waved them through, no doubt concerned that the curtain would never go up at this rate.

Well, we say “curtain”…

Anyway, once inside they were finger-printed (Andrew suddenly felt very at home), photographed and issued with identity cards. Phil decided to sign his “Nicholas de Jongh“. Which is probably as close as they’ll get to having an Evening Standard critic putting up with this palaver.

The next stage of the process involved the audience milling about in an airport waiting area and - although there was no WH Smith or Harrods - things did look up as it contained a bar which served two large glasses of wine for just £5.40 (take note, Apollo Theatre).

Yes, Southwark Playhouse might be treating you the full “men and women who seek refuge in the UK” experience but they’re still going to make money at the bar. Although presumably not much.

So anyway, as the decidedly worthy audience stood around sipping their drinks a woman was suddenly dragged screaming into their midst by officers before being dragged off to to be locked up. This was quite harrowing as Andrew’s wine nearly went flying in the fracas. Phil was merely relieved that the woman had been taken away and he could continue gossiping. “That’s quite enough of that” he remarked, taking another gulp of wine.

But the respite was brief. After a speech by a government minister on how this new terminal would help prevent unwanted immigration (which, contrary to the suggestions of the programme notes, was presumably not verbatim) the audience was shunted into a ‘removal centre’ with a large cage inside it.

Phil was chosen (with a few others) to be taken off into a separate room. Would he be interrogated? Abused? Have his wine taken from him?

No. Phil stood slurping his wine while looking at a bed-sit sized TV which was positioned on a plastic chair showing filmed testimonies of “men and women who seek refuge in the UK”.

The trouble was that as much as he pretended to be listening (the audience of NW somethings were looking terribly earnest so Phil attempted to look the part) he couldn’t hear a thing as the sound of the testimonies from the main room was drowning it out. Thank god Andrew wasn’t selected. Famous for ‘not doing’ TV, he would have been mortified.

Released back into the wild, Phil noticed Andrew sitting on a chair looking somewhat désolé. Indeed, the “men and women who seek refuge in the UK” seemed to be having a much better time than Andrew.

More filmed testimonies were screened interspersed by repetition of rather obvious phrases like, “My work permit was taken away” and “I became destitute” from actors writhing on the floor. One was holding a Ham and High newspaper, presumably to help the NW somethings feel more at home. Nothing like preaching to the liberals.

The testimonies of famous human rights activists such as Helena Kenedy QC were broadcast to show that it wasn’t just the “men and women seeking refuge in the UK” who thought they were being unfairly treated. It was British people too.

And the result of all this hectoring? Disturbing. Deeply disturbing. The Whingers could feel their hitherto unknown inner Richard Littlejohns bursting for a say. How frightening is that? Surely that wasn’t the intention?

This is assuredly the most difficult review the West End Whingers have ever had to type (not that they have to do anything, it’s true) not least because the writer of this piece is Fin Kennedy who has been to two West End Whingers parties (and very few people come to more than one, it has to be said).

Toby Young asked Where have all the right-wing playwrights gone? and the West End Whingers’ new best friend (although check with us about that again on Sunday) Jay Rayner asked where are the voices of the right?

We are sure that Fin Kennedy would be appalled to think that this production might well make him a candidate for the answer to those questions but what liberal could not be pushed to the right by this completely unbalanced denial of any issues other than individual suffering?

Full disclosure here: the Whingers do have some interest in the topic. Phil’s family is descended from Huguenots who (as Helena Kennedy pointed out) were immigrants to Britain. Andrew’s right to express an opinion is rather less clear although he was recently very inconvenienced when his Brazilian cleaner was deported for outstaying her visa.

But surely it cannot be true that the terrible ills and injustices of the world can be solved by moving everyone living under a repressive regime to a different country. Is it? Is it really that straightforward?

What a responsibility. The Whingers are pleased that they are not in charge because they do not have answers to these difficult questions (although they do know that their first action on getting into Number 10 would be to revoke the 24 hour drinking laws and replace them with 48 hour drinking laws) but the point is that these are difficult and complex issues which deserve to be examined from all angles.

Phew. So where does that leave the Whingers?

Well, chastened and upset.

And determined never - but never - to go to the theatre ever again until they can once again wave at a Dame of the British Empire through a proscenium arch in a crumbling West End theatre. And that’s a promise.

“Dear ENO. The West End Whingers would love to see Candide but their policy of paying to see West End shows has reduced them almost to penury and an ENO ticket might well push them over the edge. As both are adamant that they never want to shop at Lidl, they are reduced to begging for two excellent press seats. Andrew has two cats to support and Phil has a very expensive Night Nurse habit.”

Yes, it’s pathetic, but that’s the credit crunch for you. And with stalls seats at £83.00, what can you do?

Fortunately the ENO came up trumps and offered the Whingers FREE seats - “on this occasion”.

Unfortunately the reviews came out the very next day:

• “Loud, brash, heavy-handed and leaving little to the imagination” Evening Standard
• “What a load of camp old cobblers” The Times

Too late. The trap had snapped shut.

But with the best possible wills in the world (and, it must be said, feeling rather grand) the Whingers took themselves off to the opera.

Now the Whingers don’t really do opera, but Candide has always fallen somewhat between the two stools (snigger) of opera and musical and splits the difference as “comic operetta”.

Worse still, the Whingers don’t really do optimism and since Voltaire’s Candide (full title Candide or Optimism) is about that dread word Andrew was approaching it with a heavily pessimistic heart (presumably that is what pumps the alcohol round his body). Only the fact that contributors to the lyrics include Lillian Hellman (original co-creator with the Leonard Bernstein), Dorothy Parker and Stephen Sondheim was off-setting his horror at learning of the 3¼ hour advertised running time.

Phil was in far less pessimistic mode. He loves the score and saw both the excellent Scottish Opera production at the Old Vic with Patricia Routledge and the almost-as-good National Theatre production with Simon Russell Beale, Daniel Evans, Denis Quilley and WEW favourite Myra Sands, among others.

Would the Whingers find this Candide the best of all possible Candides?

Set in 1956 inside a giant TV set (Channel Volt-Air - geddit?) the brilliant overture is set against Technicolor footage of the period showing commercials, domestic scenes, space travel and the Kennedys with Saul Bass-inspired credits over the top.

It’s an impressive - almost overwhelming - opening and visually the show keeps this extravagant standard up throughout. Michael Levine’s sets are fascinating (particularly the forced perspective of TVs within TVs which could so easily have given Andrew one of his heads), there are endless costume changes, a massive orchestra and a cast of nearly 60 - you don’t get that in West End Musicals these days.

In fact, there was so much to enjoy here that it’s difficult to single out the highlights. Alex Jennings seems to be on stage practically all the time (he plays three parts: Voltaire, American tutor Pangloss and road-sweeper Martin) and is absolutely fantastic.

And no musical can really call it self complete without a comic old lady part and fortunately Candide features the scene-stealing Beverley Klein.

Toby Spence is superbly dignified as Candide and Marnie Breckenridge (who confusingly has taken over from Anna Christy, right, in the role of Cunegarde (oops) Cunegonde) is simply terrific.

Now call us philistines, but the trouble with opera singers is that it’s frequently impossible to make out the words. If they were singing the usual opera stuff (”I’m dying, I’m dying” etc) then you would probably get the gist so it wouldn’t matter very much.

But these are often clever, witty or surprising lyrics - “Jehovah could not pardon all / The sins that we call cardinal”, for example; and when was the last time you heard the words “Quod erat demunstrandum” in a song? Thankfully, there are surtitles over the stage - but it’s quite a strain on the neck and it must be very distracting for the cast to see the audience nodding violently. Perhaps opera singers mistake this for mass nods of approval which would explain why they milk the (albeit deserved) applause at the end with such drawn-out curtain calls. Phil in particular was getting quite agitated as the loss of valuable drinking time as each group or character was brought on for their individual plaudits. But then that, the Whingers suppose, is the world of opera for you (Incidentally, you can’t take drinks in the Coliseum auditorium - what’s that all about?).

Ironically, it’s the excellent Alex Jennings (an ENO virgin) who is the only one who can be heard clearly throughout.

Now, perceptive readers may have noticed that the Whingers have so far skilfully circumvented explaining what Candide is about.

This is because Candide is a mess. It always has been a mess by all accounts and this ENO / La Scala, Milan / Théâtre du Châtelet, Paris is even messier. While the Whingers (unlike many of the critics) didn’t generally have any problem with the updated setting of 1950s America (complete with Marilyn Monroe and Some Like it Hot references), the production does push the boundaries into complete nonsense at times: it begins in the Kennedys’ Camelot but then moves to the New World, for example. And the satirical swipes at Tony Blair, Putin et al are heavy handed (and already feel dated despite some last minute alterations to the script).

Heavy-handed too is the utterly downbeat environmental message at the finale which for Phil slightly spoiled the impressive - even spine-tingling - choral singing. Really, you can’t expect to tack a serious message about the end of the world onto a load of camp old cobblers and expect to get away with it.

But none of this really bothered the Whingers - they quickly adjusted into “wash over” mode and let every inconsistency and non-sequiteur pass them by, allowing themselves to be absorbed by the excellence of the music, the top-notch performances and the general opulence of the production.

And it all turned out to be a cynical take on optimism anyway, of which the Whingers thoroughly approve.

Would they have whinged more had they paid £83 a piece for their tickets? Probably, but they are not the sort to pay £83 for tickets in the first place so - in terms of philosophical reasoning- is a fallacy.

Footnote

Before the curtain went up, the sur-title player was telling people to switch off their mobile phones and pagers (most people did) and to “Write a review!” at www.eno.org/eno_interactive/

Perhaps not surprisingly most of the reviews are very positive:

• “This version of Candide really blew my socks off” Andrea
• “I’ll be recommending this show. Audacious, overwhelming and a thoroughly stimulating night at the theatre.” Martin
• “This show is a must” Augusta (aged 12)
• “Rarely have I seen such an exquisite production that transcends the boundaries of opera and musical theatre to create a unique, hybrid sound and visual was one of the most compelling things I have ever seen on the London stage and certainly at ENO.” Adele
• “My only regret is that Leonard Bernstein is not alive to have seen it. I doubt if he could improved upon your production - and he would have loved it.” Graham

But amid all this gushing is a review by a very promising would-be Whinger by the name of Julian:

The overture was played without any sophistication or sufficient attendance to orchestral balance; the percussion was all too often allowed its head and the score sometimes sounded blowsy, which it is not.

The singers were all miked, chiefly because the dialogue would otherwise have been indecipherable. Also it allowed the principles to sing from upstage, far away from the audience, which became a real irritation. The whole cast was asked to adopt American accents, which most found beyond them.

Full marks to the ENO for its even-handedness. Watch and learn, Greta.

Well, yes, we know what they mean but even so …

Thanks to Igor for permission to use this pic.

It’s a common enough phenomenon in the performing arts that certain people just like to work together. As artistic and intellectual equals (albeit from different disciplines) they are constantly challenging each other in order to scale ever more inventive and creative heights.

They are symbiotic muses, if you will.

One immediately thinks of Roberto Rosselini and Ingrid Bergman, Tim Burton and Johnny Depp, Matthew Bourne and Lez Brotherston, Bill Kenwright and Jenny Seagrove, John Noakes and Shep.

Another example, in Andrew’s mind anyway, is the powerful artistic association that he has with theatre maker and blogger Andy Field.

Here they are together at last night’s VIP launch of Hide and Seek, “the festival of social games and playful experiences” running in London from the 27th to the 29th of June 2008

Above: Andy Field and Andrew share a quiet moment at a VIP launch (photograph from the author’s private collection)

But it wasn’t all just flesh-pressing and free booze. Oh, no. Andy’s Checkpoint social game (which officially takes place on Saturday) was one of the VIP launch events and so it was no surprise when Andy called in some of his most reliable ensemble and promising newcomer Helen Smith.

Now regular readers may remember that Andy and Andrew’s creative association dates all the way back to last July when Andrew gave the performance of his life in The Day Out.

Then, just a month or so ago, that working relationship was cemented when Andrew took part in the seminal Brighton version of Exposures (”One of my most enjoyable evenings on the Fringe this year”, Lyn Gardner).

Now, to be honest, Andrew found this stressful rather than enjoyable as it brought out his competitive element and was determined to produce the most artistic photographs possible. His disquiet reached fever pitch when the film on the camera ran out (above) but reflecting on it now he realises that Andy F was just pushing him to achieve even greater things, as is the nature of such artistic relationships.

And so it was that he grew into Checkpoint. It’s a game in which a team of ordinary members of the public have to outwit a team of border guards in order to smuggle the contents of a living room from one part of the South Bank Centre to another.

An excellent idea but unfortunately the competitive nature of the piece encouraged the members of the public to cheat and Andrew’s response to this was merely to sulk. Anyway, here are some pictures from the event.

The border guards discuss strategy (Helen Smith is centre; Andrew pictured second from right).

Border guards on patrol for smugglers in the Royal Festival Hall.

A boarder guard challenges some possible smugglers (the clue is the rug draped over the man’s shoulder)

Busted! A woman with a hair brush.

Busted and booked.

The Whingers were quite prepared for Black Watch to confront them with the brutalities and the horrors of war but nothing had prepared them for the atrocity they faced on entering the auditorium: the National Theatre of Scotland’s production has converted the Barbican’s traditional(-ish) theatre into a traverse stage. Yes, the proscenium was still there, but the Whingers were actually sitting behind it or under it. They were very confused.

Now, regular readers will know that the Whingers oft-bemoan the absence of a proscenium arch and have been known to take an instant dislike to anything using “alternative” forms of staging: in the round, the square, thrust and - worst of all - traverse. So this was not a good start to the evening.

But even worse, the sound of bagpipes could be heard. Now, they may be a great source of Her Majesty’s pleasure; apparently she likes to have them screeching beneath her bedroom window in lieu of an alarm clock. But then when was Brenda ever accused of displaying good taste (we reserve to revise this opinion come the announcement of the New Years Honours List)?

The bagpipes could probably waken even Andrew from one of his legendary stalls slumbers; to the Whingers it’s akin to dragging their fingernails (if they actually had any; Phil has bitten his down to the quick) down a blackboard. Could things get any worse?

On the plus side the running time was advertised as an interval-free 1 hour 50 minutes and if you wanted to leave you “must be escorted by an usher”, and may not be allowed readmission. How exciting! Andrew hadn’t been escorted anywhere in years.This was a thrilling amelioration for the Whingers and had they not been so thoroughly absorbed by the piece they would certainly have put the regulations to the test.

Gregory Burke’s play - which received unanimous critical acclaim at the 2006 Edinburgh Festival and more 5 stars than an eighties R&B tribute band convention - is drawn from interviews with former soldiers from the Black Watch regiment about their experiences in Iraq. So this is one occasion where the Whingers won’t be accusing the writer of unrealistic dialogue.

Indeed, moving swiftly from pub pool room to battlefield the language is saltier than Phil’s infamous margarita parties. Poor Andrew nearly choked on his choc-ice when the c-word was first uttered, not having been this shocked since he saw Ruthie Henshall’s kazongas, but once he’d heard it two or three hundred times (these being Scottish soldiers) he became so innured that he’ll be adding it to his own whinging lexicon at the first available opportunity. It even has its own wikipedia entry, so that’s alright then.

The staging’s very impressive with enough flashing lights, explosions and loud music to keep a somnolent Andrew awake. The pool table from the opening scene becomes an integral part of the play doubling as a desert vehicle and undergoes an even more impressive transformation (which the Whingers won’t spoil) early in the play.

The multi-talented cast not only have to act, sing, march, dance, mime and perform physical theatre, one of them also has to play the bagpipes and presumably his understudy must, too. Yes, take note Sunday Times critic Christopher Hart, the Whingers may not like the skirl of pipes but the actor is playing them live, not miming, as Hart accused the excellent Julian Ovenden (the piano in his case) of doing in his review of Marguerite, (followed by an apology a week later). The Whingers of course made no such mistake in their Marguerite review. Next time check with the Whingers first, Mr Hart. Anyway, we don’t like to crow so we’ll say no more about it.

There’s a clever brief history of the Black Watch where a soldier’s costume is changed several times in a piece of physical theatre/dance which put Phil in mind of dance troupe DV8; in fact DV8 and their like seem to have quite a lot to answer for in Black Watch, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Bits of it even put Andrew in mind of an Agnes de Mille dream ballet sequence.

There was almost one outstanding highlight to the evening when Phil was on the point of speed-dialling Claims Direct after his own theatrical first - being hit by a prop. But fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your point of view) he emerged physically unscathed; but possibly even more enfeebled mentally.

There was also an odd and half-remembered whiff to the evening - something the Whingers vaguely recognised but couldn’t quite put their tremulous finger on. They decided in the wine bar afterwards that it must have been testosterone.

As they mulled their experiences over with Tim (who doesn’t drink but was very patient) and Helen (who quite assuredly does) they realised they couldn’t quite pin down their mood. Everything in it was done very well, but it somehow it seemed to add up to slightly less than the sum of its parts.

The only explanation for the almost universal five-star raves at Edinburgh seemed to be one of context. If you had seen 87 rubbish shows in two days beforehand Black Watch would indeed seem like a beacon of quality theatre. But if on the other hand you had recently seen The Chalk Garden you might - quite counter-intuitively we admit - think that Black Watch was a bit, well, done-before.

Ultimately the Whingers weren’t even sure what the point of Black Watch was. To show the horrors of war, to expose it’s awfulness? War is bad but our lads are brave and they are real people and Tony Blair was a bastard?

Or maybe it was simply to show that traverse staging can work sucessfully and here the Whingers agree that it was the best use of it they’d seen, possibly even topping Ben Yeo’s Nakamitsu.

Perhaps a question posed by one of the soldiers was the key to it: “Do actors get a lot of fanny?” If you’re a proud posessor of an equity card please pass on your cogitations to the Whingers.

Footnotes

• Black Watch may claim it’s “a visceral, complex and urgent piece of theatre”, but one of the first things the programme urgently tells you about the production reads: “We would like to remind you that we have a range of quality ice creams, chocolate and other confectionery available for purchase in the foyer.” Visceral indeed.
• Black Watch has successfully toured the world since its Edinburgh debut but has struggled to find a suitable London home, enjoyably turning down an invitation from Nicholas Hytner, the artistic director of the National Theatre, who said Black Watch had made him “respectful, admiring and envious”. Splendid.

Don’t know how we missed, this. Thank you for bringing it to our attention Chris.

Welcome to “Blowings Off”, the West End Whingers’ exciting new round-up of who’s saying what on the Interweb. We will be publishing it every week when we can be bothered.

This week: What is Greta Scacchi on and where can we get some?

In an interview in The Times this week (which doesn’t sound at all as though it was ghosted by a sub-editor as a result of a telephone conversation or dictated to a member of the PR team) Ms Scacchi (currently in The Deep Blue Sea at the Vaudeville) bemoans the fact that straight plays can’t compete for attention with musicals in the West End and comes up with a solution:

So I was talking to a friend about what to do about it, and we came up with an idea. We decided to give the audience questionnaires, asking them to comment on what they’ve just seen.

Nica Burns, our producer, was very keen to try it out, she came up with the questions, and we’ve been leaving them on the seats of the Vaudeville. There are six in all, asking such things as: “This play has been called a ‘modern masterpiece’, one critic called it ‘dated’. What do you think?”; “On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate this production?”; and “How would you describe it to a friend?”

I haven’t read the responses - I don’t think it’s that wise for actors to do so during a run - but I know that audiences have been responding in droves. Some are taking them home and posting them back to the theatre.

This is still a germ of an idea, evolving from seed, but Nica and other members of the Society of London Theatres (SOLT) are so, so interested by it. It absolutely isn’t an attempt to topple the critical establishment. Our critics provide some of the most brilliant analysis and honest personal opinion anywhere. But it’s an attempt to give more power to the word-of-mouth response of audiences.

And it would be fantastic if everyone knew there was a website where the responses were collected. It would let you know immediately, when you were looking to find out what’s on, what other audiences thought about it. It would have to be run by an independent body such as SOLT, and be very fair, authentic and trustworthy rather than just producers trying to sell their own shows. And at the same time, it could provide genuine ticket-office numbers for the shows, to tackle the huge problem of criminal ticket sellers in London overcharging people or lying about what’s available purely on the basis of what they have to sell.

It’s a very small idea, I know, and a very new one. But my hope is that the questionnaires might fight back a bit against the massive marketing manoeuvres of the West End musicals, to give good, straight plays in the West End more of a chance by harnessing the power of the word of mouth. Whether it works or not in the long term, I don’t know. Right now, we’re just running with it. We’ll have to see where it takes us.

We just can’t wait to see this “fair, authentic and trustworthy” website; moreover we are rushing off to the Vaudeville so that we can fill in the questionnaire and wait for our responses to appear there. So, you see, it is already putting bums on seats.

In the meantime, some questions:

• Genius, but why has no-one thought before of setting up a website which tells people whether something’s good or not based on having seen it?
• Do germs really evolve from seed?
• In what sense is SOLT “independent”? (Use both sides of the paper if necessary). When was the last time you saw something negative about a production on their website?
• Will all comments be posted on this website then? Or only the good ones? Or only the bad ones? Or just a cross-section (of good ones)?
• Do musicals really have an unfair advantage? Try telling that to Gone With The Wind. The truth will out or, as the Whingers have proved time and time again, in vino veritas.
• Just to clarify: when you talk about “criminal ticket sellers in London overcharging people or lying about what’s available purely on the basis of what they have to sell” are you talking about touts or the theatres?
• And, incidentally, if theatres really cared about who sold the tickets wouldn’t they be clamping down on domains such as vaudeville-theatre.co.uk which is not the Vaudeville Theatre’s website but London Direct Theatre’s. Honestly, we’re beginning to think that theatres don’t care, just as long as someone is selling their tickets.

Well, what kind of review can a production expect when it is advertised to start at 8pm, has unreserved seating requiring you start queueing at 7.45pm and finally admits you into the auditorium at 8.25pm without apology or explanation.

And  - even though it is only 90 minutes long - you get out at 10pm and have to find your way home from Shephards Bush.

It also features Ian Hart whose interview in The Times this week started thus:

Theatre fans, Ian Hart has something to tell you. “I hate theatre. I hate doing it. And it’s not the medium I wish to work in.” It gets worse. The 43-year-old firebrand actor, who is midway through rehearsals on Anthony Weigh’s controversial paedophile drama 2,000 Feet Away, hates you, too. “I hate the audience,” he says, over chicken Caesar salad in a South London café.

“I have a big problem with the audience. I don’t feel the desire to engage them. Which is what theatre is all about.”

So, it’s written by Anthony Weigh, directed by Josie Rourke and also stars Joseph Fiennes. Some people are quite good in it and the play’s OK in some ways. But it’s sold out anyway.

Half an hour of standing in this, then a play.

In spite of many unsolicited entreaties, the Whingers have never considered having facial surgery.

Andrew and Phil have convinced themselves that their copious lines attractively describe lives fully-lived and display character. The many grooves and crannies have been etched into their faces over many years of impatiently sitting in darkened auditoriums (though not this particular evening - see below) watching bad theatre, learning of National Theatre running times and, just occasionally, from laughter.

The only “lifts” they hanker after are those that might result in better sight-lines at the Old Vic; the only “cuts” they entertain are those which should be made to plays which ramble on far beyond the limits of the Whingers’ ever-receding attention spans.

But Marius von Mayenburg’s The Ugly One at the Royal Court can’t be accused of needing a nip and tuck: not only does it come in at a sparse 55 minutes, but everything else has been pared down to the bone too.

There’s no set, the back walls of the stage are exposed and the general detritus that occupies a backstage area is in full view. A few tatty bench seats which the actors occupy throughout the play are all that constitutes the design although presumably - like a Tracy Emin bed or Andrew’s boudoir - this is all artfully considered mess (designer Jeremy Herbert). The house lights even remain on throughout the performance: is this to break down that pesky fourth wall between the audience and performer? Why? Perhaps they just couldn’t be bothered. Oh well, at least we had light by which to write and by which to read the programme.

We’ll run that by you again in case you weren’t paying attention: and by which to read the programme.

When did the Royal Court start doing programmes? Why weren’t we told? One used only to be able to pick up a free cast list or buy a copy of the “text”. But on Monday night you could also choose to buy a programme. How civilized. Biographies and three pictures which could have been of the rehearsal or the production - it would be impossible to tell in this production.

The printing was all black-on-white (no pink on black) and there was no Theatre Royal Haymarket gold embossing on the front and no eight page essay from Michael Frayn. The typeface was a bit on the small side for Phil’s eyes but you can’t expect miracles. And it was just one pound.

Anyway, this was a bit of a shock as this is definitely one of those “text” productions. No costumes, wigs and so on - or if there were they were so good that you couldn’t tell they were. In which case they were a bit of a waste of money.

Anyway, the enthusiastic reviews for The Ugly One had been enough to draw the Whingers back to the Royal Court after quite some absence - a hiatus which we shall put down to “artistic differences” and which this play will frankly do little to pour oil on.

Lette (Michael Gould - excellent) plays the titular character who is apparently so ugly that the company he works for forbids him from promoting his latest invention: the 2Ck high voltage connector.

So he resorts to surgery which makes him so handsome that even his wife, who had previously considered him hideous, is unable to resist him. Soon everyone wants to look like Lette and his surgeon Scheffler (Simon Paisley Day, also very good) is churning out Lette-likes even more prolifically than Matthew Warchus does in his busiest week.

The main trouble with it is that once you know the story (which you will if you’ve read any of the reviews, including this one) there isn’t much more to it.

So, we have a play about the superficiality of beauty (possibly, we weren’t sure) using none of the usual conventions of theatre to dress it up for an audience. Mmmm yes, very clever, but where’s the set? Come to that, where are the costumes? Call this theatre?

And where is the on-stage food? One character says “I’m peeling some fruit”, but he didn’t even seem to bother with miming the action. Phil was very confused, but saw a potential new chapter in his long overdue food-on-stage thesis.

The actors play multiple roles but all are called by the same names and played without changing their performance. For instance, Amanda Drew plays three roles: a wife, a surgeon’s assistant and a rich old lady, all called Fanny (insert your own joke here).

But after all these superficial ramblings were the Whingers impressed? Well not overly, they both agreed the acting was pretty good all round but had substantial reservations about the play. Was it the translation by Maja Zade? True, it ripped through the story at a fairly cracking pace but a lot of it sounded like it had suffered in translation - it’s one of those plays that you know is translated from something else even if you don’t know it. And the staccato dialogue (no-one ever seems to get to say more than one sentence at a time) gets very tiring.

As for being the “scalpel sharp comedy” that the publicity claims it to be, the Whingers jury was agreed that it didn’t really even get off the starting block. “You’ve got a face like stale mince” isn’t something the Whingers will be adding to their repertoire of bon mots even though Phil could think of at least one person he could readily apply it to. Perhaps their bon mot pantry is over-stocked at the moment as they are currently passing off Enid Bagnold’s sparkling dialogue in The Chalk Garden as their own, but that’s a bit unfair as nothing could live up to that.

And whilst the Whingers are all for brevity The Ugly One seemed slightly sketchy. It rips through themes of identity, the superficiality of beauty and materialism but even in its 55 minutes it succeeds in sounding repetitious and the closing. “I’ve missed me” dialogue was just plain irritating.

This is the play Phil confused with That Face thinking that this was the lauded Royal Court play about facial surgery (currently running at the Duke of Yorks) “It’s only 55 minutes” was Phil’s incorrect selling point when he tried to get Andrew to go and see That Face’s west end transfer. It’s an understandable mistake (well, to Phil anyway) The Ugly One could easily borrow it’s title.

The Whingers turned out into Sloane Square in full daylight with plenty of time for after-show drink to chew over the fat, or lack of rather, in The Ugly One.

Anyway, it was certainly life-changing so expect not to recognise the Whingers should you run into them soon. Andrew is off to get his face remodelled to look like Phil’s. Phil is going to invest an arm and a leg (Andrew’s of course not his own) in La Prairie skin cream and both Whingers are throwing away their once uber-fashionable fascinators (sooo old hat) and downsizing with the Fern Britton inspired latest must-have cosmetic accessory - gastric bands.

Footnote

The wine seemed to be very expensive indeed, even by London theatre bar standards: over £15 for two large glasses of Rioja. Can that be right? Sloane Square is rubbish for pubs but after the show we wandered around and found the Duke of Wellington a five minute walk away in a very posh neighbourhood but the drinks were half the price and you could sit outside. Don’t say this blog isn’t useful.

More bitter disappointment for the West End Whingers this week.

It’s bad enough that the Queen’s birthday honours overlooked - yet again - the Whingers’ tireless and selfless services to theatre. How long do we have to keep doing this, for goodness’ sake, before we get what’s coming to us? It’s getting to the point where we may well have to settle for a couple