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.

Rating

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.

Rating

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?

Rating

Well you don’t have to be Mystic Meg (whatever happened to her?*) to predict the Olivier Award winners at next year’s ceremony.

We’ve dusted off our crystal balls and see the Best Performance in a Supporting Role in a Musical Award forcing either Nigel Harman (Shrek) or Sharon D Clarke (Ghost) to clear a space on the mantlepiece for the trophy.

Now we’re adjusting our bespoke turbans to say the Best Actor in a Musical award is in the bag: one Bertie Carvel for his Miss Trunchbull. Likewise the Best Musical Award, which should go the way of The Evening Standard Awards earlier this week. And who knows, the final musical category could well be filled by the young gals who take the titular role in Matilda The Musical.

Of course we have only seen one Matilda but if Eleanor Worthington Cox is anything to go by the Oliviers could go down the Billy Elliot route and award it to the four who share the lead. Thank goodness Mrs Worthington Cox ignored Noel Coward’s advice and did put her daughter on the stage.

But perhaps musical moppets are the result of laboratory experiments these days. Where do they find them? Are they really adults grown and stunted like bonsai trees? The kiddie-winkies involved in this show are extraordinary. Where do they find such poise and confidence? They perform on swings and they dance on their school desks. Health and Safety officials must be getting into a right old tizzy.

One of them – Ted Wilson – was downright adorable. And these are words we never thought we’d write about any child. The audience were “oooing” all over the place. Phil even caught himself releasing an involuntary “awwwww” then quickly checked himself lest he find himself on a list.

But then Phil didn’t schlepp up to Stratford where this RSC production earned an uncharacteristically enthusiastic report from Andrew. So there was much to live up to.

The Whingers are of course far too old to have grown up with Roald Dahl‘s story of an over-bright child raised by grotesque uncaring telly-addicted parents (Josie Walker and Paul Kaye having great fun) who finds comfort in reading and a caring teacher Miss Honey (a delightful Lauren Ward).

So yes, it is all in place at the Cambridge Theatre now, the brilliant set (Rob Howell), the chirpily inventive choreography (Peter Darling), Matthew Warchus’ superbly creative direction, Dennis Kelly’s witty book and of course Mr Carvel’s hilariously evil headmistress who takes scene-stealing to absurd and dizzying new heights. See how he works every line, gasp as he vaults a gym horse, marvel at how he wrangles that extraordinary bosom.

Then there are the music and lyrics by the brilliant Tim Minchin. Now on the strength of what the Whingers could make out they are playful, sparky and catchy. But they are too often drowned out by the band when the ensemble sings. Very little of the lyrics to the opening number “Miracle” could be heard. Would the sound be hastily sorted out? No. A brilliantly staged number involving the alphabet and climbing of the school gates suffered similarly with only some of the clever lyrics identifiable.

This didn’t stop the audience whooping and hollering. They were clearly pumped up (in both senses: the Whingers seemed to be surrounded by chorus boys) and a standing ovation was on the cards whatever happened. The Whingers were happy to struggle to their feet but we do hope that the sound problems will be sorted by the time you go and see it. We would go again in a trice and not just to catch what we missed.

Some of it is very funny and some of it quite moving (little wet things appeared in the corners of Andrew’s eyeballs at the end) and Andrew was (again) rather shaken by the strangely sad overtones of the bittersweet “When I Grow Up”.

The Whingers decamped (if that’s the word) to The Crown public house on Seven Dials to celebrate their enthusiasm. But their theatre chit-chat was somewhat overshadowed by the appearance of one David Cameron who dropped in for what was apparently a post-footie match quickie. Surreal. Andrew took some convincing. “Is it really him?” The Whingers were flummoxed. Neither ever expected to find themselves sharing a hostelry with an incumbent Prime Minister. “Or is it just a good-looking version of him?” the Whingers wondered. Which is just weird and frankly cast a bit of a pall over the celebrations.

*She’s at The Sun apparently. She was at the News of the World until its demise, but presumably she saw that coming.

Rating

Even with the sound problems this remains a must-see.

It was Phil’s turn this time. Shouldn’t Reasons To Be Pretty be Reasons to be Pretty, arguing that Ian Drury’s song “Reasons to be Cheerful” opts for lower case on the copula verb? When the play first appeared in New York in 2008 LaBute seemed To Be taking no chances, dropping the upper case completely by opting for reasons to be pretty. Gosh, everyone seems confused. Some think it’s Reasons to Be Pretty.

But are we arguing about physical appearance rather than content? This is what Lord Harold Fritz-Liberty (Mr LaBute’s Royal Wedding name) is tackling again in the third of his trilogy of plays on the subject. Phil had previously enjoyed the twisted The Shape of Things (also Almeida when it decamped to King’s Cross) and both Whingers were very taken by his Fat Pig.

This has an opening Cecil B DeMille might of approved of. Didn’t he want a film that opened with an earthquake that built up to a climax? RTBP  opens with a young couple Greg (Tom Burke) and Steph (Siân Brooke) mid-row, initially teasing us by not revealing the cause of this ferocious expletive riven argument. Four-letter words abound and the Whingers were glad they didn’t bring their mothers.

Steph has been told something that Greg has said about her by her friend Carly (Billie Piper). Carly is married to the macho Kent (Kieran Bew) who is also Greg’s warehouse worker colleague, friend and all round shit. Be careful what you share with friends. The burden of knowledge proves To Be a dangerous thing.

Intially taking the LaBute signature cynical take on relationships the most shocking revelation here is that he seems to be on a slightly more compassionate course than usual. Has LaBute found reasons To Be cheerful himself?

Andrew complained at the interval that he’s a bit over listening to people not finishing their sentences. Phil found this naturalistic, certainly in the Whingers’ cases. They’re always finishing each others’, usually because as they grapple for the right word the other will step in and lend a hand to complete the thought. The lines can’t be easy to learn, let alone perform, to make them sound realistic. The cast are all so good under Michael Attenborough‘s direction the dialogue flows most satisfactorily.

But the Whingers did agreed that Brooke (who is quite terrific here) is probably too attractive for her role as the victim of Greg’s “insult”. But perhaps that’s partly the point.

Act 2 works best in a set of scenes where the interaction is between just 2 characters. A scene where Steph and Greg meet at an Italian restaurant has a touch of Private Lives about it and a later scene between the two is equally effective. Carly’s interrogation of Greg proves that if anyone has any doubts about Piper’s acting abilities they should be completely exorcised here: she’s excellently nuanced and convincing. Andrew’s favourite was a splendidly played, tense scene between the two chaps on the baseball field.

Soutra Gilmour’s versatile haulage container set is extremely clever although its revolving scene changes a tad cumbersome but these are managed with very agreeable snatches of Queen songs which underscore the goings on rather appropriately. The Whingers shared an unusual moment of synchronicity at the end with this reminder of the Queen cannon’s magnificence. Why haven’t they ever taken in We Will Rock You? A trip to the Dominion now seems inevitable.

As the Whingers mulled over the play in the Almeida bar post-show, Kieran Bew turned up on the next table and they couldn’t help but remarking to each other what a fine looking fellow he is. Which just goes to show that the Whingers hadn’t been listening to a word Mr LaBute was saying. Or that they had but they hadn’t learned anything.

Rating

Hard to believe, but even the Whingers were young once.

Then we took our eyes off the road and somehow time sneaked up from behind, overtaking recklessly, driving off the highway of life and leaving us temporarily stranded in the lay-by of middle age. Happily we are fully equipped with spare tyres to enable our journeys to continue.

Hilary (Tamsin Greig) is having a mid-life crisis. She’s 50 and suffering panic attacks; presumably the Jumpy of the title (another titular reference is revealed at the end). Her job’s in danger and her marriage to a relentlessly dull husband Mark (Ewan Stewart) has become little more than friendship, the aridness of her partnership only hydrated by frequent glasses of wine. Could this be the reason for the Whingers’ drinking too?

Her relationship with teenage daughter Tilly (Bel Powley) is at best fractious. Tilly is sleeping around. In the dark ages of our teenage years she’d have been called ‘a scrubber’- whatever happened to that term of abuse? She drinks too, dresses inappropriately (or appropriately if you’re a teen, we suppose), goes out clubbing and seems, well, rather common, especially given that her mother is the rather refined Greig. Her attitude is surly, attention seeking and thoroughly unloveable. Put her on X Factor!

She also has a tendency to overdo the screeching and screaming, in fact she’s so goddamn awful it’s no wonder her mother worries something terrible will happen to her when she goes out; there must be people queueing up to do for her. The Whingers would be first in line. But she’s probably safer out than in. Playwright April De Angelis presents a very strong argument for filicide.

To us it played as caricature. Are teenagers really this hideous? We have no idea. But if women are from Venus and men are from Mars then children must come from Uranus (which, as a small child, is where Phil thought they emerged from until he found out the equally shocking truth about the ‘front bottom’).

Greig is excellent but Jumpy sometimes shoehorn situations in for easy laughs. Her friend Frances (Doon Mackichan) performs a burlesque routine for very little reason. The Whingers sat there glumly while the audience guffawed with laughter. The scene where Greig is instructed in the art herself is much funnier though the French maid’s outfit she wears is a sitcom device too far. And why is a gun awkwardly introduced into an overwrought Act 2 scene?

There’s echoes of Mike Leigh’s Grief, shaded with Carla Lane’s Butterflies and when Tilly’s parents and her boyfriend Josh’s parents get together a whiff of God of Carnage. Richard Lintern convinces as Josh’s father, an actor who believes himself unable to turn off his charm but Sarah Woodward as Josh’s mother is criminally underused.

We weren’t even certain Woodward was in Act 1. Jumpy entered our collective consciousness through various hearty recommendations and by the time we came to book was nearly sold out. This forced us to take restricted view seats in the upper reaches of the Royal Court. But we do not complain, you will not find the Whingers consulting the Trade Description Act. We can attest that the view from our seats was indeed admirably restricted.

Most of the audience seemed to be having a whale of a time and whilst Phil was amused by some of this and occasionally laughed out loud, Andrew declared himself “bored”. But even Phil, from his aerial perch, on viewing a sun lounger on stage again, found time to assess this new theatrical trend and formed a mental list of their recent appearances on stage (Much Ado About Nothing, Terrible Advice, Cool Hand Luke).

At 2 hours 40 minutes it’s overlong and though director Nina Raine squeezes some poignancy and hope from the resolve some of the comedy is horribly overdone; if this play were toast you’d need to scrape it furiously over the kitchen sink.

Ah well, comedy is subjective. We’ve actually met a handful of people who didn’t find One Man, Two Guvnors remotely funny. Imagine that.

Rating

Ooops. This had fallen down the back of the Whingers’ metaphorical sofa and now seems – strikingly like the Whingers themselves – almost ancient history.

But we were brought up in the distant days when writing thank-you letters was basic manners and although in our defence there has been much thanks given privately, the wonderful people who supported us must be publicly recognised.

How did it go? Do you expect us to remember anything about the evening at all? Gosh, we could barely recall it the next day let alone several weeks later.

Anyway, the highlight, as ever was the raffle.

Our eternal thanks go to the generous donators of the raffle prizes:

• Angela Hyde-Courtenay at The Audience Club: one year’s free membership
• The Charing Cross Theatre for Fascinating Aïda: Cheap Flights tickets
• Seabright Productions Ltd for Showstopper The Improvised Musical and Potted Panto tickets.
• The New Wimbledon Theatre for tickets to Dick Whittington starring Dame Edna Everage.
• Sonia Friedman Productions for Legally Blonde tickets
• The National Theatre for tickets for One Man, Two Guvnors at the Adelphi Theatre.
• Ian Kelly for not merely supplying a drawing he created live on stage in The Pitmen Painters, but the actual one drawn on the opening night at the Duchess Theatre recently (right). And for then going one step further by donating another from the 2nd night for someone who was so desperate to win it (and didn’t) which increased the money raised for Theatre Mad not inconsiderably.

Other, less coveted prizes included TWO unsolicited and unwanted SHREK THE MUSICAL brochures, two newly invested DAME BARS (Dame Janet Suzman and Dame Harriet Walter), A LIMITED EDITION West End Whingers T-Shirt left over from last year which no-one wanted, A T-SHIRT from the Southport Theatre sponsored by WALLS (the sausage people), Paul Daniels’ used POLO MINTS and half a playing card as featured on-stage in Edinburgh with Phil, A selection of West End Whingers old DAME BARS including Liz, Eileen & Julie plus miscellaneous unsolicited and sadly unwanted musical theatre CDs Shrek, Matilda, Ghost etc.

Special thanks to Mike Robertson (left) whose raffle ticket-pulling was accompanied by some surprisingly salty running commentary. Although we’ve always been very fortunate with our luminary drawers this was the first time we’ve had an actual Olivier Award-winner (lighting for Sunday in the Park with George) picking tickets out of a bucket.

We also owe great thanks to Margie Keedy and Dot Keedy for printing posters, the wonderful staff at Cafe Koha, everyone who helped sell the raffle tickets. And everyone who turned up – it would have been very embarrassing if you hadn’t come. And to those who didn’t show up was your reason better than this hugely appropriate, doesn’t-sound-genuine-but-is excuse?: “Unfortunately, I’m going to be in Vermont with Sue Perkins and the Von Trapp family from The Sound of Music .”

The evening raised £395.10 for the Theatre Make A Difference Trust.

Well, we never expected to use the words “madcap” and “Stalin” in the same sentence.

It was one of those occasions when it looked as though the Whingers’ theatrical planets were aligning auspiciously but then it turned out that they were actually on a collision course.

Prodding their entrails with a stick (metaphorically) the Whingers had come to the conclusion that all the signs were good: Alex Jennings, Simon Russell Beale, Mark Addy and Nick Sampson in a play by John Hodge (screenwriter of Trainspotting, Shallow Grave) with Nicholas Hytner at the helm.

Even the less promising portents of the Cottesloe Theatre and a “first play” failed to cast a shadow over the Whingers’ sunny outlooks and our usually voluble inner Cassandras were completely caught napping.

Jennings is the playwright Mikhail Bulgakov (he of The White Guard) who was apparently bullied rather by the authorities into writing a play about Stalin as part of the hoopla to commemorate the leader’s 60th birthday. In Hodge’s version, the reluctant Bulgakov’s writer’s block is sidestepped by Stalin himself (SRB) stepping forward to take over the writing and delegating the running of the country to Bulgakov for the hours in which he’s at work on his own hagiography. Hence they become Collaborators. One writes. The other dictates. It could almost be Elaine Paige’s edict ”Write it down!”

Inspired by real events which saw Bulgakov go on to produce Batum (retitled Young Joseph here) Stalin decided it was “a very good play…but not to be staged”. Who commissioned Hodge? Was it Nicholas Hytner (curiously his name is an anagram of ‘Stalin crony heh’)? Was he disappointed with the result and tucked it away in the Cottesloe, knowing that a starry cast would sell out the current run before the previews? If only Stalin had had his own Cottesloe.

Though what Mr Stalin would have made of the in-the-round staging is anyone’s guess. Would he have complained that Beale’s spirited Stalin gained a laugh from one side of the audience by a mere expression yet left the unsighted side mute? Or that when Addy’s NKVD officer appeared with scars on his face and puts it down to “shaving” one side of the theatre is left in the dark?

Would he have laughed at Hodge’s larky take with Bulgakov occupying such cramped quarters he has a student living in his cupboard? Or having lines put in his mouth like “Killing will get you nowhere” spoken in an accent suggesting he was raised by the Poldarks? Would he appreciate one of the characters Praskovya (Maggie Service) dressed up to look like Olive from On the Buses?

The tone of the madcap first act was set in the opening sequence in which Stalin visits Bulgakov in his nightmare and chases him around the room to some Benny Hill style music. If Mister Hytner was seeking to inject some of the comedy wrangling that made One Man, Two Guvnors such a joy, he failed. Call Cal McCrystal.

Phil was reasonably entertained by the messy Act 1 but during the interval he deemed it overly larky. ”Be careful what you wish for” intoned Andrew and sure enough during the altogether drearier Act 2 he was longing for a return of the earlier high jinks.

The best outcome that can be hoped for is that the National Theatre‘s literary department be rewarded with an all expenses paid visit to Siberia for a very long time indeed.

Rating

The opportunities for easy gags (who us?) are almost irresistible.

But then this is the Mike Bartlett who bravely presented his Cock at the Royal Court two years ago which led to much unseemly schoolboy giggling from the back of the Whingers’ unruly class.

Imagine if he ever writes a play called Inch. We can only imagine the programme compilers having great fun debating the order of his writing credits.

So, inspired to defy superstition, the Whingers will present 13 reasons why you may (or may not) wish to fondle a rabbit’s foot in your pocket and visit the National Theatre.

1. Unlike his small perfectly formed Cock (90 mins) Bartlett has produced another Earthquakes in London style sprawling epic that runs for three hours. “Please check with front-of-house staff for accurate timing”. Never ones to defy authorithy we did. This was the first preview; estimates were of course all over the place.

2. The splitting, uppity-downity drum revolve of the Olivier stage is in full use again. Spiffing! The play opens with a massive black cube (see Time Out’s article which includes designer Tom Scutt discussing the logistics of its construction from specially drilled plywood) trundling forward which goes on to spin, split open, rise and drop throughout Act 1. Is it a Rubik’s Cube? Is it the Kaaba in Mecca? Are we being too literal? Or did we just spot the “mood board” photo in the programme?

The cube also features the most impressive single knocker (representing No 10 Downing Street) on stage we’ve ever seen, and we sat through Marguerite.

If only the National would be consistent with their mobile phone warnings. There wasn’t one. This impressively promising opening was ruined for Phil by the man next to him fiddling to turn his phone off.

3. Huge cast. Of course, it’s the National, keep up! Every character is experiencing the same nightmare (and it’s not about appearing in new writing at the Cottesloe). What does this mean? That everyone has the same dreams as in aims and aspirations? We are all linked through social networking? We possess powers we leave untapped? Let the experts to do the thinking; we’ll pass on this one.

4. One of these people is a Tory Prime Minister who is initially well-liked. Nobody we know then. She’s experiencing the same dream too, although she rarely sleeps. A female PM who doesn’t sleep much? Who could this be? But she’s popular? Confusing. She’s played by the wonderful Geraldine James; of course she’s popular.

5. John (Trystan Gravelle) is an inspirational soap box messiah who rallies huge support against the proposed war. There was something about his messianic rallying that reminded Phil of Peter Finch in Network.

6. We’re in London in yet another dystopian future; economic misery, protests led by social networks and a Prime Minister about to declare war. Is it a dystopian now? The overheard mot du jour at the interval seemed to be “prescience”. Was it because someone in the play involved in the “defence” talks is called Liam? Did these clever people spot the V for Vendetta Guy Fawkes masks worn by some of the protesters in the play just like the civilly disobedient group Anonymous? Or is it because November 5th is almost upon us?

7. And yes, we did return after the interval.

8. Phil recently added people riding bicycles to his list of theatrical bêtes noires. This one features a Boris Bike. A first for us, so Phil is willing to let this one go. The people in the row behind guffawed and gasped “That’s brilliant!”. Either they don’t get out much or it was newly-exposed-as-Boris-Bike-fans Wills and Kate.

9. Banks take a particularly crowd-pleasing bashing with Nat West bearing the brunt. Andrew mused that perhaps the brand changes from night to night. Please keep us informed. A bank is, of course, name-checked on the bike’s livery. Phil always thinks of Kenneth Williams when he sees the Barclays name. Can’t think why.

10. The cast coped magnificently against some clanking and banging from that cube which occasionally sought to upstage them at this preview. Genevieve O’Reilly is convincing as the wife of an American representing the US side of the war negotiations. Her over-bright daughter (Grace Cooper Milton on the night we saw it – we think) plays precocious most impressively, managing to be irritating without being irritating in the wrong way. And it was good to see Helen Ryan (remember her as Queen Alexandra in Edward the Seventh?) getting some laughs as a supermarket trolley-enraged grandmother.

11. Director Thea Sharrock pulls the National’s now overdone (think Earthquakes in London, think Decade, think Greenland) Short Cuts-style strands together quite adroitly as the play progresses. A meeting between John, the PM and her (only) friend writer Stephen (Danny Webb) forms a large slice of Act 2 and the play calms down and becomes its most compelling as the debating is commendably even-handed.

12. So what’s it all about then? The word “belief” is repeated frequently which sort of tipped us off. Something to do with having beliefs religious or otherwise and acting on them? Listening to “The Greatest Love of All” would take less time, but is it damning with faint praise to say that would be be less entertaining?

If I fail, if I succeed
At least I live as I believe
No matter what they take from me

13. The programme runs an article “Social Network Revolution” by Natalie Hanman, which references the Guardian’s analysis of over 2.5 million tweets relating to the summer riots in England, that social networks had “mainly been used to react to the riots, rather than incite them.”

They are clearly not being used to their full potential so scan the icon on the right with your smartphone to find out where the Whingers will next be causing trouble.

Please come and join us. We predict a riot.

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Then again you might be of a mind to muse on her supposed oral dexterity and question those allegations given her propensity for sporting pearl necklaces.

But then doubting different versions of events is key to the tale presented by playwright Nicholas Wright.

Despite being set in the Duchess’ Parisian home don’t arrive at the Hampstead Theatre for The Last of the Duchess expecting to see much of her. The last of the Duchess we get to see is about 5 minutes into Act 1. You’ll probably see more Wallis (though no longer Simpsons) on your average high street.

Although set in 1980 we only see a youthful Duchess in an early fantasy sequence. Phil was hoping the actress (Helen Bradbury) playing her had disappeared to apply ageing prosthetics and thus appear later in some sort of Miss Haversham-style Gothic finale. He’s twisted like that.

This is about those who surrounded her or sought to write about her: her French Lawyer Maître Suzanne Blum (Sheila Hancock) whose previous clients included Disney, Chaplin, Cocteau, Stravinsky, Rita Hayworth and now holds power of attorney for the Duchess, sparring in the other corner is the author Lady Caroline Blackwood (Anna Chancellor, great-great-granddaughter of Prime Minister H. H. Asquith) who was once married to Lucien Freud (amongst others). Then there’s Mitford girl Lady Diana Mosley (Angela Thorne) and Blum’s assistant the historian and biographer Michael Bloch (John Heffernan). Imagine the name-dropping the Whingers could do with that lot.

But then snobbery wafts its aristocratic nose rather often in the Duchess’ Bois de Boulogne house. Hear how Thorne’s Mosley pronounces “nostril” as “gnaw-stril”, her vowels are so rounded they’d need little plumping to assist sitting the Duchess upright in her bed. And Mosley claims, rather unconvincingly, not to hate Jews. How those two must have got along, you’d think the bed-ridden Duchess would brush off her indisposition and receive her in a trice.

Blackwood is attempting to write a piece about the Duchess for the Sunday Times Magazine but has to go through the formidable Blum who keeps the ailing Duchess from sight and may be pilfering her jewels. With little believable information for her article Blackwood sees Blum as an interesting subject herself and pandering to her ego manges to get the evasive lawyer to agree.

And fascinating and entertaining it all proves to be. Fusing drama, comedy and mystery into an agreeably economical 2 hours (the interval occurs after a mere 37 minutes). This was the first preview; plenty of time to ditch the break completely.

The extremely elderly and elegant French woman seated next to Phil pronounced Hancock’s French as “very good”. Blum’s sinister ruthlessness is portrayed to chilling effect; Hancock is compelling and not far removed from Mrs Danvers. No wonder Blackwood knocks back so much booze in her cat-and-mouse games with her. One look at her crisp pleats or those eyebrows would have anyone reaching for the spirits.

Heffernan’s Bloch flits about the stage quite hilariously, Thorne’s single scene leaves you wanting more of her and the ever-reliable Chancellor displays convincing vodka-marinated guile.

The Wright/Richard Eyre (directing) combo have become a bit of a dream team with their baby bios (Vincent in Brixton, The Reporter) in TLOTD they keep the tensions and intrigues bubbling nicely. A few years ago (and with a cast like this, particularly les femmes d’un certain age) this would have easily earned a West End transfer. Much as the Whingers wish The Pitman Painters a healthy run it would be rather jolly to see it installed at the Duchess Theatre.

Although based on true events, how close to what actually happened is part of the point. Even the set’s (Anthony Ward) trompe l’oeil painted gauzes cleverly echo the theme that things may not necessarily be what they seem.

But as ever the usual rules apply; this too is just a personal appraisal of the events witnessed. You needn’t trust a word of it.

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It feels strange yet curiously inevitable to be typing “the Harold Pinter Theatre“.

This is the playhouse formerly known as the Comedy which has lost a name with a dainty spring in its step and been lumbered instead with something distinctly flat-footed. Why couldn’t it have followed the Novello or Gielgud and just taken Mr Pinter’s surname?

We seem to be going down the New York route where full monikers are the norm; great clunking names which keep the neon sign manufacturers’ businesses going: on The Broadway one can partake of entertainment at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theatre,the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre and Samuel J. Friedman Theatres to name but nine.

Ah well, at least we don’t have anything like the American Airlines or Foxwoods Theatres (the latter named after a casino) but it is surely only a matter of time. The Dorfman Theatre cometh (nothing to do with the author of the play we will be speaking of).

As a name the Pinter Theatre has a ring, or at least a slight tinkle, though the Whingers haven’t decided how they’ll reference it yet. The Harold Comedy (after Tom Stoppard’s supposed witty jibe)? Or perhaps just the Harry or ‘arry? Maybe the H.P. offers a saucier tone?

The Whingers were unable to resist being part of one of the smaller footnotes in theatrical history by patronising the renamed theatre’s inaugural show: Death and the Maiden which is played straight through in 100 minutes. Now, much as the Whingers embrace plays which run without interval it seems strangely inappropriate to open the Harold Pinter with a show that doesn’t stop midway to take a long pause.

But then again this revival comes from the pen of the Argentinian born Chilean novelist, playwright, essayist, academic, human rights activist and friend of Pinter, Ariel Dorfman. You can imagine those two having plenty to chew on over their tea and HobNobs without even having to touch on the latest Test cricket match scores.

It’s a thriller, of sorts, set in an unnamed Latin American country (Andrew thought it was in Italy for some reason) shortly after a long dictatorship has ended and democracy has finally been achieved. Paulina (Thandie Newton) is an ex-political prisoner who lives with her human-rights lawyer hubby Gerardo (Tom Goodman-Hill) in a conveniently Agatha Christie-ish remote coastal house (although sadly no wood panelling or wall-mounted animal heads).

Gerardo gets a flat tyre and arrives home courtesy of a lift with one Dr Miranda (Anthony Calf, not Anthony Head, who Andrew had been expecting). Paulina, convinced she recognises his voice as one of the people responsible for torturing and violently abusing her, turns the tables on him. This involves knocking him out in the middle of the night, tying him up and putting him on “trial” to elicite a confession. We must assume she never suffered from Stockholm syndrome.

But her kidnap happened years ago and as she was blindfolded she never saw her captor. Has she got the right man? Is her husband sympathetic? Should he aid and abet his wife? Will her actions ruin his political aspirations? Or is Paulina a few empanadas short of a picnic?

So far so contrived, yet potentially interesting. Well that’s what you’d think. Phil remembers being gripped by the original 1991 Royal Court production (which won the Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play), with its ambiguities and the irony of those who adopt the tactics of those they have overthrown. But not here.

The star attraction, the rather comely Newton is making her stage début and one cannot expect her to have the experience of a Juliet Stevenson (who officially created the role). Also it was a preview. Let’s just leave it there.

Poor Mr Calf somehow emerges with his dignity intact despite being debagged, tied to a chair and subjected to all sorts of indignities including having Newton’s panties shoved into his mouth (dirty mac brigade need not apply – she switches them; there is no Cool Hand Luke sleight of hand).

The lengthy scene where Paulina attacks Miranda with much sheet-tearing to provide the necessary bondage sees her struggle to get him onto and tie him to a chair is probably realistic, given the difference in their size and weight. Yet we almost leapt on stage to lend a hand.

The political dialogue now seems clunkily overdone and dated. There is little, at this stage, to exert the vice-like grip the play can achieve.

Only in its final moments when, for a scenic change, the auditorium of the Harry is neatly reflected by the set’s sliding screens does DATM garner anything like the atmosphere director Jeremy Herrin presumably intends.

Indeed, rather than ratcheting up tension, it all feels a tad worthy. Harry worthy perhaps?

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