Review – Frankenstein, National Theatre

When the West End Whingers was created on a metaphorical slab in Soho’s White Horse hostelry some five years ago there were no very, very frightening thunderbolts or lightening or power surges blacking out the West End and no mobs of angry gay villagers.

Indeed their genesis was a much duller affair than even might be inferred from their prose.

Less prosaic, however, was the extraordinary dream that Phil had recently when he drifted off on the banks of the Queen Mother Reservoir just off the M4, the result of some very Swiss cheese. In it he was married to the poetess Pam Ayres and a Gothic Dr Philistein (or possibly Philistine) was giving life to the Andrew known and loved today. The creature was assembled from any detritus Philistein could lay his hands on scavenged from skips around the Walworth Road with the occasional body part thrown in, he linked up his monstrous achievement to Vinopolis and waited impatiently for some inclement weather.

But interestingly even Phil’s unleashed, gratinated Gothic dreams could not compete with the vision that director Danny Boyle and designer Mark Tildesley have conjured up at the National Theatre for Nick Dear‘s version of Mary Shelley‘s Frankenstein. For it does look rather splendid.

Deathtrap – The Opening Night

[Note: this is really not worth reading unless you were there. Sorry. It’s mainly an aide memoire to ourselves]

Biggins must have had other plans. But gosh – even the Whingers had other plans. But happily the first preview of Blood and Gifts at the National got cancelled enabling the Whingers to sweep back to the Noel Coward Theatre for the opening night of Deathtrap. Happily Sir Nicholas of Hytner could now also attend and he did so with Samuel Barnett in tow.

And it seemed that everyone else in showbizzland had a gaping hole in their diaries too. Andrew’s alleged prosopagnosia was stretched further than some of the more “enhanced” famous faces on display. And his recognitions skills were not aided by the fact that he doesn’t do much in the way of telly so it was left to Phil to peer through his lorgnettes to fill in the blanks.

Review – After the Dance, National Theatre

It’s hard to believe that the Whingers have never seen a Terence Rattigan play before. Well, not as Whingers anyway, nor even when they were going to the theatre together as dull-and-plain-old Phil and Andrew before they re-branded as the dull-and-plain-but-with-airs West End Whingers.

Of course, each had seen a Rattigan before they first met that fateful day when they both reached for the same artichoke in marketplace of Capri. But clearly the Whingers’ appreciation of a well-constructed play, a proscenium arch, French windows, hats and servants declaring “luncheon is served” meant that a Rattigan sortie was well overdue.

All that was missing was a Dame of the British Empire, but you can’t have it all can you? Surely the Whingers would be in seventh heaven?