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We have danced to music as long as we have been making music. In some African languages, the same word means both “music” and “dance”, because to have one without the other is simply unthinkable. Music and dance are natural partners. Words and music are a powerful combination, too. But what about words and dance? Some recent productions suggest that dancing to spoken word instead of music can work. But that feels, to me, like a rarity: there is a fine line between dancing a story and merely miming its action. This latter tends to use words as narration and the dancers as props, rather than storytellers.

You don’t need to speak a language to understand dance. For all that many cultures have a highly specific dance language, it arguably doesn’t matter if the dancer is French, Thai or Martian: you will be able to respond to it physically or emotionally, even if you wouldn’t be able to comprehend a word. But the moment that choreographers introduce language, all that changes. Protein Dance‘s recent show, LOL (Lots of Love), which used lonely-hearts ads as the backdrop for its dancers, fell into the trap of dancing the words rather than dancing to the words. Despite a slew of positive reviews, it left me cold: I felt that it lacked heart, despite being all about love and relationships. And much of that was to do with the use of words, which caught good dancers in weird choreographic traps – they were unable to escape the mundanity of the text, the delicacy of the movement subsumed by the saccharine narrative.

It is easy for the choreographer to become tied to the literal meanings of the words, thus losing other emotional resonances. A vocabulary of movement, gesture and response is surely different from a literal vocabulary, so mapping one straightforwardly to the other is likely to be plodding. Dancing to words can stifle creativity, in other words, and it is only in rare cases that it can help movement to blossom. Phoenix Dance‘s piece at Cambridge Arts theatre last year, which used the prologue of Tennessee Williams’s The Glass Menagerie as its backing, managed to both depict the story of Laura, Amanda, Jim and Tom and to cut to the emotional heart of the play. The lack of music here gave the piece a dreamlike quality – appropriate for this “memory play” – and was highly effective. The dancers captured the heart of the story without resorting to clumsy mime.

So, it matters what the words are, just as it matters what the music is. Poorly chosen, sentimental or trite text is likely to lead to similar dance. If the words don’t work, the dance is likely to be spoiled.

FELA! is a bouncy, buoyant, corker of production that rather loses its way halfway through. The first half is an utter joy. Bill T Jones’ choreography does not flag for a second, the music is infectiously upbeat, the energy of the performers is relentless. It rattles along, full of exuberant lessons about Afro-beat, Cuban drumming, James Brown and high-life music.

The dancing, and the dancers, are utterly, superlatively, mesmerising. They are also universally stunning. Early on in his engaging narrative, Fela (Sehr Ngaujah) tells the audience that the British stole Nigeria’s oil and diamonds, and what did we leave in return? Gonorrhoea and Jesus. Doesn’t seem like a fair swap. This is indicative of the wit, warmth and brilliance that Ngaujah brings to the stage, making Jim Lewis and Bill T Jones’ words and Jones’ choreography zing and zip.

The whole first half was bursting with joy, life and gyrating buttocks. I don’t suppose that Sadler’s Wells has seen hundreds of people getting in touch with their “clocks” before: thrust your pelvis forward, that’s 12 o’clock. Now stick your bum out, that’s 6. Hips side-to-side hits 3 and 9. Now imagine a semi-naked, sinfully sexy man, glistening with sweat, getting the whole of Sadler’s on its feet, thrusting and foot-tapping as he shouts out numbers. Now imagine trying to follow his instructions while watching far more attractive, scantily-clad and adept dancers do the same moves on stage. In tassled knickers, and not a lot else. It made a refreshing change from pointed shoes and pirouettes.

With such virtuosic dancing and superb choreography, if it ended at the interval I’d say you’d be hard-pressed to have a better time in the theatre this year. However, after a well-directed come-down early in the second half, the show rather lost its way. It’s tricky to bring the mood down without alienating a happy, buzzy audience, but the story demanded it. The first hint of a sombre mood was a refreshing change, and was handled adroitly. However, the odd juxtaposition of joyful dancing and singing of the first half with stark, brutal and uncompromising descriptions of rape and torture in the second became rather baffling, especially when there were still song-and-dance routines mixed in.

A completely weird, massively over-long dream sequence that overestimated the dramatic potential of UV lighting took up much of the second half, followed by a beautiful but jarring operatic song (sung by the brilliant Melanie Marshall). It all sat very oddly with high-life rhythms of the first half and general feel of the rest of the piece. The musicians deserve a review of their own – we got a full blown gig along with the dance and a (mini) play.

It’s nice to see Sadler’s embracing something different, and a superlatively good cast kept the evening afloat as the play floundered. It’s worth seeing for the supremely talented cast and fantastic first half – but if you left at the interval you wouldn’t miss much.

Priestley is fond of dramatic irony, and lays it on particularly heavily in this, apparently his favourite play. It is rarely performed, perhaps because, as a piece of drama, it offers relatively little to a director. There are so many mentions that it is set in 1912 that one cannot ignore the looming horror of World War One – and the audience is continually encouraged to recognise that although we know what’s coming, the general feeling expressed by the characters is one of optimism of a bright future. So far, so ironic, but it all gets rather tiresome and inescapable after a while.

It is presumably supposed to make us question the complacency of those whose comfortable, upper-middle-class existence is about to shattered by conscription, bereavement and the privations of war. Although it does set the Kirby family’s petty problems in context, this idea of knowing what’s coming does little more than give the audience a sense of superiority. Unlike with other Priestley plays (An Inspector Calls uses very similar tropes), inEden End it is very hard to extrapolate the Kirby’s concerns to become a caustic look at a wider societal malaise. Yes, they are smug and safe and blinkered, yes they are worried about ultimately unimportant things, but it’s hard to see what Priestly and director Laurie Sansom are driving at besides recognising that hindsight is a wonderful thing.

There were other oddities, too: the set (Sara Perks) was beautiful, floating on an island of its own above the stage, and yet this dreamy setting is treated as naturalistically as possible, with time-appropriate props and costumes. The incongruity was not a problem, it was just a bit strange and, again, felt a bit  un-thought-through. William Chubb, as Dr Kirby, was weak, which perhaps negated some of the impact that his thoughts about the future could have had – he muses on what’s to come with a blind optimism that is never really challenged. Unfortunately, Chubb was neither charismatic nor convincing enough to pull off a speech about his almost utopian vision for the future, and these scenes consequently fell rather flat, despite the best efforts of Charlotte Emerson’s Stella. Emerson was a highlight, particularly when playing off Daisy Douglas’s stolid Lilian. The sisterly friction was brittle and brilliant, with Lilian’s resentment emanating from Douglas is fierce waves.

Little brother Wilfred (Nick Hendrix, in his professional debut) was less convincing in the first half, but found his feet playing legless in the second. His after-the-pub scene with Charles (a louche, charming Daniel Betts) was one of the high points of the evening, and directed with a subtlety sometimes missing elsewhere. Sansom has done a good job of coaxing nuanced, delicate performances from Douglas as the dependable but angry Lilian and from Charlotte as the highly-strung Stella, but perhaps neglected to always do the same with the male cast members. Betts clearly has fun playing Charles as a shallow chancer, and, although he does so with warmth and wit, it would have been nice to be given a bit more depth, too.

Perhaps I am too impatient, but this production took slow-burn to extremes while managing to still gabble some of the dialogue. It took a very long time to get going at all, and once it had started it remained predictable and slightly insipid. The domestic drama needs setting in its wider context to have any clout or point to it, and Priestley’s script is severely lacking in this. Some of the wistful moments when Stella or Dr Kirby mused about what might have been, or what might be, could have been moments of illumination, but in the stodge of the rest of the plot they get rather lost. Sansom has done some interesting things with the staging, but cannot redeem what is ultimately a rather pointless play.

s Bristol Old Vic continues to be refurbished inside (I have written about how uncomfortable and creaky it used to be!), the enterprising team of Tom Morris and Emma Stenning (Artistic and Executive Directors, respectively) have taken to the streets to continue the theatre’s output. The result, Sally Cookson’s visually stunning, rip-roaring piratical adventure, is a triumph.

It’s hard to imagine more fun than sitting in balmy sunshine, full of pre-show Pieminster pie, watching a talented and extremely hard-working cast bring Jim Hawkins’ sea-faring, treasure-hunting, pirate-fighting exploits to life. Jim himself (Jonny Weldon) has an impressive range, and you cannot help but share his wide-eyed wonder as he finds his sea-legs, uncovers plots and finds the treasure. Tristan Sturrock’s villainous Long John Silver hops about the stage with admirable lightness of foot, and is clearly having a great time as the baddie with a heart, leaping around the split-level stage. On a side note, given that dead bodies not only get up and walk off-stage but also return seconds later reincarnated thanks to a swift wig-change, it seems kind of harsh to make Sturrock hop upstairs – no-one would have minded if he used his “missing” leg to get about a bit. However, he gamely hobbles about, wielding crutch, soup spoon and knife with accuracy and speed, much to the delight of the young audience.

Phil Edolls’ set is brilliant, full of ropes and rails to represent inn, ship and island, and back again. He has perfectly judged the small space, building up rather than out, and creating a playground of a stage across the front of the Old Vic that the cast embrace with gusto – using the first floor windows as entrances is a nice touch. The cast work incredibly hard, too, doubling or tripling up, and if this sometimes means that the accents get a bit lopsided, or take a while to catch up with the lightning-quick scene changes, well, this is easily forgiven on a warm summer evening when one is full of pie.

The whole thing is ridiculous fun, with pirates appearing left, right and centre, squiffy wigs transforming actors from pirate to doctor, and far too many rousing sea shanties. These are sung with more enthusiasm than skill, and although one or two are fun, overall they appear slightly too often – and the cast’s acting talents are not matched by beautiful voices. The music generally, however (composed, directed and performed by Benji Bower, with the cast chipping in), is well-judged and rousing – aided by un-scripted seagulls.

The whole cast displays an infectious enthusiasm, whether they are plotting foul murders or tucking into a glass of grog. The outdoor setting, screeching seagulls and neat Bristolian references are all nice, and make the play feel very at home in its temporary and rather hap-hazard space.

Treasure Island is being performed in a special space outside the Bristol Old Vic theatre until 26 August www.bristololdvic.org.uk

There was a lot to like about this production of The Jungle Book, mainly the parts that stayed truest to the magic of the book. However, writer Stuart Paterson and director Neal Foster have taken liberties with the plot and dialogue, adding in some rather twee ‘lessons’ about finding out who you really are, and then staying true to yourself. Just because it’s aimed at kids doesn’t excuse this kind of lazy moralising, especially when the material you have to work with is already so rich.

And then there were the songs. Given that the plot has already been Disney-fied with extraneous soul-searching, BB Cooper (with “additional music” from Gidon Fineman) could have capitalised on this and gone for up-beat songs in a similar vein to the film. Instead, we are subjected to dreary songs with lyrics (Barb Jungr) ranging from bland to laughably bad and dull, forgettable melodies. Don’t get me started on the dance routines. Not only were the musical numbers cringe-worthy, but also completely unnecessary. As I said, there was much to like about this show, and the songs were an unwelcome distraction from the otherwise fun production.

It had a big heart and a huge energy, with a hard-working cast. They all looked knackered at the end, but plastered on huge, musical-theatre grins and, yes, there were jazz hands. All had pleasant enough voices, although none really shone (this may have had more to do with the songs than the singers…). Simon Hargreaves is a bouncy, childish Mowgli, full of glee at outwitting his teachers, which proved popular with the young audience. My seven-year-old companion joined in the audience-participation with enthusiasm, despite the frequency with which this was required.

The dialogue was not bad – there was some nice borrowings from Kipling and Manley Hopkins for poetic phrases and flair, but it often lapsed into cliché or just didn’t quite ring true. However, we are in the jungle with wolf-boy and a rather camp tiger (Peter Sowerbutt having immense fun as the panto villain Sheer Khan), so perhaps dialogue falling slightly flat should be overlooked. The use of mics does not encourage naturalistic interaction between the cast, but given the volume of the backing tracks and background noise (which was nicely done) it was perhaps for the best that they were miked. Although that in turn did mean that we could hear the songs…

I am being harsh. These complaints did not spoil the whole evening, they just niggled. The set and costumes were great. We got clever, raggedy animal costumes with gorgeous masks (Gemma Hughes and Tanya Felts), beautiful giant puppets and a lush, green set covered in vines and trees (Jacqueline Trousdale). The cast make the most of the few, simple blocks and props – we are asked to use our imaginations a fair amount. This led to almost manic levels of playing to the audience from the cast, which was rather over the top for my taste, but the children in the audience were loving it.

While the show did not quite hit the spot for me, I was clearly not the target audience, so it would be churlish to be too critical. I shall leave you instead with a quote from my small companion who appreciated the production more than I did: when asked what her favourite part was she replied, “The elephant and the snake and the tiger and the wolves and the monkeys and all of it!”

It may be more spectacle than substance, but this production of Doctor Faustus is so jolly that one can’t help but be carried along on the tide of flashes and bangs. While some of the subtleties and delicacy of Marlowe’s language get lost in director Matthew Dunster’s eagerness to rattle along to the next magic trick, these are done with such flair and joie de vivre that it’s easy to forgive this production’s weaker points.

Arthus Darvill is a jauntily-dressed, pointily-bearded Mephistopheles, who reeks malevolence and is clearly enjoying toying with Paul Hilton’s tormented Faustus. However, with both, there is a sense of holding back: Darvill throws away one of  Mephistopheles’ greatest lines (“why, this is hell, nor am I out of it”), almost muttering it to a cowering Faustus, and Hilton doesn’t always cut to the heart of Faustus’s inner turmoil – both could do with more emotional heft.

Although there were many things to enjoy in the production, that’s what’s stuck with me: it was a bit lightweight. For a play that examines the depths of human desires, that ponders intense philosophical questions, that deals with life and death, salvation and damnation, I can’t help but feel that Dunster has sacrificed depth for exuberant colour and clowning. It was much funnier than I was expecting, and while this is fine, it needed some darker moments to contrast.

However, the lighter moments are excellently done. The comedy trio of Robin, Dick and the horse courser are all excellent, playing up to the audience, milking every bawdy joke (and adding some in for good measure) and generally playing for laughs. The threat of hell for those who meddle in magic and necromancy is real enough, and Mephistopheles’s casual cruelty to those foolish enough to try briefly brings a much-needed sense of peril to the proceedings.

The props and puppets (designed by Paul Wills) are gorgeous – especially a rather wonderful pair of dragons. The costumes, too, are sumptuous, and Wills has let his imagination run riot for the devils and angels’ costumes with great effect. The music (composed by Jules Maxwell) is entertaining and mostly spot-on, although again I feel that Dunster relies rather too heavily on thunderous drum-rolls to create tension. He could do with coaxing his cast to produce more of the tension themselves.

The production overall is snazzy, slapstick and, well, sexy, but doesn’t always hit the mark in the darker scenes. Faustus’s soul-searching never comes to much, and despite Darvill embodying Mephistopheles with a louche swaggering menace, it is hard to believe that Faustus is really in mortal peril until the very end when he is dragged kicking and screaming to hell. For a show that is lacking in depth and has over-invested in spectacle, it is, at least, spectacular to look at.

Dr Faustus is playing at the Globe Theatre until 2nd October. For more information and to book tickets, see the website here.

Misery, turmoil, lies, more misery, and a bit of onstage torture thrown in for good measure. The Beauty Queen of Leenane is not a happy play. In fact, Martin McDonagh’s script is so unrelenting in  its misery that you are left unsure who you are supposed to empathise with. It is also quite, quite gripping, and scattered with enough (blackly) comic moments to keep the audience absorbed.

I physically recoiled at two points (I won’t spoil the story – you’ll know which points if you go and see it), so completely absorbing was the story. The cast of four are all superlative, playing out the claustrophobic nuances of rural life, trapped in relationships from the unfulfilling to the downright unhealthy. Both Joe Hill-Gibbons’s direction and McDonagh’s script are subtle and highly intelligent: we are shown the ins and outs of Maureen (Derbhle Crotty) and Mag’s (Rosaleen Lineham) mutually destructive relationship in the first five minutes of stage time.

Hill-Gibbons keeps his audience guessing; both mother (Mag) and daughter (Maureen) are morally ambiguous, although both thoroughly unpleasant. Watching Mag’s malicious attempts to sabotage Maureen’s life and hopes, we begin to sympathise with Crotty’s down-trodden Maureen. Then the power balance subtly shifts, and we are left wincing at her callousness and cruelty. It is not comfortable veiwing, and it gets bleaker as the evening progresses.

Ultz’s  clever set was detailed in the extreme, perfectly capturing the suffocating, decaying lives being played out in rural Leenane. The wistfulness that Mag and Maureen feel when the other two characters (Frank Laverty and Johnny Ward) leave their run-down dwelling is palpable, as they are left alone with each other and their bad memories.

The script has echoes of Beckett – the trapped figures in one space, circling each other, sniping and grumbling. But here it is not physical barriers that keep them inside or together, but emotional ties that bind and drag them down. At the end of the play, you are left unsure who to believe, what is real and what is fantasy. There is no redemption here, no chance of escape: Hill-Gibbons emphasises that this cycle will not be broken, that Maureen is bound to turn into Mag, that hope is short-lived and fleeting. Bleak, but brilliant.

The Beauty Queen of Leenane is currently on tour before returning to the Young Vic Theatre. For more information and tickets see the website here.

There’s a certain irony to missing the start of The Railway Children because your train is delayed, and not an especially funny one. Peter’s desperate watch-checking after the landslide (which was nicely done with a dramatic tower of tumbling boxes) – “The 11.29 hasn’t been by yet! We’ve only got three minutes!” – lost a little of its tension knowing what we all know about British Rail – don’t worry, mate, you’ve got at least 20mins before you need to start panicking…

But this is Oakworth, not Kings Cross, and things happen differently here. In the Railway Children’s idyllic countryside world nothing really awful ever happens (well, nothing Mummy and the Old Gentleman can’t solve, any how), everyone’s “a brick”, and the happy ending is inevitable. Given such a cheesy story to work with, Damian Cruden directs to wring every last drop of emotion from Mike Kenny’s script, laying it on thick but getting away with it because, well, we want Daddy to come home and everything to be alright.

Kenny’s script borrows heavily from both book and film, but it feels right because we want the familiar, slightly saccharine story to unfold, heading inexorably to the famous “Daddy! My daddy!” scene where Bobby (Amy Noble) is reunited with her father (Stephen Beckett) and there is not a dry eye in the house. Well, my 12-year-old companion remained fairly stoic, but I was weeping into my handbag.

The children themselves were done well, although Grace Rowe has a tough job making the rather immature Phyllis likeable. Tim Lewis’s blustering Peter is sweet, and Amy Noble makes a mature and sensible Roberta, with more pluck than she is perhaps gifted in the original story. Blair Plant, sporting a rather wonderful pointy ginger beard, is a moving Schepansky. Marcus Brigstocke is clearing having a great time as the grumbly Mr Perks, complete with thick Yorkshire accent. His gruffness hides a soft heart, and we know three children who will win him round in the end. It’s all predictable enough, but wears its soppiness well.

Special mention must go to Christopher Madin who wrote the beautiful score – strains of Copeland and English pastoral interwoven with brilliant, hummable tunes that never overpower the cast or stray too far across the bounds of sentimentality. Not that a bit of sentimentality is necessarily a bad thing; designer Joanna Scotcher has done a lovely job of making the whole Eurostar terminal space at Waterloo station feel almost cosy. The set and costumes are lovely – there is a real sense of no-expense-spared with the whole production. And then there’s the train. A real, actual live steam train, which runs between the two banks of audience members, puffing and chuntering. It does not disappoint.

Yes, it’s pure, unadulterated schmaltz, but if that’s what you’re going for, then do it boldly, and your audience will go with you. Cruden and his cast tackle the sentimental story with vim and enough dramatic moments to cut through some of the sugar without killing the sweetness. It’s handled with a light touch, and the cast manage not to be outshone by the gleaming train. It’s packed with enough cheese to last you a long time, but this avowed cynic was won over by The Railway Children’s charm, playfulness and sense of fun.

James Corden needs to be superlatively good to carry this show: make no mistake, Francis Hensahll, the “one man” of the title, is onstage virtually the whole time, and he carries a lot of plot and jokes on his shoulders. Lucky, then, that Corden imbues Francis with the energy to make him a  rogue while adding just enough pathos to keep him likeable. He is an extremely talented clown, adept at manipulating his audience and making sure we are rooting for him as he begs, borrows and steals his way from rags to, well, not riches, but at least a good dinner and a trip to Majorca.

The audience in the Lyttleton on a Sunday afternoon was kind to Corden – perhaps a little too ready to laugh: there is a tendency to be prepped to laugh when we know we are seeing a comedy and that a well-known comedian is in the title role. This can mean that the jokes don’t necessarily have to hold up to much scrutiny, they just need to be delivered by the right person. As I say, I have no doubt that Corden was the right man for the job, but I am not convinced that the jokes would fare as well in less capable hands.

Richard Bean has taken Carlo Goldoni’s The Servant of Two Masters and dragged it into the 1960s, complete with Beatnik actor-wannabe, a beehive-sporting proponent of Women’s Lib and a wonderful be-suited skiffle band. There are moments when the script could be sharper, but it has some nice flourishes and enough genuinely funny nods to the time to keep the punters happy. Dolly (Suzie Toase) declares at one point that in the next 20 years there will be a woman in 10 Downing Street and that caring for the poor, compassion and an end to foreign wars cannot be far behind. It’s adeptly done, but overall Bean’s script is not quite as deft as it could have been.

His characters remain a little two-dimensional, too. Pauline (Claire Lams) is thick. That’s about all we learn about her, through no fault of either Lams herself or Nicholas Hytner’s direction. Her wayward fiance, Alan (Daniel Rigby) is an Actor with a capital A, and flounces a lot. He is very funny, but  rather a slender character. Diminutive Jemima Rooper as Rachel/Roscoe is genuinely intimidating, and plays with a lightness of touch missing from some of the other cast members – she doesn’t become a caricature despite not being given a great deal to work with. Oliver Chris as Stanley is furiously channeling Hugh Laurie’s Bertie Wooster for much of the show, with a few more boarding-school jokes thrown in for good measure. He is hilarious, but one can’t help but wonder what the fiesty Rachel sees in his ugger-bugger Stanley.

Grant Olding’s musical interludes are wonderful: they set the mood nicely and provide entertainment during the scene changes. However, they become increasingly frequent and more bizarre as the show goes on, until it inexplicably turns into a musical in the last five minutes, as if Bean didn’t know what else to do with his story and demanded a big ensemble number as a finale. The cast have serviceable voices, including Corden, but it all gets a bit silly towards the end. The skiffle band, however, are great – good musicians and personable performers, and I enjoyed Corden’s turn on the metalophone wearing a rather natty fez.

The piece is predictable enough, but Bean/Goldoni work in enough clever set-pieces to keep it pacy, expertly directed by Hytner. The humour is slapstick in the extreme, and the fourth wall is broken frequently and with impunity. All-in-all it’s a silly, cheerful vehicle for Corden to clown – which he does superlatively well.

One Man, Two Guvnors is playing at the National Theatre until 19th September. See the website for more information.

Sampled at The Junction, Day 1: This is just to say, How To Be A Leader, Dreams of a House High on a Hill and Death Drive.

The Junction is a lovely space, in rather inauspicious surroundings: in the looming shadow of a giant cinema/bowling alley/fast food restaurant complex on one side, the ugliest Travelodge in the world (fact) on the other, in South Cambridge, far from the stunning gentility of the colleges. However, we all know that neither books nor theatres should be judged by their covers: The Junction is a treasure trove of nooks, studios and theatre spaces allowing its annual mini-festival Sampled to offer something for everyone. With bunting, free jelly babies and cheap coffee, I am sold before I see any shows…

Hannah Jane Walker’s This is just to say is an intimate theatrical conversation about what it means to say “sorry”, and why we have a habit of apologising for other people’s mistakes: how often have you said “oh, sorry!” to the person who trod on your toes or let a door swing shut into you? Walker combines her poems with an engaging conversational style, and some gentle audience participation.  When my companion and I strolled up to the entrance we are greeted with cups of squash and a cheery request to fill in a name sticker: audience participation is not usually my cup of tea, and I squirm at the thought of being called on, especially if the actor knows my name. But, Walker is so charming and friendly that I decided to be brave, scrawl my name (illegibly – ha!) and take a seat in The Junction’s meeting room. The show is clever without being smug, and Walker is skilled at both performing, chatting, and putting people at ease. I am not convinced that her poems are strong enough to carry an hour’s show, but Walker is so engaging that the potential weakness of the poems (they become a little same-y after a while) becomes immaterial. She is at her best when she is philosophising about the nature of apology, forgiveness and linguistics, which she does with articulacy and wit. Some of the over-sharing about ex-boyfriends gets a little uncomfortable in such a small space – but perhaps I am just a wuss. The audience was receptive to Walker’s charms, and she instigated a real sense of camaraderie in the 13-strong audience.

Next, fortified with a jelly baby or two, we snuck into Tim Clare’s first show of that day, How To Be A Leader. A mix of stand-up comedy, monologue and sudden shouting, Clare’s performance was great. His seven rules of leadership are a mock how-to guide to becoming a dictator: the key seems to be careful guarding of resources (Frazzles); each citizen receives (Frazzles) according to their need; don’t let ‘em see you bleed (even if you’ve been shot); and, um, get a Spell-Lady to make you a magic hat. Simple, huh? Well, Clare’s bizarre logic and manic persona make the hour fly by. He is off-beat and hilarious, with moments of real insight thrown in here and there with a very light touch. We cover feminism, the real qualities of a good leader, how dictatorships are formed and sustained, and why neither Kim Jong-Il not Sarah Palin is a good role model. Clare ends with an utterly brilliant rap in the voice of various female leaders, to redress the balance a little after the rest of the show focused on male “assholes”. Joan of Arc, Queen Elizabeth I, Mother Theresa (who has a filthy mouth in Clare’s somewhat warped imaginations),  are given a voice, in Clare’s inimitable style. His way with words is almost on par with the incomparable Tim Minchin, and Clare possesses a similar acerbic wit offset with a twinkly-eyed grin.

A bizarre 20-minutes followed, watching Made In China’s Dreams of a House High on a Hill. I am still not sure if it was theatrical genius or pretentious twaddle. I am inclined to come down somewhere between the two. It is undeniable that this short piece cast some kind of spell over the assembled company; the audience were entranced, even after the lights came up there was silence. It was a shame that the lone female performer felt the need to say “Um, that’s it” after a minute or two, but she was sitting half-naked in a bath of milk, so it it understandable that she wanted to get out! The story was mesmerising but strange, a mixture of what could have been hallucinations, drug trips, mental illness. It was left frustratingly ambiguous, hence why I am unsure whether we witnessed genius or gibberish. The silent audience seemed confused at the end, and Made In China’s show left me somewhat confused. The script was not strong enough to bear the repetition, and although it effectively created an aura of mystery, it then tried to imbue the performance with more weight than it could take: by remaining so reticent with facts or truths it became impossible to connect with the narrative. We were left puzzled – indeed, the evaluation form asked us to fill in what we thought the play was about. The piece is a work in progress, so there is definite room for improvement, and I hope that the team is brave enough to make some decisions about the story. The script could do with a re-write to sharpen it up a bit, and some background might be nice, although I appreciate the delicacy of the narrative might not hold up under too much context.

Finally, we saw Tim Clare’s second show, Death Drive, a tragi-comic look at Clare’s depression and how he worked his way out of it through a combination of paternal determination, self esteem building, and the advice of a psychic horse. Clare has a nice line in self-deprecation and self-recrimination, balanced with humour and a healthy sense of self-awareness. The show covers difficult subjects (mental illness, suicide, father-son relationships) with a lightness of touch that belies the hard work that Clare has clearly put in to delving into his own psyche and sharing the results with his audience. It is difficult to watch Clare put himself through remembering his torment, albeit in a humourous way, but one leaves with a huge respect for both his bravery and his craft.

Day 1 was a delightful mix of shows, with a festive feel to The Junction.

I am looking forward to day 2.

The Sampled Festival is a weekend of events held at the Junction Theatre in Cambridge exploring new contemporary theatre. For more information see the full line up on the website here.

NB – I didn’t make it to day 2 as I cracked a disc in my back and couldn’t move. I am sure it was great!