EleanorTurney.co.uk

There is a danger when a new play gets a West End transfer that it is carried across London on an excess of hyperbole, which it then cannot sustain. The Royal Court, where Clybourne Park started its life, has an excellent reputation for launching gems – most notably with Jerusalem last year. Bruce Norris’s Clybourne Park had audiences in raptures and accolades a-plenty for director Dominic Cook. While this production does eventually justify the hype, the first half hour or so was tough-and-go.

The moments that should have been laugh-out-loud funny were merely enough to raise a smile, and Sophie Thompson’s voice (Bev/Kathy) was grating on my nerves. The first half, set in the 1950s, was a little stilted, a little too restrained, without enough biting satire or comic relief. Stuart McQuarrie’s Russ was so reserved that Thompson’s slightly hysterical Bev was even shriller in contrast, and McQuarrie’s human, moving reaction to his son’s suicide was diminished by the sudden escalation from soft to loud, from politeness to swearing. Cook could have done more to develop some more subtlety in what could have been a more interesting character. Robert Innes Hopkins’s set was fantastic – capturing the stifling civility of small-town America in the 50s, with racial tensions bubbling just beneath the surface.

The second half, though, redeemed the first, and took the play to a whole new level. Norris’s script suddenly took off, becoming sharp, pacey and witty. It also found a good balance between seriously funny and uncomfortably funny. He has a nice line in making you laugh, then think, then feel slightly guilty. The cast seemed more at home in their own time period, too, and the disintegration of civil relations was hilarious and horrifying to watch. I remain unconvinced that the sub-plot of a suicidal son was necessary: it bracketed the story neatly, but I felt that it was a little too pat, an unnecessary tying up of ends that weren’t all that loose.

So, Clybourne Park deserves the hype, but is not flawless. I saw the first preview, and hope it will bed in a bit and become more fluid and fluent as the run progresses. The first half is about ten minutes too long, and would benefit greatly from being pacier. The cast are generally a little over-the-top in the first half, their reactions melodramatic and there are not enough emotional shades of grey. The second half, however, was worth the trip alone.

Phew, another great weekend of theatre – I saw ‘Waiting for Godot’ in Norwich. Vile weather couldn’t ruin it, misleading signposts couldn’t ruin it. Go see, if you have even half a chance, this really is one not to miss. Lastminute are currently doing £15 tickets for the London run, and it’ll be worth every penny. There was a lovely article in the Guardian the other day (I’ll find it and add the link) hoping that X-Men and Lord of the Rings fans would go and see Godot for McKellen and Stewart and then get hooked on Beckett I hope so too, and it was refreshing to read something lauding “celebrity” casting rather than lambasting it like Tim Walker in the Telegraph (see previous ranting post). As I have said before, they are celebrities because they have acted in lots of things, because they are very good actors. See for yourselves.

Next weekend I’m heading down to Bath to see the much-discussed ‘Othello’ with Lenny Henry playing the lead. Really looking forward to it, in spite of my previous bad experiences with Northern Broadsides (see ‘Romeo and Juliet’ review), and very interested to see if Henry can pull off such an un-comedic role. General consensus seems to be that he can, and here’s hoping it’s better than the last ‘Othello’ I saw (see RSC ‘Othello’ review).

Weekend after that, I’m back to London to see ‘Madame de Sade’ at the Wyndham’s. Some trepidation there, as it has been slated across the board, but Judi Dench and Rosamund Pike should make it worth the (extortionate) ticket price, so I shall reserve judgement until then. ‘Inspector Calls’ is all I have booked for May so far, and, oddly, nothing yes in June. Better get cracking on that, as I can’t imagine going a whole month without theatre. Any suggestions?

P.S. Congratulations to all the Warwick people who won awards and were showcased at NSDF.

Twelfth Night, Wyndham’s Theatre, 12th Jan 2009

Derek Jacobi’s mincing, malevolent Malvolio was a constant malign presence behind the wooden slats of the set. The bare wooden boards of the stage and dappled lighting gave the place a breezy, summery feel. It put one in the mood for light comedy. While there were plenty of jokes, mainly in the form of Guy Henry and Ron Cook’s superb Little’n’Large pairing as Andrew and Toby (respectively), Grandage’s production had a darker side. Jacobi got perhaps more laughs than he deserved through the audience’s sheer delight at seeing him in the flesh, but it was when he howled like a wounded animal, trapped beneath the suddenly dark and claustrophobic stage that he shone. Credit is due to the Lighting Designer that they managed to make such an airy space shrink to a depressing, tomb-like prison for the beleaguered Malvolio.

Indira Varma was a beautiful, aloof Olivia, whose transformation into a 50s beauty in bathing suit and giant hat, panting with lust for Victoria Hamilton’s luckless Viola, was perhaps a little fast to be believable. But then, this is Shakespeare, where girls disguise themselves boys, the drowned are miraculously saved, and no-one has a clue about realism, anyway. Victoria Hamilton’s metamorphosis from mermaid-like beauty, plucked from the sea, into the neat, boyish page who ingratiates himself into Orsino’s (Mark Bonnar) court was rather more convincing, although still rapid. She beautifully captured Viola’s plight, torn between the difficulty she would face as a lone women if revealed as such and he desperate love for Orsino. Who is, in turn, petulantly in love with Olivia. Sigh. There was a lot of sighing, which made Samantha Spiro’s feisty and witty Maria a breath of fresh air. Using her sexuality and spunk to get ahead in life, and orchestrate the humiliation of Malvolio, she seemed fair too sensible for love, marrying for money instead.

The play tripped along nicely, despite being another 3-hr RSC extravaganza. The plain set never got boring, with an inventive use of the many entrances and exits, and a simple wind-breaker transporting the action from Court to beach was a very nice touch. The music was nicely done, too, and although Zubin Varla’s Feste was unusually melancholy, his singing voice was gorgeous. I was caught up enough in this charming production that I was genuinely pleased that the right couples ended up paired at the end, but found Jacobi’s vows of vengeance lacking in weight. He had perhaps invested too much to being a pantomime villain, which meant that his threats could be easily brushed off by the ‘goodies’. This was good, solid theatre with some bum notes and some flashes of brilliance.