IMDb has become an indispensable site for those of us who love movies. I especially love the trivia the site features about each film. Take Emma 2009, for example. Costumes that were recycled from other films are listed there. Let’s look at a few:

The purple coat Jodhi May (Mrs. Weston) wears on market day in Highbury is the same costume Hattie Morahan (Elinor Dashwood) wears when she arrives at Barton Cottage in “Sense & Sensibility” (2008).

Elinor in purple pelisse

The dark Spencer worn by Louise Dylan (Harriet Smith) to visit the poor is the same costume Lucy Scott wears in “Pride and Prejudice”(1995).

Harriet Smith (Louise Dylan) in dark spencer

The off-white dress with floral embroidery on the bodice worn by Christina Cole (Mrs. Elton) for her big entrance in church is the same costume worn by Cesca Martin in “The Regency House Party” (2004) during her “engagement,” and by Natasha Little (Becky Sharp) at Park Lane in “Vanity Fair” (1998).

Christina Cole as Mrs. Elton, Her Entrance in Church

The gray gown with gold bow print worn by Tamsin Greig (Miss Bates) to Miss Taylor’s wedding is the same costume worn by Anna Massey (Aunt Norris) in “Mansfield Park” (1983), Phyllida Law (Mrs. Bates) in Emma (1996), Lindsay Duncan (Mrs. Price) when Fanny leaves home in Mansfield Park (1999), Janine Duvitski (Mrs. Meagles) in “Little Dorrit” (2008), and Linda Bassett (Mrs. Jennings) in London in “Sense & Sensibility” (2008).

Miss Bates in gray pelisse and Emma in a floral gown

The floral print dress worn by Romola Garai (Emma) to Miss Taylor’s wedding is the same costume worn by Dagmara Dominczyk (Mercedès Iguanada) for Edmond’s homecoming at the beginning of The Count of Monte Cristo (2002).

Johdi May in lilac floral colored wrap dress

The lilac colored floral wrap dress Jodhi May (Anne Taylor/Weston) wears at Hartfield is the same costume worn by Denise Black (Mrs.Brocklebank) in “To the Ends of the Earth” (2005), and Alex Kingston (Mrs.Bennet) in “Lost in Austen” (2008).

Wearing a floral waistcoat at the Cole's party, Jonny Lee Miller as Mr. Knightley

The blue floral waistcoat Jonny Lee Miller (Mr.Knightley) wears at the Coles’ party is the same costume worn by Joseph Beattie (Henry Crawford) in Mansfield Park (2007) (TV).

Henry and Mary Crawford

For more recycled fashion comparisons, go to this link.

On Monday night I went to see The Little Dog Laughed at the Garrick. Little Dog is about actor Mitchell Green (Rupert Friend, well muscled but otherwise flat), who starts the evening defining himself as not gay while calling rent boys to his hotel room. His agent Diane (razor sharp Tamsin Greig) wants to keep him marketable and the truth in the closet. In this case, the truth is said Manhattan rent boy, Alex (Harry Lloyd) who’s also in denial about liking men. Only (hurray!), after a heartwarming scene about formative early sexual experiences (the “merit badge that dare not speak its name”), the guys do admit they’ve got the hots for each other, and it’s trousers down and time to get the gay on. Next problem? Alex’s girlfriend, Ellen (Gemma Arterton), and to say much more would ruin the fun.

Little Dog Laughed is a really odd show to see now, newish, in 2010 (it was written in 2005). I can accept that there still might be people in America and England that are uncomfortable with being gay, but, given how many actors are gay, it just all seemed a little hard to swallow. The whole thing would be completely intolerable if the agent weren’t a lesbian, but, since she is, her “homophobia” really reads as simply an accurate reading of what the American viewing public wants to see (an actor “women can dream of, and men can envy”). Her desire to suppress whatever truth about her “property” she needs to in order to keep him marketable is venality, ultimately, except … well … a 30 year old gay actor who is actually still not willing to admit to himself what gender he is attracted to? I couldn’t buy it. The playwright attempts to jazz the whole thing up with some really fresh dialogue, and succeeds in making a brilliant “actor and his manager negotiate with a playwright” scene, but as an overall work it felt clunky, like it had been written in college by someone destined to go into sitcoms.

I’ve got to give a nod to the costume and set designer for a beautiful palette of black, white and grey – I’m not used to having the actors match the furniture, but this worked for me. And Greig was just hot as the clawing, game-playing agent willing to step all over her client’s personal life to get herself ahead of the Hollywood game. She struggled a bit in the opening scene (the audience interaction was very clunky especially given how unresponsive we were), but went on to basically set the stage on fire for the rest of the show. Friend wasn’t really able to match her, unfortunately, but like Jessica Rabbit, I think this was more about how he was written than a bad performance. Lloyd seemed human and believable, but Arterton wasn’t able to make her character seem like anything more than filler while the set was being changed.

A little bit about the Garrick: the theater is one that I remember both fondly and with aggravation, from when I saw Zorro there; while I loved the show, I was incredibly frustrated with the blocked view of the upper two-thirds of the stage from my way-under-the-balcony seats. Fortunately there was no swinging from chandeliers or second story swordplay (or singing) to drive me batty in my row Q seats – just two little scenes in which someone stood in an open doorway which was blocked (grr!) utterly by the light clamped on to the roof above. Aaargh! Garrick, you win again! But, you know, it was kind of a potluck with the seats anyway, and, as I was asked afterward, I was entertained sufficiently to not mind. Still, this was a fairly slight night overall.

(This review is for a performance that took place on Monday, January 19th, 2010. The Little Dog Laughed continues booking through 10th Apr 2010. A review of the New York production can be seen on the New York Times.)

This patronising play is billed as a comedy but it is more of a rant with occasional and appreciated comic breathing spaces. Or perhaps just breathing spaces. People were probably just laughing with relief that the moments of “drama” had passed.

The play centres on a power suit wielding Hollywood agent (Tamsin Greig) who bulldozes her way through everyone and everything. Her tireless mission is to keep her client, an up and coming actor with boyish good looks, Mitchell Green’s sexuality firmly inside the closet. This gets increasingly complicated as Mitchell (played by Rupert Friend) becomes involved in a love affair with a New Yorker rent boy/hustler (Harry Lloyd).

Not so originally, there is a similar themed play within a play, as Diane, the agent, is ensconced in buying a hit new play and hollywoodising it, i.e. replacing gay love interest with heterosexual one in an effort to make a smashing blockbuster. Diane intends to use this vehicle to promote Mitchell to stardom, but straight stardom, because, Diane says, “If an actor with a ‘friend’ plays a gay role, it’s not acting, it’s bragging”.

Tamsin Grieg, who starred in Green Wing, gets the pick of the lines and she presents them well, if boisterously. She has good comic timing but at points, one has the curious and uncomfortable sensation that she is not entirely convinced of the play. This is especially apparent in her long opening explanatory monologue where her manic energy is almost nervous and she fails to give the audience much confidence in what is to follow.

Harry Lloyd, as the sexually confused hustler, is vaguely charming although (not his fault) he is given a ridiculous and unconvincing sugar-coated ending.

Gemma Arterton (of Bond fame) plays the girlfriend of the hustler and is unfortunately rather superfluous. This is possibly the effect of a four man cast where the other three characters have crucial roles in the story. Her delivery is cute but her lack of importance within the play as a whole means that it is hard to empathise with her at all.

Rupert Friend is fine as an actor struggling with his sexuality. But at times his anguish and heartache is all a bit too much, and it reaches a colossal low point at the start of the second act, in an over the top and overacted collision with his lover.

The set is odd and confusing to the point where you wonder whether the backstage crew forgot something out back. At the start of act two, Mitchell and lover are sleeping in a bed on the floor which looks like some kind of teenage slumber party rather than the luxury hotel room they are supposed to be in. And in act one, in the same hotel room, there was definitely an actual bed. Where has it gone?

Douglas Carter Beane wrote this play for Broadway where it appears to have enjoyed some success. The dialogue is well written and clever, though at times repetitive. The main problem is that this so called comedy seems to bubble angrily below the surface with bitter resentment for Hollywood’s attitude towards gay actors. And this feels outdated. Just because Rupert Everett recently blamed his sexuality for his lack of leading roles, lamenting “it doesn’t work if you’re gay”, the truth still stands that the entertainment business is full of people who are gay and successful and nobody bats an eyelid.

Whatever happened to subtly in the theatre? The messages are catapulted, like pudding off a spoon, repeatedly into our weary faces.

Give the dog a miss.

The Little Dog Laughed previewed last night at the Garrick Theatre. It is taking bookings into April 2010.

I love the comedy-drama series Green Wing.

Rather than try and explain the plot, I’ve decided to simply link to Wikipedia entry for it.

Here it is: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Green_Wing

And here are some samples of its humour:

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/green-wing/4od#2921927

There’s a great box set of ALL of the episodes and extras available here:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Green-Wing-Complete-Collection-DVD/dp/B000T2MZ48/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=dvd&qid=1257207037&sr=1-1

It’s a fantastically funny series. If you like Spaced, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Flight of the Conchords, Black Books, The Comic Strip Presents…, Extras, The Office, then you’ll like Green Wing.

www.rjdent.com

I have been obsessively watching and re-watching this BBC tv show entitled Green Wing, which I stumbled across on hulu.com.

It is an absurdest send up of hospital-based soap operas. Kind of like a British version of Scrubs, covering much of the same ground, except without the Scrubs signature “fantasy sequences.” Green Wing’s absurd element are played off as real, which in some ways makes them even funnier. Both shows are adept at mixing affecting (or is it effecting?) drama with hilarious and often over-the-top humor. Scrubs has more pop-culture references but Green Wing clearly had more leeway with language — the F-bomb gets dropped regularly, plus words like cock and cunt and all those cool Brit curses, like bloody and bollocks etc. In any case, if you’re a fan of Scrubs you may enjoy Green Wing as well.

Green Wing ran for only two seasons, like The Office, with 9 episodes each season, the very last episode running and hour and half. And it was an award winning show apparently, that was much praised. Of course, had it been an American TV show it would have been extended several more season, probably until it got old and stale, even though actors would be making obscene amounts of money per episode. I kind of like this form of programing. It allows for more ideas to get developed, and keeps shows from getting stale and turning into little more than advertising delivery devices. Although, I can’t but wish that there was more to Green Wing. But then you know you’ve done some right when viewers want more. Good fiction is the same way.

Also like Scrubs, Green Wing is definitely a GenX show. I don’t know if the whole GenX thing is even a topic of interest over there in Britian, but just watch on episode and you’ll see what I mean.

The story-line follows Dr. Caroline Todd (the female, British version of the bumbling but lovable J.D from Scrubs) as she begins her new post at the hospital in question. But this show is rarely if ever about medicine or hospital work, unlike Scrubs, which actually strives to get the medical aspects correct. And Caroline quickly finds her affections toggling between Mac, the young talented surgeon with the a lion’s main of blonde hair, and Guy, the brash anesthestist, who can be equally charming and repuslive. The love story is credible if predictable. But what really makes the show is the cast of supporting characters, whose story lines are no less interesting, and often even more hilarious, especially the spastic Senior Cunsultant Radiologits, Dr. Alan Staythem. Mark Heap who plays the stuttering, sputtering, spastic Alan is incredible. And some of the sex scene played between him and the Joanna Claw character or some of the funniest I ever seen portrayed anywhere.

Much of my argument for Green Wing being a GenX show is instinctive. It just feels like one. It has an Xer sensibility. Particularly in that it is mainly about a group of friends, and not a family as most tradition sitcoms are. The humor is often of the caustic, sarcastig insulting variety, and contains an inherent underlying sense of affection for the object of the jibes.

I could not ascertain the creator Victoria Pile’s age but I’d be willing to guess that she falls within or very near the GenX age range. The actress who plays the main character, Dr. Caroline Todd, certainly is. Tamsin  Greig is 42, born in 1967, same as me. Also:

Julian-Rhind Tutt (great name btw) who plays Mac, was born in 1966

Stephan Mangan, who plays Guy, was born in 1972

Michelle Gomez, who plays Sue White, one of the most insanely hilarious portrayals of a clearly unstable person, was born in 1968

Etc.

If I could buy this show on DVD I would, but it isn’t availble (yet only I hope) on region 1 format, which the U.S. falls into. I’m hoping in the near future it will be.

]]> http://costumedramas.wordpress.com/2009/10/29/emma-2009-episode-4/ Thu, 29 Oct 2009 15:33:16 +0000 Judy http://costumedramas.wordpress.com/2009/10/29/emma-2009-episode-4/

I’ll admit that at first I wasn’t sure what I felt about this BBC mini-series, scripted by Sandy Welch. But now, after seeing all four episodes, I am well and truly won over – and looking forward to watching the whole thing again. I’d just like to know whether the region 2 DVD will have any special features, such as a commentary, behind-the-scenes film etc – Amazon doesn’t give any information on this, but does say it is all on one DVD, which makes me fear that perhaps there won’t be room for any extras.

Something I have enjoyed as the series developed is seeing the contrast in acting styles between Romola Garai as Emma and Jonny Lee Miller as Mr Knightley. Garai’s face and voice are always very expressive, vividly putting across what she is feeling or thinking at any given moment. By contrast, through most of the series there has been something deliberately understated and buttoned up about Miller – his body language and expressions are much quieter than Garai’s, and you often have to watch closely to see a fleeting glimpse of emotion before it is hidden again.

Tamsin Greig and Jonny Lee Miller as Miss Bates and Mr Knightley at Box Hill

That contrast of styles perhaps reaches its climax  in this final episode, in the trip to Box Hill – where Emma, encouraged by an increasingly reckless Frank Churchill (Rupert Evans) puts on a flirtatious, colourful show of enjoying herself in the sunshine – while Mr Knightley watches silently, with just a slight frown or bitten lip showing his disapproval. Watching this scene, it struck me how the people doing all the talking, Frank and Emma, are making a parade of fake emotions – while Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax (Laura Pyper) say almost nothing and try to hide what they are really feeling. This whole scene seems very well done to me in this production, helped by the clearly glorious sunshine – unfortunately not so much in evidence in the previous outing to Donwell, which is supposed to take place on an equally hot day.

Emma’s rude comment to Miss Bates (Tamsin Greig) at Box Hill seems just right to me in this version – the way she says it almost before she has realised, and doesn’t at first fully recognise what she has done, continuing to laugh and joke in the next minute or so. Mr Knightley’s upbraiding of her afterwards is powerful, feeling rawer than their arguments earlier about Harriet. If the dance scene in the previous episode showed one side of their falling in love, then this bitter short argument shows the other side – how much they both care what the other one thinks.

Romola Garai and Rupert Evans as Emma and Frank

I was slightly disappointed that we don’t see more of Miss Bates’ reaction to the cutting words from Emma – after a brief comment she disappears for a walk with the Eltons, who seem a bit too subdued in this episode, if still spiteful. It’s also a shame that we never really have a long enough speech from Miss Bates, in any of the four episodes, to get the full comic and yet poignant flavour of the character as Austen created her – Greig gives a fine performance in the part, but I wish Welch had let her rattle on for a little longer occasionally!

I also think that Jane Fairfax is kept in the background too much in this version, perhaps because of lack of time in just four episodes rather than the six which some older Austen adaptations had.  This episode does give her a chance to step out of the shadows more and give a feeling of what the character is suffering, with the powerful short scene at Donwell where she tells Emma of her “weariness in spirit” before setting off to walk home in the heat – but most of the time she is kept rather shadowy and at a distance.

The proposal scene

Since rereading Emma to compare with the production, I’ve realised that the scenes and conversations are much closer to the novel than I realised at first, except for the updating of the language. In this episode, one gesture kept the same as in the book is Mr Knightley’s farewell to Emma before leaving for London, where he seems as if he is going to kiss her hand after hearing that she has been to visit Miss Bates – but then doesn’t raise the hand to his lips after all, just holds it for a minute. This is a good contrast with an earlier scene where Frank flamboyantly kissed Emma’s hand in order to torment the watching Jane.

For me, though, the best part of this episode is the proposal scene, which sticks fairly close to the wording in the book, and at last lets Mr Knightley really show his emotions, letting his mask slip. Both Garai and Miller play this beautifully. It seems as if Mr Knightley has become less certain of himself all through the series, after being apparently too hectoring and overbearing in the first episode – almost as if he has become younger, while Emma has become older. I liked the physical gesture where Mr Knightley asks Emma what she thinks about his proposal, and her answer is to put a hand on each side of his face – he visibly stops holding his breath and relaxes at her touch.

At times I think this production might spell things out a bit too much, and that happens again in this episode where Mr Woodhouse (Michael Gambon) talks to Emma about his anxiety that something will happen if members of his family take risks such as travelling. Welch’s conception of his character, as nervous rather than tyrannical, has already been made clear and I don’t think this extra explanation is really necessary – but this scene does give Michael Gambon a chance to give the character a little more depth.

Instead of showing us Emma and Mr Knightley’s wedding at the end, this version shows the couple setting off on honeymoon (with John and Isabella temporarily installed to protect Mr Woodhouse and his chickens!) I loved the revelation that the couple are going to the seaside, after all the mentions earlier of Emma never having seen the sea – and the final glimpse of the couple standing hand in hand at the top of Beachy Head.

Emma and Mr Knightley at the seaside

The incident at Box Hill loomed large in this episode. What did you think of the series as a whole? How did it stack up against other Emma film adaptations? Vote here.

More polls sit below asking you how well the actors fit in their roles. To save you from fatigue, not all the show’s actors are listed.

I’m sorry to be so late in saying anything about the second episode of the new BBC Emma, but I’ve had a frantically busy week at work and haven’t had time to string two words together! However, I have now managed to see the episode twice and, to be honest, have slightly mixed feelings about it. This will really just be a few disjointed thoughts rather than a proper review, as the time I have available is still quite short – I feel a bit like Miss Bates going over her latest letter from Jane, and will have to bring my thoughts into some sort of order at the end of the  series.

Romola Garai and Jonny Lee Miller

I am still enjoying the series and impressed by the beauty of the scenery and the whole world which has been created. I’m also impressed by the actors’ performances – especially Michael Gambon as Mr Woodhouse and Jodhi May and Robert Bathurst as the Westons – yet I feel increasingly that perhaps too much of Austen’s satiric bite has been lost, that the story has been softened too much round the edges. And yes, I do still miss the language of the novel. However, while feeling slightly disappointed at the moment, I remember having doubts about previous Sandy Welch adaptations and being won over in the end – her version of Jane Eyre is one of my favourite costume dramas of recent years, for all its departures from the book – so it may well be that her Emma will grow on me just as much.

I’d been looking forward to the arrival of Jane Fairfax (Laura Pyper) and Frank Churchill (Rupert Evans) in this episode, but so far neither of them has made a very strong impression. This Jane certainly is reserved, hardly having spoken a word so far – though that was understandable, as Miss Bates (Tamsin Greig) gave her little opportunity! I’d like to see the character given more scope in the last two episodes, and hope/expect she will be.  So far Frank has seemed charming and cheerful, but not much more than that.

Where the first episode was full of sunshine, this one had snow – very pretty snow, largely seen through windows falling softly. It struck me as being more like a Christmas card or a glass snowstorm than the real thing, with no slush or mess to clean up.  However, the general alarm at the first flakes and the determination to set off home immediately is very true not only to Austen’s day, but also to the reaction when we get a hint of snow in the air in Britain nowadays! Apart from the general rush to carriages, Harriet’s streaming cold was about the only suggestion of winter being a nuisance rather than picturesque – Louise Dylan made her misery all too realistic, and you could almost see Emma (Romola Garai) take a step backwards to avoid her sneezes.

Blake Ritson and Louise Dylan as Mr Elton and Harriet Smith

Amid the picturesque snow, I enjoyed the scene of Mr Elton’s proposal in the carriage and Emma’s angry response when she realises that she has been wrong about his intentions.  Several people have commented to me that Blake Ritson is “too handsome” to play Mr Elton – and I do think it takes some getting used to to see an actor who at first sight looks like a costume drama hero (and indeed played one in the most recent Mansfield Park) cast as such a smarmy character. However, there is surely no reason why an unpleasant character shouldn’t be good-looking. I think Ritson does a good job of reciting all his supposedly lovelorn lines in hammy style (“I adore you, I shall die if you refuse me!”), while by contrast, he speaks about the things he actually cares about – like his own dignity and importance – in a more coldly matter-of-fact style.

Romola Garai made Emma’s bewilderment and indignation at the proposal very believable. It seems to me that she is playing Emma as very young (this could just be a sign of my own middle age!) and rather more emotional than I’d imagined the character – she quite often seems to be on the verge of tears, for instance when she has to break the news to Harriet of Mr Elton’s defection. She also sometimes bursts into nervous laughter, for instance at the table when she is revealing to her nieces and nephews that she has never been to the sea, in order to distract attention from her father’s fussing over the superiority of Cromer to Southend.

I was slightly puzzled by the insistence on Emma never having been to the seaside, something which has been mentioned several times but which I don’t remember from the book, and indeed a statement that she has never been to London either, with the line: “I have never travelled outside Highbury.” I may be wrong, but I don’t think this lack of travel is stated in so many words in the novel – I suppose it is again to help build the picture of Emma as still a child, someone who has always led a sheltered life in a very small world.  To me this seems to be just one side of the character – in the novel she seems to have a greater assurance than Garai portrays. We are also quite often being shown Emma’s imaginings/daydreams – for instance, highly-coloured portrayals of Jane’s rescue by Mr Dixon – suggesting that she has a romantic imagination and this is a reason for her match-making.  I’d always seen her more as someone who wants to be in control.

Jonny Lee Miller’s portrayal of Mr Knightley is growing on me after a slow start. He does a lot with his eyes – I noticed a brief glimpse  of jealousy when Emma was talking to Frank Churchill – and he brings a welcome note of sarcasm at times. I liked the whole way that he and Emma work together to defuse the arguments between John Knightley (Dan Fredenburgh, giving a comically grumpy performance) and Mr Woodhouse. There is starting to be a feeling of a little more chemistry between the couple.

So, all in all, I’m still not sure what I think of this adaptation – but I’m certainly finding it interesting to watch, and it has also taken me back to the book.

I’ve now seen the first episode of the eagerly-awaited new BBC adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma starring Romola Garai and Jonny Lee Miller, slightly belatedly since I was working on Sunday evening.

Michael Gambon, Romola Garai and Jonny Lee Miller

I’ve actually watched it twice now –  initially I was impressed by the gorgeous costumes, sunlit green landscapes and chocolate-box houses, but disappointed that there seems to be little of Austen’s own language and above all her wit. However, I liked it better the second time, which I find is how I often react to adaptations of favourite novels. Screenwriter Sandy Welch’s previous adaptations include  Our Mutual Friend (1998) and Jane Eyre (2006) – I came to love both of these, but they took a time to grow on me, and I think the same might be true of her version of Emma. (The director of this version, Jim O’Hanlon, has directed many contemporary series for British TV, but I think this is his first historical drama, so I don’t recognise his style as yet. )

So far, I do like Garai as Emma – she gives the character a sort of mischievous, luminous quality, making her seem younger and more naive than I’d imagined her, but also making it believable that she can get so many people to do her bidding. I’m not so sure, yet, about Miller as Mr Knightley – he seems a little stuffy so far, and his remonstrating with Emma too often comes across as one-upmanship and nagging rather than the desire to bring out what is best in her.  Though maybe that is intentional, I suppose, and he will be shown changing later.

I was reminded of the start of Jane Eyre at the beginning of this new version of Emma, where Welch daringly begins with back story, going  right back to Emma’s birth and early childhood, and weaving in the early childhood of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill. A male narrator’s voice describes how the “sun shone on Emma” from the first, but not so much on Jane or Frank. None of the children playing the young versions of these characters have many lines to say – there are just glimpses of their faces registering emotions.

I was taken aback at first by this beginning, which perhaps feels more like Dickens or Hardy than like Austen . But, thinking it over, it does make the background of the story clear to anyone coming to it fresh without having read the book, and it also helps to give a surprising poignancy to the character of Mr Woodhouse, brilliantly portrayed by Michael Gambon. In this version, Emma’s father is shown not just as a fusspot hypochondriac, but as a man who has lost his wife (the coffin is carried out before the opening titles) and is now nervously insistent on keeping all remaining family and friends in sight and checking on any threats to their health, however remote.

Tamsin Greig as Miss Bates

The humour of it is still there when he wants to veto a wedding cake in case it makes anyone ill, or worries over Harriet not wearing a shawl in her portrait, but his fussiness always has that extra poignant element underlying it.  The relationship between Mr Woodhouse and Emma is nicely understated – she is outspoken and determined with others, but with him she has just the right note of being slightly worried and always checking that he is all right.

Similarly, the opening sequence also makes it clear from the start that there is more to Miss Bates’ constant talk  about her niece Jane Fairfax than just garrulous boasting. In this version, we have actually seen the young Jane sent off to live with others, after her aunt lost her money – and we have heard Miss Bates say reassuringly to her mother: “Jane will write to us.” So that memory is there behind the endless scenes of her proudly reading out letters.

Tamsin Greig does strike me as rather young and pretty to play Miss Bates, but, looking her up at the imdb, I see she is 42, which I suppose is about the right age – so maybe it is just that I am surprised to see a Miss Bates younger than me! And she does play the character beautifully, making it clear that a lot of the chatter is a case of putting on an act for her silent, disapproving mother. I was particularly struck by a scene where she stokes up the fire and you can see her putting on a brave smile as  she explains to her mother that Miss Woodhouse has no time to visit them today, but will be calling in tomorrow. “And in the meantime we have a letter from Jane to warm us.” I think Miss Bates and her mother must have influenced Gaskell in writing Cranford.

The opening scenes are also probably designed to provide some explanation for Emma’s character, with Welch perhaps thinking back to Jane Eyre,  and how the older Jane relies on the self-sufficiency she had to learn as the orphan living at her aunt’s house and at Lowood. By contrast, Emma is shown as always taken care of, constantly holding the hand of her governess, Miss Taylor (Jodhi May, who  also appeared with Romola Garai in Daniel Deronda).

Romola Garai and Louise Dylan as Emma and Harriet

One opening scene shows the little girl sitting beneath a table, hidden by the white tablecloth, as she watches with amusement while Miss Bates reads out yet another letter – and later on Mr Knightley  recalls this when he tells Emma that Harriet and Robert are not her playthings, not dolls she can play with beneath the table.

I did feel this line was spelling things out a bit too much, perhaps, and I had that feeling in general at times – that the same points could be put across more subtly, without telling viewers what to think. For instance, arguments between Emma and Mr Knightley tend to be loud, with moments of downright rudeness, whereas in Austen’s books I think that often conflict is going on beneath smiles and polite conversation – and all the more devastating  for that. Here there is less feeling of stifling etiquette hemming in the characters than there is in the novel.

As with other recent costume dramas, there are many scenes outside, most of them in good weather. In one of the early back-story scenes, Emma’s older sister, Isabella, is glimpsed jumping over hedges with her suitor, John Knightley, something which seems a bit unlikely – surely Mr Woodhouse would veto it immediately in case they broke their ankles! And there are also lovely outdoor scenes with Mr Elton (Blake Ritson, here smarmily unrecognisable as the Edmund Bertram from the 2007 Mansfield Park) and Harriet Smith (Louise Dylan). It does rain in one scene, so that  Mr Weston (Robert Bathurst) can let Miss Taylor share his umbrella – but apart from that it is all sunshine so far.

I do still  find myself regretting the loss of so much of Austen’s language, and with it inevitably a lot of her wit. However, not many new adaptations of classic novels do seem to keep much of the original language, so I think for that you really have to go back to earlier versions, like the fine 1970s mini-series of Emma which I hope to write about here in the future.

Wow, well I’ve got a bit carried away here – can’t promise to write this much about all the later episodes, but I will try to post something about them!

I have two confessions to make.  First, I only bought this book because I had read that it was about to be made into a film starring my current thespian obsession, Roger Allam, and the marvellous Tamsin Greig.  Oh, and Gemma Arterton, if you like that sort of thing.  Secondly, despite having a degree in English Literature,  and knowing Tess of the d’Urbervilles backwards because I studied it at A-level, I have never read Thomas Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd, upon which Tamara Drewe is apparently based, although I lied and told my teacher that I had.

I have since discovered that it began as a weekly serial in the Guardian, chronicling the return of the titular Tamara, a Polly Filler-esque newspaper columnist, from her cosmopolitan London life to her parents’ home in the country.  We then see the effect her arrival, following a nose job which magically transforms her from a bit of a minger into a beautiful temptress, has on the residents of the village and the guests at the neighbouring writers’ retreat.  Whilst reading it, I couldn’t help but be reminded of Daily Mail fashion “expert”, confessional journalist and certifiable mentalist Liz Jones, who has recently been writing about her move from London to Exmoor in excruciating detail, much to the displeasure of the locals.  I must confess to a strange fixation with idiot-marrying, boob-amputating, animal-bothering Liz, but I will not allow myself to get sidetracked any further down this path (although I can’t promise I won’t return to her at some unspecified point in the future).

Tamara Drewe is not a graphic novel in the purest sense as it has passages of narrative prose, delivered in the different voices (and fonts) of four key characters: Tamara herself, Beth, the owner of the writers’ retreat, American author Glen and village teen Casey, as well as extracts from Tamara’s columns and the occasional email, page from a celebrity gossip magazine and Post-it note.   This mixture of narrative devices works very well as it enables the characters’ inner voices to be heard more fully than the tiny thought bubbles usually used in graphic novels allow.   However, the illustrations are every bit as important as the words: each character’s facial expressions and body language are beautifully detailed in pencil, and the colour palette enhances the storytelling; red accents appear in the characters’ clothing at pivotal moments and flashbacks and memories are presented in blue tones.  The evocation of modern country life is perfect, from the cows in the field to the hoodies at the bus stop.

My main problem with the book is the character of Tamara - it is very difficult to like or sympathise with someone who is so relentlessly self-obsessed, has no obvious journalistic talent and sleeps with other women’s husbands, and I was left feeling that she is not truly deserving of the happy ending she is given.  I’m not really sure if the reader is supposed to care about her, or if she is there primarily for the effect she has on others; maybe I would be more enlightened on this point if I had actually read Far From The Madding Crowd…

Of all the words one could use to describe this blog, current isn’t one that springs straight to mind. Certainly, Black Books isn’t new, it isn’t even new to me; I saw the show when if first aired back in 2000, but after having re-watched the entire series recently I felt the need to write about how bloody good it is.

Black Books offers slices from the life of Bookshop owner Bernard Black, his unwanted work colleague Manny Bianco and his best friend Fran Katzenjammer; both of whom are pretty much his only source of communication with the world outside his grimy abode.

On the surface Dylan Moran and Graham Linehan’s Black Books has a classic formula thatcan be seen again and again in sitcom land; two blokes of opposing viewpoints are forced together in a confined space. This may be a well worn formula, but it’s a formula that works; Hancock’s Half Hour, Porridge, Steptoe and Son, The Odd Couple, Red Dwarf – the list goes on. Black Books is different though, it isn’t really about the relationship between Bernard and Manny, nor Fran and Bernard, not even Manny and Fran. Instead it is about the dysfunctional relationship one man, Bernard Black, has with the rest of the world. In having Manny forced upon him Bernard is forced to reintegrate himself into society. His relationship with the world is a little like that of a bitter ex lover forced to try and get on with a woman that, in some unfathomable way, betrayed him; turning him into the shambling, alcoholic pile of skin and grime that lurks in the bookshop like a vicious troll.

Bernard, despite being so dislikable in so many ways is likable precisely because of his irritability. Everyone has bad days, times when a dark cloud seems to hover over their head and threaten to taint their view of the whole of humanity. There are mornings when we all wish that the world would just go away and leave us alone. We’re happy to scuttle around in our homes sealed off from the cause of all our woe – everyone else. Bernard Black’s only problem is that he sunk into this state a long time ago and failed to reemerge from the doldrums. There was no way he could have cut himself off entirely from the outside world for any sustained period of time and as a result he is now plagued with constant intrusions and attacks upon his ideal state of being; to sit in the middle of an empty bookshop with a cigarette in one hand and a voluminous glass of wine in the other. Bernard has no filter, this has been worn away many years ago. He screeches at his friends, mocks passers by and only shows the vaguest signs of common courtesy when faced with the need for food, drink, sex or shelter. All this conspires to make him very, very funny.

I have heard it said that series two and three of Black Books are markedly inferior to the first. In fact I have often said it myself. But upon re-watching the series as a whole I’d like to issue a public retraction; at least once a series Black Books produced an episode that I think could be called a classic – and the remaining fifteen installments weren’t too shabby either. Of these I would personally single out the following:

Series 1 – Episode 5 The Big Lock-Out

An inadvertently locked door sees Bernard forced to venture out into the real world seeking, in this order: shelter, hardcore pornography, food and employment.

Series 2 – Episode 4 Blood

The title of this episode stems from Fran’s quest to research her family tree but the really excellent parts of this installment involve Bernard and Manny trying to re-invent the shop, firstly as a library come cafe and then as a fully blown restaurant. It’s satirical, hectic and brilliant

Series 3 – Episode 2 Elephants and Hens

Bernard attempts to write a children’s book. I can’t think of anything that I can add to that sentance could possibly make it sound more appealing.

When Black Books came along in 2001 the classic studio audience based sitcom format was on its very last legs, soon to be trampled into the ground by a new wave of low key half hour comedy dramas typified by the likes of The Royal Family, The Office and Marion and Goeff. The multi camera sitcom is far from dead, as demonstrated by the relative success of Linehan’s The IT Crowd, the long running family comedy My Family and a multitude of American imports that wash up on our fair shore. I can say however, having re-watched the entire Black Books oeuvre, that this is the programme for me that can be described as the last great traditional British sitcom. I look forward to the day when that is no longer the case.

Last night by uncle and I took advantage of the 10 pound day seats offer and were squeezed into a performance of David Hare’s new play, Gesthemane. It was quite a challenge to get these days seats, however, as there were already 8 people in line at 8:30 and then another 30 in line when the box office opened an hour later! So I feel my uncle actually worked to get these supposedly cheap tickets, but given that the show is sold out until February, it was the only way to see it at all and both of us were quite interested in checking out the latest by this playwright. (Okay, I admit, I’ve actually never seen anything by him before, but I thought that, given how prolifically he writes and how very many of his shows get produced, there was probably something there worth taking note of.)

The show was billed as being about politics and the “loss of idealism,” but it seemed to be to be a direct blast right at the Labour government that is really hitting the target now that the economy has tanked. “How long can this [incompetence/bullshit] continue?” “As long as the money does,” said two characters, and I had myself quite the laugh in this Last Action Hero – like moment of theatrical prescience. The story is something about a minister (Meredith Guest, played by Tamsin Greig) who is struggling because of the hijinks of her husband (financial) and her teenaged daughter (sexual), along with a parallel story of the party fix-it man, Otto Fallon (played by Stanley Townsend) who fundraises and manages things behind the scenes. In a bid for attention, the daughter Suzette (Jessica Raine, positively brilliant) decides to spill some dirt about Otto to the tabloids, putting her mother’s political career in jeopardy.

While this “story” is of some little interest, the play is more sharply focused on the conflicts between the various characters, many of whom provide Shavian speeches that pepper the ends of scenes. The characters argue about what they value (Minister Guest: more concerned with the party or her family?), who they trust (Prime Minister Beasley: in the pocket of his money man, or focused on his political allies?), and the sanctity of personal life versus fame (journalist Geoff Benzine – he chooses fame and notoriety). As the lights come down, they address us on topics as varied as religion (are political leaders more naturally zealots), keeping state secrets (you must trust that we as politicians are looking out for your best interests – and I do mean trust, blindly!) and proper party fare (my personal favorite – why not to serve neither chicken or salmon sandwiches, ever).

I continually felt during the speeches like I was being addressed by the playwright himself, and, though I mostly found myself agreeing with his points (as also delivered by Nicola Walker as disillusioned school teacher Lori Drysdale), the fact of the matter was that these screeds were already feeling like they were dated by the current economic collapse. They are already talking about the good old days, when the rich were getting richer and the poor were getting poorer, but at least there were some jobs out there. To be honest, I would have preferred to have seen a play that was a bit less topical and a little more long lasting, something that would be a permanent addition to the canon rather than a flash in the pan only interesting as long as the issues it cares about are current. Suzette’s desperate angling for her mother’s attention? Timeless (and brilliantly acted to boot). Meredith’s fight for her career with her former friend, Beasley? Not as razor sharp as David Frost taking on Nixon, but a good depiction of politicians under pressure nonetheless. (This scene was rather sadly held back by Anthony Calf’s performance – he never looked to me like anything but an actor on stage pretending to be a prime minister.) But this wasn’t enough to make up for the rest of the play, which had dramatic tension but not enough drama and certainly not more than two characters that were worth paying attention to. It’s a shame, really, but maybe we’ll get lucky and next time Mr. Hare can get on with a good family feud a la August, Osage County and save the speeches for his personal appearances.

(This review is for a performance that took place on Monday, December 1st, 2008.)

While I haven’t blogged about this before, those of you who know me know I am enamored, for various reasons, of a few famous women. At the top of the list resides the world’s most perfect woman, Tina Fey. She is smart, sexy, funny as hell, self-confident enough to wear glasses on a regular basis and, from what I have read about her and seen of her on TV, a really decent person as well. Coming in a not-too-distant second in the fan club is Amy Sedaris. Again, with her we have smart, sexy, funny, and self-confident enough to wear glasses on a regular basis. Although her funny tends more towards the bizarrely wacky than the observationally witty of Tina Fey which puts her at number two on my list.

There are a few other women farther down the list who are great but don’t meet my ideal. Women like Jodie Foster (crazy smart and sexy but needs more funny), Ellen MacArthur (don’t know about smart but certainly very talented and strong-willed as the youngest person to sail solo around the world, sexy, and probably fun/ny), Kristin Scott Thomas and Tamsin Greig (they seem smart, definitely look sexy, and portray themselves as strong-willed serious and/or funny women in film/tv), and Sigourney Weaver (she’s got smarts, crazy amounts of sex appeal, and, in my mind at least, fun enough to be still willing to kick alien ass to save the planet).

But the newest addition to my fan club is Felicia Day. Her addition might be due to her geek cred as a serious actor in a web-only mini-series, or it might be due to her red hair (a major weakness of mine), or it might just be due to the fact that she entered college at 16 by turning down an admission offer to Julliard to attend school in Austin, Texas with a major in mathematics and music. (She’s got the whole left-brain/right-brain dichotomy solved right there.)

She has done some TV (Monk, House) and lots of movie acting. But what made me fall in love with her is her role as Penny in Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. I am not a big Joss Whedon fan and stumbled upon the Dr. Horrible series after it was complete but when I saw the full episode—at the link above—I was impressed with Whedon’s story-writing skills and completely enamored of Felicia Day.

*This is a club of one where I am the fan of other people.

[I've got to get back to work on my thesis but I will add more to this post next week.]

One of the many questions that Whingers get asked is: why do you go to see things that you’re so clearly not going to enjoy?

That and: “What do you think you’re doing with my wine?”

The answer to the former is that the Whingers are constantly hoping to better themselves. While this may seem to you to display a distinct paucity of ambition, the Whingers are committed to exposing themselves to as wide a range of cultural input as possible. It is their hope that theatre can expand their horizons, challenge their thinking and create new dreams for them to live. Very like Mr Barack Obama in this respect, the Whingers dare to hope for change we need.

Playwright David Hare is a case in point. Not known for his musicals, whodunnits nor lately for amusingly written parts for Dames of the British Empire (Amy’s View being the most recent we can think of) he seems, on the surface of it, to have little on his stall that might attract the attention of a passing Whinger.

Yet Gethsemane could so easily have gone either way; Andrew had been much moved by The Permanent Way, Hare’s verbatim theatrical piece on the privatisation of the railways; Phil had some good words to say about Stuff Happens (although Andrew fell asleep 15 minutes in and bailed out at the interval).

Gethsemane is set in New Labour territory. The daughter (Jessica Raine) of the home secretary (who is not based on Phil’s ex-neighbour Tessa Jowell) has been caught smoking pot but isn’t expelled from her private school because a man who is not based on Lord Levy has been installed as a governor and buys the school a new gym. But the home secretary (Tamsin Greig) is on the brink of scandal anyway due to the dubious overseas financial activities and ensuing court appearance of her husband (who isn’t based on David Mills) and the Prime Minister (Anthony Calf) isn’t impressed. This is a religious, jeans-wearing PM and obviously not based on Tony Blair because he plays the drums, not the guitar.

There’s also a journalist who is a parliamentary sketch writer who also pens a Saturday column for his “family friendly newspaper”. But cleverly there’s no mention of him also being the paper’s theatre critic. So the Daily mail’s Quentin Letts won’t be suing then. In fact he’ll probably tickled by it (but perhaps not the play). The Whingers can’t wait to see what he has to say about it…

No it’s not based on real events at all. Just as The Female of the Species was not based on Germaine Greer.

In fact, Mr Hare (who the Whingers spotted being very tall in the Cottesloe foyer before the play) points this out very clearly in the programme.

Gethsemane is my third recent play at the National Theatre drawing on public events. The Permanent Way is pure fact, transcribed. Stuff Happens is one-third transcribed, two-thirds imagined. Gethsemane is pure fiction. DH

You can read Hare’s reaction to the Mail’s Baz Bamigboye’s suggestion that this was inserted for legal reasons here.

OK got that everyone? Are we all quite clear now?

Mr Hare seems to know everything that is wrong with government and politics and likes to point it out. What the Whingers wanted, however, was some hope, vision or inspiration for how things should be. For a political playwright he seems chronically short on ideology.

In fact, not unlike The Whingers, he doesn’t really seem impressed with much at all. It’s as though he’s waving his arms in the air in exasperation and uttering a Homer Simpson-like “D’oh!”.

It would be wrong to characterise this as a wasted evening – as just one more episode in the Curse of the Cottesloe (whose only redeeming production in recent memory has been The Pitmen Painters). No, indeed, the Whingers were inspired by two important discoveries:

1. If you sit in Row T you get your own personal space for coats and bags behind your seat.
2. the spicy roasted almonds they serve in the bar are delicious.

Aside from that, there is not much to report: no tension, no drama, no moral decisions, no “what happens next” (except for, wisely, the last scene before the interval). The play feels flat, lacks variety of pace, and ticks along with all the excitement of a metronome. The Whingers didn’t care about any of the characters. If a nuclear bomb had landed on the lot of them it wouldn’t have mattered a jot. Phil didn’t appreciate the introduction of his theatrical bête noir, the park bench. Andrew didn’t appreciate the clunky scene changes.

There are one or two laugh-out-loud moments: ” Harold Macmillan read Trollope and walked the moors, but we have to be boring” (which seems less funny today) but otherwise this was an unrewarding evening.

The programme was only £2 (5p more than the almonds) but don’t buy it because the article by Mark Danner is dismal.

Footnotes

1. We checked on wikipedia and there is no evidence whatsoever to support Andrew’s assertion that David Hare was married to Doris Hare.
2. As part of the new NT schedule, playwright David Hare will read Berlin, his new 55-minute meditation on Germany’s restored capital, for eight early-evening performances only in the NT Lyttelton from 10 February to 20 March 2009. We’re going to give it a miss.
3. As evidence of the Whingers’ commitment to expanding their horizons, we offer the following account of our wet Sunday activities: a double bill of the Enda Walsh/Steve McQueen film Hunger followed by a second IRA related entertainment In Love With Barbara starring WEW-fave Anne Reid (as Barbara Cartland). Both were very satisfying indeed.

here are some photos of the actresses tamsin greig and janet mcteer signing autographs by the stage door saturday, following the 26 april performance of yasmina reza’s ‘god of carnage,’ which opened last month in london. as previously mentioned, neither ken stott nor ralph fiennes bothered to come out. but perhaps it had something to do with the theatre being in the middle of boyz town.

‘god of carnage’ opened in london last month. the play, written by yasmina reza, who wrote the oft performed ‘art,’ was translated by christopher (dangerous liasons) hampton. it’s directed by matthew warchus whose ‘lord of the rings’ debacle is set to close shortly. i’m sure it wasn’t his fault. frodo as theatre. hmmm.

ralph fiennes, janet mcteer, tamsin greig and ken stott all put in great turns. overall the oddly funny play, which manages to simultaenously be politically correct yet incorrect, is just short of fabulous. it was like watching that french film about the strange life of the bourgeoise that everyone who has ever taken an introductory film course has been forced to watch.

the play, which takes place at the gielgud theatre in london, features 2 sets of parents who get together to discuss a fight between their children. the one act play which goes on for about 2 hours (more or less) fell short on one or two occassions. the bits about saving dafur and how 8 year old sudanese children with guns makes one realize that one kid hitting another with a stick is trivial stuff… well, it is a spiessig concern. and between george clooney and angelina jolie and now yasmina reza and christopher hampton hitting us over the head again and again with dafur and all the horrible things happening in africa (which btw, is actually making a great leap forward with the help of the chinese government). well, it makes me want to puke just as tasmin greig did on stage.

janet mcteer, who won a golden globe for something or another, and tasmin greig were sports enough to grace the audience with their presence afterwards to sign a few autographs and pose for a few photos. pictures of both are forthcoming. the women were able to quickly change and come out and greet a few people. yet the men weren’t. funny that.

Sadly not the Jack Rosenthal and Mike Newell original, rather the tiresome BritFlick remake. Bill Nighy makes it bearable but the rest of the time you’re just thinking it’s a day out for some of the great and the good of the current crop of TV comedies.

God of Carnage opened last night at the Gielgud Theare. I had a ticket to see the show during previews, but I found myself in Brussels for the day and unfortunately had to give up my seat. I plan to rebook soon to form my own judgement, but in the meantime, I couldn’t help looking at today’s reviews.

The cast and creative team is incredibly strong, so expectations were understandably high. The play is written by Yasmin Reza, who is most famous for Art, which was a huge success in London. As with Art, God of Carnage is translated by the phenomenal Christopher Hampton, a translater and adaptor whose previous work has included Les Liaisons Dangereuses and Embers.

Directed by Matthew Warchus, fresh from his success with Boeing Boeing, it has a star-studded cast of Ralph Fiennes, Tamsin Greig, Janet McTeer and Ken Stott (who, incidentally, was also in the original cast of Art). 

But as we all know, having big names does not guarantee positive reviews… thankfully for the producers of God of Carnage, the reviews appear to have been very positive. In fact, of the ‘quality’ newspapers, only the Independent are critical. Michael Billington, Charles Spencer and Benedict Nightingale are all impressed as you’ll see if you read on:

Guardian review – Michael Billington (click here)
4 stars

• “All four actors are excellent and, in Matthew Warchus’s deft production, show the thin veneer of bourgeois pretence.”
• “she [Reza] has the courage to tackle big themes; and this performance is full of delights.” 
• “Reza’s commercial success is often held against her; but here, as so often, she holds the mirror up to bourgeois hypocrisy with the savage indignation of a born satirist.”

Telegraph review – Charles Spencer (click here)
“a cracking night of electrifying comic acting”

• “The director Matthew Warchus choreographs the escalating violence with superb precision while drawing superlative comic performances from the cast.”
• “I never previously suspected Ralph Fiennes of being funny, but his boorish lawyer, constantly taking calls on his mobile and secretly proud of his psychotic son, is sheer joy.”

• “I am not sure God of Carnage is as profound as Yasmina Reza doubtless thinks it is, but it certainly offers a crackling night of electrifying comic acting…”

Times review – Benedict Nightingale (click here)
4 stars

• “With Matthew Warchus directing these superb performers and Christopher Hampton translating, the effect is tense, edgy and funny.”
• “But again and again I found myself delighted by her [Yasmin Reza's] incisive observation, her acerbic wit, her shrewd humour – and her stunning cast.” 

Independent review – Alice Jones (click here)
“left me feeling distinctly queasy”

• “There are still gasp-worthy moments of rudeness as the characters switch allegiances, denigrating first their partners, then each other, and vie for attention like spoilt brats. But all too often in Warchus’s confusing and stilted production these precious moments are lost.”
• “This is Reza’s nastiest play yet.”
• “In the end, this curious hybrid of Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? and Ayckbourn-esque farce left me feeling distinctly queasy.”

Roundup – a reminder of where you can find the full reviews…
Guardian review (Michael Billington) – click here
Telegraph review (Charles Spencer) – click here
Times review (Benedict Nightingale) – click here
Independent review (Alice Jones) – click here

For more information about the show, and to book tickets, visit the official website
God of Carnage is booking until June 14th

It will come to no surprise to anyone that neither Whinger has sired any little Whingers.

Sadly, Phil is now almost certainly barren, so the patter of tiny cloven hooves is unlikely to be heard in Kentish Town.

Andrew claims to be a godfather; not the horse’s head in the bed variety (Andrew’s much too squeamish for that – remember he’s the one who wouldn’t go and see Equus as he feared seeing imaginary horses having their imaginary eyes poked out) and he frequently makes offers which people find very easy to refuse.

So could the Whingers possibly relate to God of Carnage, a tale of parenthood?

Warning: “Plot” spoiler ahead.

Well, not plot. Vomit. Vomit spoiler ahead.

But to begin at the beginning…

God of Carnage was always going to be a tricky one. Yasmina Reza (Art, Lifex3 and Something with a forgettable name that was on at the Wyndhams) writes plays that theatres love to put on and people enjoy watching but why this is so is rather beyond the Whingers. And she’s French.

Another characteristic of Reza productions is that the quality of the actors usually outweighs the play’s substance to an almost embarrassing degree.

So why bother? Well, because there’s a major star in it, of course: Ralph Fiennes. Plus it’s directed by the WEW’s directorial hero du mois, the uber-busy Matthew (Boeing, Boeing, Speed-the-Plow) Warchus. He also directed Lord Of The Rings – The Musical but anyone can make a mistake and the Whingers speak with some authority on the matter.

But then again, there are no offers available for this show, it’s not on the TKTS half price booth and the preview prices are reduced by a measly £2.50 which only is £1.00 less than the price of a God of Carnage programme.

In fact, such was the situation that the ever-stingy Whingers were reduced to emailing the show’s PR people – Peter Thompson Associates – to request free tickets but strangely no response was forthcoming, so possibly the Internet was broken that day.

Anyway, two tickets in the circle slips at £25 were the closest the Whingers could get to free. And actually (ticket tip) they are rather good for the price.

Anyway, God of Carnage is a 90 minute four hander (Fiennes plus Tamsin Greig, Janet McTeer and Ken Stott) about two middle class Parisian couples who meet to discuss how to handle the fact that the son of one has hit the son of the other, knocking out two of his teeth in the process.

But it’s not really about being a parent at all, it’s about relationships, and how selfish we all are only caring about ourselves. Alors, Mmlle Reza, the Whingers could certainly relate to that.

As the evening goes on allegiances shift, dirty laundry is aired and the audience laughs uproariously, presumably to the great annoyance of Mmlle Reza who comes across as rather precious and tiresome in The Independent:

She had hoped to be seen as a Gallic Pinter for whom silence is as important as words, as a female Pirandello or a twin sister to Beckett. Instead, she was compared with Alan Ayckbourn, and this didn’t please her.

In 1999, she told The Los Angeles Times, “I would like to see them laugh at the right moments.” A year later, she told another journalist, “Laughter is always a problem and is very dangerous. The way people laugh changes the way you see a play. A very profound play may seem very light. My plays have always been described as comedy but I think they’re tragedy. They are funny tragedy, but they are tragedy. Maybe it’s a new genre.”

Ooh, a new genre! Shall we call it the Theatre of Tiresomeness?

Because as the allegiances shift for the 45th time you get the feeling that they have become a formulaic device in their own right, devoid of any basis on psychological reality. The same when lawyer Fiennes breaks off from the arguments to answer his mobile phone for the 19th time; it all begins to flag somewhat although, we have to admit, the rest of the audience didn’t seem to tire of laughing at it.

In fact, the audience were so into it and presumably relating to Fiennes’ character so much that some apparently decided to switch their own mobiles back on. Three went off in the audience during the play (another spoiler coming) but when Grieg’s character eventually immerses her husband’s mobile in a vase of tulips the audience cheered.

Then it all really slows up and the lighting gets darker (much to the chagrin of Andrew who had taken to passing the time by reading the programme) and the mood gets more sombre. Yet when Greig’s character declares exhaustedly that “This is the worst day of my life” the audience falls about laughing. Maybe Mmlle should just get used to the fact that people laugh at her and write comedies. They might be quite good.

Christopher Hampton’s translation doesn’t help. The Whingers couldn’t quite put their claw-like fingers on it, but somehow it all sounded like it was translated from the French. An odd quality. Or perhaps a deliberate choice. Or perhaps he just used Babelfish.

The play was so French, in fact, that Phil even had his first genuine French-food-on-stage experience. Not only do they all chat about apple and pear clafoutis at length but also consume it. Poor Fiennes is forced to eat at least 3 pieces of it so no wonder he was starting to look a little less toned above the belt. He must be praying for a very short run, and hopefully he’ll get one.

There were some highlights. It was also the first time Phil’s seen a sim card on stage – excellent work from the props department here. Andrew liked the dramatic red set by designer Mark Thompson.

But the evening was entirely stolen by the highly convincing on-stage vomiting for which the Whingers would have happily paid £25. Which as it turns out they did. When it happened, the Whingers just turned to each other in disbelief, their jaws upon the floor. They have no idea how it was done, they just knew that they had witnessed something very special and magical which is unlikely to be equalled, let alone surpassed, in any theatrical production for many, many years.

Footnotes

1. When is a performance not a performance? The programme states “opening performance at the Gielgud Theatre 25th March 2008. So what had the Whingers just witnessed on the 17th March? Are previews not performances? Do these only count as rehearsals? If it’s not a performance who were these people surrounding the Whingers in the auditorium and what were these people doing on stage if not performing? Puzzling.

2. What constitutes a “sell out season”? The producers’ biog states that Equus “played for a sell-out season at the Gielgud”, Phil saw it early in the run but it clearly wasn’t sold out the night he went, unless a large party had booked the back of the stalls and all decided not to show up.

3. Special mention to the wonderfully named Traipsy Drake: what else could you have done but gone on to be a wardrobe mistress?

4. If you pop across the road for a quick drink after the show, you may – as the Whingers did – emerge just in time to see Mr Fiennes condescend to pop out and sign a few autographs – just a few, not one for everyone (notably not for Phil). A security man puts out a little fence to protect Mr Fiennes from the crowd of 10 people waiting for his autograph. Then Mr Fiennes pops back in again and the security guard takes the little fence back in. Then Ms Greig runs out of the theatre with her hand over her face a la West End Whingers, refusing to stop when called and runs into the pub over the road. Fascinating.

I am writing this with the benefit of hindsight, due to the fact that most of my Saturday was taken up with me running hither and yon like a blue arsed fly, and by the time I made it home in the evening I was rung out like a damp dish rag.  One’s literary aspirations turn to dust faced with the offer of a nice sit down and a cup of tea.  I am the first to admit that I have no stamina, but at this stage, and given the massive quantities of my outpourings over the previous months I feel that this is no loss to the nation.

So.  Andrea picked me up in her trusty chariot at about eight in the morning and we hot footed it to London to have our day of culture.  She was meeting up with her friend and arriving at the National via a circuitous route that took in the highways and byways of Wimbledon several times.  I was slightly luckier.  She had to go to Brentford first and dropped me at West Ealing tube station so that I could make my way to the Serpentine and my rendezvous with Derek Jarman (a posthumous one, naturally).

I got to the tube station absolutely busting for a wee.  I decided it would be fine because there would definitely be bound to be a loo somewhere in the vicinity.  There was one of those terrible Tardis like edifices across the road and although I hate them, having a morbid fear that they will self clean while I am still inside it, I was desperate enough to give it a whirl.  I got there and it was engaged.  I spied a garage about a hundred yards further on and hobbled my way thither, praying that they had a loo, which of course they didn’t.  I walked carefully back to the loo of doom, which was still engaged, and which I now decided was probably broken and I couldn’t risk waiting any longer.  My pelvic floor muscles are a disgrace and I knew that if I were to sneeze all would be lost.  I had to do something quickly.

I made the executive decision to buy my ticket, hop on the tube, go one stop and get off at the next station where I imagined there would be a shining oasis of porcelain as far as the eye could see.  I walked into the station, it was closed.  I felt like crying, and peeing all at the same time.  I spied a bus stop in the distance and made my way to it.  Luckily a bus arrived in about a minute and I got on looking anguished, and asked for a ticket to the next tube station, which turned out to be Ealing Broadway.  The kind bus driver took pity on me (he probably thought I had a terminal disease, or had just received some tragic news, as by this time my eyes were beginning to water.  Probably the pressure on my bladder muscles forcing the wee out of my tear ducts), and didn’t charge me. 

Luckily for me the traffic was minimal and I made it to Ealing Broadway before exploding.  Even more lucky for me there was a Starbucks right next to the station.  I ran in and shouted something about buying a drink in a minute honest, as I hot footed it to the toilets, which even more, even more lucky for me were neither broken nor engaged.  It was a blissful moment of relief and I shall draw a veil over it for the sake of your delicate constitutions.  Needless to say I felt much more relaxed afterwards, and certainly looked a lot less like I was about to spontaneously combust, which could only have been a good thing.

Ironically Andrea was experiencing much the same sensations of discomfort, albeit in a car getting lost around Wimbledon’s one way system.  She blames getting lost on the fact that she was distracted about the fact that her bladder was tapping on the window demanding to be let out.  It’s cruel the tricks that fate and biology play on us, but there you are.  She made it without exploding and so did I, although it was a close call for us both.  This is what happens to you apparently when middle age hoves into view.  How depressing.

Anyhow, to go back to Ealing Broadway, which I might add, has gone very chi chi and up market since I was last there, many moons ago.  I was able to purchase my ticket and get on a train, which was quite novel, given my experiences in West Ealing, which hasn’t gone very chi chi and up market since I was last there. It may be something to do with the lack of toilets and a functioning tube station, who knows?  I needed to get to Lancaster Gate, which is on the Central Line, and unbeknownst to me, so is Ealing Broadway, which was very handy.  All I had to do was stay on until I got off if you see what I mean.  Given my failure to do anything in a straightforward way up until that point I felt that it heralded a change in my fortunes and duly counted my blessings.  Even more amazing, the Central line was working all the way through with no delays.  When I used to live in London I used to dread going on the Central Line anywhere, because it forever seemed to be breaking down or being dug up.  It would have been quicker to go by hot air balloon than to attempt to go anywhere on the Central Line.  Apparently that job is now being given to the Jubilee Line so that the Central Line can have a rest and remember what it was built for in the first place.

So.  Kensington Gardens.  Very pretty, very cold, very full of Italian students muttering dire Italian imprecations about Peter Pan and having their photos taken.  Also very full of people jogging and doing stretches in unspeakably vile stretch lycra body suits which leave little or nothing to the imagination and which, when I get to be World Dictator will be legislated against, except in the privacy of your own home, or for use with the partially sighted, who won’t get so disturbed by it.  It was also full of posh people taking their yappy type dogs for a walk.  I know I moan about changing nappies, but I’d much rather change a nappy than scrape fresh, steaming hot dog excrement off the grass using a sandwich bag thanks.  One tick for the kids to redress the balance of power once more.

The Serpentine was open, not very full and very free to get in.  Win all round for me then.  It was a small but perfectly formed exhibition.  I have never seen any of his paintings in the flesh as it were, and they had several, and some installations, which were fantastic and a real treat.  They also had screenings of his films in big, dark rooms filled with squashy bean bags.  I picked a space between the screening of the film Blue, so that I could hear the narrative (the film is 74 minutes of a blue screen, so you don’t actually have to see it, see it, although I have, if you see what I mean) and between a room full of screens showing his early Super 8 film work, none of which has sound.  It was the perfect balance for me, and I was very happy for about three quarters of an hour until I began to get warm and nod off.  I then realised that if I didn’t get a move on I would not have time for lunch (Quelle Disastre) and possibly miss the play, so I dragged myself away.  I would have been quite happy under other circumstances to have stayed until closing, gently snoring with Derek accompanying me.  If someone had filmed that I could have been famous myself by teatime.  Alas, it was not to be.

When I was walking back to the tube station I saw a man riding a very groovy bike.  It was like a cross between a bike and a rowing machine.  He was pedalling it with his hands, both at the same time, like he was pulling oars.  He looked very cheerful as he rowed down the road.  He certainly made my day.  Then I saw a man dressed remarkably like Mr Toad with hat and gaiters, on a sit up and beg bike.  He was cycling in a very posh way past lots of joggers and having little chats with them as he glided by.  It was very entertaining because the joggers were quite non plussed, but being English, naturally didn’t want to be rude, so they would answer, and stare, and then jog off the path into a bush.  Excellent.  Almost as good as the exhibition to be honest.  I am very easily pleased.

I hopped back on the tube for the next part of my odyssey.  I had to get to the National, which is on the other side of the river (as a North Londoner by adoption, this is always slightly unsettling.  Never let anyone tell you that there isn’t a north/south divide).  I needed to get to Waterloo, which meant I had to change.  I decided to avoid changing at Tottenham Court Road, because this is a nightmare station on Saturdays in particular and is usually heaving with buskers, mime artists and foreign students, all of whom need executing summarily, because they stand around in desultory heaps getting in the way and flapping a lot.

I decided to be very clever and get off at Green Park so that I could get on the Jubilee Line and go that way.  This dear reader, if you are still with me, after my Londonly preoccupation with modes of transport (I shall probably start to talk about house prices soon, so brace yourselves), is how I know that the Jubilee Line has taken over from the Central Line in being very crap and very closed for the large part.  I did get to Waterloo eventually, via a fairly circuitous path, and some torturous conversations with a German person who was very confused and needed to go to Euston.  Euston, for the unitiated is miles away, and on a completely different line (Northern), so quite what he was doing heading for Waterloo with me, we never did establish.  I shooed him out at the next station shouting ‘Schwarz!’ at the back of his bewildered head.  Schwarz is German for black, which is the colour of the Northern Line.  I couldn’t translate Northern Line and it was the only bit of German I could remember apart from Bitte, which was no use to me at all.  I expect he’s currently on the Circle Line, thinking about Dante and weeping gently into his lederhosen.

I made it to the theatre on time, after having fed myself a lovely lunch, and managed to find Andrea and her friends.  I was quite impressed of me.  I nearly didn’t make it.  I was wandering past the Festival Hall on my way to the Theatre and got very distracted by some kids doing that running up buildings thing, you know that stuff where they run along some railings, swing over a telegraph pole and shin up the side of a building like Spiderman?  It’s got a special name, but I’m damned if I know what it is.  Anyway, they were practising this.  Some of them were very good, and some of them were very brave and a bit crap.  I was so distracted by the sight of a rather overweight and frankly overambitious teenager trying to walk up the side of a wall that I nearly knocked some poor man flying and we did a ‘will they, won’t they, will they, won’t they, will they join the dance’, manoeuvre until we both righted ourselves and moved swiftly on.  I did think that I would either a) trip over and land in the Thames or b) he would kill me, but I think he had been watching what I had been watching and so was more than usually forgiving about it all.

The play, by the way, was excellent.  If you can get tickets you really must go and see Much Ado About Nothing at the National starring Zoe Wanamaker and Simon Russell Beale.  It was the strongest performance of the play I have ever seen and I loved it.  I’m only sorry that I didn’t get to see the Tamsin Greig production last year, which was supposed to be equally good, but there you go.  Anyway, tickets are as rare as hens’ teeth, but if you happen to have a toothy hen you must exchange it immediately for tickets and go.

We had dinner afterwards and discussed smugly how lucky we were to have seen it, and generally bragged and beamed with goodwill to all men.  Then I parted ways with the rest of the gang who were back off to Wimbledon for a boozy night of raucous frivolity, and I set off to St. Pancras to go home.  I hadn’t been to the new style St Pancras before but I have to say that it is absolutely superb and about four hundred billion percent better than the old St Pancras, where I once had the misfortune to be stuck for two hours alone with only a Cornish Pasty wagon and a bench to keep me company.

It has a Foyles’ bookshop for a start, as well as some frankly delicious looking eateries, a Paperchase, a Hamleys and an M&S Simply Food, along with some other excellent emporiums.  I browsed and snacked my way to my train, where I had the great good fortune to have a first class ticket, which Jason had kindly purchased for me.  I came home feeling like the cat that had got the cream.  It has of course given me hideous delusions of grandeur and Glenfield and its Co-op now seem even more tatty than usual and will continue to do so until the lure of the big smoke wears off a bit.  Although I have to say that it never entirely does.  I lived in London for five years and the only reason we moved was because we needed a bigger house we couldn’t afford.  I was very sad to go.  I’m not one of those people who lived there and didn’t do anything or go anywhere either.  I was always going here there and everywhere, and when I go back now it reminds me of how much I miss it, and how much I am missing out on.  Still, never mind.  That’s what cheap day returns were invented for I guess.

Today’s links…