MADAME DE SADE
Wyndham’s Theatre until May 23, 2009
CRITICS can be such a critical bunch, can’t they? No sooner have they finished polishing their plaudits for Michael Grandage and his season of Donmar in the West End productions than they are reaching for the knives to butcher the latest of them.
Admittedly, Madame de Sade is not quite in the same league as the Ivanov or Twelfth Night which preceded it – and we can only wait with bated breath for Jude Law’s Hamlet later in the year – but the production hardly gives cause for the kind of savaging it has received at the hands of most of my national colleagues.
The truth is that there is much pleasure to be derived from the piece, and not just for those of the infamous Marquis’s persuasion.
On a handsome Christopher Oram set of decaying silver-leaf, the French aristocracy plunges blindly towards the revolution, its only concern the scandalous sexual misdemeanours of the aforementioned Marquis. Translated from Yukio Mishima’s 1965 Japanese original by Donald Keene, there are vast tracts of wordy, complex speech with little or no dramatic action to serve as respite.
But while this has been skewered as unwieldy stodge by some, it’s just as easy to see it as an opportunity for six fine actresses to wrench pathos and drama from some superficially unpromising material.
At the heart, of course, is Dame Judi Dench, who is imperious in her pomposity yet achingly vulnerable when her humanity and concern for her daughters is allowed to peep through.
Rosamund Pike and Fiona Button as the two daughters – one de Sade’s wife, the other his mistress – forge an unlikely double act in opposition to their old-school Mama, dredging the shamefulness of scandal to find a justification for standing by their man, no matter how flimsy.
And in Frances Barber and Deborah Findlay, there is another pairing – this time of wanton hussy with self-righteous puritan – that generates much entertaining and enlightening sparring. Jenny Galloway also turns in a nicely grumpy servant, Charlotte, whose turnaround in fortunes come the revolution is neatly underplayed but no less significant for that.
Mishima’s play may be dense, complex and ultimately too pat, but Grandage’s production looks sumptuous, sounds impeccable and features performances with the power to thrill. It certainly warrants this first West End outing and makes an entirely justifiable appearance in the Donmar’s highly fruitful repertoire.
PRIVATE LIVES
Hampstead Theatre until February 28, 2009
HAMPSTEAD Theatre’s 1962 revival of Noel Coward’s 1930 comedy proved the catalyst for a late return to popularity for the out-of-favour writer. So it’s fitting that this gem of a production should kick off the same theatre’s 50th anniversary season, celebrating a hit play from each decade of its existence.
Coward is too often written off as glib, dated and desperately unfashionable. On the evidence of Lucy Bailey’s faithful rendition of this beautifully crafted masterpiece, none of the above applies.
Its premise, of course, is the simultaneous honeymooning of former married couple Elyot and Amanda with their new spouses at a Deauville hotel. Faced with each other afresh on a moonlit balcony, their warring, passionate relationship sparks back to life and the rest of the play follows the fallout of their revived amour as they go to ground in Amanda’s Paris pied-a-terre.
Beautifully designed on a stage raised some ten feet into the air by Katrina Lindsay, the opening balcony scene neatly sidesteps the potential problems of a narrow strip of performance space by turning it into a widescreen cinematic letterbox, elegantly lit (Oliver Fenwick) and reminiscent of an ocean liner. The Paris apartment, too, is perfectly created, from the carefully scattered cushions to the baby grand piano.
But in the end, Coward is all in the playing, and director Bailey couldn’t have wished for a better troupe. As Elyot and Amanda, Jasper Britton and Claire Price fizz and sizzle with all the wicked fun Coward and Gertrude Lawrence themselves must have exuded.
Britton – not a classically handsome leading man – has bucketloads of charm and is easy to believe as the self-centred, hedonistic cynic who sees what he wants and goes after it with reckless abandon. Price, meanwhile, gives us an Amanda of equally dubious moral fibre, but an utterly convincing sense of duty overridden by passion. They look and sound fabulous together, whether snuggled in silk pyjamas or trading snipes in evening dress.
There’s great support, too, from Lucy Briggs-Owen and Rufus Wright as their new, cast-off spouses: both create characters who are more than simple ciphers for their centre-stage partners, and their contribution – particularly in the delightfully played closing scene – is vital to the show’s overall success.
It’s a winning, vibrant production that catches light from the word go and, like Elyot and Amanda, rarely lets up, whether it’s wrapping you in its arms or punching you on the nose.
TWELFTH NIGHT
Wyndham’s Theatre, London, until March 7, 2009
THE Donmar’s year-long residency in the West End kicked off with a meaty production of Chekov’s Ivanov, with a thundering performance by Kenneth Branagh at its heart.
Now director Michael Grandage turns to pure comedy in his latest exploration of the classics, this time with another supreme talent at the centre.
Not that this lively, colourful version of Shakespeare’s whimsical bit of fluff depends overmuch on Sir Derek Jacobi. For, while the theatrical knight is indeed a tour de force as the mistreated Malvolio, this is a real ensemble performance with barely a foot adrift.
Grandage and his designer Christopher Oram have staged a beautifully crafted piece, with the marvellous sets and lighting (Neil Austin) at one moment conveying late-night cosiness, the next a sweeping, sunlit beach, all with virtually no set or props.
The actors are seamlessly choreographed into these spaces with a fluidity and naturalness that means the production never falters as it races through two and a bit neatly filleted hours of lightly-tripping delight.
Ron Cook is as loveable a rogue as I have seen in the role of Sir Toby Belch and he is elegantly offset by a drippy but affecting Guy Henry as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. This double act, complemented by an intelligent Maria from Samantha Spiro, is refreshingly entertaining, a million miles from the boorish drunks so often presented.
Indira Varma is gracefully cool as the countess Olivia, while Victoria Hamilton as the cross-dressing Viola never attempts to look overly boyish, but allows the characters around her to believe in her maleness, and this suspension of disbelief works as expertly as Sir Derek’s dissection of his role.
As you might expect, it’s immaculately spoken, perfectly timed and played with a straightness that draws out more laughs than any overacting could achieve. Some, as somebody once said, are born great.
With Dame Judi and Jude Law’s Hamlet still to come, Twelfth Night offers a wonderful staging post in this electrifying West End season.
Wyndham’s Theatre until May 23, 2009
CRITICS can be such a critical bunch, can’t they? No sooner have they finished polishing their plaudits for Michael Grandage and his season of Donmar in the West End productions than they are reaching for the knives to butcher the latest of them.
Admittedly, Madame de Sade is not quite in the same league as the Ivanov or Twelfth Night which preceded it – and we can only wait with bated breath for Jude Law’s Hamlet later in the year – but the production hardly gives cause for the kind of savaging it has received at the hands of most of my national colleagues.
The truth is that there is much pleasure to be derived from the piece, and not just for those of the infamous Marquis’s persuasion.
On a handsome Christopher Oram set of decaying silver-leaf, the French aristocracy plunges blindly towards the revolution, its only concern the scandalous sexual misdemeanours of the aforementioned Marquis. Translated from Yukio Mishima’s 1965 Japanese original by Donald Keene, there are vast tracts of wordy, complex speech with little or no dramatic action to serve as respite.
But while this has been skewered as unwieldy stodge by some, it’s just as easy to see it as an opportunity for six fine actresses to wrench pathos and drama from some superficially unpromising material.
At the heart, of course, is Dame Judi Dench, who is imperious in her pomposity yet achingly vulnerable when her humanity and concern for her daughters is allowed to peep through.
Rosamund Pike and Fiona Button as the two daughters – one de Sade’s wife, the other his mistress – forge an unlikely double act in opposition to their old-school Mama, dredging the shamefulness of scandal to find a justification for standing by their man, no matter how flimsy.
And in Frances Barber and Deborah Findlay, there is another pairing – this time of wanton hussy with self-righteous puritan – that generates much entertaining and enlightening sparring. Jenny Galloway also turns in a nicely grumpy servant, Charlotte, whose turnaround in fortunes come the revolution is neatly underplayed but no less significant for that.
Mishima’s play may be dense, complex and ultimately too pat, but Grandage’s production looks sumptuous, sounds impeccable and features performances with the power to thrill. It certainly warrants this first West End outing and makes an entirely justifiable appearance in the Donmar’s highly fruitful repertoire.
PRIVATE LIVES
Hampstead Theatre until February 28, 2009
HAMPSTEAD Theatre’s 1962 revival of Noel Coward’s 1930 comedy proved the catalyst for a late return to popularity for the out-of-favour writer. So it’s fitting that this gem of a production should kick off the same theatre’s 50th anniversary season, celebrating a hit play from each decade of its existence.
Coward is too often written off as glib, dated and desperately unfashionable. On the evidence of Lucy Bailey’s faithful rendition of this beautifully crafted masterpiece, none of the above applies.
Its premise, of course, is the simultaneous honeymooning of former married couple Elyot and Amanda with their new spouses at a Deauville hotel. Faced with each other afresh on a moonlit balcony, their warring, passionate relationship sparks back to life and the rest of the play follows the fallout of their revived amour as they go to ground in Amanda’s Paris pied-a-terre.
Beautifully designed on a stage raised some ten feet into the air by Katrina Lindsay, the opening balcony scene neatly sidesteps the potential problems of a narrow strip of performance space by turning it into a widescreen cinematic letterbox, elegantly lit (Oliver Fenwick) and reminiscent of an ocean liner. The Paris apartment, too, is perfectly created, from the carefully scattered cushions to the baby grand piano.
But in the end, Coward is all in the playing, and director Bailey couldn’t have wished for a better troupe. As Elyot and Amanda, Jasper Britton and Claire Price fizz and sizzle with all the wicked fun Coward and Gertrude Lawrence themselves must have exuded.
Britton – not a classically handsome leading man – has bucketloads of charm and is easy to believe as the self-centred, hedonistic cynic who sees what he wants and goes after it with reckless abandon. Price, meanwhile, gives us an Amanda of equally dubious moral fibre, but an utterly convincing sense of duty overridden by passion. They look and sound fabulous together, whether snuggled in silk pyjamas or trading snipes in evening dress.
There’s great support, too, from Lucy Briggs-Owen and Rufus Wright as their new, cast-off spouses: both create characters who are more than simple ciphers for their centre-stage partners, and their contribution – particularly in the delightfully played closing scene – is vital to the show’s overall success.
It’s a winning, vibrant production that catches light from the word go and, like Elyot and Amanda, rarely lets up, whether it’s wrapping you in its arms or punching you on the nose.
TWELFTH NIGHT
Wyndham’s Theatre, London, until March 7, 2009
THE Donmar’s year-long residency in the West End kicked off with a meaty production of Chekov’s Ivanov, with a thundering performance by Kenneth Branagh at its heart.
Now director Michael Grandage turns to pure comedy in his latest exploration of the classics, this time with another supreme talent at the centre.
Not that this lively, colourful version of Shakespeare’s whimsical bit of fluff depends overmuch on Sir Derek Jacobi. For, while the theatrical knight is indeed a tour de force as the mistreated Malvolio, this is a real ensemble performance with barely a foot adrift.
Grandage and his designer Christopher Oram have staged a beautifully crafted piece, with the marvellous sets and lighting (Neil Austin) at one moment conveying late-night cosiness, the next a sweeping, sunlit beach, all with virtually no set or props.
The actors are seamlessly choreographed into these spaces with a fluidity and naturalness that means the production never falters as it races through two and a bit neatly filleted hours of lightly-tripping delight.
Ron Cook is as loveable a rogue as I have seen in the role of Sir Toby Belch and he is elegantly offset by a drippy but affecting Guy Henry as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. This double act, complemented by an intelligent Maria from Samantha Spiro, is refreshingly entertaining, a million miles from the boorish drunks so often presented.
Indira Varma is gracefully cool as the countess Olivia, while Victoria Hamilton as the cross-dressing Viola never attempts to look overly boyish, but allows the characters around her to believe in her maleness, and this suspension of disbelief works as expertly as Sir Derek’s dissection of his role.
As you might expect, it’s immaculately spoken, perfectly timed and played with a straightness that draws out more laughs than any overacting could achieve. Some, as somebody once said, are born great.
With Dame Judi and Jude Law’s Hamlet still to come, Twelfth Night offers a wonderful staging post in this electrifying West End season.
