Theatre Review: Rattigan's Nijinsky (Chichester Festival Theatre)

In 1973, Terence Rattigan was commissioned by the BBC to write a TV script about Vaslav Nijinsky. In Michael Darlow’s summary, the script “traced Nijinsky’s life from his childhood examination for a place in the Imperial Ballet on to his stardom through into irrevocable madness” (Darlow, Rattigan: The Man and his Work, p.444), and focused in large part upon the dancer’s relationship with his mentor/lover Diaghilev. As such, the play directly confronted an “issue” which had been suppressed - for some, problematically so - within Rattigan’s drama up to this point: homosexuality. But, despite a positive response from BBC producers, and his own apparent pride in the project, Rattigan finally decided to withdraw the completed script, and his Nijinsky was never produced.

Nicholas Wright’s new play, Rattigan’s Nijinsky, just opened at the Chichester Festival Theatre and running in rep with the (cross-cast) The Deep Blue Sea, explores the reasons for Rattigan’s decision. It points the finger of blame squarely at Nijinsky’s widow, Romola, who vociferously objected to the portrayal of herself and her husband in the script and threatened Rattigan with legal action if the production went ahead. But the scope of Wright’s play is broader than this. He also includes scenes from Rattigan’s script, which feature Nijinsky, Diaghilev and the young Romola. These moments are interwoven with scenes set in Rattigan’s hotel suite where the ageing, ailing writer receives visits from a BBC producer, the older Romola, and others, while reflecting upon his current reputation and the direction of his life and work.

It’s an intriguing and ambitious mixture of elements, to be sure, and one that generates some effective moments in Philip Franks’s busy production. Malcolm Sinclair’s Rattigan nicely suggests the anger and resentment hiding under the polished façade, and while the play’s structure forces the actor to spend a bit too much time looking on interestedly as scenes from his script come to life around him, the performance becomes more involving as the production progresses: a pivotal late phone-call scene, in particular, is beautifully underplayed.

And yet, as often with the fact-based dramas that are currently so fashionable, there’s a contrived and rather hollow quality to Rattigan’s Nijinsky which prevented complete involvement, for me. Almost every illuminating moment seems undercut by a clunky, obvious touch, and having set up some intriguing parallels - between Rattigan’s reticence about revealing his sexuality versus Diaghilev’s openness, for example - the play is content to fall back on clichés. English reserve versus showy Slavic emotionalism is the order of the day here, and Jonathan Hyde's sometimes over-ripe performance as Diaghilev telegraphs the contrast. (Hyde does have some stylish, witty moments, though.)  And Wright’s writing too often operates on a policy of diminishment. In particular, he demonises the older Romola (a  thickly-accented Susan Tracy) so thoroughly that I felt a perverse inclination to sympathise with her. (She’s presented in her one scene as a homophobe, a snob, and a woman who's quite prepared to resort to blackmail in order to get her way - we’re certainly encouraged to share Diaghilev’s view of her as “a monster.”)

And with the action flitting between locations (London, St. Petersburg, Paris, New York), it’s not surprising that some key elements feel frustatingly sketchy and undeveloped here, and essential motivation fudged. Joseph Drake’s Nijinsky seems to fall for the young Romola (Faye Castelow, non-accented) simply because she dresses in a suit and dances a mean tango, while his descent into madness (cue the straight-jacket) feels like the fastest in history. Nor do the expressionist flourishes and stylised dance scenes that Wright and Franks have incorporated truly take flight.  And there’s a horrible, snide little scene between Rattigan and his mother (played by Tracy again) in which the latter reveals herself as a hopeless philistine who’s entirely oblivious to the reality of her son’s sexuality. (Her daffy, genteelly "English" delusion about her son is presented as the obverse of Romola’s "monstrous" delusion about her husband.)

The most intriguing part of the drama is perhaps Rattigan’s conflict about identifying himself as a gay author, and Wright has written some neat and memorable speeches in which Rattigan talks about his abhorrence of being pigeonholed and the undercurrent of “queerness” that he believes to be present, subtexturally, in all of his work. The words are eloquent and yet, like other such moments here, they have a slightly bogus ring to them, sounding more like the musings of a contemporary literary critic than the plausible reflections of the playwright himself.

The Rattigan/Romola scene, in which the latter argues that “if you choose to depict people who existed in life then it is your duty to be accurate," sets up some interesting issues about the ethical implications of appropriating the lives of others in drama - implications that Wright doesn't really address. Perhaps that's because Romola's warning about the difficulty of representing a genius such as Nijinsky seems spot-on: the scenes from Rattigan's play that are incorporated here don't really make a case for it as a Rattigan masterpiece along the lines of The Deep Blue Sea. (It looks more like a Cause Célèbre-ish mess.)  The pairing of Wright's play with The Deep Blue Sea is revealing in one way, though: it gives the lie to the notion that historical figures necessarily make for more compelling dramatic subjects than characters created from an author's imagination. The people in Rattigan’s Nijinsky all existed - and perhaps they did and said all of the things that Wright gives them to do and say in this play. But do we believe in them as deeply as we believe in Hester, and Freddie, and Sir William in The Deep Blue Sea?  The answer, for this viewer at least, is a definite “No.”

The production runs for 2 hours 30 minutes and is playing in rep with The Deep Blue Sea until 3rd September. Further information here.

'Double Feature' Blogathon

I can seldom resist a film meme or blogathon. (For proof, see here,  here, and here.)  And Go, See, Talk's Marc Ciafardini’s proposal to bloggers was an especially fun notion. “The idea here is that we all get to imagine ourselves as bona fide theatre owners,” Marc writes. “As such we set up our schedule for a week's worth of Double Features… The criteria is completely up to you to pair the movies be it actors, directors, a common theme, original/remake, you name it. Nothing is wrong and everything goes as it's your theatre… Only change is that on Sunday make it a Triple Feature. Be as creative or simple as you want.” The choices below tend more toward the simple than the creative, I think, but this is a week’s worth of films that I’d be happy to see at any time.

MONDAY:

Rear Window (Hitchcock, 1954) / Hidden (Haneke, 2005)

Those dastardly provocateurs, Hitchcock and Haneke, deliver two oddly complementary films here: disturbing and implicatory treatises on what it means to watch and film (or be filmed), artfully disguised as slick, entertaining thrillers. Feel like a triple bill? Then add A Short Film About Love (1988), Monsieur Hire (1989), Talk to Her (2002) and Four Nights With Anna (2008), to taste.

TUESDAY:

Brief Encounter (Lean, 1945) / Lost in Translation (Coppola, 2003)

Quivering English reserve scored to Rachmaninoff and po-mo alienation/connection scored to Kevin Shields, Death in Vegas and The Jesus and Mary Chain. Two lovely, insightful movies that recognise that the people we go home to very often aren’t the ones who’ve meant the most.

WEDNESDAY:

Shattered Glass (Ray, 2003) / Breach (Ray, 2007)

Based on events that would defy belief were they not true, each of Billy Ray’s smart, subtle dramas has the pull and charge of a thriller. Neither was quite as widely seen as it should have been but both offer rich rewards. Breach deals in chilly post-Cold War intrigue as Ryan Phillippe’s FBI rookie investigates Chris Cooper’s double agent. Shattered Glass, meanwhile, probes truth, lies and journalist ethics through a depiction of the notorious Stephen Glass’s last year at The New Republic and boasts a performance by Peter Sarsgaard that thrills me just a little bit more every time I see the movie.

THURSDAY:

Crimes of the Heart (Beresford, 1986) / Blue Sky (Richardson, 1994)

Imperfect films, both, but I can’t resist a chance to showcase two of my favourite-ever Jessica Lange performances in a double-bill. Lange’s work here lifts both of these fairly ordinary pictures into another dimension. Her Oscar-winning army-wife Carly in Tony Richardson’s Blue Sky combines contemporary neurosis and old-school glamour as only she can (witness her spectacular seductive swaying to “It’s Only Make Believe” in the dance hall sequence). But for me it’s the scene in Crimes of the Heart in which Lange, as Meg, returns from her night out on the bayou with Sam Shepherd’s Doc, and tells her sisters about it while fixing her broken high heel, that confirms Lange as one of the most inventive and captivating actresses the screen has ever seen.

FRIDAY:

Nashville (Altman, 1975) / Magnolia (Anderson, 1999)

Altman’s finest paired with one of its contemporary descendants, Paul Thomas Anderson’s thunderous yet tender emotional epic. A long haul, to be sure, but rewarding on every level. And you’ll probably find out all you need to know about America from these two movies.

SATURDAY:

The Last Waltz (Scorsese, 1978) /Stop Making Sense (Demme, 1984)

“Hi, got a tape I want to play…” Two of the greatest concert films ever, combining the exhilarations of the live experience with the exhilarations of the cinema experience. And who doesn’t covet David Byrne’s great big suit?

SUNDAY:

Zelig (Allen, 1983), The Purple Rose of Cairo (Allen, 1985), Radio Days (Allen, 1987)

Many options present themselves. The Three Colours films? The Wajda War Trilogy? Kelly Reichardt’s perfectly pitched trio of dramas? The first three Critters movies? Love 'em all, but I’ve opted instead for these three gems from my favourite period of Woody Allen films: firstly, Zelig, Allen’s exquisitely crafted mockumentary about a "human chameleon"; then The Purple Rose of Cairo, perhaps the funniest and saddest valentine to movie-lovers ever made; and finally Radio Days, with its warm, evocative family snapshots and Mia Farrow’s immortal enquiry: “Who is Pearl Harbour?” What’s more, each of these fine films comes in at under 1 hour and 30 minutes, leaving you plenty of time to spend in the bar afterwards.

Film Review: Smoking/No Smoking (Resnais, 1993)

Having loved Alain Resnais’s last film Wild Grass (2009), and enjoyed his adaptation of Alan Ayckbourn’s Private Fears In Public Places (2005) quite a bit, I was excited to have the rare chance to see Resnais’s first Ayckbourn adaptations, Smoking (1993) and No Smoking (1993), at the BFI last weekend. Resnais’s affinity for Ayckbourn’s work is well known, and Smoking and No Smoking were adapted by the director from Ayckbourn’s Intimate Exchanges cycle. These eight plays focus upon a bluff school-master Toby Teasdale, his frustrated wife Celia, and the various employees, friends, relations and acquaintances that surround the couple in their small Yorkshire town. Structured as a series of duologues, the plays are designed to be performed by just two actors covering all the roles, and Resnais casts two of his favourite performers - Pierre Arditti and Sabine Azéma - here. But the plays’ primary interest lies in their temporal conceit. Having set up an incident or series of incidents, the action then whizzes backwards and forwards in time to reveal the consequences of the characters taking a different course of action at a pivotal moment. (The title alludes to Celia’s decision to smoke or not to smoke a cigarette in the first few minutes of the film.)

It’s a neat idea, but one that, sadly, proves much more intriguing than most of what’s done with it in these somewhat disappointing films. Smoking certainly has its splendours: in particular, there’s a great sequence at a village fete which culminates in a spectacular meltdown scene for Celia that Azéma plays to perfection. And it’s true that there’s something exciting, and admirable, about Resnais’s brazenly theatrical approach throughout. The opening cartoon images which introduce the characters have a heart-lifting charm, while the patently artificial sets and the often heightened performance styles (not to mention the entirely French-speaking Yorkshire town that the action is set in) nicely deconstruct film’s alleged recourse to naturalism.

But ultimately the variations on the characters’ fates that the films offer become so multiple that they have next to no weight, and the conceit seems to present so many more promising dramatic (and comic) scenarios than the often banal and uninteresting scenes that Ayckbourn, Resnais and the screenwriters Agnès Jaoui and Jean-Pierre Bacri have developed. Maybe that’s the filmmakers' point: that there’s no divinity that shapes our ends, just a whole lot of randomness and chance. But, if so, it’s expression here makes for increasingly tedious viewing over the course of five hours, especially since the films lack the suggestiveness and mystery of Private Fears... or the crazy, what-the-hell daring of Wild Grass.

Arditti and Azéma are witty and resourceful actors and the skill with which they morph into the different characters is enjoyable to behold, up to a point. But even their best efforts and some effective individual set-pieces can’t prevent Smoking and No Smoking from feeling, finally, like a pair of theoretical exercises which lack the warmth, humour and bite to consistently engage or excite the viewer.

Theatre Review: The Deep Blue Sea (Chichester Festival Theatre)

Following the recent London revivals of Flare Path and Cause Célébre, the focus of the Terence Rattigan centenary celebrations now moves to Chichester where the Festival Theatre is presenting an exciting and very wide-ranging season dedicated to the playwright and his work. First up is Philip Franks’s production of Rattigan’s classic The Deep Blue Sea, which is partially cross-cast with Nicholas Wright’s new play, Rattigan’s Nijinsky. Franks’s approach to The Deep Blue Sea is straightforward and traditional, and if the production doesn’t quite match Karel Reisz’s production [reviewed here and now available in the very desirable Rattigan boxset] for sustained intensity, it remains a fine account of the play that sensitively conveys its sadnesses, its humour and its hopes.

As Hester, the expert Amanda Root gives a marvellously unfussy and affecting performance that compellingly captures the difficulty of the character’s position. Here, Hester’s clear-eyed awareness of her predicament in no way mitigates her sexual and emotional dependency upon Freddie (the always-engaging John Hopkins). This dependency is conveyed powerfully in the scene in which Freddie announces that he’s leaving her, Root’s face contorting with shock and grief at the news. Still, it’s Root’s discreet delivery of the line “Just my love” that encapsulates the economy and intelligence of her performance best. Her scenes with Pip Donaghy’s wry, sympathetic Mr. Miller are especially strong, and their final encounter was the emotional highlight of the production for me. Anthony Calf finds more humour in the cuckolded Sir William than I’ve ever seen an actor do before and, like Penelope Wilton and Ian Holm in the Reisz production, he and Root  suggest the weight of a real history together. In support, Susan Tracy pitches her Mrs. Elton just right (“Sad, isn’t it, how one always seems to prefer nice people to good people, don’t you think?”) and Faye Castelow and Joseph Drake (whom it took a while to recognise from his star turn earlier this year in the Young Vic's Vernon God Little) are distinguished as the Welches. Drake is especially effective in the superb late scene in which Philip arrogantly reveals his interest in Hester’s dilemma as part of his “study of human nature.”

Indeed, Franks’s production revealed something about the design of the play that’s never occurred to me before: the extent to which the structure revolves around a woman receiving advice and judgements about her actions from others before finding (via the intervention of an apparently peripheral character) the courage and resolve to try to make her own way and “begin again.” It’s an arc that’s traced with particular clarity and insight in this accomplished and thoroughly involving production.

The production runs for 2 hours 35 minutes and is playing in rep with Rattigan’s Nijinsky until 3rd September. Further information here.

CD Review: Design Desire (2011) by Abbe May

Design Desire is an assured and engaging first album from Australian singer-songwriter Abbe May. The White Stripes and PJ Harvey would seem to be the most obvious reference points for May’s music which combines strident, blues-influenced guitar lines with vocals that can be detached, ethereal or confrontational, by turns. But the best songs on Design Desire soon succeed in developing their own personalities. The first few tracks - “Universes” and the singles “Design Desire,” “Mammalian Locomotion” and “Taurus Chorus” - are short (all under three minutes), sharp pieces that showcase May’s inventive, squally guitar work and minimalistic lyrics. May’s singing tends towards the restrained on these songs, setting up a productive tension that imbues even the rockiest tracks here with an intriguing delicacy and lightness of touch. It isn’t until the chorus of the fifth song, “You Could Be Mine,” that May really lets rip vocally, with a thrilling declamation of the title. Other highlights of the set include the taut yet languid “No Sleep Tonight,” the frankly sexy “Feeling Like A Man, Looking Like a Woman” the creepy piano-led “Blood River” and the climactic slow-burn of “Carolina.” All in all, an accomplished and entertaining debut. Website here.

Theatre Review: Rock Around The Clock (Touring)

Rock Around the Clock is pretty much the kind of show that you know whether or not you’ll enjoy before stepping into the auditorium. It’s the ultimate nostalgia-fest jukebox musical: a slick assemblage of 1950s and early 60s rock ‘n’ roll hits strung together without anything as distracting as even the semblance of a narrative to get in the way of the music. Over the course of two hours, six hard-working singers (Jamie Capewell, Will Mulvey, AnDre Washington, Kelsey Cobban, Ben Fitzpatrick and Sarah Accomando) and a four-piece band rip through songs made famous by Elvis, Buddy Holly, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Connie Francis, The Crystals, The Shirelles and others, while eight colourfully-costumed dancers strut their stuff. The company’s energy generates an infectious enthusiasm throughout the evening and damned if the audience weren’t up on their feet, dancing, singing and clapping along by the end of the show.

Director/choreographer Neil Dorward keeps proceedings flowing smoothly with swift transitions between the numbers. Images are presented on a screen above the band and while this doesn’t always seem entirely necessary (clips from From Here to Eternity to accompany “Lipstick on Your Collar”?) it’s fun to see footage of the original performers. The director seems to toy with the idea of giving a potted history of rock ‘n’ roll in the early stages but abandons that idea fairly swiftly and lets the songs speak for themselves; if part of the show’s function is simply to serve as a testament to the enduring appeal and vibrancy of this music then it certainly succeeds in this endeavour. Highlights include Capewell crooning a memorable Buddy Holly medley and squeezing himself into fetching leather trousers for a dynamic take on Gene Vincent’s immortal “Be-Bop-A-Lula”; the baby-faced Fitzpatrick singing an adorably lovelorn lead on “Unchained Melody”; Washington tearing into Little Richard’s “Rip It Up” and “Good Golly Miss Molly”; a Platters medley featuring “Twilight Time,” “The Great Pretender” and “Only You”; and the wonderfully ebullient Mulvey throwing himself around with gay abandon during Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.” Unfortunately, the female performers are comparatively underused in terms of lead vocals, but Cobban and Accomando do well by “Stupid Cupid” and Etta James’s “At Last”; the latter is perhaps the show’s most tender and emotional moment.

You don’t feel that there’s a great deal of urgency or necessity about a show like Rock Around the Clock but this good-spirited entertainment proves pretty irresistible anyway, and was clearly delighting the very broad audience in attendance at Richmond Theatre last week. It’s an enjoyable feel-good evening that does, very professionally, exactly what it says on the tin.

Reviewed for The Public Reviews, .

Last 10 Things Seen in the Theatre Meme #2

List the last 10 things you saw at the theatre in order:


1. War Horse (New London)
2. Eden End (Richmond Theatre)
3. Government Inspector (Young Vic)
4. The Comedy of Errors (Propeller/Hampstead)
5. Directors Showcase (Orange Tree)
6. Richard III (Propeller/Hampstead)
7. The Village Bike (Royal Court)
8. Richard III (Old Vic)
9. Doctor Faustus (Globe)
10. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (Haymarket)



Who was the best performer in number one (War Horse)?
Joey the Horse of course.


Why did you go to see number two (Eden End)?
Reviewing assignment.


Can you remember a line/lyric from number three (Government Inspector) that you liked?
"You’re laughing at yourselves!”


What would you give number four (The Comedy of Errors) out of ten?
Ten, without a doubt.


Was there someone hot in number five (Directors Showcase)?
Soft spot for a few cast members, but "hot"? Perhaps not.


What was number six (Richard III) about?
A man who would be King.


Who was your favourite actor in number seven (The Village Bike)?
Alexandra Gilbreath, as Jenny, gives a beautifully observed performance that makes you think: “Well, I know this woman.”


What was your favourite bit in number eight (Richard III [Old Vic])?
The Anne/Richard encounter and all of Gemma Jones's scenes.


Would you see number nine (Doctor Faustus) again?
No. Not even to see the Seven Deadly Sins sequence that I missed due to fainting shortly before the interval.


What was the worst thing about number ten (Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead)?
Not a production that I engaged with at all, really, but I thought the pirate scene was especially badly staged.


Which was best?
Richard III (Propeller), The Comedy of Errors and Eden End.


Which was worst?
Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead.


Did any make you cry?
War Horse, inevitably, and Eden End.


Did any make you laugh?
Eden End, Government Inspector, The Comedy of Errors, Richard III (Propeller), The Village Bike, Richard III (Old Vic).



Which roles would you like to play in any of them?
Oh, Richard III, why not? But I'm available for Propeller productions only.



Which one did you have best seats for?
Front row for Richard III (Propeller), The Comedy of Errors, The Village Bike and Ros & Guil.