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The Recognition of Sakuntala – Union Theatre 29th January 2009

The demon TfL Planner managed to outsmart me once again.  There's always something extra to look out for.  This time it was where the bus was actually going.  No, don't laugh, it's easier than you think.  The Planner told me the stop to get on at.  I told me to get off at London Bridge, and I knew I would recognise that, so I wouldn't have to worry about on-board information.  But I was getting on in Kingsway, where there is usually a row of buses crawling up towards the stops.  And there, in the middle, with its number just sticking into view, was the 521, which the planner had instructed me to take.  I had hardly any waiting time.  Except at St Paul's, where we were 'all changed': it wasn't going all the way.  So I then had to revert to type and find the nearest tube station.  Which I did with the aid of a street map posted in a new development.  Which got me on the Central Line coming up to Bank in the rush hour.  No doubt the Planner was reminding me how difficult it is for commuters; that I should be grateful I just do it for fun now.  And I am, I'm glad I don't have to do that anymore.

Of course, when I get to London Bridge, I have a long walk to the Union.  Every time I do this, I vow to check whether Waterloo is closer.  And every time I forget.  Just a minute ago, I hauled out Google Maps, and checked by satellite.  And I can see that Waterloo East (which is what I'm interested in) is much closer. 

 

The Recognition of Sakuntala is an ancient play: fourth century, would you believe; by India's most revered Sanskrit poet and playwright, Kalidasa, I'm told.  And it showed.  It's the prologue, or maybe just chapter one, of the Mahabharata.  The text (I've no idea where this translation came from) offered little opportunity for the sort of adventures the modern theatre likes to indulge in, particularly with Shakespeare.  So it was performed more-or-less 'regular', which was just terrific.  With material of this quality, the actors really only have to stand there and say their lines, but this was well staged, and the actors brought it to life.  The playwright even uses the main character to address the audience directly, which produced a distinct murmur of approval.

There was a discussion afterwards, but I disapprove of that sort of thing.  I think it's a bit like buying a book and finding the author comes along with it to explain it to you.  (Although, come to think of it, there are a number of authors who might thus make very nice bedtime reading.)

 

Getting home was another catalogue of errors.  I managed to just-miss the train, so that meant Lewisham and the bus.  It also meant scampering off one platform and onto another at London Bridge, where I managed to just-miss the next train, which meant scampering off that platform …  and so on.  I felt like I was in the train station scene in Monsieur Hulot's Holiday.  Anyway, I didn't get to the pub till a quarter to eleven.  But I really enjoyed the play, so it was all worthwhile.

Love in (3) Parts – Southwark Playhouse, 22nd January 2009

The Metro seems to have stopped its listings: I wonder why.  I must write a stiff letter to the editor; give them a piece of my mind.  The Metro listings made my theatre visits a bit of a lottery.  They didn't print them every day; they didn't even print them on a regular day.  And when they did print them, they didn't always include fringe theatre.  So when they did appear, I had to click smartly into gear and make a quick decision, usually on pretty sparse evidence.  Which made it all quite exciting.

Now I have to rely on mailings and searching web sites.  It's all much more premeditated, and not nearly as much fun.  And it means I'm much less likely to find out about someplace new.  Which explains yet another visit to the Southwark Playhouse.  The Southwark Playhouse is really getting quite smart.  It will get 'lovey' soon, then I will have to find somewhere else.

I'm up in town regularly on Thursdays, so it's not much of a journey either.  I get on a 521 at Holborn, and it bended its way to London Bridge entirely uneventfully.  (But my trip to Soho (don't ask!) on Friday went some way to redress the balance: I was saved from the dread clutches of the TfL Planner by, of all things, a bus driver.  It told me to go to bus stop RA, and there get the 19 to Chinatown.  I have now learned to pay close attention to the Planner, and note carefully the street name of the mounting stop, and the bus name of the dismounting stop.  If the stop hasn't been vandalised, and the bus announcing system is still functioning, I can now contain my fear of London buses.  However: when I got to stop RA, it had a sign on it saying "This stop is not in use".  Why didn't the Planner know that?  I noticed that there was no-one else at the stop, so perhaps it was just sending me there.  I was bitching about the Planner, and wondering which direction might have the nearest stop when a 19 appeared: AND STOPPED.  The driver clearly had something against the Planner; a result!  There was more to come: when we got to Cambridge Circus, some security van had stopped in the road works leaving just not enough space for a bendy bus.  So we sat and blocked Cambridge Circus while the security driver walked back and forth to the bank delivering boxes.   I could hardly hear myself think for the noise of car horns.  I fully expected to see the security man attacked, not for the money, but for his manners.)

 

Anyway, having got that off my chest, here we are back at the Southwark Playhouse.  Where they made a point of giving me the free program (free programs are rare).  When I got settled down in the bar with a beer, I found a small post-it note in the program, inviting me to enjoy a pizza later.  I realised some putative love affair in the box office might be about to flounder, so, naturally, I took it back and told them about it.  The seemed a bit non-plussed, but a chap has to do his duty.  When I got back to my beer, I noticed everyone else who was reading the program had also got a post-it!  Oh well: turned out to be a significant plot device in the play.  In fact, my misunderstanding of it was just right, as it turned out.  Before it even started, I had enjoyed a bit of the play

It was quite an unusual play, structurally.  It was a bit difficult to start with, but once we got the hang of it, it worked very well.  The way I saw it, it was really just a film script, including sound track, which they just ran through in front of us.  So there were times when we weren't clear what the scenery currently looked like, and who was actually visible.  But the story was so simple and touching that it didn't matter.

A very enjoyable evening.

 

And, of course, one of the true delights of the Southwark Playhouse is that I can get back to my local in good time for few beers.  This play ran for just over an hour, with no interval, so I got back in time for too many beers.

The City Wives’ Confederacy – Greenwich Playhouse, 11th December 2008

Greenwich Playhouse is the closest professional theatre. Three stops up the line to Lewisham, then three stops on the DLR and you're there, right beside Greenwich station; only takes fifteen minutes. So it's not much of a journey. Of course, it being London, and public transport, one has to leave healthy margins for failure, so I arrived very early. But that's alright, that just means more beer.

The pub above which Greenwich Playhouse lives is no longer the Prince of Orange. In its transformation into St Christopher's Inn, it has lost all its English beer, so I have to stomach cold foreign beer, again. I am expecting a new companion tonight. As she is also foreign, this might make her feel more at home.

I have persuaded a member of my writing group to savour the 'up close and personal' joys of studio theatre. I'm hoping to persuade her to write about it, so I can get another perspective on this particular passion of mine. Since this is a restoration comedy, with a cast of eleven, classic 17^th-18^th century theatre, spectacularly unsuited to this setting, it will be doubly interesting to get another view.

When she phoned to say she could make it, I had to book another ticket online, and I discovered a quite surprising feature of TicketWeb, who manage the online booking for Greenwich Playhouse (or Galleon Theatre as it seems to be branded online). When I repeated the booking of a single ticket for the same performance, it wouldn't let me do it, on the grounds that I had already done it. Now I can see the benefit of a warning like that: we can all double-book from time-to-time. But I actually wanted to do what I was doing, and it simply wouldn't let me. I had to use another credit card to defeat it (you can always beat a computer). What was TicketWeb trying to enforce? It must have been some kind of anti-fraud security, but I can't see what it achieves.

Anyway, Lions Part, who were producing the play, had provided a splendid set of program notes to put us in the mood, so I had something to do while waiting in the bar. I now know what a scrivener was, the evils of playing the card game basset in 18^th-century England, and how ladies dressed in Queen Anne's time. Perhaps best of all, I discovered what Daniel Defoe thought of Vanbrough's theatre, "How Vice's Champions Uncontroul'd within / Roul in the very Excrements of Sin". That really is a phrase worth remembering, isn't it, "rolling in the very excrements of sin"?

The performance started with some splendid period music, played on the fiddle and whistle, the whistle player changing occasionally to what looked like a largish viol. They carried on with incidental music from the stage manager's box, which must have been testingly cramped.

The play was done with suitable gusto. Vanbrough is concerned with explaining why everybody wants to get their leg over everybody else, how that gets them up the social ladder, and how much it costs to extricate themselves from the messes they make. He also makes a big point about how this sort of conduct empowers the servants. The main characters are the scriveners' wives, the 'city' wives of the title ('city', I think, as opposed to 'court'), concerned with what we would now call swinging and retail therapy. With this many characters, I had the delight of following the badinage like a tennis match, head swinging from one side of the room to the other. In plays like this, no-one is actually talking to anyone else, they're just declaiming their attitudes, although sometimes they talk directly to the audience. Talking to the audience really works well in this space. And so, surprisingly, did the declaiming.

It is always hard to tell with professionals (and so it should be) but the actors and musicians seemed to have a good time. So, it appeared, did the audience. And I certainly did.

On the way home, I just missed the DLR, which runs every 10 minutes at this time of night, so that nearly doubled my journey time. I elected to get the bus from Lewisham. It's right beside the DLR, and it saves me walking up the hill. And it came almost immediately.

Lotty’s War – Greenwich Playhouse, 3rd December 2008

Greenwich Playhouse used to be in the Prince of Orange, at Greenwich station.  Now it's in the St Christopher's Tavern, at Greenwich station.  It's the same place.  Only the name has been changed.  Not, of course to protect the innocent, or even the guilty: just because.  Just because people take over pubs now and have to 'brand' them.  In the 'old days' (not so long ago), people took over pubs and did useful things, like re-upholster the seats, renew the curtains, that sort of thing; maybe even hand out free drinks for a night or two.  But they would realise that changing its name would just confuse the likes of me. 

And where the door round behind the bar used to say 'Theatre', it now says 'Theatre & Hostel'.  So rather than discourage foreign students, as any civilised pub would do, they get to live-in here.

We went by car, I'm ashamed to say.  It's pretty-nearly on the DLR, and my station is 3 clicks from the DLR.  And I get to travel free.  But we went by car.  Even after all the trouble we had getting to Dartford last week.  I shall assuage my guilt by blaming her: it's women's demands for cosseting which is destroying the planet.  Actually, I don't mind going by car if I can blame someone else.

We were in plenty of time, but it's no longer the sort of pub that sells beer, so I had to check out another frozen pint of filthy foreign muck … sorry, sorry … chilled, bottom-fermented beer, the stuff we call 'lager', although mostly it isn't.  We also got to see some football, which kind-of went with the 'lager', is suppose.  This establishment puts on it's own adverts in the TV breaks.  I wonder how they do that?

 

Greenwich Playhouse is a nice 'studio' space, where you can get up close to the action.  I like to sit right in front, if I can, and I was hoping they remembered their choreography well, since there were German jackboots stomping about.  They had, and it really added to the theatrical experience to be practically in the thick of some of the action.  Although it was probably just as well they had decided to play the gun work in diminished reality, or some of the audience (not me, of course) might have got quite a shock.

This was quite a well-written play.  In fact, it's a set of quite strong scenes, and it's a pity I could occasionally see the joins in between.  Maybe that's inevitable when dealing with a subject as tense as this.  It's about a young woman who finds herself alone in the family house in Guernsey when it was invaded.  The house is then requisitioned for the German General, who makes her stay on as his housekeeper.  Then, well, you know, …

They did the opening scene in patois French.  I had already noted that the programme credits included a 'translator', so my heart sank.  But it was just scene-setting.  The general's rather fine accent was enough to keep us in context, as were his uniform and jackboots, and gun.

A good performance, which I enjoyed.

 

Then back to home for the beer.  If we had come by public transport, we would have had to wander all the way over to Royal Hill to find a real pub, and then come all the way back to the theatre to get the DLR.  So the car wasn't such a bad choice, after all.

All the Fun of the Fair – Orchard Theatre, Dartford, 26th November 2008

Us 'oldies' get a concession on our freedom passes from South Eastern which allows us free travel as far as Dartford.  And the Orchard is right beside the station.  So I was for going by train.  But the companion was relieved of her motorbike for this trip, and fancied travelling in style.  So it was driving down the A2.  Which was a mistake.  There was a lot of traffic; and it took a long time.  We scampered in with seconds to spare.  Then the companion noticed a sign about the car park closing at eight, so I had to go back out and move the car.  And got back after the show had started.  The usher was very helpful and guided me in during the applause after the first song.  But everybody had to stand up as I struggled along the row.  I do so hate people who do that.

         All of which will help to explain my little confusion about what was going on on stage.  When I got the invite, I knew it was a musical built round David Essex songs.  I was up for that.  I could even name one or two of them.  But after a few songs, I began to think that one of the cast was doing just too-good an impression of David Essex, and the penny finally dropped: this was David Essex.  Which explained why some of the audience were a little too enthusiastic.

 

This was a good story, with fitting songs, some of them recognisable remembered hits.  I imagine they are touring it to shake it into a West End Show.  The setting are very lavish.  The scene changing is slick, and the cast performed very well.  And the star was, well, a star.  But it doesn't have a happy ending.  In fact, it has quite an unhappy ending, despite all the hooks in the story to which at least three happy endings could be attached.  That won't work up west, will it?

 

Coming back up the A2 was a dream, and even though the show was quite long, we were home and parked and in the boozer in no time.  And the companion got a job offer.  Not a lot of those going around at the moment.  So we had a happy ending, even if the show didn't.

The Messiah – Eltham Parish Church, 22nd November 2008

This being just about the closest building to my front door, I was, of course, late: well, nearly.  I got there with five minutes to spare, and it was a sell-out.  So although I bought my ticket a month ago, I only just squeezed in, in a seat with restricted sight lines.  It's quite a big church , is St John's, so it was quite pleasing to see so many turn out on a cold night to support the local hospice: and also to enjoy Handel.

Leaving it so late, I hardly got to sit down before they were off and running.  Fortunately, I got a programme (a very grand, beautifully-coloured A4 brochure) so I was able to follow the cast and running order.

The St John's Festival Choir and Sinfonietta are probably amateur, and certainly scratch, so it is pleasing that they did well.  It was a good and enjoyable performance.  They were underpinned by professional soloists, some of whom were also local (part, I understand, of a growing local Australian mafia). 

One of the basses complained to me afterwards that the soloists got to sing all the best bits.  I had to remind him that the choir got to sing the Halleluiah, which is actually the best bit.

And the vicar got to do his bit, orchestrating the applause afterwards.

 

Then it was a quick sprint to the boozer: both because it was a cold night, and because this is the sort of event which attracts lots of the kind of people who like to come into my boozer.  And my boozer likes to exude an air of calm by not having too many staff behind the bar.  And some of these people like to order several varieties of coffee (yes! In a Pub! Coffee!) which takes at least four times as long to prepare and costs half as much as beer.  It shouldn't ought to be allowed.  But it is, so I got to the bar before them.  We can be pretty confident they're not going to order two.

I got an invite to a party to meet some of the choir, but just as I was about to toddle off, some of the cronies appeared.  In no time at all, it was closing time.  And I had a considerable amount of alcohol concealed about my person.  So I decided I ought just to go home.  Perhaps age does bring some wisdom!