Hothouse – Teatro Vivo at the Horniman Museum Conservatory, 7th November 2008

 

I had to interrupt my amateur month for TV (as I like to call them).  They are so original and exciting, I just couldn't miss out.  And it was just down the road at the Horniman.  Well, I say "just down the road", but that makes it south-east London, and that means the dreaded buses, and the TfL Planner making vicious attacks on my knee with long walks in between.  And, sure enough, it does.

"Why don't you start with a 17 minute walk", it says, brutally.  I respond by rattling my car keys. 

"Look", it says, "you may not know this, but part of tonight's performance requires you (yes, you) to attempt the tango.  We need you loosened up."  I grudgingly look through the rest of the offer.  The best is one bus and two walks.  The killer is that I think the Horniman is in the middle of nowhere: I will have to repeat the bussing and walking to get back home for the pub; there will be rushing away, anxious waiting, and, worst of all, walking too fast for too long.  So I give in, and get in the car.  Which is very bad news, because at my great age, public transport is free, and at my car's great age, it's very expensive.  (I make a mental note to ask the TfL Planner to come to a counselling session with me.  Maybe we can work out this bus thing.)

I'm just past the big jam in the other direction at Hither Green Lane when the companion phones: "Where are you?" she says.  Then I get reminded (ha, ha) that I was supposed to be picking her up (all that talk last week about threading her bike through rush-hour Camberwell has been conveniently struck from the record).  I have to fight my way back through that jam.  It's a good job I'm an experienced London traveller, because when we finally get there we're still not late. 

 

What a venue!  I've never seen the Conservatory before.  It's round the back of the Museum.  I guess it must have been in the garden of the original house.  It's a Victorian (or possibly Edwardian) gem.  We are greeted enthusiastically by a drunken Russian emigrée (note the feminine).  A far-from-friendly waiter tells us brusquely that it's table service only.  And we're off.  There is no 'fourth wall' with TV.  The conservatory is quite full, but it takes some effort to figure out who might be in the cast.  One day, TV are going to insist on a dress code for the audience, then we really won't be able to tell.

            Who's who gets a bit clearer when the band turns up.  You can tell just from the sound a fiddler makes how good they are (I think it's called 'attack'), and these are very good.  With splendid arrangements of well-chosen pieces, the music fitted the space perfectly.  And the band were in the performance, not static, on-the-edge.

If I had to classify this performance, I would have to say I thought it was a ballet, but it was, in the modern parlance, physical theatre, though of great subtlety, married perfectly to the venue: just what I expect from Teatro Vivo.

 

And I did have to do the tango.  Which was fun.  And we had the luxury of not having to rush away chasing buses; and we got to the pub in plenty of time (stopping off to park the car at home first, of course).