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.
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