The Coming Storm **

Forced Entertainment is an experimental theatre company that has been going for 28 years. Their devised show The Coming Storm at Battersea Arts Centre celebrates the energy which has kept this company strong, but isn’t matched by invigorating ideas.

In their attempt to reinvent the traditional forms of storytelling, they fail to replace it with something substantial. The actors take turns telling stories which barely get past the opening before another actor intervenes, then another, and so on in this repetitive manner. The Coming Storm is constantly moving and yet remains static, never developing into something more. The performance not just runs away with itself, dissolving into pure, but supposedly intended chaos. Deliberate or not, this lack of any structure or control can only be described as: messy.

The Coming Storm opens with Terry (Terry O’Connor) relating, in her thrilling monotone, the essential elements which should make up a story. This speech is far too long, and exemplifies The Coming Storm’s ironic tone as her ‘story’ doesn’t possess any of the qualities she describes, and extends into the ‘play’ as whole (these cannot be called stories nor this production, a play, it’s altogether something so entirely different that I can only approximate with the nearest concepts framed by inverted commas).

Photo Credit: Hugo Glendinning

After a while, I realise that the company has been playing with us. I’ve been grappling for links between these tales which aren’t there, and therefore it’s difficult to consider any of the production values seriously (and which were bare minimum besides). Mirroring their incomplete anecdotes, they slip in an out of random costumes which don’t fit, and aren’t done up, from the two costume rails on stage. Beside these are some instruments, chairs, a machine which creates a sound like the wind blowing…everything is there to be used at some point to little effect, and highlights the invention which goes into fiction by focusing on the fact that we’re in a theatre. Forced Entertainment’s ideas are inventive, and challenge the conventions of storytelling that have become the norm; but this doesn’t make the show insightful. I do remember a dragon in a hospital ward, a dying mother, a motorcyclist named Killer, but little else. Unfortunately, everything Terry says in the opening is right; without any real storytelling – it’s difficult to follow wholeheartedly. Richard Lowdon’s story about his mother – whether it’s true or false – verges upon a tender moment, before being cut off by Cathy Naden. The Coming Storm is a series of disappointments. Even the absurd decorations which make this production funny – most notably, Lowdon and Claire Marhsall’s awful dancing – is repeated until it’s dull.

Their use of music should revitalise this show, but barely adds entertainment value, let alone significance. Since none of the players were instrumentalists till taught by Phil Hayes, their simple tunes and inconstant rhythms are lost in the pandemonium of this production. It’s all well and good that they’ve learnt some instruments and are developing the layers of their production – but no one pays to see a Grade One pianist, do they?

The cast are referred to by their real names; the acting itself is incorporated in their acting out the stories they tell. It’s difficult to call this acting, when it’s more like playtime.  When the focus is not upon the person holding the microphone, the others bang things and instruments, vying for attention like absolute children. These distractions are far better constructed than the actual speeches, and I’d happily watch a crocodile chew a man’s leg off, over a pretentious interpretive dance.  Forced Entertainment is an appropriate name for all the wrong reasons in this production.  For a long time, Lowdon wanders about with a sack on his head, and hangman’s rope on his hand, trying futilely to kill himself. This was undoubtedly the funniest moment in the production because I finally I felt an affinity with a character.

Beyond this grand vision fragmented narratives, the company themselves have little charisma. I’m not compelled to care about what I’m watching, so despite the ideas behind this show, the last word I can use to describe it is stimulating, when my brain had drifted off to an altogether saner reality. I’m all for innovative performance, but in this case, found it was more worthwhile to wonder what to have for dinner. (I had a stew if you’re interested – that, at least, went down a storm.)

The Coming Storm plays at BAC until 23 June. It will return on tour in the Autumn.

Misterman *****

Photo Credit: Catherine Ashmore

Cillian Murphy is best known for his performances in films like Batman Begins and Breakfast on Pluto, his popularity demonstrated by the gushing fan girls sat next to me. I’m not ashamed to admit that following his performance in Misterman, I can’t help but feel a bit of a fan girl too. This 90 minute monologue showcases his virtuoso talent as self-styled preacher, Thomas Magill, is dragged through his version of living hell, whilst simultaneously multi-roling for his life.

Thomas has no doubts about his mission on earth: he surreptitiously records the sinful activities of the townsfolk of Innisfree, determined to make his hometown righteous again. The townsfolk are heard both on tape and played by Murphy.  From jittery old Mrs O’Leary to macho man Charlie McAnerny, Murphy attacks every role with incredible versatility, playing against himself with perfect comic timing. But as the play progresses, the recorded voices fill a more dominant space in his psyche and can’t be controlled by him; the schizophrenic frenzy of his character is heart-wrenching to watch.

This monologue (which owes a nod to Beckett’s Krapp’s Last Tape) is a brave and insightful form of characterisation from writer Enda Walsh. Walsh champions writing about Ireland and couldn’t have found a more appropriate Thomas than Irish actor, Cillian Murphy (whom Walsh worked with before on his play Disco Pigs, winning Murphy his first taste of stage acclaim). Murphy’s famously blue eyes shine angelically from the stage, inspiring immense sympathy for this pathetic disciple – a dilemma for the audience since his own sins actually make him the anti-hero of Innisfree.

Photo Credit: Catherin Ashmore

Walsh’s play explores the potential repercussions of dogged faith. Like an omen of these ramifications, the O’ Donnell’s agitating dog – which Thomas doesn’t have a healthy relationship with to say the least – continues to haunt him after its death. The re-enactment of a day in the life of Thomas Magill is played out within a vast, industrial space, like an abandoned factory. Shut up in here, his make-believe is jolted by the dog’s barking and the trembling walls as it tries to get in – or perhaps, as the animal inside Thomas struggles to get out, repressed by his stoical piety. Indeed, Murphy throws himself about the stage recklessly; a smaller space couldn’t contain his boundless energy. Jamie Vartan’s set is a conceptual masterpiece: a playground for Thomas’ singular mind (and a nightmare for whoever has to clean it after Murphy has thrown all his props left, right and centre like a baby in a pram). The animal presence turns this liberating set on its head as Gregory Clarke’s tumultuous soundscape swells into the space, and the lights flicker and fall. Adam Silverman makes no obvious allusions between the lighting and heaven, instead using the soft, surrounding darkness to isolate episodes in Magill’s life. It’s the most disturbing lighting effect that I’ve endured as an audience member, as the auditorium seems to swallow you up.

Under Enda Walsh’s direction, all the production values blend seamlessly together, as if they were a living, breathing monster. Most impressive is the layering of Murphy’s speech with the tape recordings – a risky structure, but impeccably timed. Walsh’s intelligently balanced script carries the audience through Magill’s life without the need for naturalistic devices. The poetry of Magill’s monologue paints Innisfree as a town both beautiful and ugly, so that the audience can visualise it for themselves. This poetic vision exemplifies Magill’s idealistic character; Walsh builds him a heavenly pedestal, so like a tragic hero, the greater is his fall.

Misterman is undoubtedly the best thing I’ve seen all year. An absolute triumph for Enda Walsh, whose vast vision only Thomas Magill could believe in, and only Cillian Murphy could channel. It is Magill’s belief and the audience’s shared belief in the production, which makes this production all the more raw to watch.

Stories Before Bedtime ****

Sitting back in the comfy, cosy Criterion Theatre as the lights go down, I can’t help but already feel a sense of contentment wash over me. Through these late night staged readings, Stories Before Bedtime aims to revive the tradition of reading aloud, and it definitely recalls those childhood memories of a bedtime story so many of us used to enjoy.

This evening’s set of stories/extracts were all chosen as they evoke the events of a hot summer’s day, and formed a complimentary, well-balanced programme that was both funny and moving. I hadn’t read any of the selected stories but am determined to read them all now. Dodie Smith’s, ‘I Capture The Castle’, was read by Sonya Cassidy (wonderfully childlike expression, but her projection also quite small), and although a slow starter, was a perfect example of the quality stories have to transport you. Smith’s poetic descriptions demonstrate the power of words to lure you into another world where you’re so much more aware of the beauty in it. Director Samuel Hodges took note of this with his simple staging, respecting that novels possess their own sense of ‘theatre’.

It would be an ambitious parent that reads a Virginia Woolf’s ‘The New Dress’ to their child at bedtime. But Miranda Richardson’s warm tone and subtle inflections manage to make Woolf accessible and compelling. It’s possible some of Woolf’s biting social commentary was lost on a weary audience at midnight, but Richardson’s delivery captured her witty literary voice. These two weightier stories were balanced by Matthew Horne’s reading of ‘The Diary of a Nobody’ by George Grossmith. More than the other two actors, Horne acts his reading with comical animation, that the novel couldn’t portray without Horne giving Nobody legs.

Horne’s performance pinpoints the difference between reading in your head, and reading aloud, and how some people may engage more enthusiastically with the oral form of storytelling. Recently I was shocked to discover that my partner has never actually read the Harry Potter series, but listened to it on audio as a child. Stories at Bedtime is an especially active form of storytelling which arguably responds to a technology fuelled generation that’s bored of books, and is the perfect way to rekindle our love affair with them. I’d go so far to suggest Hodges’ use of visual stimuli like smoke machines, and lighting disrupts the audience’s state of enchantment more than increases it, as the audience are reminded they’re sat in a theatre. I found the production values occasionally distracting as they weren’t smoothly integrated into the readings (with the exception of the comically timed bell in The Diary of a Nobody).

Stories at Bedtime is spectacular as it shares an experience which was so personal between parent and child all those years ago, communally, with the whole audience. Onstage, the readings could be compared to a series of monologues, if it weren’t for the authors’ use of immersive detail and freedom to imagine another world where theatrical productions impose one. It’s similar to how a child conjures a limitless dreamland after their bedtime story. This show revitalises reading, reminding us of their magic by bringing them to life.

The Irish Giant **

The Irish Giant tackles the age-old rivalry between science and religion, focusing upon the question of whether or not man has a soul: a mighty problem for this little cast. This is explored through the devised story of an eight foot tall man, stalked by a body-snatcher (a capable Alex Murdoch) waiting for the giant’s looming death on the behalf of Doctor Hunter (played with personality by Brian Logan), who’s determined to dissect his anomalous form. In contrast, the Irish Giant of course is determined his body remains in one piece so that his soul can ascend to heaven. Sitting in the cold, darkened vault of the Southwark Playhouse as students, not an audience, this beginning promises enlightenment – but we’re left grappling in the dark throughout.

I wanted so much to like The Irish Giant. The company members of Cartoon De Salvo are undeniably charismatic, and there is something so honest about this production. But stripping back the show is a dangerous move, exposing holes in the delivery. Early entrances and the setting of props in your peripheral vision, the occasionally forced acting: all the little constraints upon staging and the limited cast add up to make this 15-year-old company seem more amateurish than they are.

The staging reflects that this devised piece is stylistically Brechtian, which is most obvious in Cartoon De Salvo’s use of music. Daniel Marcus Clark’s folky compositions are catchy and performed well by the company (a miniature piano beside a giant is a visual stroke of genius), but as a theatrical device has little purpose other than filling the gaps in the story. The music is a mere accompaniment to Rebecca Hurst’s witty animations which illustrate the said gaps, and occasionally have more to say than the actors themselves. The animation captures the tone of The Irish Giant, which looks lightly at the issues it addresses. Herein lies the problem with Brecht’s influence; Brecht reminded the audience they were watching a play so that they could look beneath the surface. I struggled to find anything lingering there but the reiteration of a point made by countless books and plays, dating back to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and beyond.

Cartoon De Salvo’s mission to “mess with the live theatre experience” is outdated in this respect, but carried by Jean Chan’s design which highlights the uniquely surrealist direction of the company. In particular, the eclectic assortment of bits and bobs stored in jars, which include the drunken giant’s (a melodramatic performance from Neil Haigh) drinking friends (played by a jar of pickled eggs with smiley faces drawn on them). The simplistically rustic set works with Paul Murray’s illusions so that the giant’s height is achieved through the humble magic of silhouettes against a backdrop. Smaller illusions come sporadically – a floating note, the puppetry hand of death appearing on Hunter’s shoulder – as if they’re party tricks. The comedic elements of this play contradict the tone of its controversial subject matter. Therefore the several scenes structured towards a sense of bathos, make the eventual push for pathos hard work for an audience.

At the end of The Irish Giant, the actors ironically ask “Any questions?” Of course there are, because the play answers none. Cartoon De Salvo prefers the flexibility and humour of abstract images played to an atmospheric soundtrack. This lack of a general direction from Alex Murdoch, leads The Irish Giant to sadly suffer. Laughing at mortality and the futility of spiritual enquiries isn’t enough to achieve an effect like that of produced by the theatre of the absurd. The Irish Giant can only scrabble beneath the skin-deep production for the organs needed to breathe life into its more shapely form.

The Messiah ****

Deep down in a World War II bunker in Dalston, I sit down at the last supper and become a part of the greatest story ever told. Steven Berkoff’s The Messiah is an interpretation of the last days of Jesus (Graham Dickson) that focuses not upon his divinity, but his humanity.

This debut production from Zebedee Productions transports you past the legends, miracles and controversy of religion. Instead, it keenly feels the story which has inspired faith in millions through the exquisitely human portrayal of its famous figures. David Fairs’s Judas is no longer the villain, but a victim of circumstance, played with the steely isolation of an outsider amongst Jesus’s followers. But – pun intended – a star is born with Graham Dickson who finds so many shades to the son of God, and continues to glow with divine charisma in his every wonky, knowing smile. Suitably, Jesus has competition from Zoe Wellman’s Satan, whose husky voice and playful phrasing are very typical of Satanic characters, and undoubtedly oozes temptation.

The most impressive skill however, is the vocal prowess of the whole cast, particularly Fairs and Dickson. Either as individuals or moving and breathing as a unit, every actor finds and develops a rhythm in Berkoff’s script, tackling The Messiah with relentless energy. This carries the audience from scene to scene so the momentum crescendos towards Jesus’ crucifixion, an agonising performance to watch from Dickson. The impetus the casts put into every word reflects their power to carry through two thousand years and into this play.

Of course, Berkoff being Berkoff, the poetry of these grand scenes is offset by the vulgarity of contemporary language. Berkoff manages to bring the Bible into the twenty-first century by investing it with a sense of reality; betrayal and self-doubt are inherently human characteristics, not romantic ones, with which the audience can identifiy. Jesus, in a very mortal manner, holds a seed of doubt that he’s the son of God. More significantly, our ability to laugh with the dramatic irony of retrospect, ignites a story so well known that it’s arguably become lacklustre and therefore less inspirational.

Zebedee bravely produces The Messiah in the form of a promenade performance, yet never wholly embraces the spirit of this style of theatre. The movement of a large audience through small spaces is organised admirably, but this is exactly what detracts from the audience’s freedom to discover the environment and story by themselves, the primary attraction of promenade performance. Rather, the shifting of scenes to different spaces within the bunker appears to be practical solution to make swift scene changes.

Yet the bunker is a gift of a space, similar to, but more intimate than, the Old Vic Tunnels and should house more theatrical productions like this. The echo of every speech bounces off the walls and strikes as if it were personally directed at you. Dahlia Gellert’s set design uses simple elements: wood, stone, and candles, which is enough to make this cavernous space shiver with the warm yet ominous atmosphere of a church.

Andrew London’s direction is impeccable, but the bunker amplifies that twofold. His production cannot be called unsophisticated because there are no flashy lighting effects or lavish costumes; the cast’s skill speaks for itself in this space, and promises good things to come from Zebedee.

Pass The Spoon ****

A show like Pass The Spoon could only be born from the mind of artist, David Shrigley, and his unique, infantile style transfers surprisingly well into this ‘sort-of-opera’. It would be more accurate to call this sort-of-everything; there are elements of pantomime, melodrama, and features pastiches of hymns and musical theatre in the score as much as opera. This is Shrigley’s first hand at writing something of this length, but considering that the humour in his work is often verbal, this wasn’t going to be a challenge.

Photo taken from: whatsonstage.com

The beyond bizarre story follows a cookery show hosted by the always cheery June Spoon (Pauline Knowles) and the always camp Phillip Fork (Stewart Cairns). They are cooking dinner for Mr Granules tonight (a nightmarish, gigantic puppet manned by Tobias Wilson) who is rumoured to have eaten babies. Inevitably, when things go wrong, Mr Granules can’t help but feel peckish.

Before this though, they must make the dinner. This involves: interviewing the candidates for the vegetable soup – adorable puppets designed by Shrigley, straight out of a children’s book. They must appeal to an ecclesiastic butcher (sung stunningly by Peter Van Hulle), for him to grant them mercy in the form of homosexual pork chops. And seek assistance from a manic depressive, alcoholic egg (Gavin Mitchell), and a Latino banana (Martin McCormack) in his pre-banana custard (‘yellow bastard’) form. These two actors are outstanding, not just because playing foodstuffs does stand out, but because they’re played physically and vocally as you’d imagine a common-sense banana and depressed egg would act. Strange as that is, the comedy is spot on.

David Fennessy’s music is genuinely innovative and original, going so far as to include bubble wrap and kitchen knives within the composition. When it isn’t mocking conventional genres; take the repetition of opera lyrics (‘SOUP! SOUP! SOUP! SOUP! SOUP! SOUP! WHAT KIND OF BLOODY SOUP?’), Fennessy’s score is disturbingly eerie, playing against Shrigley’s script and reflecting a darker undertones of Pass The Spoon. It makes sharp commentary upon human appetite in its twisted way, and at the same time Shrigley’s satirical but self-conscious tone makes opera accessible. There is no snootiness about opera when the audience must clap and chant with the performers, rather than waiting until the end of the movement. Altogether, director Nicholas Bone has brought together an opera for the 21^st century. But beyond all this is an achievement for Shrigley; like a page of his nonsensical doodlings brought to life, only he could make a not-just-an-opera that features a singing and dancing Shit, successful. Pure silliness, Pass The Spoon is hilarious.

Unfortunately, Pass The Spoon was only revived for two days at the Southbank’s Queen Elizabeth Hall, but to find out when it will (undoubtedly) show again, see Magnetic North’s website: www.magneticnorth.org.uk

Brimstone and Treacle ****

Photo credit: Faye Thomas

Brimstone and Treacle is arguably not so controversial now, as when it was originally written for TV in 1976 (but still wasn’t screened until ten years later as the Director of Programmes thought it was ‘nauseating’). The rape of a vulnerable girl and unabashed racism are shocking; but above all it is the questionable moral compass that disturbs in Brimstone and Treacle.

The characters are simple, flawed human beings, but Potter forces a distance between the audience and play so one can’t help but sit up – not back – and question the origin of the inexplicable chaos existing in our world. The play follows the Bates, whose marriage has been pushed to the edge by their daughter, Pattie, being left mute and incapacitated from a hit-and-run accident. Things take a turn for the strange when man called Martin arrives returning Mr Bates’ lost wallet and proclaims (poetically and dramatically) that he once loved Pattie, and would like to help care for her.

The unbearable silence which opens Brimstone and Treacle makes your skin prickle, but this tension comes and goes temperamentally. Martin (played slyly by soft spoken Rupert Friend) speaks with his eyes, shooting glances at the audience so that we know something’s wrong. This dramatic irony stimulates fear, but also reminds the audience that every word Martin says is a lie. The consequently humourous reaction to his treacle-sweet façade detracts from the impact the play could have – however magical Potter’s language, and intimate the Arcola may be.

Still, Friend’s Martin is a wonderful enigma; a devil with the assumed appearance of an angel. Mr Bates speculates that their stranger could be the ‘devil himself’ which appears to be spot on. He is the symbol at the centre of Dennis Potter’s exploration of good and evil, and the reality that the world is not necessarily as logical as faith or political structures would imply it is. Bad actions bring about good consequences and vice versa, proposing the Machiavellian question: does the end justify the means?  Martin asks, if Mr Bates wants all the ‘blacks’ to leave England, but they won’t, then is a concentration camp justified? This controversial notion reaches its height in the scene where by raping Pattie, Martin miraculously heals her; disturbing the audience’s pre-conceived mores and rendering Brimstone and Treacle to be a truly haunting play 

Mr and Mrs Bates are also the antithesis of one another; Mrs Bates is religious, open and eager to trust Martin, and Mr Bates, most definitely not. Both Ian Redford and Tessa Peake-Jones inhabit their characters with a necessary sense of truth, complimented by Alex Eales authentic and reserved set. The Bates trust Martin because they equivocate goodness to his outward appearance; a conservative in Thatcher’s Britain, a gentleman – even a ‘saviour’ to Mrs Bates as he relieves her of her burdens. This couple prize ‘the England I used to know’, an ideal which can no longer exist for them, and so has shattered in parallel with their daughter’s quality of life. Matti Houghton is transformed as Pattie Bates; not once in the 90 minutes does her physical intensity waver, or tormented eyes lose their vivacity. Punk rock music punctuates Matti’s wild movements in the explosive segments between scenes, where Pattie relives the car crash, and her internal anguish can only find a physical outlet. It is both a subtle and startling performance.

Director, Amelia Sears takes no prisoners in this challenging play. Brimstone and treacle was a Victorian concoction believed to do you good; and although Sears production might leave a sour taste in your mouth, it will definitely enlighten you.

Brimstone and Treacle is playing at the Arcola until 2 June. For tickets and more information, go to the Arcola website. http://www.arcolatheatre.com/production/arcola/brimstone-and-treacle

Sweeney Todd *****

Photo: Tristram Kenton

         Let’s not beat about the bush: Sweeney Todd is the best thing in the West End right now. I had unknowingly formed a lot of preconceptions about this musical from Tim Burton’s film adaptation which I’ve now lost after seeing how it should be done. Not that I don't love Burton's film, but a lot of laughter is lost from the glorious stage version. Anthony Ward’s design is definitely Burton-esque, this is because director Jonathan Kent has updated Sweeney to the 30’s, against an industrial backdrop. Kent’s production is sophisticated, with a visual language accompanying the libretto, that’s almost Brechtian.

                It even toes upon Brecht’s Marxist themes; a whistle blows – rather, the whistle is blown – most times that Sweeney takes a victim, or alternatively, delivers produce to Mrs Lovett. Sweeney Todd seeks revenge upon Judge Turpin, who transported him to Australia years ago under false charges, and then raped his wife and adopted his daughter in his absence. But his barber's bloodlust soon turns upon the rest of humanity to the benefaction of Mrs Lovett's pie shop. Sweeney turns upon the audience, razor in hand and sings ‘we all deserve to die’ - and looking at the production values, and the manner in which we empathise with a serial killer, over a corrupt judge, I can’t help but wonder if Kent means it.

                The ensemble lingers at the top of the stage, peering through fractured windows into the tale of Sweeney Todd -but not learning from it. They scale to banshee like top notes that shake your insides. Their refrain has a scaremongering quality about it, which working with Sondheim’s humour; holds the audience on edge. Sondheim's wit cuts through the intense scenes like a blunt knife. Imelda Staunton steals the show, revitalising the role of Mrs Lovett. She has the audience in the palm of her hand. Michael Ball – better known for his charm than his menace – also astounds, his sonorous voice both occupying the vulnerability and insanity in the character of Sweeney. They are supported immensely by an immense cast, including Peter Polycarpou and John Bowe, the Beadle and Judge Turpin; as immoral pillars of the law. Polycarpou plays the harmonium with gusto to say the least, playing off Staunton in an impossibly tense and hilarious penultimate scene.

                In parallel, Lucy May Barker and Luke Brady drift upon the sweet tones of young lovers, naïve to the world around them. Without this couple, Sweeney wouldn’t be quite so bitterly moving. Indeed, I didn’t expect a show like Sweeney to move me on quite so many levels. Their duet has a touch of Bernstein’s ‘Tonight’, moving their star crossed love adamantly through the story; contrasting with the fluctuating morals and ceaselessly paced primary plotline.The laughter and tears rest upon the knife’s edge of dramatic irony, to the extent that the interplay between characters and chorus echoes the form of a Greek Tragedy.

                Kent’s production speaks to you more than the average musical might do. But of course, Sweeney Todd isn’t average; with this stellar cast and Sondheim’s score, Kent didn’t have to do much to make this show spectacular and yet he’s achieved this and so much more. If you see anything this year, attend the tale of Sweeney Todd.

Rock of Ages ****

I not so secretly want to be a rock star. So, however outwardly superficial Rock of Ages might appear to the critic, the celebration of sex, drugs, and rock and roll makes for a definite feel good musical. I complain about jukebox musicals breeding like rampant bunnies, and am not one for, well, a happy musical. They usually feel like nothing musicals; a cliché with tapping arms and legs, and boring songs. But Rock of Ages uses this to poke fun at the musical theatre genre, wherein lie these four stars. In particular, the moment when Lonny takes out a programme and informs Drew (Oliver Tompsett) that he's in a musical, “You used to be in Mamma Mia?! [sings] Look at you now...”

Photo: Tristam Kenton

Drew and Sherry are two young wannabes hoping to make it in New York, who happen to fall in love, but are torn apart by an inevitable misunderstanding. Simple enough, Rock of Ages isn’t about substance but dreaming. And obviously not every theatregoer wants something intellectually stimulating every time they go out, where’s the fun in that? So I can’t bring myself to throw stones at writer Chris D’Arienzo for keeping it simple; at this expense, the show is actually laugh a minute which is a tremendous feat in itself. I haven’t laughed this much at the theatre since...well, I haven’t ever.

There is an unstoppable energy in this flawless ensemble, necessary for the driven sound of this show. Rock of Ages is set against 80’s rock anthems; We Built This City, The Final Countdown, and Don’t Stop Believing, amongst them. Musical theatre is difficult territory for rock music (you could argue it has stolen We Will Rock You’s formula of awful story plus immense music) but Rock of Ages creates the atmosphere of a Sunset Strip gig. Tompsett is an established leading man, and his vocal dexterity is astounding, possessing the metallic edge to elevate him from stage star to rock star. Simon Lipkin as Lonny jostles with Tompsett for star of the show; he is hilarious. He has a t-shirt that says ‘Hooray for Boobies’, prances and gyrates and rubs his nipples, makes a point by eating inanimate objects…I’ve seen Rock of Ages twice and he makes the whole cast (and himself) corpse left, right and centre he’s so funny.

There are a couple of actual ‘stars’ in the cast in the shape of Justin Lee Collins and Shane Ward. Collins has a gay plotline with Lonny as owners of the infamous Bourbon Room – never has a fog machine been so moving. Both hold their own well within their cast, and aren’t at all disappointing as you might expect, after seeing other so-called celebrities that have ventured to tread the boards. A mention must also go to Regina (Jodie Jacobs) – “Oh, I get it! Regina rhymes with pussy!” – and Franz (Sandy Moffat) – “I’m not gay! I’m German!” Beneath the hippy socks worn with sandals and lycra bodysuits, is a heartfelt example of sticking it to the man. A refrain of Kelly Devine’s choreography, which makes you want to leap out of your seat and join in.

It’s just occurred to me, this has transferred to London at a very appropriate time considering our riotous attitude towards the current government. But seriousness aside, if the music and laughs don’t tickle your fancy enough, the cast don’t wear very much.

The Muppets *****

Since I heard this film was being released, I have literally been counting down the days on my calendar. I remember being even shorter than I am now and going to the cinema to see the last Muppet movie, Muppets From Space; twelve years later it feels just as it did then. I haven’t left the cinema with a smile like that for a long time...twelve years maybe.

The unabashed joy of the Muppets goes much further back than my childhood of course; they’ve been going for thirty five years, and return in this movie acknowledging without shame that, well, they’ve been forgotten about since our childhood. Disbanded for years, the Muppets now pursue separate careers: Miss Piggy is editor of French Vogue, Fozzy is in a tribute band called The Moopets, Gonzo is a plumbing magnate, and Kermit sits and reminisces about the good old days in his Beverly Hills mansion. It takes their biggest fan, Walter (a Muppet who’s struggled in the human world), and his brother Gary (played by Jason Segel, who arguably is the Muppets biggest human fan and wrote this film with Forgetting Sarah Marshall director, Nick Stoller) to bring the Muppets back together. They must raise enough money to buy their studio back from an evil oil baron (Chris Cooper’s maniacal laughs and rap – yes, rap – are a major highlight).

A lot of the laughs come from the film’s ability to laugh at itself. The whole town fall into a dance break at the beginning of the movie, MGM musical style, but then collapse thankfully once the chirpy threesome have left for Hollywood. It screams, ‘I am a cheesey movie; you know it, we know it’ and reminds us how magical the movies can be if we just sit back and let it cast its spell. Amy Adams has always looked something of a Disney princess, and so is delightfully cast in this movie. The strained relationship between her and Segel parallels Kermit and Miss Piggy’s, and is played well against the Muppets’ otherwise comical plot. It’s insane how these unique furry friends are able to make you feel not only warm and fuzzy inside, but insanely good about yourself. The music is composed by Bret McKenzie of Flight of the Concords, and the Oscar winning song, ‘Man or a Muppet’ is genuinely both moving and amusing; by the time you reach this song, your heart is like warm putty in their little hands.

There are a few cameos from the likes of Whoopi Goldberg and Jack Black, but for this comeback, the real stardom is the Muppets’. I had never realised how much Cee Lo Green sounds like a flock of chickens or how much I missed Fozzy’s “Wacka wacka!”, for instance. The finale feels like a family reunion, and I’m about five years old all over again. In the state this country is in, it takes a pretty powerful movie for a whole audience to skip out singing ‘Everything is great, life’s a happy song’. The Muppets are back!

David Shrigley: Brain Activity *****



Photo: Linda Nylind



Brain Activity at the Hayward Gallery is David Shrigley’s first major UK exhibition, but it really should have come sooner. Shrigley is known for his humourous drawings (The Essential David Shrigley) however this exhibition features sculpture, photography, animations and more in what begins to feel like a never-ending showcase of talent that has been deprived of limelight for far too long. Literally hundreds of works of art are crammed into this space, separated into rooms which tackle the grand narratives of our time: relationships, death, sleep and less obviously, misshapen things.

The first room is Headlessness, the first thing you see is a headless ostrich. Baffling? This opening draws you into Shrigley’s world where he wants you to imagine the stories behind the exhibits, answering any questions you’ll inevitably have, yourself. His style is simplistic, almost childlike and you do find yourself reverting to a childlike mind-set as Shrigley toys with your worldly preconceptions. A small structure of the word ‘IT’ hides in the corner of one room, leading to the obvious question, “What is ‘it’?” Shrigley’s paintings mock art; if art is something that you feel then surely Shrigley is expressing it better than anyone by painting ‘FUCKING HELL’ angrily across a page in green paint by a screaming red stick figure. If this isn’t clear enough then the drawing captioned ‘Museums are full of crap’ should illustrate the point. The light-heartedness of Shrigley’s work counter -plays the ideas behind it so that your brain works on two unlikely levels at once using puns, contradictions, euphemisms with as much significance as the material.

I’m aware that my descriptions make Brain Activity sound somewhat trivial. The truth is that Shrigley toes the line between philosophical and nonsensical and this is what makes his work so refreshing. If anything compelled me on a more personal level, it would be arguably Shrigley’s most famous work: a taxidermy dog holding a sign which says ‘I’m dead’. As if it were fate, before I went in to this exhibition a Jack Russell terrier just like this one happened to leap into my arms for a cuddle. The lifelike quality the dead dog possesses is disturbing, horrific even considering the unsentimental irony applied to it. So that the comedic quality of Shrigley’s work is suddenly turned on its head, and life feels like nothing but ‘a prequel to extinction’.

In a literal whole other world, a section of the exhibit is populated by hundreds of insects, made from uniquely shaped pieces of metal. Thousands of little legs – the stuff of a lot of our nightmares, and yet they appear so human; working together, alone, having sex. The only way to escape the room is through an insect sized hole in the wall. Shrigley communicates with the spectator directly in every room. The relationship room in particular lent a particularly dark undertone to something close to the skin; the animation ‘New Friends’ involved a square being cut brutally into a circle by a community of his circular shaped friends. Enforcing this is ‘Swords and Daggers’, which were carved in wax with a potato peeler before being cast in bronze.

There is a skill to Shrigley’s purposefully crude art, and his ability to communicate so much with just a pencil and paper. It feels okay to live in an ugly world if we can laugh at it. The problem with reviewing this exhibition is that I cannot condense ideas like Shrigley can. Brain Activity made me feel as if my brain had suddenly woken up from the coma of only using the usual 10%. This exhibition forces you to think about the life, the universe and everything; until I thought my brain might explode – in a good way. But contemplating it makes no difference to life, the universe, and everything, which is at the taxidermy heart of this absurd exhibition which celebrates futility, not the answers to the grand questions it poses.