Tuesday, July 31, 2012

What It Says On The Tin

It might be a little dispiriting to churn this stuff out and never get a comment if it wasn't for the happily accelerating number of page views which affirms that people are, in fact, reading it.

So I've dismantled some of the privacy settings which I suspect are discouraging people from sharing their views.  You can now comment anonymously, but I get to moderate your comment before it's published, to keep things reasonably civilised.

Having said that, you are very welcome to disagree with my views, and I won't censor merely for that.  I am, as it says on the label, a dilettante. 

I know a fair bit about theatre, but not as much as others - I'm not an actor and I don't work backstage (though I'm a very experienced audience, and it doesn't hurt to know what your consumers think).  I just, as they say in the classics, like to watch.  And read.  And eat. 

If my observations are more often than not on the positive side, it's because I choose (and pay for) what I watch, read and eat based on an expectation that I'll enjoy myself.  I like to see as much as possible, but I don't get to everything, mainly because time doesn't always allow - but also sometimes because I'm simply not that interested.

And because I feel no sense of moral obligation to improve the character and professionalism of others through the dissemination of my objective, expert and authoritative views, I get to make that choice, and you get to disagree with whatever I say. You just don't get to be nasty about it or to criticise me or others personally.

Dilettante, me.  As it says on the tin.  Read and respond to me in that spirit and we'll get along fine.  Welcome to the conversation, and thanks for reading!

Monday, July 30, 2012

Stop Press!

"One Man ,Two Guvnors" is within your grasp!

STC are staging it in April next year: http://www.sydneytheatre.com.au/media/893523/stc_one_man__two_guvnors_media_release.pdf

That gives you nine months to get yourself organised, because it is absolutely worth the trip, and whatever STC decides to charge you for the tickets.

I've rabbited on about the NT Live simulcast in a post earlier this month, if you need convincing!

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Teatro Vivaldi / Croker & Magee "I'm Still Standing"

This may not be the right way to start this post, but I want to just put it out there: I love Tony Magee. He's a wonderful pianist, a wonderful accompanist, and I have good reason to believe he's also a wonderful person. I know Tony only to nod to in foyers, so I base that last assertion on bits of pieced-together and sometimes second-hand observation. But the first two were very much in evidence in his collaboration with Ian Croker at Teatro Vivaldi. And when I'm next in the market for a piano, I will be heading down to Davis Wheeler to buy it from Tony.

Anyway... A few songs into this revue I found myself wondering if the things that make a good person also make a good accompanist - an empathy with others, a lack of ego, and a readiness to put others first. This revue was all about Ian Croker, but it was Tony Magee who made it so. It was beautiful, sensitive work (with a special mention for the neat little quote from "March of the Gladiators" in "Puppet on A String", and when I remembered to look, I enjoyed watching Tony watching Ian almost as much as I enjoyed watching Ian himself.

Ian Croker himself was in fine form, and if not in his best voice ever, still had plenty of those rich deep tones we know and love. His opening gambit of "Wilkommen" would have seemed a bit cliched if it wasn't for his explanation that his first role in Canberra was as the MC in "Cabaret". His first set was largely a series of classic pop songs from the sixties, strung together with anecdotes about his youth that might go some way to explaining the man and performer he is today. The audience had come prepared to love him, and got a lot of love back; it was great fun, especially for anyone, like me, who is familiar with him only from his many and remarkably varied performances across the years, and the occasional encounter at a theatre bar, but hasn't got to know him personally.  I savoured these anecdotes and I would have liked more of them (I have often wondered, for example, whether he actually studied theatre or is just a remarkable natural talent, and I still don't know).  Set in this context, his performance of "What Makes A Man A Man" was palpably moving.

The second set contained no more anecdotes, alas - I hope this means he is saving a few for another bout - but a lighthearted and more varied repertoire of showtunes and cabaret that was right up my street, from Flanders & Swann to a reprise of his Tevye in "Fiddler on the Roof" earlier this year. There was a lovely cameo from Old Time Music Hall, there was a performance of "One For My Baby" that, if not word-perfect, was absolutely heartfelt, and a nicely-built "Forty-Second Street" that had the audience whooping.

If there was one disappointment, it might well lie only with my own increasing age and experience, and it is that I really hope in cabaret to find some undiscovered jewel I hadn't heard before, and as entertaining as the repertoire was, it was fairly familiar stuff. There's a different sort of charm in that, of course, which may be more appealing to many, and I do get about a hell of a lot. At the same time, if I know a pop song, it's a pretty bloody well-known pop song.

As for "I'm Still Standing", well, yes, he is, despite a somewhat snide cry of "that's water, Crokes!" from an audience member (whose name I could mention, but won't), and a couple of lapses of memory. To be fair, I saw  Steve Ross forget the words of the same song last year, so it was pretty forgiveable, and unlike Ross, Ian Croker came back with the correct lyric. And yes, more than one table was quaffing the "Wasted Talent" sauv blanc.  But if Ian Croker is in fact wasting his considerable talent in Canberra, then I'm glad he's wasting it on us.


Which brings me to the other part of the review: Teatro Vivaldi.

Damn.

I've had some pretty good food at Vivaldi's, but this wasn't their night. Or perhaps it just wasn't mine, as some other menu choices arriving at surrounding tables looked more appetising than my own. My companion gave the mushroom and blue cheese tart the thumbs up, and it did look pretty good. The smoked salmon on a potato cake ought to have been failsafe, but instead of the delicious rosti-style creation of my imagination, the potato turned out to be a plain old deep-fried Pauline Hanson chip-shop potato scallop. It was just odd, and too greasy for the heapings of sour cream & guacamole that came with it, and by the time it got to me, quite cold. (It was an above-average guacamole, though, with some good jalapeno smokiness without the heat).

We both had the chicken in a coriander and cinnamon sauce for main, and again, it wasn't what I expected, and that aside just wasn't particularly good. I had expected a sort of tagine style dish, but I can't blame Vivaldi's for my daydreams, so that really wasn't the reason for my disappointment: big chunks of slightly dry chicken breast (white flabby skin still attached) were drizzled in a bland white sauce, with very little flavour of the spices. The cous-cous and beans might have been OK, but again, it was almost cold by the time it arrived. It was a generous serving, but wasted on me.

Things improved with dessert, a reasonable vanilla pannacotta lifted by a nice tart raspberry coulis and a lovely white chocolate sauce. No coffee, though, and the usual irritating as hell Vivaldi's quirk of making diners go over and stand at the bar hoping to get a bottle of something before their food arrives.
As I say though, I've eaten much better food here, and had some quality catered food from them too, so I'll put this down as a bit of an off night.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

The Playhouse: Ngpartji, Ngpartji

... is Pitjanjatjara for, essentially, quid pro quo.  I confess to a white small-l liberal fear that this was going to be nutritious but dull, but instead it was a really lovely piece of theatre.  In one act of about an hour and forty minutes (some 25 minutes longer than advertised), Trevor Jamieson and his friends and relatives gently took us through some of his family history, and the story of the people of Maralinga, in a piece that was in turns humorous, interactive, and deeply sad. It was engaging and strangely devoid of anger, from people who are surely entitled to some.  The set was simple but innovative, and a pleasure to watch.  Jamieson throughout was charming, philosophical, and remarkably dextrous.  And how nice to see Lex Marinos again.

My day job hosted a session on indigenous cultural awareness a while back - it would have done a lot more good, I think, to have sent us all to see this.

There was a "worthy" bit afterwards, where the opening night speeches and presentations seemed even more interminable than usual, but at least there was a glass of sparkling and some canapes thrown in.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Everyman: God/Pool (no water)

OMG, as the kidz say. (Well, I assume they still say it. I really have no first-hand knowledge of what the kidz are up to these days.)

Let's deal with "God" first (always best to get him out of the way). One of the funniest things I've seen in ages, though the number of plants made me wonder how many of us had actually paid for tickets and how Everyman was going to manage on the pittance that represented.  Jarrad West hearkened back to his performance in "Musical of Musicals", giving us way too much information in the form of a leopard-print thong and a tiny tunic. I do love him in comic mode.  There was Duncan Ley, playing the straight man, in several senses of the word; Amy Dunham giving us a variety of flawless accents in hilarious cameos (including her famous party piece "bubbeleh" squirrel voice) and Euan Bowen, always funny and too rarely seen on stage these days.  And there's the wonderful Wayne Shepherd demonstrating Deus Ex machina in the most literal possible sense (he also created the elegant, funny and functional set).  The script wanders a lot, and what plot there is doesn't hang together in the slightest, but it's all so funny that nobody cares.  Most of the one-liners are Allens, but some are clearly Driver's, and all of them are crackers.  Haven't laughed so much in ages. Thank you, Everyman!

The second one-acter of the evening, "Pool (no water)" is, the origin of my opening "OMG", and is, simply, EXTRAORDINARY.  West and Dunham are joined by Steph Roberts and Zach Raffan in an incredibly tightly directed piece that is absolutely stunning.  Four friends go to visit the fifth of the group, who has succeeded in life while they have not - epitomised by her new swimming pool. Disaster strikes and the reactions and actions of the group thereafter drive the play.  It's billed as a black comedy, but it's more of a drama with some humour in it.

I'm really not sure how to describe this without giving too much away.  The plot is very dark, it's true, but I'm not sure I found it as "confronting" as reports made it out to be.  Possibly that's because I didn't relate to the characters enough to see myself in them - that's not to say they weren't believeable or convincing. They were utterly convincing, and the direction was quite extraordinary in giving us some stylised choreographing matched with acting that was at times disturbingly naturalistic (Amy Dunham in particular has a way of making you feel you're hearing her in a genuine conversation).  I think it is possibly more that I had read of Mark Ravenhill's piece as being of the same "In Yer Face" school as Sarah Keyes. And despite the fact that I'll go see pretty much anything, her "Blasted", is my benchmark for Theatre I Never Want To See - without any judgements of value or artistic merit, I simply don't think I could stomach it.  "Pool (no water)" contains some deep nastiness, but it doesn't enter into that territory.  I'm not worried that my own friends have this in them, but I have no trouble believing there are people who do.

What *was* confronting was the several minutes of full-frontal nudity from all of the characters - but even then, that's because this is Canberra, and these are people we know personally (though in my own case, fortunately, not well.  And, frankly, if I looked like Steph Roberts I'd have my kit off every chance I got).  This wouldn't have bothered me at all if the cast were complete strangers.

This is the third piece I've seen Zach Raffan in this year ("Two Plays" and "Speaking in Tongues" were the others) and I'm liking him more and more (having not liked at all his performance a couple of years ago in Rep's "Voyage Around My Father".)  He was lifted by the others, but he's also getting good at this.  The one moment that really jarred, though, was when he nipped off-stage for his trumpet and came back on to accompany some increasingly frenzied action with an accelerating William Tell Overture. I don't know whether it was director Duncan Ley or Raffan himself who couldn't resist the opportunity to use Raffan's trumpet - and no one would deny he is a first rate musician - but it was self-indulgent and it threw me out of the moment. Which I'll confess I resent, because I was deeply immersed, and it was a bit like being woken out of a deep sleep and then trying to resubmerge.

I know I'm not really explaining what makes this so amazing.  The direction is tight and clever, the energy and synergy of the cast is extrordinary and absolutely fearless, and the script never lags, at least until the surprisingly anodyne ending.  Props and lighting are used with an economy and effectiveness that are really brilliant.  You need to see this to get it.  Please do!

The Street: The Bugalugs Bum Thief

Why on earth are you going to a kids' show? came the cry.  Well, there are three reasons, really. 

First, I like kids' shows.  I like the squealing, unadulterated* glee of small children gripped by colour and movement and grown-ups being a bit naughty and silly. 

Second, I will go to pretty much anything that calls itself theatre.  The only line I'm conscious of ever having drawn was in front of something that called itself "An Evening with Frank Spencer" at the Q a couple of years ago. Dear god, no.

Third, Bottoms Are Always Funny.

But how can you stage someone stealing a bottom? came another cry.  Quite neatly, as it turns out, by giving your cast (of three athletic and pulchritudinous young men) enormous fake bottoms in Scene One.  In subsequent scenes, people turn around and Their Trousers Fall Down, resulting in vast expanses of satin boxer short, an expression of coy horror from the trouserless, and convulsive hilarity from the tinies.  It's not all that far off Ray Cooney, if you think about it.

OK, it was silly, but with lots of songs and movement, terrible jokes and mild, simple-minded naughtiness of the sort that is irrestistably risible to infants and the fans of Hale & Pace, this was a fun little show.  The session I attended was packed out, and Michael Hurst - taking a breather from the virtuosic Frequently Asked Questions next door - had to be found a stackable chair at the very back of the theatre.  While the resolution was pretty rubbish (and surprisingly drawn out), it involved Very Many Bottoms, and was, accordingly, received as hilarious. 

So, for kids: an easy introduction to theatre, and lots of bottoms!  For the adults, the best bit was watching the sheer joy on the faces of the kids - though, as I said earlier - the bottoms were pretty funny too.

(*Pun intended. Although now I am wondering if in fact it is a pun at all).

Sunday, July 22, 2012

COW: The Magic Flute, redux

Oh, dear.

To be fair, this production was not helped by the fact that I saw the 110 minute Julie Taymor production of this by the Australian Opera back in February, and also by the fact that several of the cast had clearly been devastated by what I am going to call for my own amusement The Magic Flu.  For example, Stephanie McAlister's top notes were MIA, whereas I know she's got 'em, and the rest of the notes were gorgeous - on the plus side, her evident annoyance helped her Queen of the Night look suitably cranky when singing of death and destruction.  Gerald Ninnes, too, had to mime while another singer filled in from the pit.  So there were certainly a few voices not quite up to scratch.

On the night I saw this, Dave Smith, as Tamino, sang well, but was inexplicably clad in a set of gaberdine suit trousers  topped by a puffy-sleeved blue & gold brocade standard issue prince-type jacket. It looked quite odd.  He sang very well, but I really miss the days when he used to act, as well.  His Pamina looked like a young Joan Sutherland but didn't quite have the voice to match. 

Chris McNee, as Papageno, was enormous fun, as always, singing lovely baritone rather than his usual lovely bass; his Papagena was as cute as a button and a delightful comic actress, but badly short of the mark on vocals. The other standout acting was from Leon Kavcic as Monostatos.

Peter Smith (the Speaker) and Gerard Atkinson (Sarastro) were solid vocally; and assorted Priests, Ladies, Genii, and Armed Guards acquitted themselves reasonably enough, but this was way too ambitious a piece for most of the cast. This is, of course, possibly the looniest plot in opera (I'd say definitely, but there's "Lindy" to think of), and I couldn't help noticing that the AO production was literally half the running time, while losing nothing at all of any value.  I really believe David Reedy would do better to focus on shorter and easier pieces while some of his proteges are still in grooming stage.

The orchestra was very sound, and substantial, the much maligned light-fittings were gorgeous, but possibly not so gorgeous as to be worth the distraction to singers who had to visibly duck and weave so as not to crack their heads.  Christine Pawlicki's costumes were particularly good (esp the Papageni), even if we recognised some recycled Mikado outfits, and wondered where Dave's correct pants were.  (I like to think he turned up to work next day in a suit jacket paired with royal blue britches and gold tights.)

And it was nice to have my first outing to the Lyneham High School Theatre. It's not a bad space, although the seats are plastic and clearly designed for more resilient and springy adolescent posteriors (of particular relevance during a three hour show).  The schmoozing space is deplorable - but I suppose I can't really expect a High School to install a full bar...

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Free Rain: Cats

What a completely ridiculous show this is - people dressed up as cats, singing children's comic verses as if they were Psalms.  Did I say The Magic Flute was the stupidest plot I'd seen this week? Hmmm.

If you've seen Cats before - and who hasn't - you already know that.  So leaving aside the terrible book, this is a pretty good production.  Most of the cast is very strong - Jordan Kelly is fabulous (if typecast) as the pelvis-thrusting Rum Tum Tugger (bonus points for the fainting kittens); David Collins is plumply hilarious as Bustopher Jones and Growltiger; Chris Pappas and Michelle Norris were great together as Mungo Jerry and Rumpleteazer.  (Seriously, how brilliant is Michelle Norris?  I want to hate her because she's SO attractive, but she's just an absolute standout in everything she touches).

I thought the direction was lovely - everywhere you looked, there were cats doing cat things, lying about like cats, nosing into things, washing themselves and playing.  Changing the set to a theatre rather than a rubbish dump was not a bad idea - but most of the props were then out of proportion, unfortunately, being the same size as the cats instead of the size that they should have been for humans.  The band was flawless; I do not much care for the music in this show, but it was perfectly performed.  And the choreography was excellent; tight, energetic, and it used all of the capacity of the best dancers without going past the reach of the weaker ones.

Costumes, recycled from the Philo show of a few years ago, were also excellent, if not always totally flattering for the human squeezed into them.  I'd award points for bravery, but would doubtless offend, so I won't.

Disappointments: not too many.  A few of the cast may have been affected by cat flu here and there - some usually strong voices were not showing at their best.  Roy Hukari as Munkustrap sang well, though he was just as portentous here as he was in Blood Brothers and - well, pretty much everything else I've seen him in. Lighten up, Roy! It's a show about pussycats!  The idea of raising Grizabella to the Heavyside Layer in a pram should have worked OK, except the pram remained at the top of the set, leaving us to wonder if Grizabella was only, in fact, in Purrgatory (see what I did there?).  And no one can be blamed for this except Lloyd Webber, but how deeply stupid is the "Macavity steals Old Deuteronomy and then Mr Mistoffeles magicks him back" subplot?  I've always thought it stupid, but in this production it seemed really, outstandingly, extravagantly stupid, and I'm wondering if perhaps other productions have merely managed to disguise it a bit better.

Mr Mistoffeles himself, incidentally, is a dancer to watch out for; I've forgotten his name (feel free to remind me in the comments), but was hugely impressed and hope to see a lot more of his work in future.

Another disappointment - actually an inverted compliment - was the underuse of Lachlan Ruffy, who I think is my Performer of the Year thus far.  I know he can dance - I saw his Tin Man last year - but he didn't seem to be used in any of the big dance numbers.  I know he can sing, but he only got one "character" number.  At least we did get to see him act, as (Aspara)Gus the Theatre Cat, presumably cast by someone who saw his 'Logues performance earlier in the year and knew he could play 4 times his actual age.  As usual, he stayed in character for the whole show - in Act One as the Rumpus Cat, mimicking the dancers from the couch, and in Act Two, keeping up the palsied paw until and including the curtain call.

So - what can I say? It's Cats. If you hate Cats, you'll still, I think, be able to recognise the quality of this production; alternatively, if you like this sort of thing, then this is the sort of thing you will like.  I'm in the first (ahem) cat-egory.



** NB: Spoiler alert: In Act 2, a cat will come on stage and sing a song about itself.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

The Street: Frequently Asked Questions

... And one of them is: "What the ?!"

This is a bit fascinating, and one of these pieces you can chew over for days afterward. An actor in despair succumbs to the voices in his head, and all of them are eponymous characters from Shakespeare's tragedies. Hamlet is a foppish wuss, Macbeth is an "I'll do you, Jimmeh!" Glaswegian, Lear is an Alzheimic dodderer who was supposed to stay at the pub like he was told, Othello is a gullible buffoon with an eye for the ladies. The actor himself is indiscernible.

It's a tour de force from Hurst, who switches between characters flawlessly and keeps each completely distinguishable from the next. He cooks on stage, pratfalls, somersaults, sings, and wrestles himself both physically and philosophically, with such intensity and dexterity that you can't fail but be impressed. But ... How much sense it is all supposed to make? It's vastly entertaining, but what does it all mean?

I'm still not sure, especially when Othello introduces "the girls" (Ophelia, Desdemonia, and - oddly - Juliet). Sadly for me, co-author Hurst evaded my efforts to corner him a few days later at the Bugalugs Bum Thief and elicit some answers. (He also evaded the cast's attempts to get him up on stage, so I was in respectable company.)  And I haven't seen two reviews that quite agree, either.  The Barefoot Review has an interpretation that makes the most sense of any I've read - except that it doesn't exactly match the show I think I saw.

Which I suppose is the point of Frequently Asked Questions, and one reason I hope Hurst doesn't change the title of the show. (He is apparently considering rebranding it "To Be Or Not To Be", so that people attempting to unearth him via Google do not drown in a sea of how-to pages and information about local jazz bands).

Highlight for me was the moment where Macbeth tells Hamlet: "Think yer dark? I'll show yer f*cking dark" - and does so. And it's very true; both characters are tragic, but Macbeth is Metallica and Hamlet is My Chemical Romance. This is something to see - and then obsess about for a few days.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Oz Opera: Don Giovanni

Don Giovanni is one of those characters like Mack the Knife - removed from their original context they carry a certain romance and charm; only when you return to the original source do you realise what thoroughly nasty pieces of work they are. And so, Don Giovanni: in his own mind a loveable rogue, and to the rest of the world a murderer, serial rapist and sociopathic thug. I've forgotten who said of Monteverdi's "Nero & Poppaea" that it contained some of the most glorious music ever written about some of the most unpleasant people who ever lived, but it could equally well apply to Mozart's Don Giovanni. This is a beautifully realised little touring production, set stylishly in 1950's Italy, and astonishingly well-arranged for a nine-piece orchestra that manages to sound three times the size. Parts are shared around amongst the travelling cast, and I can't remember who played which, now, but both the Don and his servant Leporello are handsome and dashing, and sound wonderful. The women - the Don's assorted discards or new challenges - are clad La Dolce Vita style (Dona Elvira in particular sports a very glamorous red wrap dress and Sophia Loren sunnies) -and sound as good as they look. The set is clever - it can be resized depending on the size of the regional stage it's next moved to - and a slight rewrite of the ending dispenses neatly with the traditionalmtrapdoor denouement. The direction is also very effective at bringing the story plausibly forward a couple of hundred years. I enjoyed this a great deal, despite being absolutely dog tired than evening and not sure I'd see out the whole show. Of course the lure of the opening night champagne & canapes didn't hurt, but this wasn't a show that required any incentive to sit through.

Monday, July 9, 2012

NT Live: One Man, Two Guvnors

The UK National Theatre's "NT Live" series of cinema simulcasts is a glorious thing.  But I struggle to get up in time for matinees, which they invariably are. Having missed Version 1 of "Frankenstein" (starring Jonny Lee Miller and Benedict Cumberbatch) by dint of not paying attention, and then Version 2 (starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller) by virtue of sleeping late (which *is* a virtue, unless you've already paid for your tickets, which I had), I was damned if I was going to miss the wildly successful "One Man Two Guvnors" as well. Except, inexplicably, the Dendy Canberra was not showing it. Fending off a vague conviction that this was all my fault for not making up the numbers for either "Frankenstein", I resolved to venture interstate.  And so I found myself in the Empire Cinema Bowral, in the flattering and increasingly rare situation of significantly lowering the average age of the audience. The place was packed.

As anyone who's heard of this show already knows, it's Richard Bean's re-vamp of Goldoni's "Servant of Two Masters", set in 1950's Brighton.  Goldoni seems to invite this treatment - vide "The Venetian Twins".  It is, indeed, another "twin" plot - though as the twins in this case are brother and sister, and much is made of the fact that while extremely similar in appearance, they therefore cannot actually be "identical". 

The twins are Rachel and Roscoe; Roscoe, an East End gangster,  has been killed in a nightclub fight before the action begins by  Lord Flashheart from Blackadder  Stanley Stubbers.  It turns out Stanley and Rachel are engaged, but Stanley has fled into hiding. Rachel disguises herself as her dead brother, as you do, in order to collect on a large debt owed to him by Charlie Clench (an incredibly familiar Fred Ridgeway), which will set them up for life, or at least a move to Australia (a running, and apprarently hilarious, joke). Roscoe was supposed to be marrying Charlie's daughter, the vacuous Pauline (Claire Lams), as beard; I've forgotten why she was supposed to be marrying him, but it doesn't matter except that she's madly in love with the asinine Alan Dangle (a brilliantly po-faced Daniel Rigby), son of the family solicitor and an aspiring Ack-Tor, who has some of the best lines in the play, usually in the form of mad non-sequiturs. 

Amidst all of this we find that Billy Bunter, checked suit and all, has grown up to become Francis Henshall, who finds himself via various plot devices working for both Roscoe and Stanley, and trying to keep each from discovering the existence of the other - which is necessary, or the whole plot collapses, but difficult - because Henshall (James Corden) is a gluttonous idiot.

I digress, but then so does the whole play, and the plot is barely relevant, serving only as the most nominal framework for a serious of hilarious slapstick sketches, outrageous characters and brilliant firecracker dialogue.  There's some very funny ad libbing, and a lot more of what seems like very funny ad libbing but on closer inspection is not - the genius of Corden (and Oliver Chris) is that this seems absolutely fresh until the moment they let you know that it isn't.  The play lampoons itself as much as anything else: Henshall/Corden lurches through the fourth wall and back again, anachronisms are archly lampshaded; the audience is neatly manipulated into complicity.  This is very, very, very funny stuff, and as the credits roll you'll realise that its even cleverer than you thought.

There are a few quibbles: tiny Jemima Rooper, dragged up as "Roscoe" is not remotely convincing as a man, which is disappointing casting because Oliver Chris is so tall that a much more substantial woman could easily have been cast opposite.  The ending drags a bit, but the rest of the play is so hectic that it's only by comparison (the way 80 kmph seems like a snail's pace when you re-enter city limits and decelerate from 130  110).  There are holes in the plot you could drive the Starship Enterprise through - just pay no attention and enjoy the ride.  If you're not already suspending disbelief you've come to the wrong place.

The smaller roles are also worth a mention, in particular Alfie the octogenarian waiter on his first day at work, played by Tom Edden channelling Marty Feldman; and Susie Toase as a sort of feminist Sabrina, Henshall's love interest (explained to us in Commedia del Arte terms at the beginning of Act 2).

The show is full of Easter eggs and unexpected delights.  Henshall, we discover, has only picked up "heavy" work because Roscoe wanted to stop him busking, after his sacking from a skiffle band.  So the scene changes are disguised by numbers from said skiffle band ("the Craze") especially written for this production.  And after the opening set, each number thereafter features a cast member - Henshall providing remarkably facile on glockenspiel; Trevor Laird getting right into steel drums, Martyn Ellis clearly highly experienced on ukelele, an Andrews Sisters pastiche from the three female leads, Oliver Chris a tad tentative on a choir of klaxons, and everyone's favorite, a straightfaced Daniel Rigby (Alan), playing percussion on his bare chest.
Another jewel is the peek backstage at interval by the National Theatre compere.

As I mentioned, it flags a bit at the end, but after three hours, we all did.  Tying these mad ends up was never going to be as fun as the unravelling.  But they do need tying, and it's a satisfactory and settling ending.

I believe this has transferred from the West End to Broadway now, and the cast has largely turned over; I'd be fascinated to know if Owain Arthur has brought the same sort of flubbering genius to the character of Henshall (that's not a real word, but I don't think there is one).  If NT Live reprises this, do not miss it.  And I hope the Canberra Dendy has not dropped its particpation in the NT Live programme, because there is some good stuff scheduled later in the year.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Restaurant: Biota Dining

Meh.

I love a Destination Restaurant.  There's nothing better than working my way through the San Pellegrino Top 50 list (OK, I've only got to 4 of them, but I'm ambitious), collecting Michelin Star experiences and crossing double Chef's Hat establishments off my bucket list.  A couple of years ago I had a really first-rate degustation at the Journeyman restaurant in Bowral, and was shattered to hear it had fallen off the map, so since Biota Dining opened in what used to be the The Manning restaurant - another place I've had many happy meals - I've been keen to go and put my money where my mouth was - and, of course, vice versa.

Neither the money nor the mouth came away particularly happy, I'm sad to report. I'm a sucker for a degustation, and decided it was the way to go despite much more attractive-sounding dishes on the a la carte menu. But there seems to be a trend at the moment for first-rate restaurants to describe dishes in unappealing terms (o, hai, Sixpenny and Four In Hand), and I figured that the tasting menu is traditionally best foot forward, so I went for it anyway. Mistake, mistake, mistake. The highlight of the meal wasn't on the menu at all - it was an amuse-bouche tempura green bean with lemon and paprika and it was crisp and delicious. The presentation was also cute - it was impaled on a wire embedded in a rock of pink salt. And primed by a lovely kir royale I was feeling very optimistic indeed. The bread took a surprisingly long time to arrive, and was fine, but paired with something called "smoked butter". I adore smoked food, but this just tasted like charcoal. And so I say: Meh.

The first course was unpreposessingly entitled "Cooked Curds". I expected something on the mozzarella side, but the curds were closer to a ricotta; a perfectly decent mild cheese. It was served with some accoutrements mixed in, most notably "cured carrots", which turned out to be crystallised in salt until they were basically inedible unless paired with a giant mouthful of the curds, and I spent the dish trying to get the proportions right. It would have been nice if our waiter had offered some tips on how to approach these dishes, but (a) I don't think food should require an instruction manual, and (b) the best outcome was not going to deliver anything better than a way of neutralising the taste of salt.

On the plus side, the wines throughout were excellent, and our waiter knew a lot about them. I wish he'd made a similar effort with the food.

The next course was Duck Egg. I don't much like eggs, but, again, thought a very sophisticated treatment would mean it would probably taste good anyway. Um, no. Egg white foam and barely cooked yolk might have been a bit clever but actually brought out nothing additional, I found the texture slimy (but that's probably just my dislike of eggs) - it was just boring, and eggy.  I am regretting the taste of it as I write this.

My companion had a similar experience with the next course, mackerel.  Not being a big fan of proteins piscatorial, my companion had sought and obtained assurances that this would not be particularly strong fish before ordering - it seemed an unlikely promise for the waiter to be able to make, given the strong taste and oily character of mackerel, and again that proved to be the case.  We were served a small slab of fish that did not seem any different from a plain old fried slab of mackerel, served with some fairly ordinary accoutrements.  My companion was unable to continue beyond the first bite.  The waiter, collecting the almost untouched plate, did not make any comment - perhaps it happens a lot.  Poor form, anyway, considering the express questions asked before ordering.

The cheese course was next and I cheered up a lot, because I adore cheese, and as it's not house made, it should be fairly hard to stuff up.  The menu listed it as roquefort with bee pollen.  What we got was a small bowlful of mashed up roquefort sitting in a puddle of honey, served with a spoon.  It was perfectly good rocquefort, and the honey was fine also, but this treatment was just too clever by half. I don't want to eat roquefort by the spoonful, I want to smear it on some fruit bread, or a cracker with a smidge of quince paste.  This said to me "You'll eat this cheese how we say you will". Sod that.

The dessert, listed on the menu as "Grass Milk" was OK.  It was a bunch of different white sweet things on a plate - yoghurt sorbet, white chocolate ice cream etc.  Nothing outstanding or different, and I would not bother to order it again, but I didn't dislike it.

I finished with a macchiato, which was more of a ristretto, but that suited me fine.  It came with a few hazelnuts rolled in cocoa; we didn't bother to have more than one.

So all in all, a big disappointment.  I should say again that the wine was very good, and it's fun to be able to watch the kitchen in action (there's even a big flatscreen in the private dining room filming the kitchen so those diners don't miss out).  And the locals tell us that the bar menu and the tapas are in fact very good.  I can't see myself making another trip there, but if I did I would be ordering from the bar.