‘Amanda’ (The Kilderkin: 28 Nov ’13)

“Actor Anne Kane Howie makes a nicely detached Amanda, far from emotionless yet tightly controlled, the perfect match for her ambiguous role”

Editorial Rating: Nae Bad 

Part of November’s “Theatre Uncut” season, the one-off short play Amanda lends an important global political issue a distinctively Scottish spin.  From a Holyrood office to a New Town retreat, we follow one woman’s progress through a perfectly ordinary day; a day that involves both struggle and compromise, sometimes with voices from her own past.

Wisely, given its twenty-minute duration, the story’s confined to a single scene and a single character – the titular Amanda.  In the company of two narrators, we visit Amanda in a moment of quiet introspection, alone in the bathroom of her Georgian flat.  Building such a short piece around such a low-key premise is a mature decision from playwright Kieran Hurley, but perhaps it’s a little too luxuriant; when all’s said and done, the piece develops slowly and ends with little territory explored.

Hurley does, however, deliver an elegantly subtle turnaround.  At first, it seems we’re expected to dislike Amanda (rather unfairly, since her only obvious crimes are to sprinkle her bath with rose petals and enjoy the sound of posh voices on Radio 4).  But later, we learn she’s a more complex character than she first appears; and perhaps, the script seems to suggest, our reactions to her need to be complex ones too.

Actor Anne Kane Howie makes a nicely detached Amanda, far from emotionless yet tightly controlled, the perfect match for her ambiguous role.  Nick Cheales and Yvonne Paterson perform well as the dual narrators; they’re unobtrusive without being inconspicuous, and their deft handling of the props required to create Amanda’s bathroom speaks of meticulous rehearsal.

As always, director Andy Corelli works in some charmingly quirky motifs – right up to the curtain-call, where he remembers something I’d completely forgotten, that Amanda needs to step out of the bath.  He also makes good use of the improvised space at the Kilderkin, proving that rooms behind a pub don’t have to be the exclusive preserve of stand-up comedy.  There’s an incongruity to the setting that can’t quite be denied, but some clever scene-setting and an opportunistic use of the Christmas lights successfully evoke the essence of the elegant New Town.

Overall, the odd thing about Amanda is that it’s not an activist piece – or even an especially political one.  You might choose to think that the title character has sold out her principles; but you might think she’s simply grown wiser as she’s grown up.  The script presents some facts about her life yet your interpretation of those truths comes entirely from within.  So is that an abdication of the playwright’s duty, or a valuable spark for debate?  On that question also, you’ll have to make up your own mind.

nae bad_blue

Reviewer: Richard Stamp (Seen 28 November)

‘The Improvised Panto!’ (City Nightclub: 9-13 Dec ’13)

“Few styles of performance are so ripe for lampooning; and with a vast canon of familiar characters to draw from, the potential for capering hijinks is huge”

Editorial Rating: Unrated

An improvised panto is an inspired idea. Few styles of performance are so ripe for lampooning; and with a vast canon of familiar characters to draw from, the potential for capering hijinks is huge. Edinburgh-based Impro FX give it a good shot with this gutsy performance, but their hook just isn’t quite strong enough to hang onto.

The trouble with reviewing improv is that it’s different every night, and this particular performance was… well, probably not Impro FX’s strongest. The oddball tale of a visionary Moroccan takeaway driver never fully came together, and the occasional songs (accompanied by pianist Dan McGurty) involved just a bit too much repetition. It must be said the audience’s suggestions didn’t give them a huge amount to work from; it might have helped to throw out examples of the kinds of riffs they were looking for, instead of asking the crowd to come up with creative ideas from a standing start.

And, an improvised panto? Oh no, it isn’t. To be fair, there was a passable horse, and the magisterial Charlie Hindley proved an alarmingly credible dame. But a pair of false breasts does not a panto make; there was no badly-written innuendo, very little call and response, no pastiche of minor celebrities from Forth One. At times, it seemed that Impro FX had dropped back to a more familiar style of improv, and forgotten that they were meant to be staging a pantomime at all.

Cast as the mandatory talking animal, Steve Worsley duly grinned like the Cheshire Cat right through the performance, and his engaging warmth went a long way towards smoothing over the inevitable rough edges of the plot. Harry Gooch doubled up to play both hero and arch-villain, with deliciously farcical results in the last couple of scenes, while a selfless Will Naameh held the whole thing together – just about – as a pleasingly queeny princess.

So the stock characters are all there; but to take their concept further, Impro FX might play a bit more to our childish delight in the genre. The emergence of that pantomime horse, for example, could be built up into a much-anticipated moment of nostalgia, rather than just an ironic nod. And they need to call on their audience more – shamelessly and clearly – demanding our cheers and our comedy hisses! Because, while we know the catchphrases we’re supposed to shout out, amidst the chaos of an improv show we need some help understanding just when we’re meant to say them.

Reviewer: Richard Stamp (Seen 10 December)

‘Goblin’s Story’ (The Vault: 19-24 Nov ’13)

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“In a play which offers so much juicy character work it is an astonishing feat of theatrical good manners that no one attempts to hog the green tinted limelight.”

Editorial Rating: Outstanding

The programme handed to us as we entered The Vault on Merchant Street is printed on lavender paper. “It’s like the Lavender List.” I’m impressed. I didn’t think the Current Mrs Dan had listened to a word I’d said after I’d finished Sandbrook’s multi-volume history of the 70’s. And yet she could recall all the murky, paranoia of Downing Street as Harold Wilson left it. She had even remembered that the dodgy dossier of resignation honours awarded to Wilson’s cronies had (allegedly) been printed on lavender-coloured stationery. “Of course I remember about the Lavender List” she went on, “You were in [Michael Frayn’s] Democracy with Ted Short’s son.” So I was. Wilson’s mind in the final hours of his political life must have been very like The Vault was as we entered. Spooky. Subterranean. Cavernous. A swaying symphony of forest greens to the fore, a fearsome projected illumination of goblinity at the back. A fantasy landscape where even the trees have agendas of their own. Wilson would have been right at home.

Goblin’s Story is a tapestry of threads drawn from nineteenth century poetry. It is centred on Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market. The central characters are ‘the baddies’ of familiar, and not so familiar, period pieces. A goblin, named Goblin, possessed of a gentler soul than other goblins, is sat on a tree stump. He’s disengagedly reading a newspaper while his attention is sought by the insistent Jabberwocky. Shrek-like, Goblin just wants to be left alone. When the Ancient Mariner appears spouting his mad rhymes Goblin’s peace is well and truly shattered. All that is left is for Cutty Sark, a witch from Tam o’Shanter, to put in an appearance.

Laura Witz’s direction has turned comic timing into an extreme sport. A fraction of difference either way and oblivion beckons. She builds the tension slowly but steadily, drawing out the first nervous giggles into sustained tittering and then total sympathy. Goblin Story is her script and she knows just what to do with it. Witz is fortunate to have at her disposal a formidable ensemble. In addition to the four main characters there is a goblin posse of five and a pose of as many trees. But the stage never appears crowded. The blocking is interstellar.

The living forest is represented by girls in black holding branches of bay, which charge the atmosphere with perfume and rustle. They are supernumerary superheros. Poised and perfectly mannered, their gestures enhance the play’s depth and subtlety like a bay leaf in a stew.

The goblins, expertly led by Rory Kelly (the Robbie Coltrane of our time), are sinister and sophisticated in their movements. They are living out Rossetti’s narrative poem with savage delight. The noble Jabberwocky (Grace Knight) attempts to organise her companions so as to disrupt the goblins’ dastardly designs.

Knight is bubbly and engaging. An essential contrast to the moody, broody Goblin (James Beagon). Beagon is the pace setter for the piece with a deal of heavy dramatic lifting to do. Although he hardly seems to breaks a sweat, his concentration is total. In a play which offers so much juicy character work it is an astonishing feat of theatrical good manners that no one attempts to hog the green tinted limelight. The cast’s capacity to be off stage while on it, to blend into the background when needed, is best demonstrated by Thomas Edward whose tall frame towers over the rest of the company. Edward could so easily have hammed up his comic non-sequiturs, taken from Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, playing soft balls to an increasingly generous audience. Instead he is an adornment to the play and it in turn is an adornment to him. Izzy Hourihane, as Cutty Sark, completes the ensemble. It’s a wonder that such a big voice can be housed in so small a figure. Hourihane does smart and sassy rather like a Michelin starred restaurant does fish and chips, a superb interpretation of familiar themes. This company should be held together by royal decree – I genuinely believe that they can achieve anything together, especially when presented with a script as dashingly bold as is Goblin’s Story.

This production achieves so much in so small an amount of time and in such an imposingly characterful venue. The idiosyncratic costumes bring each individual into a collective harmony. The lighting and the makeup add highlights and flare in all the right places. The trees, who might so easily have become the director’s peculiar fetish, add a living lustre offset by the ghastly goblins. Upon such foundations the cast assemble a brilliant entertainment. A literary and literate script given a lively and lucid shine by a company of accomplished artists.

You might think bringing so many branches of bay leaves on stage was a tad presumptuous but this production cannot be garlanded with sufficient laurels.

outstanding

Reviewer: Dan Lentell (Seen 19 November)

Visit Goblin’s Story homepage here.

‘The Edinburgh Book Lovers’ Tour’ (Writers’ Museum)

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“For the visitor this must surely be the best tour available. For the resident, The Edinburgh Book Lovers’ Tour is a masterclass in presenting our city to visitors.”

Editorial Rating: Outstanding

“Don’t expect a crowd.” As I pick my way towards the Writer’s Museum I can’t help wondering if Allan Foster hasn’t rather overdone things in the modesty department. En route to the rendezvous I pass assorted aldermen, literary luminaries and even the odd Duke (it’s a truism of getting older that policemen and Dukes all start looking younger). But it turns out that the gathered host aren’t in Lady Stair’s Close to join The Edinburgh Book Lovers’ Tour.

My host explains that a memorial is being unveiled to Gavin Douglas (1474-1522) (no?..me neither) the priest, poet and statesman who translated the Aeneid into Middle Scots. Presumably paint dried faster at the turn of the 16th century, thus offering less spectacle, so this is how they spent their time. Douglas is the 37th writer to be commemorated with an inscribed flagstone – handy for that direct form of criticism alluded to in Byron’s lament for Castlereagh. I will not find anything good to say about the flagstone commemorations until the organisers cease to shun McGonagall.

I have an awful lot good to say about Foster’s approach to guiding, starting with the way he rides out the noisy intrusion into his routine by the horde of newly fledged Douglas groupies. The weather is on our side but even so Foster’s laconic embrace acts like an umbrella on our small party, shielding we few from the outside elements. It’s an odd thing taking a walking tour through one’s own regular haunts – unsettling almost. That is until you remember how much fun you will have over the coming months lecturing anyone fortunate enough to be in company with you on the Southside’s glorious (and not so glorious) literary heritage. Foster is not short of an opinion or three but he is better than most (present author included) at separating his commentary from reportage.

Our route takes us from the Writer’s Museum, across the Royal Mile to Parliament Square, down Barrie’s Close, along the Cowgate to the Old Infirmary, up Drummond Street through the Potterrow Port and via George Square, before concluding beside Greyfriars.

Along the way we are treated to a grand narrative, illustrated with dozens of facts trivial and otherwise. My two companions are a journalist and English professor from daaahn sauff and Newfoundland respectively. I enjoy chatting to them as we pass from point to point. This is not such familiar geography for them but then they have sailed to Treasure Island, peered under morgue sheets with Rebus, played Quidditch with Potter and gazed upon the gently rolling eyes induced by Scott’s best romantic vistas.

This rain-soaked ground we Edinbuggers bustle about on is holy. It slowly dawns on me how much we are taking for granted. It’s not just the sack of Robert Louis Stevenson’s beloved Rutherford’s Bar by pirates of the Caribbean. Nor how little bronze or marble denotes the untended springs of creativity sacred to Clio, Calliope, Melpomene and their sisters. It’s the sinking feeling that we are not much better than the historically illiterate residents of Worcester who met messrs Adams and Jefferson with such bemused incomprehension and contempt.

Scott was derided in his own life for writing popular trash unworthy of a gentleman of letters. Despite huge sales and an even larger intellectual impact (especially, much to the regret of Mark Twain, in the American South) the true identity of “The Author of Waverley” was kept an open secret in case it sullied Scott’s true reputation as a provincial lawyer. Foster does not avoid questions of taste when discussing Edinburgh’s literary present but does identify them as secondary and somewhat unbecoming. Foster is not crippled by paroxysms of grief, as is one former literary editor of the North Britischer newspaper of my acquaintance, when he thinks on the work McCall Smith, Rowling and Ranking COULD be writing – what matters is that they ARE writing (and, incidentally, are being read by millions).

For the visitor this must surely be the best tour available. For the resident, The Edinburgh Book Lovers’ Tour is a masterclass in presenting our city to visitors. Unlike the former literary editor and his discredited vintage of print pundits there is nothing in Foster cringing or apologetic. The plaque to Rowling just above eye level across from Old College is treated with as much deference as are those to Stevenson or McGonagall across the way. Knowledgeable and in the know, he must navigate the tour by all the names he drops, Foster is informed and informative. Lyrically laconic but also hugely welcoming. A civic ambassador extraordinaire.

When my own father awakes from his notion that Auld Reekie, Brigadoon-like, disappears into the September mist at the end of each successive Fringe I shall be paying to take him on this tour.

outstanding

Reviewer: Dan Lentell (Seen 15 November)

Visit The Edinburgh Book Lovers’ Tour homepage here.

‘Twonkey’s Blue Cadabra’ (Mary King’s Close: 6 Nov ’13)

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“Vickers weaves bizarre, bamboozling, absurdly nonsensical stories, which he tells with a mix of puppetry and song “

Editorial Rating: Nae Bad

Who is Twonkey?  What is a cadabra?  Why is Twonkey’s cadabra blue?  All your questions will be answered – sort of – in the course of this weirdly compelling performance, which combines freewheeling inventiveness with some genuinely touching storytelling.  Fresh from a much-starred run at the Edinburgh Fringe, this one-off appearance in the depths of Mary King’s Close also included some new material destined for next year’s follow-up show.

Any attempt to describe Paul Vickers’ one-man act is doomed to inadequacy, but here’s a quick list of just a few of the things he covers.  An oven talks; a tailor flies; a creepy cat just keeps coming back, and our host explains the best way to sneak up on an unsuspecting microphone.  Vickers weaves bizarre, bamboozling, absurdly nonsensical stories, which he tells with a mix of puppetry and song.  His parallel worlds have an internal consistency, and enough points of reference to hang onto – but if you’re expecting a close connection with reality, you’ll be set to rights within the first few minutes of his pleasantly perplexing routine.

It simply wouldn’t work if you took it too seriously.  But Vickers, who drifts in and out of character as Mr Twonkey, develops a rapid rapport with his audience; the crowd grew noticeably more relaxed with his complex material as the show wore on.  There’s a fair amount of comic bungling – it takes real panache to lose your props quite so endearingly, quite so often – and selected punters have their minds probed by psychic underwear, an ice-breaker which actually works remarkably well.

But for all the random wackiness, there’s a real poignancy to some of the storytelling.  Vickers’ biography of Stan Laurel might be untroubled by actual facts, but his imagined anecdote touches on big questions of fame, friendship, and the things a celebrity must leave behind.  And the most moving story of all was the very last one he told, which used a run-in with a drunken postman as the jumping-off point for a tale of lost love.  Suddenly, and very quietly, the whimsical took a devastatingly serious turn.

It might have been a touch more satisfying if the stories linked together – absurdist non-sequiturs can only take you so far – but Vickers’ greatest achievement is to leave you feeling that, in a way you can’t quite express, it all made perfect sense in the end.  A show like this is bound to split opinion, and if you want to be led by the hand through an intricately-constructed narrative you really won’t like it at all.  But if you relish the occasional outbreak of nonsense, you’ll find Twonkey’s Blue Cadabra a gloriously colourful show.

 

nae bad_blue

Reviewer: Richard Stamp (Seen 6 November)

Visit Twonkey’s Blue Cadabra homepage here.

 

 

Dan Lentell in Conversation with Craig Miller re. Close Fest

Philip Caveney with Plague Doctor on The Close

Crow Boy author Philip Caveney with Plague Doctor on Mary King’s Close

“We don’t do disappointment!”

On the afternoon of 28 October Dan Lentell spoke with Craig Miller, manager of landmark attraction Mary King’s Close about the upcoming Close Fest which will run from 31 October – 9 November. Craig enthuses about the venue as a dramatic setting; talks about the challenges of utilizing the space for live performance; and describes how The Close will grow as a local resource during its second decade.

Listen to our interview with Craig Miller

See all the events in the Close Fest line up here.