My second NT Live and second dose of Rory Kinnear in a month, my fifth visit to a theatre production in five weeks, my third Big Will Big Tragedy this year: I think I’m becoming cultured.
This is a rebroadcast of Kinnear’s turn as Hamlet from two years ago, and it’s very, very good. It should probably be compared against David Tennant’s similarly t-shirted shot at the RSC from 2009: from what I remember of that (and I’ll need to watch it again), Kinnear’s is a more naturalistic interpretation: while Tenant goes for the moody, reflective, actory approach, Kinnear’s ‘to be or not to be’ seems to pop up out of nowhere, unheralded and unbidden. There are similarities though: I like the coward soliloquy ‘(I would have fatted all the region’s kites with this slave’s offal’ – what a fabulous line that is) and each delivers it with venomous self-loathing.
Kinnear’s naturalism comes from his apparent lack of presence: some commentators have described him as looking like a middle manager in some regional company, and it’s easy to see what they mean. He underplays beautifully, relying on cyncially-raised smirky eyebrows and that blank look of astonishment his father was such a master of: indeed, during his mad scene with Polonius, he mugs to the audience on a couple of occasions and looks exactly like Roy. It’s this touching ‘everyman’ appeal that made him so successful as Iago and in this allows us to engage with a real, live young man rather than a spoiled Prince who, in some versions, has come across as more than a little hysterical.
The production does something unusual with the plot too. Of course, the standard reading of the play is that Hamlet has a thing for his mum, and delays so long in avenging his dad because the old bastard scared the life out of him and he’s actually quite pleased he was bumped off: after all, it’s only when Gertrude is poisoned that he gets up off his arse to do something about his uncle. Here, though, that is reversed. James Laurenson (my goodness, as soon as I see his face, I’m taken back to watching ‘Boney’, the somewhat culturally insensitive but really well made Australian series about an Aboriginal detective, in the living room of my parents’ house, eating toasted rolls in the evening in 1973 ) plays the ghost as an avuncular, gentle and altogether paternal figure, while Claire Higgins’ Gertrude is a middle-aged lush poured into a leather skirt two sizes too small and ten years too young for her. Thus, Hamlet really is avenging his father, and his anger at his mother is not that she has let her son down, but that she actually has let her husband and herself down. That’s new: not a jot of the old Oedipus here.
There are irritations that are inherent in Hamlet for me. The ‘swear’ scene after the ghosts’ consultation with Hamlet is tedious and a bit daft – I never saw the need for the ghostly incantations from underground – and of course, one has to suspend disbelief to accept that two young men who had in one scene been at each others’ throat would in the next agree to a playful duel. But that’s all part of the politics of the court, and Kinnear makes that absolutely clear. Possibly the most memorable Hamlet I’ve ever seen was a performance in Russian at the old Tron in, oh, 1985? What was so good about that was that, freed from listening to the words, the audience was able to concentrate on the maneuverings of the characters around the politics of the court, and it was played as a chess match, characters moving across a checkered marble floor in and out of spotlights. The Machiavellian atmosphere came across brilliantly, and this production achieves something similar, though not so vivid, with its Secret Service agents sneaking around the place, talking into their microphones, adjusting their earpieces as they round up the players and march them off at gunpoint.
The other characters are solid without leaving me feeling gobsmacked. Claudius is a great part, and Patrick Malahide is a great actor, but, for some reason, he feels a bit like a double glazing magnate rather than a king. Ruth Negga is a lovely, winsome Ophelia, though it’s a part I’ve never really warmed to. Alex Lanipekim’s Laertes isn’t quite the full monty – there’s just a little swagger lacking, I feel. Best of the rest, I think, is David Calder’s Polonius; wandered, puffed up and verbose, he is genuinely funny and a genuine loss.
Oh, and the final sword fight was very realistic for a change, which was a pleasant surprise.
So I liked this, a lot. Despite being delayed and arriving a little late to find myself in amongst a school party (and perfectly behaved they were too) and despite a glitch in the streaming that almost ruined the coward soliloquy, this was a fine production. That’s three of the big four done by NT Live recently: I wonder who’ll be doing Lear for them next?
It’s only a couple of years since I saw ‘Dunsinane’ in Glasgow on its first run, but it’s a real pleasure to see it again and be reminded of how great a play it is. It’s clearly a real Scottish classic, and deserves to be seen and studied by as many Scottish children as possible up and down the country. Despite its setting, it has so many resonances for this generation in its portrayal of war and occupation, of what it is to be independently Scottish and the country’s relationship with its bigger, bolder neighbour.
Nothing’s changed really. There are some cast changes, with Sandy Grierson’s Malcolm more louche and suave than before, and all the better for it, while it’s nice to see old ‘pal’ Lewis Howden’s Macduff as manly as an advert for porridge. Jonny Phillips is astonishing again as Siward and Siobhan Redmond as sultry as ever as Gruoch.
On the rerun, it’s perhaps easier to notice Redmond’s centrality. At the first viewing, Siward is big and bold and all-encompassing, which kind of puts Gruoch in the shade. But expecting that bigness allows the subtlety of Redmond’s performance to shine; she seems always to know what is going on around her, seems able to read these men who whirl and careen across the stage better than the can read themselves. Just how political and manipulative she is comes across much more clearly when we can swivel our gaze away from Philip’s blustering soldier and spend some time just watching what’s going on in that quiet, sexy, understated pose of hers.
And it means there’s a different reading of the final scene available. I see it as a personal scene because I listen to Siward. Ragged and exhausted from his battle through the wintry Scottish mountains, he has come looking for the queen who abandoned him, and he stands there pleading that, as just a man and a woman, they finish what it is between them. However, my friend hears something different; she hears the bigness of it, not Siward and Gruoch but England and Scotland, Redmond uttering a generational curse that she will teach future queens of the country to harry and torment the English of the north.
Perhaps that says a lot about us. Men listen to men, men who are about their own egos, their own feelings; men burn down villages and murder children and start wars for women like Helen and Gruoch. Women listen to women, who all know life is about blood and motherhood, which is bigger than men any day of the week.
And I think she may be right.
A mammoth, two-and-a-half hour adaptation of one of the most influential novels of all time (and one that I haven’t read!), this could have been an evening of dreary Russian speechifying but turns out to be a real gem. Chris Hannan’s script is actually really pacey, and the action cracks on, giving it the distinctly modern feel of a crime movie. With exceptional performances too, this is a great night out.
The play is obviously dominated by Raskolnikov’s existential debate with himself as he tries to place his pointless and motiveless murders in a wider cosmic context, a task he inevitably fails in as soon as love rears its redemptive head. Adam Best is quite brilliant in the lead role, carrying the bulk of the script and the emotive drive of the play. His physicality as he wrenches the ideas within him into some sort of shape is utterly convincing. One of the performances of the year for me.
He’s helped by a generally terrific cast – Cate Haymer as Raskolnikov’s mother and George Costigan (Bob of “Rita, Sue…”) providing comic relief that sometimes borders on the sinister are especially effective. Best of the support is Citizens’ intern Jessica Hardwick as Sonya; she captures her innate goodness and the desperation of her poverty -driven prostitution in a performance that is both sweet and erotic. She shines, quite frankly, and yet may well be the least experienced member of the cast.
Setting is great too, the actors on-stage for the whole production (prior to the start and during the interval too), perhaps emphasising the seething humanity of St Petersburg. An ensemble aesthetic is created (are they all in this together) that works well. One staging gimmick that jars at the beginning but grows on me is the swishing of doors on and off stage to corral the action; another that doesn’t seem to have much purpose is the use of microphones at various points, actors vocalising Raskolnikov’s panicked breathing or the conversations of characters outside doors. But that’s a minor niggle.
There has obviously been a lot of compression of the book’s narrative, and that means that Raskolnikov’s relationships with his sister and his best friend aren’t really fully realised; as a result, Ameira Darwish and Obiama Ugoala, beautiful though they both are, don’t really engage; they feel like broad brush strokes.
Perhaps that compression is also responsible for the feeling that Raskolnikov’s final conversion to the side of morality and empathy seems a little pat. Bursting out his confession to protect Sonya works well enough, but thereafter it feels like there are a few gaps in his journey.
That, though, is probably my fault. At the end of a long, busy week and a long, busy Friday, I find my head swimming with exhaustion at times, and the script – intelligent, erudite and packed full of big, big ideas – loses my attention occasionally. I enjoyed this immensely, but perhaps I need to see it again when I’m really on the ball to squeeze everything it has to offer from it. A terrific play, a terrific production.
A little bit of Chekhov (I’m not going to do the “nuclear wessels” joke again), reimagined by John Donnelly and staged by Headlong Theatre / Nuffield and directed by Blanche McIntyre. And I’m not quite sure what to make of it, frankly.
I like it. I do. It has some laugh out loud moments, and the cast is slick and, on the whole, convincing. There are a couple of standout performances too. I particularly liked Jenny Rainsford in the relatively minor role of Masha, a fucked up dypsomaniac who is in love with the wrong man and who marries a different wrong man and who spends the entire play in a boozy dwam of spite; even as they take their curtain call, Rainsford looks pissed and furious. Pearl Chanda appropriately lacks gravitas as the young and flighty Nina, but, after being shat upon from a great height by the odious Trigorin (Gyuri Sarossy) falls apart to Kostya in a final scene of real pathos. Abigail Cruttenden is waspish as Arkadina, meaning the best performances of the night, for me, all come from women, other than one memorable soliloquy from Trigoron about the trials of being a writer (“You think this is easy?”). The set is sparse and worked well by the cast, Donnelly’s rewriting is economical and punchy and the plot is never obtuse. But…
It does retain that big Russian melodramatic feel with lots and lots of talking and talking and yada yada yada. Consequently, I feel a bit weary at those times I’m meant to engage myself emotionally and I can’t help feeling distant from characters I want to feel more for. And of course, it’s an ensemble piece: I suppose we are meant to see Kostya as the centre of it all, yet it is Nina who is the seagull and Trigorin and Arkadina who are the catalysts for all that happens, and then Masha’s love for Kostya drives the subplot of her disastrous marriage to Medvedenko, and there’s the doctor’s affair with the estate manager’s wife going on and… and by the time Kostya shoots himself, quite frankly, I don’t really care. My patience has already been stretched by all these callow young and youngish things going on and on about theatre and new theatre and the torture and joy of writing when they’re not having pointless arguments about horses, and everyone at the drop of a hat is a failed writer or a successful writer or wants to be a writer or knows a writer or has shagged or is shagging a writer and is being miserable about it. Gimme peace, being a writer is neither that important nor that glamorous. The characters have all the sincerity and zeal of the best East European Anti-Bourgeois Revolutionary Theatre, and it’s just so bloody, bloody tiresome.
So, a worthy and worthwhile play, but at the end of the day, as much as I’m glad I saw it and as much as I admire it – it leaves me a little colder than it should. Russian drama aint really for me, it seems.
This is a retrospective of last year’s smash Danny Boyle production which starred Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller alternating in the main roles as the good Doctor and the hideous Monster; this time round, Cumberbatch gets to do ugly.
Frankenstein isn’t a story I feel particularly strongly about. To me, it’s too old-fashioned, despite all the connections people make with genetic engineering. Naa… it taps in too much to the ethic of the travelling freak show for me, and it was quickly left looking outdated by the real breakthroughs in science, medicine, evolution and psychology that thundered through the rest of the 19th century.
I have to confess, too, that I don’t particularly enjoy Miller or Cumberbatch as actors; Miller has been in some clunkers like Dracula 2001, while I found the rebooted Sherlock really irritating and a terrible under-usage of the excellent Martin Freeman. I’ve also not really got into Danny Boyle films either – it’s heresy in Scotland to admit you can’t stand Trainspotting – so I have to say I wasn’t convinced I’d be blown away in the way the critics and last year’s audiences seem to have been.
However, faults aside – and there are a few – this was pretty damned good. The central role is clearly the monster, with Frankenstein reduced to a bit of a cardboard cutout sexually inadequate egomaniac. There is much to admire about Cumberbatch’s performance (and, presumably, Miller’s on the nights he got the role) in that it generates real sympathy, and there are moments when creation appears far more wise and mature and intelligent than the creator (“Don’t be so… inconsistentttt…” he admonishes the Baron at one point). In his erratic pleading and threatening and wheedling for the mate he so desperately needs to make him whole, he captures the emotional fragility of the man /child /monster very well indeed. Especially good, though, are his scenes with Karl Johnson as De Lacey, the blind, impoverished university professor who teaches him to read Paradise Lost and introduces him to the concept of morality and who inadvertently unleashes his taste for revenge.
It’s a little unfair to describe Miller as a cut-out. There is a definite sense of the maniacal self belief that he feels gives him the authority to pull everyone’s strings, including those of his fiancée Elizabeth as he baits a trap for the monster, in his barking, flat prose. The two actors obviously work well together, so much so Miller is appearing in a future Sherlock storyline.
But there are significant issues, I feel. The long opening spell, with the monster rolling around the stage as it learns to control its limbs, is overwrought and far too long. I also think it weakens the story that the Baron doesn’t appear until that process is almost over; the monster should imprint on his “master” the way a bird imprints on its mother if we are to believe his investment in and connection to Frankenstein.
In addition, the staging is far too filmy, I feel. There are big effects that are so underused they seem intrusive, especially a steam-punk train that represents the industry of the town the monster first flees too (I think) that appears onstage for about two minutes, then chugs off. Not enough bangs for very big bucks. And there are some clumsily stereotyped stagings, such as a grinding rock track to represent the city immediately followed by a pastoral choir to indicate a change of setting to a countryside complete with flocks of birds flushing from hayricks. The set is also dominated by a huge cone of lights suspended over the stage which does various things from twinkling starlight-like to burning achingly bright, and I kept being reminded of Boyle’s sci-fi acid-trip borefest Sunshine.
The central characters totally dominate the play, and so other actors don’t really get a look in. Even so, some of them don’t convince, and the part of Elizabeth is a shockingly inadequate vehicle for an actress of the quality of the beautiful Naomie Harris. Finally, there are some moments of real humour but some badly misjudged episodes, including a teeth-grindingly offensive caricature of a couple of Western Isles yokels.
All in all, though, this was a quality production that didn’t reach the heights for me that it seems to have done for many others. There is a huge number of teen thesp types in the audience tonight – I overhear one saying she hadn’t been to see anything in the theatre she wasn’t in herself for ages, and one lad goes out the door dreamily saying “Ben, what a man he is, what a man, what a man…” – and I get the sense they are encouraged here by the triumvirate of the three big names from TV and film, Boyle, Miller and Cumberbatch. That’s fine, and they all deserve big plaudits for this; but, really, they didn’t quite carry it off, I think.
Whoa. If David Hayman’s recent “King Lear” was a bit out there, this is somewhere the far side of Azerbaijan.
I love “Macbeth”. It is probably my favourite play of all time, and I have some extraordinarily odd views on it that I may share in the future that revolve around me wanting to marry Lady Macbeth. As such, productions almost always disappoint, and I’ve seen some real clunkers in my time; one of the most shockingly bad starred Mark McManus. Selling bucketloads of tickets on the back of his “Taggart” starring role, he was obviously a TV actor totally out of his depth on stage, to the extent that, at one point, he was delivering his “vaulting ambition” soliloquy from behind his cloak, a lá Dick Dastardly. One of the best I’ve ever seen was Patrick Stewart and Kate Fleetwood in London a few years back, which was filmed and broadcast on BBC a couple of Christmases ago; it had some real vivacity about it, Stewart was terrific and the director Rupert Goold did something with the “hold enough” line that totally transformed the play. Great stuff – but still a nagging feeling I hadn’t yet seen my perfect “Macbeth”.
This isn’t it either, but then again it isn’t really “Macbeth”; what it is is a stunning re-imagining of it and an outstandingly impressive performance by Alan Cumming. Here, Macbeth is locked up in an asylum, reliving the horror of his rise and fall day after day, all the characters of the tragedy part of his interior landscape. Cumming’s performance is a tremendous feat of memory if nothing else – he must recite 2/3 of the text – and he differentiates between the characters extraordinarily well, despite, on a couple of occasions, it slipping into caricature, such as Duncan’s mangled-vowelled English aristocrat. There are moments of real insight and brilliance – of course the “if it t’were done” scene should end in steamy, angry sex, “bring forth men-children only” taking on a whole new aspect as the two characters played by one actor writhe on the bed. I also liked the “unsex me here” soliloquy, Cumming’s Lady Macbeth luxuriating in a bath with a gin and tonic to give it a lightness I think is totally appropriate; and Macduff’s reaction to the slaughter of his wife and children should be a heart-stopping moment, and Cumming pretty much nails it.
What I especially liked are the moments of real vulnerability which Cumming does so, so well. Tearing himself apart after Duncan’s murder, a silent doctor and orderly come in to pacify him and put him ever so gently to bed, a scene echoed several times through the play. Thus, there is a real sense of a mind in utter agony, too fragile to cope with the enormity of what has been done, what has been lost and won.
The staging is fantastic too. Particularly effective are the three video screens which ostensibly show the CCTV security footage of Macbeth’s room / cell. However, they bring Cumming’s three witches eerily to life. In addition, they are used for spooky moments of dissassociation, such as when Banquo’s ghost appears on stage but is absent from the footage, or when the sleeping Cumming, alone on stage, is watched by a sinister suited figure on-screen. Credit also has to go to a brilliant ambient soundtrack, including a beautiful solo cello.
There are a couple of oddities. That silent doctor and orderly are a great conceit at the beginning, mouthing unheard diagnoses beneath the discordant noise that fills Macbeth’s head. I wondered, therefore, what the purpose of having them interact with Macbeth’s world in the final Act was: they take on parts, discuss Lady Macbeth, speak with Macbeth. I have to say, I didn’t understand the need for that change.
But, another clear triumph for the National Theatre of Scotland. And yet – it isn’t Macbeth, is it? It does raise all sorts of existential discussion points my pal Ian and I mulled over in the pub afterwards, and it all comes down to the question of just who the guy on stage really is. It is Macbeth? In that case, the narrative has been changed, and Macbeth is not killed at the end. But if it’s not, then who is he? Are we actually watching the psycho-drama of a bloke with a Napoleon complex? If he really believes he is Macbeth, and has his words and memories, is he therefore Macbeth? What we are left with is the possibility that we are seeing a “Shutter Island” Shakespeare, and I’m not sure I’m completely okay with that.
But it doesn’t matter, because once again it’s got me thinking, and thinking hard, and that’s never a bad thing.
My second King Lear in just over a year, after 2011′s fantastic Derek Jacobi version. That was a very traditional take, all pagan standing stones and a venerable king thrown on the mercy of Dark Age gods. This is something else.
It’s a sign of Hayman’s ambition as an actor that he felt ready to tackle a part most others shy away from until they are in their 70s. Hayman is 64, ten years younger than Jacobi, and was therefore never going to be able to play Lear as the petulant old man on the verge of dodderiness. In keeping with Hayman’s oeuvre, this is a much more dangerous beast. And that, I think, is the problem I have with this.
It’s a memorable production, a way of doing the play I’ve never seen before. That’s the thing about Shakespeare: with stage directions that consist of “a heath” or “a tempest”, you can do much anything you want with it. That has validated some absolute shite over the years that usually entails a company digging around in its military uniform box to come up with a mish-mash of all sorts of periods; the Citz’ ”Macbeth” of a couple of decades ago which was set in a post-apocalyptic world complete with enormous wind machines blowing actors across the stage and a Lady Macbeth who ate Duncan’s heart springs to mind. I’ve never seen Lear tackled this way, though, so off the straight and narrow. Generally, it works, largely because of Hayman, and, though I’m not quite sure I loved it, I certainly applaud its verve and intelligence.
The problem is that Lear scares me. This is a king who is a Glasgow gangster, a hard-drinking, fur-wearing, sexually abusive ned who has been elevated to the crown because he is the badass of the country. His treatment of Goneril (a voluptuous Kathryn Howden) is actually completely repellent, and the revelation of his hundred knights as the drunkenly obnoxious, arrogant squad of utter yobs that would make you walk out of any pub they happened to be in (a decision, I feel, is a directorial error), means that, quite frankly, I actually have no sympathy for this guy. His rantings against his daughters that, in any other production, are the tetchy ravings of a foolish old man 0n the verge of senility are here the explicit, chilly threats of a psychopath. As such, I don’t care if he’s murdered by exposure on the heath or shot up the arse in a car outside an east end pub. And what that does is it legitimises Regan’s and Goneril’s complaints against him and makes you wonder just what sexual abuse he has delivered on Cordelia that makes her so in thrall of him and what dark contracts he has made with Kent to earn his loyalty.
But there are big plusses. Hayman is always fantastic and does what he does impeccably. There are some great moments, and he is capable of making himself appear so much less than he is as madness descends; I have to say, though, I find his fractured, nasal delivery of many of those lines of madness curiously old-fashioned. Paul Higgins as Kent is solid and generally convincing (though, again, his onstage suicide at the end is, I think, a mistake, pulling attention away from the death of Lear). I liked Ewan Donald as Edgar (a great part for any actor) and Kieran Hill, while unconvincing as Edmund, is terrific as Poor Tom.
Shauna Macdonald as Regan is red hot sexy in a way that becomes outrageously vampish, the inappropriate fondlings of a child who has experienced crossed boundaries that befits the rampant sexuality of the whole production, and her death performance is something else. As well as oodles of sex, there’s also buckets of blood, arterial spray soaking the stage; the blinding scene is torture porn aesthetic, Regan taking out Gloucester’s second eye with the heel of her stiletto shoe. Lastly, the final image of Lear piled on top of all his dead daughters and wheeled out on a hospital bed is inspired: just what has this total bastard done to these girls to bring the whole family to this? I’d never noticed before, but there is no mention of a mother in King Lear. Where is his Queen? And how did those girls replace her in this chilling man’s life?
I don’t quite warm to Lynn Kennedy as Cordelia, feeling she lacks the necessary gravitas to stand up to her father and sisters, but it was a stroke of genius to have her pregnant in the final act. It occurred to me a full day after seeing the play. Lear demands that he spend one month with Reagan and Goneril each. The crisis comes before even a month has passed, since he has not had time to visit Reagan for the first time. Given that France accepts Cordelia after Burgundy rejects her, and has therefore had only a few weeks with her, how then does she appear heavily pregnant? Who is the father? If it can’t be France (who we do not see again) – then who?
I’ve never read the play like this before. Is it a sexual abuser’s tale? Is this a take on Shakespeare in the mould of Tim Roth’s “The War Zone”?
This version of the play has disquieted me, and dammit that’s a good thing. I’m not sure, though, if I can forgive it for not letting me weep at the awakening scene, or when Lear carries his hanged daughter onstage (here, he drags her like some piece of meat). I’m not sure I want to notice just how self-centred all Lear’s madness is, how possessive he is of what he is to and has had with his daughters. But, hell, do you know, maybe Hayman and artistic director Dominic Hill are just showing me what’s in the text.
And that is undoubtedly a good thing. Shakespeare would surely have wanted that: I’m just not sure I do.
ps By the way, I have to say thanks to my lovely PGDE English class, who took me along on their night out. In twelve years of working with student teachers, this is the first time that’s happened; sweeties every one, especially fetchingly floppy-haired Scott who organised it all. Thanks, guys, I had a lovely time.
Nancy Harris’ adaptation of Leo Tolstoy’s novella of jealousy and murder is a wee tour de force by Hilton McCrae, probably best known recently for his chilling portrayal of Gary Glitter in “The Execution of Gary Glitter”. Playing Pozdynyshev, a civil servant just cleared of murdering his beautiful wife, he delivers eighty minutes of absolutely convincing monologue. On a train, he shares the story of his marriage with the audience, the conceit being that people reveal themselves to total strangers on trains.
And it’s a thoroughly recognisable story. Pozdynyshev lacks the ability to emotionally engage – as many men do – and so decides to fall in love with his wife, resolves to propose to her simply because she is somehow objectively better than the many women he has had before. This reckoning up continues until he is consumed by disgust for her and for the minutiae of married life with her, from the way she taps a spoon to the noise of her swallowing. Freed from the burden of child-bearing, she blossoms and takes up the piano, a gift he gave her eight years previously and which has lain dormant throughout their marriage, a constant rebuke to his sexual demands.
The arrival of Pozdynyshev’s old friend, the violinist Trukhachevski, prompts him to set in motion the events which will result in tragedy. Pozdynyshev virtually throws them together, nurturing and at the same time resenting the sexual attraction which is obvious between them. Torturing himself with visions of their affair, he travels back from business unexpectedly to catch them together.
What is so convincing – it is Tolstoy, after all – is the complicity of Pozdynyshev in the whole story. He engineers his escape from a marriage he has obviously grown tired of, and yet his jealous fury is utterly real. It’s a terrific psychological premise, and McCrae delivers it beautifully.
The set in the tiny Gate theatre works well too, the 19th century railway carriage realised with just a couple of button-backed bench seats and opaque windows through which violinist Tobias Beer and pianist Sophie Scott are backlit to provide the sound and the images which haunt Pozdynyshev from the glass he stares into. It’s thoughtful and thought-provoking, tense and intriguing: a terrific achievement for such a tiny company, especially from McCrae. A very satisfying evening.
A very effective mini family saga, “Missing” tells the story of two brothers, Luke (Rob Heaps) and Andy (Joe Robertson) as they attempt to find their way into adulthood in the 19080s. Bright, confident and supercilious, Luke has little time for his younger brother, Andy, a lonely, limited boy who feels his only escape from his damaged mother is to enlist in the Army. It works well, particularly in the claustrophobia of the one shared bedroom which simply seems to drive the boys apart. Their tragedy is their total lack of a common narrative. Luke, an obsessive taper of chart shows from the radio and about to leave the family home for university, has nothing to say to Andy, a boy who latches on to friends at school who may or may not have plans for a band. The depth of Andy’s worship of his bad tempered brother is only revealed when, years later, Luke discovers Andy has continued to make the tapes as a penance for an earlier argument.
Both Heaps and Robertson portray the warring brothers very well, the latter giving the subtlest of hints through looks and shrugs that hint at the dark turmoil beneath the surface. The banter is good too, the cheekier Andy besting his more cerebral brother with a “whatever” attitude that always has the right answer. The play ends on a heart-rending note as Luke realises too late just how little he knows the boy he has shared a room with all his life, a feeling I’m sure most brothers will recognise.
I think I would have liked more of a sense of the hinterland that lies outside the room – just why is it so important that this takes place in Thatcher’s Britain isn’t all that clear, and I would have liked to have heard the mother’s voice as she seems to drive the drama – but writer Barney Norris (a charming young guy who I chat to before the show) has an obvious talent for capturing the dynamic of an intimate two-hander.
Derek McLuckie was a contemporary of mine in the fabulous Paisley Writers’ Group of the 1990s. This was a weekly meeting of some of the most talented writers I’ve ever worked with, including Suhayl Saadi (a good friend whose “Psychoraag” is one of the most imaginative Scottish novels of the last 15 years), Graham Fulton (more of him later), Margaret Fulton Cook, Marion Arnott (A Silver Dagger winner) and Alasdair MacKinnon (one of the most elegant poets I’ve read).
Led by Agnes Owens, Gerrie Fellows, Kathryn Heyman and, finally, Ajay Close, it was an absolute hot-house of intense productivity. Work was torn apart, fought over, picked to pieces – and always came out the other end of that process at least twice as good. I’d never have written what I have written if it wasn’t for their influence, and I’ve never found a group like it since. Truly exciting times.
Derek appeared in the mid-90′s. He brought a different twist to the group perspective, which was pretty much embedded in a brutalist realism. Derek’s was a world of violence and sweat and sex that was unflinching and vivid. It was so out there, so in your face, and Derek’s dramatic core simply emphasised that. Gay orgies, casual sex followed by casual beatings, grubby rites of passage, industrial quantities of illegal substances: nothing was beyond him. I always thought I was an honest, frank writer: Derek took the biscuit, shoved it into his gob, chewed it up and spat it back out at you. He was a fantastically promising talent.
I haven’t seen him for over ten years, so it was with huge interest I accidentally discovered this performance at the Tron. It covers many of the issues he dealt with in his writing back then, developed into a powerhouse monologue that was his trademark style when I was on the same bill as him. Nowadays, every writer who can read from a sheet of paper advertises themselves as a “performer”: I’ve always considered myself a pretty good reader, and Derek, as a trained actor, just wiped the floor with me because he knows what performance is all about.
This is a terrific hallucinogenic roller-coaster ride, full of wild buzzing involving Greek myths, religious iconography and a fair dash of Barbie. The adolescent pull of glue is really well done, not so much an escape as a heightening. There are lots of real laughs that point to real truths, as well as blood in bucketfuls. Of course, though, it’s all about sex, the gay teen tortured by desire for his pals; it’s not the glue that woos the narrator away from the Evangelical religion of his family, it’s the boys.
That is the source of the greatest poignancy in the performance. A teenage pyjamaed fumbling with the one pal he truly loves is genuinely touching, while the other – more dangerous and full of testosterone – attempts to rape him using Germoline as a lubricant. The final minutes of the performance, as the narrator sits torn and bleeding in a bus shelter and invokes the spirit of Judy Garland as his saviour, are quite something.
Good to see Derek in fine form, as ever.