Influential Women

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, (Stagecraft)
Gryphon Theatre, August 5 – 15

I’ve never liked those inspirational teacher stories. Sure, we’ve all had one, but do they have to be so nauseating? Trudy White as the eponymous character in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie doesn’t break the mould so much as shatter it and proves that influential educators are not always a good thing.

Miss Jean Brodie holidays in Italy so that she can revel in “goodness, truth and beauty”. She delights in art, language and architecture and wears flamboyant dresses that look like geology maps. She tells her ‘gels’ sad stories about her beau who fell in Flanders’ fields, and teaches them about Einstein, the benefits to the skin of cleansing cream, the love life of Charlotte Brontë, and God’s near Eastern counterpart, Allah.

Trudy White artfully captures her devious and manipulative character with a mischievous glance, a voluptuous shrug, or a twitch of her finger. Her machinations are intriguing as she plays her lovers against one another. Full of confidence, she commands the attentions of the philandering art teacher, Mr Lloyd (the ever-dependable Tom Rainbird, who handles the intimate moments with credible sensitivity) and the effete music teacher, Mr Lowther (Stephen Fearnley - in a kilt and a fine harried performance).

The seductive schemes are less alluring as she worms her way into her pupils’ affections. She calls them the “crème de la crème” and they are desperate to impress her in whatever way possible. When she is surrounded by the adoring and rapt students she is clearly elevated above them as a group, standing toe-to-toe only when she singles one out, with devastating consequences.

The girls, Sandy (Aisha Pachoud), Jenny (Gabrielle Stewart), Mary (Corinna Bennett) and Monica (Katrina Yelavich) are foils to her rapier wit, and she encourages them to develop their distinctive nature, which they all do very well. While they are typical teenagers, bullying and gossiping in the corridors, they each examine the nuances of their unique personality.

In her belief that humanities are the foundation of real life, she is thwarted by her nemesis, Miss Mackay, whose motto is “safety first” and prefers the children to be playing hockey and taking secretarial courses rather than visiting art galleries and moping about composing romances. She warns Miss Brodie that “We are not a progressive school and do not encourage progressive attitudes.”

With her admiration for Stanley Baldwin and prim suits, Miss Mackay is beautifully portrayed by Deanne Graham who invests her with both lightness and depth rather than creating a harridan caricature as could easily be done. A little more projection would help, especially when she is speaking upstage, but on the whole her flinty demeanour with a hint of humour is ideal.

The contrast between these women is excellent as one exudes passion and vitality too strong to be contained within the walls of Marcia Blaine School for Girls, and the other attempts to steer the pupils with a firm and guiding hand. The struggle for the hearts and minds of the youngsters is compelling and when Miss Brodie asserts, “Give me a girl of an impressionable age and she is mine for life”, there is a frisson of foreboding as we question where does guardianship end and interference begin?

The story is told through a series of flashbacks as Sister Helena (Ingrid Sage) relates to Mr Perry (Graeme Carruthers) how much the teacher has influenced her. Miss Brodie is a puppeteer but when the strings are cut she looses control and visibly diminishes. She views her profession as a calling (“I am a teacher, first, last and always”), and refuses to be crucified by Miss Mackay and “the ignorant gossip of petty provincials”, but her self-sabotage leaves the audience with conflicting emotions.

Alan Burden’s insightful sound design incorporates arias from La Traviata, which swoop and soar above the scene changes. Director Leigh Cain ensures that these are delightful vignettes in themselves – besides being slick, they do not interrupt the action. On opening night a few lines were fluffed which stalled the pace towards the end, but the script stuffed full of witticisms is generally well-delivered.

The inspired set which combines naturalistic desks, blackboards and lockers with abstract spaces and designs indicates the confines of the educational system. Although Miss Brodie encourages the girls to “let your imaginations soar” there is nowhere for them to escape in the stifling morality of the school.

In the 1930s, she lectures, “This is the twentieth century – there are many outlets for women of intelligence.” Fortunately, this production proves there are theatrical roles for them too and it is great to see these powerful women commanding the stage – long may their prime continue!

Dream On

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Stagecraft, Gryphon Theatre, 24 May - 6 June

In his diary Samuel Pepys called A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life”. Director Paul Kay and assistant Joy Heller would take delight in this description of their version of the bard’s silliest comedy.

Set in the '80s with all the fashion and music that engenders, this production eschews any hidden depths (filial duty; loyalty and compromise; sexual politics; gender inequality) to frolic in the shallows.

This approach sits comfortably with the audience who are content to laugh at fluorescent lycra leggings, big hair, shoulder pads and sparkly eye-shadow. A friend once asked me in all seriousness why grown women wear glitter make-up; ‘Just who or what are they hoping to attract, and why?’ He’s got a point.

The set design (Anna Lowe) is intriguing with many levels used to great effect to denote the power struggles and parallel worlds imperative to any production of this play. Fairies eavesdrop on the mezzanine level and leap off it, and it would have had even greater use had Oberon (Stephen Walter) not broken his finger in rehearsal.

The coloured squares on the dance-floor suggest a Michael Jackson video as does the striking lighting design (Don Blackmore). Wreathes of dry ice may get the front row coughing but they add a mystical element to the wood, and the roving spotlights create a nightmare episode from a twisted fairytale into which the lovers stumble.

Helena (Melanie Camp) is the best of the lovers displaying a fine acting range from lover to fighter – one minute pathetic puppy dog; the next fearsome virago. The wedding feast (that is not a plot spoiler – if you don’t know it by now…) is organised by Anna Beccard as Philostrate, the wedding planner – she is my one to watch for the future. Meanwhile Matt Bentley as Theseus comes into his own as he harangues the mechanicals in their performance, channelling his inner Johnny Vegas.

His wife, Hippolyta (Jasmine Embrechts) gets to wear all the best costumes, looking resplendent in bikini, riding jacket and a distinctly un-'80s flapper frock. Most of the costumes, however, are hideous (although excellent; the wardrobe team are to be highly commended and I promise not to ask if any of those items are their own).

The fairies are all renamed as '80s constructs from Goth to Legwarmer and everything in-between. Thankfully we’re not in America or Bumbag would have to be Fannypack. They are more off-putting than ethereal, but Puck (Reuben Brickell) is fluid in his movements and I’m not surprised to learn he is a contortionist. He brings a mix of strutting arrogance and fawning cringe to the role which gives him an uncanny resemblance to Gollum.

The interaction between their king, Oberon, and queen, Titania (Michelle Jordan), is one of the highlights of the play. Oberon looks like Adam Ant and sounds like Keith Richard – the monotonous tone is originally jarring yet he is good enough to carry it off – ‘I am invisible’ – and my companion declares that she finds him quite sexy by the curtain call.

Titania occasionally appears awkward when she delivers her soliloquies and the audience attention wanders during her static stance. This could be because she is uncomfortable in her dominatrix outfit, but when she cracks her whip and stalks the stage we are soon brought back to heel. Their odd duet, Love is a Battlefield, has an edge, and not just because of the hilariously erratic dance (God we took ourselves seriously didn’t we?), proving that ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’.

The rude mechanicals are the other stand-out of the show. The role of the long-suffering foreman, Peter Quince becomes Petra, a giddy aerobics instructor. I was concerned about a female cast in a male role (one of my frequent bugbears with staging Shakespeare) but I needn’t have worried. Rebecca Parker is one of Wellington’s finest amateur actors and she enhances every nuance of the script with a delightful performance.

Despite some over-simplification of the text (trust your audience!) these scenes are excellent and the play-within-a-play at the end, which so often seems like an unnecessary addendum, is a lot of fun. Alan Carabott once again displays his impeccable comic timing in the part of Bottom (who else?); Gillian Boyes is impossibly cute as Snout/Wall; and Helen White also steps up to the gender bending challenge of Frank Flute/Thisbe, finding a new paradox in the lines, ‘Nay, faith; let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming’.

The musical interludes provide distraction and a unifying theme as the cast break out into choreographed movements (like Fame School came to Whitireia Community Polytechnic). There was some great music in the ‘80s (The Cure; The Smiths; Depeche Mode; The Pogues; The Clash; Madness; Fun Boy 3; OMD; Blondie; The Pretenders; New Order; Happy Mondays; The Stone Roses; The Beastie Boys; Echo and the Bunnymen; Adam and the Ants – I could go on, and on) but none of it is used.

There is a hint of Ultravox, The Human League and Frankie Goes to Hollywood but many of the cast, who weren’t alive then, will think that the 80s consists solely (or soullessly) of tasteless disco pop and air guitars. A friend told me she feels slightly insulted that these youngsters look at the 80s as we look at the 60s – something to be scorned and ridiculed or plundered for comic effect and fancy dress parties – but we lived through it and we wore those clothes (and that hair and make-up) without irony.

Paul gleefully admits he has done the decade a great disservice. Apparently he has a level below which he refused to stoop (Air Supply and Def Leppard were mentioned) for which I suppose we must be grateful. For the final number, the cast line up to sing I Want to Know What Love Is underpinning (or is that undermining? Paul rants, ‘you should never have to apologise for a play’) the epilogue. Rumour has it one earnest cast member asked what their motivation was to sing the song. Apparently Paul replied, "Motivation? You’re a f*&%ing fairy!" I can only hope that story isn’t apocryphal (that’s my zeitgeist, Paul!).

My sister, not a big bardolater, loved it – she said it brought Shakespeare alive for her. This show should tour schools. Some of Shakespeare’s plays are for the gentry and others appeal to the groundlings. Paul told me he would never be so irreverent with King Lear for example. Having seen how well he can act angst, I would love to see him direct something weighty and dark. Maybe next time…

Necessary Targets debrief

Well, Necessary Targets is over and what a great experience it was. At the end of every show there are conflicting emotions - sadness that it has finished mingled with relief that now you will be able to get some some sleep, concentrate on other projects, and finally address that giant pile of washing. The flowers received on opening night (thanks mum!) are removed from the dressing room and returned home.

There are phrases that continue to echo in your mind and someone's innocent remark can set you off on a cue line like Pavlov's dog. At 7 o'clock at night you feel restless as though you should be somewhere but you're not sure where. It takes a while to resume the routine and refocus your thoughts away from a Bosnian refuge camp where they have been settling for the past few months.

One of the strangest things is no longer seeing the same people who have been your constant companions. Unless you work with your fellow actors or have some other connection, the people with whom you have spent almost every evening abruptly disappear from your circle of contacts. It's a little like a bereavement.

Our director worked very hard on building up a community among the women on stage, and it spilled over to the dressing room where we became friends as well as cast. Sure, we took the piss out of each other and we learnt each other's little foibles - and of course we have them; we're theatrical types! - but we grew to care for each other and look out for each other's concerns.

I only managed to take a couple of photos in the dressing room, but these words, spoken about Azra (played by Christine pictured here running through her lines as she did before every performance) sum up my feelings about everyone.

'I could not forget you. Not your face, your kind, deep, welcoming face.'

Good work ladies.

Necessary Targets reviews

Thank you to everyone who has been to see Necessary Targets so far. We had a night off last night, but it goes for another week so there's still plenty of opportunities to come and see it.

If it's a review you're wanting, here's one from the Theatre Federation, and one from Salient. Reading between the lines, they both seem to say that it's a pretty good production of a pretty average play. I think that's a reasonably fair assessment, although I am obviously biased, so there's no impartial review from me.

'Tis the season...

... for the office Christmas party. This time of year is frantic with parties and drinks and get-togethers. The papers are full of helpful articles about how you should go to your partner's party if you suspect he or she may be having an affair with someone at work; not revealing too much personal information that can be used against you at a later date; how to avoid making a total prat of yourself in front of your boss and colleagues by throwing up on your new shoes or snogging someone entirely inappropriate just because you got bored and drank too much. Thanks for that. If you got past all that, you might even go to a work party or two; some are decidely more fun than others.

We had a departmental one. Someone from work organised it - a meal in a pub, which we paid for ourselves. We went and had a few drinks beforehand and did the $5 secret santa thing. It was fun. although some people complained about the cost ($40) and pulled out at the last minute. Unfortunately the caterers didn't know this - it was really last minute - so we still had to pay for them. The fairest way to do this was to share the cost among us all, which we did. One of the people still refused to pay, so everyone else had to stump up the cash for them as well. This has created some tension in the office, as you can imagine.

We had another 'do' for the entire national office. There was a talent quest at which we had to perform some skit or other. This was held in an old church hall without any stage facilities and peeling paint murals informing us that God directs us in all our ways - not in the skits though I should imagine. Some of them were dreadful. I can say that, because we won, and we were pretty dreadful too. Then we went for a sit down meal (free to staff; $35 for partners and you paid for drinks on top).

I also make some contributions (by way of book reviews) to Radio New Zealand National. I was very kindly invited to their place one evening for drinks and nibbles. We all stood around in an office room for a couple of hours with sticky lables attatched to our shirts and glasses of wine in our hands, introducing ourselves to people we didn't know and striking up various conversations. Everyone was very nice there, and it was a pleasant evening, apart from trying not to dribble sauce and flaky pastry all over the place whilke looking polite and interesting. And how do you eat canapes, shake hands and hold a glass of wine at the same time while standing in the middle of a table-less room?

Him Outdoors had a 'do' for his office to which partners were invited. This was held at Mac's Brewery Bar on the waterfront. We had the set menu - I can recommend the enormous bowl of green-lipped mussels gently steamed in garlic, white wine cream for entree, and the glazed pork belly with red wine jus, roasted gourmet potatoes and a medley of vegetables for main. I think this was $60 per head, there was a tab at the bar and it certainly proved that the boss really could organise the proverbial.

Last night was the Stagecraft end of year bash. People brought a plate or contributed money and there was food to be had. You brought your own booze and those who wanted to performed pieces of theatre to the rest of the audience. After a couple of awards and speeches, there was dancing in the theatre and discussions in the green room. We did our own washing up. It was fun.

This sort of thing happens every year, but I mention it here because this year there is much hand-wringing and talk of cutting down on costs due to the current economic situation. Some companies are apparently getting their staff to volunteer at some community organisation instead of having a 'do'. Others are cancelling parties and gift-giving all together.

One lady told me that her company had decided to hold a picnic and simply invite all the workers' children - the workers provided the food and there was naturally no alcohol. Although she has two kids herself, she was furious at this news - 'You mean, I've been working hard all year and you want to give my kids a party? What have they done for you to deserve it?'

And therein lies the problem. What is this end of year bash about? Is it about the bosses thanking the workers and showing their appreciation for the work they have done all year? They might say there is no need - they pay them and that is appreciation enough. Is it so the workers can get together themselves and let off steam, in which case how much is healthy and when does it turn into a hothouse situation? Is it to impress clients, in which case a tatty old church hall isn't going to do much for you, although displaying your heart on your sleeve through some public display of charity might.

Before one of the 'do's we went to the Malthouse with a couple of friends. We drank the fabulous Golden Boy, the latest offering from the Yeastie Boys. It's incredibly like a true English summer ale and has a slight citrus taste. They use Maris Otter malt (the same as used in the fine-tasting Emersons' Maris Gold) and hops from Nelson. The colour is golden and the experience refreshing and delicious. I wore my t-shirt with pride for the rest of the weekend. I digress.

But this is the 'do' I remember most. Good friends; good beer; good venue; no need to provide any sort of entertainment or pressure to make conversation; and you could leave any time you liked or eat whatever you wanted. In fact, it was just like any normal Friday night. But it's at Christmas. It doesn't have to be big and it doesn't have to be clever, but it does have to be enjoyable.

Cold Comfort Farm

Cold Comfort Farm by Paul Doust, based on the novel by Stella Gibbons, directed by Tanya Gibbons, produced by Stagecraft Theatre

Gryphon Theatre, Wellington, until 15 November

To produce a theatrical adaptation of a 1930s comic parody of a gothic romance set in rural England is a hell of a challenge, but it is one that Stagecraft and director Tanya Piejus rise to with aplomb.

Satire and slapstick don’t sit easily together as they are respectively cerebral and visceral, but this production teases out the best of both worlds, leaving the audience with a sense of satisfaction, rather than nausea, which is what might result if it all went horribly wrong.

Flora Poste (Charlotte Stevens) arrives at Cold Comfort Farm like some sort of cross between Mary Poppins and Pollyanna to sort out her assortment of dysfunctional relatives. She flies in (in an aeroplane – affected by a model plane on a wire swooping through the auditorium) to declare that she ‘cannot endure a mess’ and to sort them all out and tidy them all up – whether they want it or not.

Flora is based on one of Jane Austen’s supercilious heroines. Depending on your opinion, Austen creates distinctive characters who are either vivacious and perky or pretentious and smug, and Charlotte Stevens portrays her to a tee. Her upright bearing and prim expression are perfect, although her constant furniture straightening and arm waving get a bit distracting. I want to slap her. But then, I want to slap Austen’s Emma, so this is clearly the desired effect.

Aunt Ada Doom rules the roost with her extreme version of madness – this is an actor’s gift and Ginny Brewer accepts it with delight. The ingenious set design allows her to see ‘something naarrrsty in the woodshed’ from behind a screen, playing with her shadow and cackling like some hyperbolic anti-heroine – what a transformation when she emerges dazzling from her cocoon and sweeps away on a Harley!

Petra Donnison is magnificent as the extremely depressed, and equally obsessed, Judith, the reverse-Oedipal mother of Seth. Seth himself is admirably played by Greg Hornsby with surly charisma that has the women falling over themselves to dance with him when he scrubs up well in a tuxedo. Seth is a good character but not a nice person – he is constantly taunting Rennet and Judith. When he is plucked to become a film-star you wonder vaguely how he will cope in the shallow, vacuous world of Hollywood, but you don’t really care.

Indeed, the only truly sympathetic character in the play is Reuben (Alan Carabott). Despite, or perhaps because of, Carabott’s magnificence at playing comedic characters, he is the only one with whom I have any connection. I want him to take over the farm and his gentle but simple strength is an anchor of calm amid the shambolic sea.

The wild and windswept Elfine (Elyse Featherstone) writes poetry (‘I thought you might’) and wears smocks (‘There is no such thing as a good smock’). She whirls about the stage and twirls her hair around her fingers, fidgety and restless more like a petulant child than a romantic heroine. When she sweeps Eliza Doolittle-like down the staircase, there is no thought to what might become of the young protégé and how she will adapt to chic society.

Robert Hickey plays evangelical Amos with burning fervour, whipping up his flock, the Quivering Brethren, with fire, brimstone and a warming pan (‘In Hell there is no butter’ is one of the best delivered lines of the play), which makes his double-role as bumbling butler, Sneller, all the more remarkable.

There is a lot of doubling in the play, executed most effectively by Tomas Rimmer from rustic slapstick Urk to smooth talking (and dressing) Richard Hawk-Monitor. Felicity Cozens also morphs seamlessly from gorgeously gormless facial expressions as dumb bewildered Rennet, constantly throwing herself down the well, to demonic histrionics as the other mother, Mrs Hawk-Monitor.

Stephen Fearnley, apparently in his 150th production, dextrously plays both a farming yokel and an American film producer which is a pretty tricky combination. This brings us to another challenge of the production: the accent. The rural Sussex dialect, complete with faux vocabulary (mollocking; sukebind; clettering), is not an easy one to master but it is integral to the play. The accents wander all over the country with hints of Yorkshire and the Midlands in places but the actors refuse to be distracted by the geographical ramblings.

Tanya Piejus copes creatively with difficult staging issues from the cardboard cut-outs of extra characters needed when Aunt Ada does a head count, to the non-too-subtle lighting changes and the rising of the moon. Special mention must go to the foley operator, Robyn Sadlier who is both amusing and unobtrusive as she conducts proceedings from on-stage.

By the end, Flora has tidied up all the loose ends and provided solutions for everyone with the aid of her trusty literature – The Higher Common Sense, Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park, and a copy of Vogue. Each character has a denouement with the puppet master and the tempo drops. This series of talking heads could have been dispatched more neatly, or even cut altogether.

The chorus of Quivering Brethren literally sweeps the stage clear and, as in Shakespearean comedy, everything ends happily ever after with a wedding. But are these ends tied up as neatly as Flora thinks, or is she going to retreat and let it all unravel? If played differently, with the cutting satire highlighted above the comic visuals, this could have taken on a whole new meaning.

A common analysis of Stella Gibbons’ original novel is that Flora is the personification of British imperialism, and this interpretation adds weight to that theory. She is bright and brittle and keen to confide in the audience, indicating that she is above these people and their squalid affectations, while imagining herself as the shining beacon in the centre of their world.

With nods to Shakespearean comedy, the Brontes, DH Lawrence and George Bernard Shaw, the play spins off in a literary jitter-bug. It is aided by terrific costumes and dialogue sprinkled with words like utterly, terrific, spiffing, top hole and wizard. It’s entirely ridiculous and yet it’s adorable. The more I think about it, the more I like it, in some inexplicable way.

Opening Night

I am in a play that opens tonight. The play is The Devils by John Whiting, and it is on at the Gryphon on Ghuznee, presented by Stagecraft.

For the next two weeks there will be late nights (I’m unlikely to be home before midnight), spotty skin (I don’t usually wear make-up, but you have to on stage or your face disappears under the lights), cramped dressing rooms (27 cast members in about a 4x3m room with low ceilings), smelly costumes (I play a nun with a hunchback and I do a lot of writhing on stage – those things are not made of sweat-free fabric), and poor nutrition as eating habits (no pun, or indeed po nun, intended) become erratic at best.

My housework will remain undone, my exercise regime will suffer and my husband and cat will feel sorely neglected. So why do I do it? Because I love it! I love that opening night feeling; the buzz of excitement and nervous energy backstage. I love the feeling that so many people have worked together to put on a production that will entertain and provoke.

And I love acting – playing different characters and throwing myself into roles. I get to wear costumes, pull expression, speak words and vent feelings I would never do in my own life. I am a voyeuristic magpie, borrowing from the experiences of others and presenting them back to them.

I want to make people laugh and cry, gasp with horror and smile with understanding. I want to make them think. Above all, I want them to leave the theatre with a greater understanding of something – anything. I know it works for me. I just want to share that feeling.

If you’re in Wellington between now and 31st May, come and share it with me.