Foul play

Andy Gray has been sacked and Richard Keys has resigned from SKY for making derogatory and sexist comments about Sian Massey, a female linesman (so that's why they changed the name to referee's assistant). They weren't able to mention her without commenting on her looks (because, of course, that's how all women should be judged), suggested the game had 'gone mad' for allowing female officials, and then cast aspersions on the ability of women to understand the off-side rule. This is disgraceful, but not surprising.

Having played and watched football for many years, I know the off-side rule as well as anybody, despite the 'modern interpretation' being ridiculous - as Bill Nicholson said as manager of Spurs, "If he's not interfering with play, what's he doing on the pitch?" (That quote is often attributed to the great Bill Shankly, but apparently he said, "If a player is not interfering with play or seeking to gain an advantage, then he should be", which is a different matter entirely, although equally valid.)

Boorish behaviour dictates that only men can talk about sport - I think we are meant to stick to diets and babies (two of the world's dullest subjects to my mind). I have been in pubs in South Island New Zealand where blokes ignore my opinions on sport because I am female. Recently I told a man who won the National Sevens (Auckland) and he didn't believe me - he had to confirm it by asking another man, who wasn't even there. Incidentally this Queenstown-hosted event was advertised on SKY with fast athletes (men running with balls), tough competitors (bruising tackles) and fantastic scenery (a close-up of a woman's cleavage), which tells you all you need to know about the sport appreciation in this country.

The International Sevens are also usually advertised with pictures of scantily-clad trollops preening for the camera and not watching the games. Admittedly, football is my favourite sport which isn't as popular in pub-talk here, but my friend, Psycho Phil, knows more than most men about rugby and can (and does) talk ad nauseum about the All Blacks - she receives similar treatment.

Sian Massey 'ran the line' in the Wolves v Liverpool game and made some excellent decisions and brave calls - my team won that match 0-3 which may fractionally influence my endorsement. To suggest that women don't know the off-side rule is sexist, ignorant and predictably lazy. It's the same casual sexism that says we can't read maps or drive. As my sister The Weevil was the World Orienteering Champion, and statistics prove that men have more road accidents than women, I refute these uninformed pronouncements.

In some respects New Zealand has led the way in promoting women’s equality, being the first country in the world to give women the vote and first in the world to simultaneously have a woman governor general, woman mayor and elected female prime minister. However, casual sexism and misogynistic remarks are rife in the laddish culture that sports commentary can breed. Programmes like these are often less about sports and more about pretending to have a personality - throw in a cheap sexist joke and apparently you're a 'character' and if you don't find it funny; you have no sense of humour.

No, I don't find it amusing when women are considered merely as sexual objects. New Zealand loves its netball - the players are rated in the paper, not in terms of ability, but in terms of 'hotness'. Nor do I find anything to laugh about when people suggest women are inferior. This supposes that thay can be treated badly because they don't count as much. Last week in New Zealand a woman was burnt alive and left on a rural road. Police suspect it is an honour killing - women can be used as commodoties because they are 'second class citizens'.

You may say that to connect these things is a giant leap, but I believe if you condone casual sexism you are taking the first small steps towards degrading and debasing women. And if you are one of these women who encourage such sentiments, I despise and pity you in equal measure.

Our Man in London: Twelfth Night

I would like to introduce a new blogger to my site. He reaches the parts that antipodean bloggers can't reach - i.e. he gets to go to theatre in London. As I get several irreverent text reviews from him that always make me laugh, I thought I would share them with you. So, without further ado...

Twelfth Night at the National Theatre, London

On a Tuesday morning in a non-Tory world I would be working, but thanks to cut backs I am just working part-time and can sneak off to the theatre. I might have to vote Tory from now on.

Twelfth Night has recently begun a stint on the small stage at the Royal National Theatre and sold out quicker than it takes Andy Gray to crack a sexist joke. But today there was a single returned ticket. Simon Callow and Rebecca Hall directed by Sir Peter Hall in a theatre which holds about 250 people sounded like a no brainer. My Plan B was to watch a live broadcast of it in the Anatomy Theatre and Museum at King’s College. This had two obvious bonuses: (1) if the production was as dull as some of the reviews claimed the venue might be a distraction; and (2) free booze was promised for half time.

I don’t recall attending a mid-week matinee play before. From my vantage point it was a sea of white hair and by halfway through the play gentle snoring. Strangely the bar was also closed.

From memory Twelfth Night is meant to be one of Shakey’s romcoms. I can’t be sure that all of the cast were aware of this. Orsino (Marton Csokas) certainly seemed to think he was performing in a tragedy. His delivery was flat throughout and he also seemed to be unaware until Scene V that he was meant to have the hots for Viola (Cesario when cross-dressing). Initially I thought I was being unfair on him because of his mullet (Chambers Dictionary mullet definition: short at the front and sides, long at the back, and ridiculous all over), but then I found out he is a Kiwi. I can of course draw no conclusions from the latter observation.

The rest of the cast…Simon Callow as I think would be expected was great and completely at home with the part. The moronic Andrew Aguecheek (Charles Edwards) was also a treat. And from all accounts Finty Williams’ Maria was not as good as this Blog’s host’s performance of that role last year.

I have noticed that Shakespeare and Blackadder have started to overlap in my mind. I was sure that the plot for Twelfth Night had similarities with another Shakespeare play. Initially I thought it was A Comedy of Errors, then I realised that Cesario/Viola is actually Bob/Kate from the second series of Blackadder.

Adieu…from Our Man in London

Big Things

Our Gracious Hostess asked me for an explanation of the picture I posted a couple of weeks ago and I like to look after my readers, so I thought I would post about this peculiar phenomenon.

Believe it or not, this is a sculpture that is meant to depict a group of fruit in honour of Central Otago's reputation as the fruit bowl of the South Island. It is situated as you enter Cromwell, and was recently re-painted so the thing on the right of the picture would look more like a nectarine and less like a giant bum on a stick.

They like this sort of thing in New Zealand. When they want to draw attention to the 'main feature' of a town, they build a giant sculpture of it and stick it somewhere prominent. They are usually made of fibre glass but sometimes concrete, corrugated iron or other materials are used. Hence there are kiwi-fruit, carrots, paua shells, Wellington boots and, of course, sheep dotted around the countryside.

Once I was arranging to meet a friend in Gore and she suggested we meet at the old brown trout. Naturally, being English, I asked if this was a pub. 'No,' she replied laconically, 'It's an old brown trout.' It was, and still is I believe.

They also like these these maxi-ture sculptures in Australia. With their typical antipodean descriptive flair, they call them 'Big Things'. There are over 150 of them and some people take road trips to take photos in front of them and tick them all off their list. Yep, those Aussie larrikins... Among the Big Things are a variety of fruit and vegetables (mushrooms; avocados; bananas; pineapples; potatoes - you can bet that looks attractive), insects (mosquitoes; ants), household implements (taps; rolling pins; spanners) and - naturally - the odd bottle of rum or tinny.

So, that's the what, but as to the wherefore, your guess is as good as mine!

The Globe Theatre: The stage is all the world

The original Globe Theatre burnt to the ground in two hours in 1639 during a production of Henry VIII, when a spark from a real cannon caught the thatched roof. It was director Sam Wannamaker’s idea to recreate the theatre and he used a number of influential patrons and innovative initiatives (36,000 red bricks at a cost of £5 each were sold as fundraisers) to realise his dream.

The theatre is built to be as an exact replica as possible, based on written and visual sources (which also inform our knowledge of the behaviour and activities of theatregoers). The twenty-sided building is made out of 1,000 oak trees, held together with wooden pegs. The pillars on stage are also oak, painted to look like fake marble, and the thatched roof is the first in London since the Great Fire (thatched roofs were banned in 1666).

External gates feature 125 flora and fauna from Shakespeare’s plays while affording great glimpses of modern and ancient London. By rights the floor should be crushed hazelnut shells, cinder and ash to complete the authenticity, but this would be too uncomfortable. You can, however, still purchase food, wine and cushions to enhance your appreciation of the play.

The courtyard is open to the elements so punters will get wet or sunstroke depending on the weather (I saw a standing audience member faint from the heat, but that probably wasn’t too typical for London). The groundlings can still stand for £5, which is an amazing bargain. The stage is so close to the audience that the actors can see individual faces (there is minimal lighting used in keeping with the original atmosphere), which can be quite daunting to some. Four doors on the lower level facilitate entrances and exits, and the actors often walk among the crowds.

3,000 people used to pack into the theatre, although concerns for modern health and safety legislation (not to mention personal space) now stipulate that it holds a maximum of 1,500. No microphones are used either, although there are live musicians – the shape of the building provides excellent acoustics. While the shape of the stage can change for an individual production (using walkways, thrusts and a central platform), wall hangings are preferred to a fixed set – the setting is in the text; it is up to the audience to listen and use their imagination.

Theatrical convention meant that Heaven was above and Hell below (a trapdoor enables actors to descend and emerge) and the stage itself is meant to represent Earth. The tiring house behind the stage wall is the area where the actors got dressed (or put on their attire); the boxes were gentlemen’s rooms; the musicians’ galleries were immediately above the stage (and still are); whereas other galleries here were the Lord’s rooms – they could hear but not see the action, although they were mainly designed for them to show off their finery. Fifteen plays were written specifically to be performed at The Globe, with all its trappings and theatrical devices in mind.

The Globe had to be outside the city walls to conform to the laws of the Puritans. The locale was full of playhouses, brothels, taverns, bear-baiting, cockfighting, pleasure gardens, prisons, and inns, creating an interesting mix of culture, art, vice and dissipation. Shakespeare used many of these types, to populate his plays with credible characters. London Bridge was the only bridge across the Thames (which was three times as wide) in those days. To signal to theatregoers that a show was imminent, a flag would be raised that could be seen from the other side of the river. The performances began at 2pm and lasted for two hours with no interval; they spoke faster then as the audience were used to the style of speech.

Now actors at the Globe are contracted for 3-6 months. At least four Shakespeare plays are produced per season and new writing is welcomed. This is the ultimate venue for seeing a traditional Shakespeare play and getting a feel for the bard as he would have been performed. Alternative twists are also introduced; plays would have been all-male productions so it is no surprise that recent performances have included men-only versions of Antony and Cleopatra and Twelfth Night, although the all-female performance of Richard III would have been interesting!

Be Merry, My Friends, Be Merry

The Merry Wives of Windsor
Shakespeare's Globe Theatre
August - October 2010

The Merry Wives of Windsor rounds out the trio of ‘Falstaff plays’. Whether or not it is true that Queen Elizabeth I commissioned the play because she wanted to see ‘the fat knight in love’ is a moot point (not least because he never is actually in love, apart from with himself and his own advancement) but the tone is certainly lighter than the previous two parts of Henry IV.

It may best be described as a mixture between an early rom-com and a blatant farce, with a main plot and another couple of subplots both hindering and enhancing the action. Running out of money, Sir John Falstaff (Christopher Benjamin) attempts to win the affection of a wealthy mistress and sends identical letters to Mistress Ford (Sarah Woodward) and Mistress Page (Serena Evans) with the intention of seducing them into bed and out of their fortunes. When they discover his plan they easily outwit him, pretending to go along with his adulterous intentions only for him to be ‘discovered’ unless he escapes in humiliating ways (hidden in a laundry basket and subsequently dumped in The Thames or disguised as the witch of Brentford who is soundly beaten by her enemies).

Page and Ford react very differently to the news that someone is trying to court their wife. Page (Michael Garner) is trusting enough to dismiss the rumours, while Ford (Andrew Havill) works himself into a jealous rage, with moments of impotent anger taken straight from the Basil Fawlty acting book. Added to this is the delectable and dimpled Anne Page (Ceri-Lyn Cissone) with a couple of unsuitable suitors (Slender and Doctor Caius) and one true love (Fenton). Slender (William Belchambers) is delightfully effeminate and her father’s choice; Dr Caius (Philip Bird) is outrageously French and her mother’s choice; Fenton (Gerard McCarthy) is charming, handsome and the obvious choice; and Mistress Quickly (Sue Wallace) is the meddling wench who tries to ‘help’ them all.

Falstaff thinks he is irresistible to women despite the fact that he is grotesquely overweight and old – somehow Benjamin’s embodiment of this and his descriptions of his humiliations make him warm and loveable rather than arrogant and offensive. He is also somewhat diminished by Mistresses Ford and Page who prove to be more than a match for him. Woodward and Evans are both excellent in their distinction between acting and overacting when they are ‘caught out’ in the presence of the would-be Lothario. Their girlish scheming is a joy to watch and their daring antics could teach those whey-faced desperate housewives a thing or two.

This is a brilliant play for sharing with the audience; we are in on the joke as in the best cases of farce and dramatic irony. The stage (design by Janet Bird) is set with a walkway through the crowd which turns into a forest where Falstaff faces his final persecution, or an attractive suburban garden complete with picket fence and love seat – audience members must dodge to avoid a soaking from the watering can. Sue Wallace sits boldly on the steps and chats with the theatregoers which reminds me I know her as Auntie Pam from Coronation Street.

Physical comedy is to the fore and there are guffaws rather than titters, although the double entendres cause a few giggles. Much has been made of the fact that this play was almost written for television a good three hundred years before that device was invented. It is big and bold and very beautiful with Tudor costumes and themes – no attempt has been made to place it in another context which only adds to its strength. The music underpins the entire production as the musicians perform their curious instruments on stage, adding comic value, heightening the melodrama or providing a sweet accompaniment to the duet between Anne Page and Fenton – bless their hearts.

It’s not subtle or deep – it doesn’t explore the human condition – but it doesn’t pretend to. It intends to entertain and in this it certainly achieves its intention. It’s easy to follow, the themes are familiar and you don’t have to think too much. This is Shakespeare for beginners, performed and directed by consummate professionals.

Cultural Obituaries

It’s been a tough time for the arts as three great proponents of culture have died recently. Elisabeth Beresford (August 1929 – December 2010) wrote an enchanting ‘Magic’ series, but is best known for her wonderful Wombles who made recycling and environmental concerns the norm for children decades before Al Gore got in on the act. I have already raved about these cuddly conservationists before so will leave it at that.

I was also sad to hear of the death of Dick King-Smith (1922-2011). When I worked at a book shop in Manchester, I knew that if children had already read Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Michael Bond, then Jill Murphy, Michael Morpurgo, Morris Gleitzman or Dick King-Smith would be my next recommendation. Well-written stories with solid, memorable characters and cheerfully direct narration; I like them so I’m sure that the little people must have!

Bad news comes in threes, apparently, and the death of Pete Postlethwaite (1946-2011) rounds out the triumvirate. He was an amazing and versatile actor whom I admired in everything I saw. From early appearances in Coronation Street; Victoria Wood on TV; Minder; The Professionals; Lovejoy; Boon and Casualty to later roles in sci-fi rehashes, he always portrayed complete commitment and belief in his character. He achieved greatness through hard work and self-belief, taking a job in a sheet-metal factory to pay his way through Bristol Old Vic theatre school, before starting his career at the Liverpool Everyman theatre.

Unfortunately I never got to see him on stage, although his list of theatre credits is impressive: Scaramouche Jones; King Lear; Coriolanus; Duchess of Malfi (Antonio); Titus Andronicus (Aaron); Henry V (Exeter); Richard III (Hastings); Macbeth (Macbeth and Banquo – in different productions); Cyrano de Bergerac (Baker); A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Bottom); Every Man in His Humour; The Tempest (Prospero); The Rise and Fall of Little Voice (Ray Say). He worked with some of the best theatre directors around – Adrian Noble; Trevor Swann; Peter Brook; Trevor Nunn; Bill Alexander; Terry Hands; George Costigan; Greg Hersov; Sam Mendes – which only adds to his impressive CV.

Descriptions of his physical appearance are none-too complimentary – including a face like ‘a stone archway’ and ‘a bag of spanners’ – but no-one can doubt his acting ability (Steven Spielberg called him ‘the best actor in the world’) or his popularity (he was awarded an OBE in 2004). He is probably best-know for his film work; he appeared in over 100 films including The Usual Suspects (one of my favourite films), The Constant Gardener (a wonderful film despite the dreary title), Amistad (Spielberg’s well-meaning but glib abolition drama) and Among Giants (the only film I’ve ever seen about painting pylons, also starring Rachel Griffiths, with whom he gets a love interest).

Daniel Day Lewis generally receives all the credit for In the Name of the Father; a terribly flawed film which nonetheless captures a time and feeling in history, due in no small part to the stoic heroism of Pete Postlethwaite’s Giuseppe Conlon. He is indubitably the best thing in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo & Juliet for the ADHD generation, and I most recently saw him playing a cameo as the dying father who is behind the whole plot in Christopher Nolan’s mind-bending Inception.

I shall remember him best, however, for his depiction of Danny the band leader of a miners’ band in the brilliant Brassed Off. With the perfect blend of pride, humility, and sensitivity, he delivers one of the best screen-monologues ever. Take it away, Pete!

'Tis a Silly Show!

Monty Python’s Spamalot
The Ambassador Theatre Group Ltd
New Victoria Theatre, Woking
20-25 September 2010

Because the musical ‘lovingly ripped off from’ Monty Python and the Holy Grail is co-written by Eric Idle, it retains the essence of Flying Circus, while introducing a new musical theatre element. From the opening scene of the peasants debating the flight mechanics of different swallows, interrupted by King Arthur, his faithful servant Patsy, and his invisible steed (represented, of course, by clattering coconut shells) we are in familiar territory.

Much of the enjoyment of the show comes from working out how on earth they can stage your favourite scenes, such as the Black Knight (‘it’s just a flash wound’); the killer rabbit; the Knights who say ‘Ni’. These are all excellently and amusingly rendered with the correct amount of silliness, although the witch burnings are sadly cut ‘for health and safety reasons’.

Plenty of dialogue is lifted directly from the film, so you know what they are going to say next, but they do it so well! King Arthur is the lead as he never was in the film, and stand-up comic Marcus Brigstocke’s quick wit, comedy timing and audience-interaction are spot-on. Todd Carty may forever be Tucker Jenkins to my mind, but he also makes a credible Patsy, by both name and nature faithfully following his master. Hayley Tamaddon is simply brilliant as the Lady of the Lake – a demanding diva with a powerful voice and overpowering ego.

All the actors double up, as they did in the original, to play minstrels, mothers, fathers, French taunters, various other knights, and Tim the Enchanter. The sets are superb, and the clever use of staging makes steps across the stage seem like epic treks. Costumes and choreography are equally glitzy and flash, especially in the riotous He is Not Dead Yet or the sumptuously silly Knights of the Round Table. While this is a first-rate feel-good musical, it also mocks the entire genre and ridicules an art-form that attempts to take itself seriously.

One of the tasks that the knights must perform to obtain the Holy Grail (along with producing a shrubbery and chopping down a tree with a herring) is to perform a hit musical. In the song, You Won’t Succeed in Showbiz they regret that they won’t be able to rise to this challenge as it doesn’t matter how good your actors, songs or show is; no one will come and see it if you haven’t got a star. This tongue-in-cheek attitude (as they are surrounded by stars of stage and screen) is carried through to the singing of I’m All Alone by the entire company.

In her fairy godmother moment, the Lady of Lake delivers Find Your Grail; a delightful climb-every-mountain-achieve-your-dream song. Hayley Tamaddon is equally impressive in her sardonic duet with Marcus Brigstocke; The Song that Goes Like This, which mines every cliché of the Andrew Lloyd-Webber songbook, because as we all know, “Once in every show/ There comes a song like this/ It starts off soft and low/ And ends up with a kiss”. Her scene-stealing moment, however, is The Diva's Lament in which she bemoans her lack of stage-time; “Whatever happened to my part? It was exciting at the start. Now we're halfway through Act 2/ And I've had nothing yet to do.”

It is that absurdity that makes the show what it is; in fact King Arthur reflects, “Let’s not go to Camelot; ‘tis a silly place”. The cheap puns are duly groaned at from the expensive forest rather than an extensive one, to a cymbal chiming when King Arthur requests a symbol. Sir Lancelot (a versatile Graham MacDuff) pondering why someone has swallowed the missing mug when the knights are asked to search for the grail within themselves, is something you might hear down the pub, if you lived in a village with a load of very funny and irreverent inhabitants. The humour only misses its mark on one occasion – the stereotypical gay characters are dated enough to remind you that the author is from the Are You Being Served? generation.

On the whole, however, this is a high-energy, fast-paced show with an electric blend of highbrow and slapstick humour. The second act opens with Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, even though it is from The Life of Brian. This can be forgiven, as it adds to the overwhelming feel-good factor of the old-fashioned, entertaining musical – as they used to be before they got too bombastic.

Incidentally, I was lucky enough to go to an ‘assisted performance’ where a lady interpreted the whole show through sign language at the side of the stage. Although I don’t speak any sign language (apart from a couple of select words taught to me by my cousin), I found her compulsive viewing. She did a brilliant job of delivering the spoken word to another audience and her performance of the new expression from the Knights who no longer say ‘Ni’ was spectacular.