I don't remember exactly when it was that everyone became obsessed with labels - sometime in the 80s I think, when it was all Lacoste this and Adidas that. I do remember if you didn't have the right trainers or sports bag, you were ridiculed at school.
Him Outdoors had a non-authentic action man when he was a kid. Apparently he had a squishy head and his hands fell off (the non-action man that is, not Him Outdoors). No one would let him play, somewhat unsurprisingly.
Now, I'm not what anyone would call a slave to fashion, but there are certain things that just have to be right; when imitations simply won't suffice.
5 Non-Negotiable Brands:
- Persil automatic - possibly mum's fault; I like the familiar smell, and I seem to get a rash from just about anything else
- McVities - no one else's digestives will do. And don't even get me started on Hobnobs...
- Jaguar - E-type in particular: if it's not a Jaguar; it's just a car
- Bombay Sapphire gin and Schwepps tonic - it's the perfect combination
- Waterstones/ Unity Books - I will travel miles for knowledgable service
A Midsummer Night's DreamStagecraft, 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…
Actually, I have a confession to make - I don't actually like Ashes to Ashes as much as I liked Life on Mars. I think LOM was good drama, whereas A2A just seems to be taking the piss. Not that there's anything wrong with that, and it's still one of the best things on television.
The music is fabulous. This is more my era, and so far it's been great to hear Ultravox, The Stranglers, The Clash, Temple Tudor, Madness, OMD, Visage, Heaven 17... the list goes on, but it also includes Imagination, which proves that you can't have everything.
Besides the ludicrous plot lines and the dubious fashion, there is the strange and ethereal sight of a man dressed up in a David Bowie Pierrot costume constantly disappearing around corners or into public lavatories, which is more than slightly suspicious.
The dialogue is still smart and Gene Hunt is a perfect anti-hero, but a lot of the time you feel that the story is secondary and I picture the writers spluttering into their beer as they try and fit a slightly credible plot around a witty one-liner rather than the other way round.
But back to the fashion. As I said, this is more my era, and it makes me cringe in memory. I can remember Mrs Thatcher trying to privatise the entire nation and claiming there was no such thing as society, but I had managed to block out the fashion crimes until now. I am traumatised by the perms; my friend had one that made her look like a poodle, and my best mate asked her, in an attempt to be sympathetic, 'How long do you have to wait for that to grow out?' You know who you are. I shudder at the memories of pouty expressions, aided and abetted by lashings of lipgloss and smouldering blue eyeshadow - and that was just the men!
And I can't pull my eyes away from the off-the-shoulder tops, the bat-wing sleeves, the wide PVC belts and the tucked-in blouses. I watch through my fingers as I think, 'Oh my God, I used to wear that!' or in the case of the white leather bomber jacket, 'I used to want one of those!' The sight of people wearing tight stonewashed jeans and slip-on tasselled loafers brings me out in a cold sweat. We used to call them casuals - they used to beat us up. Happy days.
