Right hook like a lady

There has been a lot of consternation recently because women’s boxing has been included in the next Olympic games in London. I can’t see what the problem is. I’m more concerned about the addition of golf – that’s not a sport. It’s a game at best, and not even a very good one at that. It doesn’t display strength, agility, or fitness – although I concede there is technique involved. The fact that some 59-year-old bloke can lead the British Open proves my point – it’s darts for the rich and corporate.

So; back to women’s boxing. One of the complaints I’ve heard is that it is dangerous. How so? How is it more dangerous for women than for men? In amateur boxing there is no hitting of the chest area and they wear headgear. I would have thought all the other martial sports included (judo, taekwondo, wrestling) were equally ‘dangerous’. They all have female categories – boxing has been, until now, the only sport reserved for men only.

I think people may be confusing it with professional boxing – often slugfests organised by unscrupulous sleaze-merchants. Compared with that, amateur boxing is technical and tactical, and as fencing is to pub brawls. It has dignity and grace and should be rescued from the corrupt and dubious underground pit dominated by men who like to watch women hurt each other.

I used to train at a boxing gym. I was the fittest and fastest I have ever been in my life. The speed, agility, discipline, and quick-decision-making the sport teaches is second to none. And it wasn’t aggressive. We weren’t there to punch each other’s lights out but to get on with the sport. Of course it’s combative and competitive, but it wasn’t brutal or violent.

One day walking home from the gym after such a gruelling workout I could hardly lift my arms, I was attacked and mugged in an underpass. The next day my instructor (the flyweight champion of the northwest region) taught me how best to defend myself. His words of advice? Run away. He showed me a few moves that could be used to disable an opponent, but stressed these were never to be used in the ring, only in cases of extreme necessity.

The other accusation is that it is un-ladylike. The people (okay, let’s be honest, men) who complain thus are probably the same ones who think it is acceptable to watch jelly wrestling or beach volleyball. Crotch-slicing Lycra isn’t what I would consider ladylike personally, but they seem happy to wear it and be ogled doing so. It’s their choice and I don’t see outraged comments about it – funny that.

Romeo & Juliet: Generation X

Romeo & Juliet (Three Spoon Theatre)

Bats Theatre, August 5-15

Credit to the cast and crew must be given for the fact that less than half an hour after finishing one of Shakespeare’s most challenging plays, they are back to tackle the second of the double-bill (Ha!) with commendable relish. Both of these are massive oeuvres and a lot of hard work has clearly gone into attempting to whittle them down to an attention-challenged modern audience.

Although the editing is slightly suspect, director Ralph McCubbin Howell strikes a far better balance with Romeo and Juliet. The young leads are not so much star-crossed lovers, as self-destructive teenage time-bombs, but it is great to see them being portrayed by people who understand the exuberance of youth.

It is easy to believe that Juliet (Claire Wilson) is 13 as she morphs from bashful and bemused to defiant and determined in the space of an evening. She displays her subtle humour in the waking ‘It was the nightingale and not the lark’ scene and is a worthy partner to Romeo’s (Eli Kent) passions.

The Montague mob are adept at juvenile shenanigans with overtones of smut, alcohol, vomit, and ludicrous lovelorn poetry. Benvolio (Jack Sergent-Shadbolt) is almost unbearably cute with his hang-dog loyalty, whereas Mercutio (Allan Henry) is brash and boorish – he is superb in his too cool for school persona with melodramatic gestures.

His death scene is quick and realistic although far from painless. All the sombre moments are strong, especially the episode in the tomb which can often drag on but is here played with a chilling lack of hyperbole, aided by minimal lighting (Rachel Marlow).

Eli Kent is the darling of the drama student crowd if the girls in the audience were anything to go by. High-pitched squeals and sycophantic giggling met his every utterance, like a character from Happy Days. To his credit he didn’t milk these banal responses and managed to keep the production enjoyable for all – unlike his teenaged fan-club.

The preppy look of the Montague’s cardigans, cricket jumpers and waistcoats also recalls 1950s America and the production owes more to Sondheim than Shakespeare. When they encounter the Capulets, led by the dangerous and sexy Tybalt (Dominic de Souza) the stylish fight-scenes (choreographed by Ricky Dey) are well-executed but I keep expecting them to break into song.

The cuts make the mood changes more sudden which befits the fickle nature of adolescence but threatens to lose depth. Friar Lawrence (Jonny Potts) is given an enlarged role (including some lines surplus to the original play) which alters the intent. It becomes not coincidence that leads to the deaths but criminal negligence. Friar Lawrence is worldly, cynical and highly culpable.

There is no exploration of the motives of the adults in this production. Charlotte Bradley (in the antithesis of her earlier role in Measure for Measure) is a shrieking shrewish Lady Capulet, while Prince Escalus (Thomas McGrath) just appears to turn up and shout.

Jean Sergent indicates that she would revel in the complete and complex role of the Nurse. As it is, with so many of her speeches deleted, she contents herself with expressing one thing with her words and another with her eyes.

Paris (Aaron Baker), Juliet’s suitor preferred for her by her parents, is a pathetic dupe and there is no hint of his munificence. The fact that we don’t feel sorry for him at all allows us to concentrate on other aspects but it lacks some of the rich tapestry of the tragedy. I suppose we can’t be expected to think about more than one thing at once.

It’s a well-enough known story that explanations are largely unnecessary, but whereas this play is often concerned with how a community has ripped itself apart, this Shakespeare-lite 20/20 production is distilled entirely to the dead young folk. It’s Romeo and Juliet for Generation X.

Etiquette

When I was swimming today, I noticed signs in the changing rooms about lane etiquette. Basically, they informed swimmers how to behave around others: stick to the left; swim at the same speed as others in your lane and change lane if they are faster/slower than you (there are slow, medium, fast, and aqua-jogging lanes, all of which are clearly labelled); allow others to overtake you if they are faster; only overtake between the flags; leave the ends of the lanes free for people who are turning.

I would have thought this was obvious, but apparently not – hence the signs. A UK website dedicated to work etiquette has a page about what and what not to do in a lift. Advice ranges from pressing the hold button when you see people rushing to catch the lift, to acceptable topics for conversation. Honestly, there are people who need to be told these things.

My favourite bit is the piece of advice that admonishes against using a mobile phone in a lift. It simply says, ‘It’s bad manners’. When I was a child, that was enough of a deterrent for anything. Being impolite was tantamount to eating tripe or listening to Val Doonican – something to be avoided at all costs.

On the occasions where I got a bit excitable and started to converse rather more loudly than was strictly necessary, my mother would say, ‘I’m sure the whole bus/park/world doesn’t wish to know about the minutiae of your day’ and I would blush, understandably chastised and be quiet until I had something interesting to say. Some might say they’re still waiting… You just didn’t want to ‘draw attention to yourself’ as this was considered a Bad Thing.

Recently I was at the theatre and a group of young lads were in the seats behind me. They were obviously in Wellington for some sporting tournament or other (either that or they revelled in wearing matching tracksuits) and they been dragged along to the theatre to keep them out of mischief. It soon became apparent that they had no idea how to behave in a theatre – I suspect this was a first for them.

They texted on their mobile phones, they asked each other what was going on and at one point they became directly involved – one of the actors was illustrating the dank depressing feel of the bach by trying to light a fire with damp matches when one lad offered him a lighter. To be fair, a couple of them seemed to be engaged as they made (loud) comments such as, ‘Oh wow, he’s really upset!’ and ‘She’s going to be really annoyed about this.’ But they had no comprehension that they were disrupting everyone else’s enjoyment.

I’m not alone in this experience. Linley Boniface wrote about a traumatic cinema visit with ‘people who believe their conversation is far more insightful, entertaining and hilarious than what’s happening up on the screen.’ Doing, or not doing all of these things are common courtesy and common sense, attributes which perhaps we are loosing in society.

Instances of complete oblivion to others are rising, not only in the pool or the theatre but also, and perhaps more dangerously, on the road. What is worse than ignorance of others is wilful disregard. When did we decide that our needs were so much more important than everybody else’s?

I blame two things – the i-pod and L’oreal. When plugged into a machine full of tunes you have illegally downloaded from the internet, thereby killing the potential of recording artists to actually make a living (but why should you care – you’ve got it for free!), you become unaware of everyone and everything else around you, existing only in your personal bubble. Words like communication, community, commonality, cease to mean anything to you. Because you are so special.

Or, in the words of an insidious marketing campaign that promotes vanity and makes money out of hiding what people really look like behind layers of make-up, ‘Because you’re worth it.’ Are you, really? When did we become so narcissistic? Was it when schools were no longer allowed to fail children who didn’t pass their exams? Was it when we started giving certificates to everyone who showed up and extra points for spelling things correctly? Was it when we started making reality television out of spoiled brats? Bob Brockie mentions some suggestions in a recent opinion piece.

As a human it would be nice to think you are entitled to clean water, fresh air, sufficient food, shelter, clothing, free education (up to 16 and then for those with aptitude) and a health service. As for the right to mouth off and assert your individuality at everyone else’s expense – I don’t think so. Some may call it etiquette – that’s clearly a tricky French word that people don’t understand. Let’s make things simple; it’s basic manners.

Unequal Balance: Measure for Measure

Measure for Measure (Three Spoon Theatre)

Bats Theatre, August 5-15

Measure for Measure is known as a ‘problem play’, as it holds comedy and tragedy in unequal balance, and director Alexandra Lodge certainly seems to be confused. Having seen the Three Spoon Theatre production at Bats, I am no clearer as to what she considers this play to be about.

The slick introductory dance to the Undertones’ Teenage Kicks (the all-time favourite single of the late great John Peel) seems to suggest it is a play about young people and sex. Well, that will certainly grab audience attention, but as the play progresses she turns her consideration to themes of justice, compassion, leadership, empathy, wisdom, experience and power.

She begins with a blank canvas. All the cast are dressed in white which apparently represents ‘the reaction to anatomy – the idea of cleanliness and outward appearance’ – they might just as well be anaemic smurfs or sperm. The patchily-lit set with its exposed pipes reveals the internal plumbing complete with dripping, gurgling, belching and squelching sound effects signifying the visceral and sexual content. It also resembles scaffolding involved in the building process as steps and levels provide delineations and boundaries.

We are reminded ‘Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall’ or (in the words of another writer a couple of centuries later) that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Duke Vincentio (a sardonic and softly spoken James Davenport) pretends to leave his city and places the ‘precise’ Angelo in charge. Richard Falkner plays him with commendable exactitude that allows no room for manoeuvre.

When he drags Isabella (Charlotte Bradley) down to his level and makes her kneel in supplication, her heartfelt cry of ‘To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me?’ is emphasised by shadowy light illuminating her anguish. They dance a tentative dos-a-dos like the sun and rain on a weather vane; they can never share the space because their ideals are poles apart.

Meanwhile, the Duke oversees all, frequently standing above or apart as he is granted the omniscience of an Oberon observing the necessarily messy and human foibles of his Viennese subjects. He manipulates the action and while his bed trick is a good plan and well explained, the head trick is crass and insensitive. Dialogue cuts and stage positioning make him unquestionably the pivotal figure, but his motives remain obscure.

The poetry and tragedy of this play (how often they go together) are simply beautiful. Charlotte Bradley’s calm and gentle yet firm Isabella contrasts perfectly with her brother Claudio (Eli Kent) who is all fluttery hands and jittery passions. One or the other is nearly always on stage and their scene together is the moving counterpoint of the performance. Claudio is imprisoned for fornication with Juliet (Clare Wilson) and his life will only be spared by Angelo if Isabella yields her virginity to him.

This scene contains some of the most moving language ever written, but they opt out for a cheap laugh instead answering ‘Were it but my life, I’d throw it down for your deliverance as frankly as a pin’ with a flippant ‘Thanks, dear Isabel’. The difficulty is that the comedy and the tragedy hang so finely in the balance, but they shouldn’t intrude on each other. Claudio still gets to conjure shivers with his ‘Ay, but to die, and go we know not where’ speech, but Isabella’s compassion is undermined.

When played straight, this is far more powerful, such as the beautiful final scene in which she kneels beside Mariana (Sophie Hambleton) to beg for the life of the man who has wronged her. This highlights the beatific soul of the women, all of whom are spurned and abused throughout, including the rapaciously sexy Mistress Overdone (Ally Garrett). It is unusual to see an actor wearing glasses on stage, but it works just fine here; if eyes are the windows of the soul, then Isabella’s is reflective.

The severe pruning leaves the comic characters with too heavy a burden. Whereas Lucio (Edward Watson) is expressive in a whisper, Pompey (Paul Harrop) speaks too fast. True, he is meant to be a jabberer, but many of his words are lost. Elbow (Thomas McGrath) makes excellent work of the physical comedy and muddled expressions, but he could temper his performance with less shouting, while Provost (Nick Zwart) bumbles and stumbles around the stage like a simpleton.

Alexandra Lodge has chosen to mock the theatrical conventions such as the eavesdropping, the mistaken identity, the false reporting, and the reveal scenes common to most Shakespearean comedies. This introduces distance from the audience resulting in a lack of engagement in the dignified demand for justice.

Many of the scenes instantly recall other works rather than creating their own integrity, and the play doesn’t stand alone so much as become a composite of Shakespeare’s greats. This is possibly because the editing simply went for the highlights and ignored the structure. The unresolved ending reflects the directorial dichotomy. It hangs together as a collection of (admittedly very good) vignettes but lacks cohesion.

Weekend sports round-up

Normal service has resumed with our cricket team. We were battered by Australia who simply outplayed us in every area. I guess it was nice while it lasted, but with Flintoff and Pietersen injured, and the rest of the team not up to the necessary standard, the humiliation was complete and it was all over just after lunch on Day 3. There can be no excuses (although the fire alarm being set off at the hotel can’t have helped) – let’s hope we get better and put on a good show in the final test.

From the stranger than strange files; I have been competing in a Fantasy Rugby team with some colleagues from work and an assortment of their relatives. We are playing in the Tri Nations and each week we pick a ‘team’ of seven players to compete against each other – points are awarded for tries, kicks, tackles, assists and turnovers (incidentally, is rugby the only sport where you get more points for trying than for scoring a goal?), and deducted for penalties and missed tackles.

My team is called ‘What do I know?’ Not a lot, evidently, as I am placed eighth (out of 11, and one of those is my friend’s mum who joined after the fourth game. Yes, I am ahead of her before you ask… but only just). I think my lack winning streak may be due to a couple of factors:

1) I keep picking players because I like the sound of their names – a bit like horses
2) I refuse to pick Richie McCaw because when the (real – i.e. football) World Cup was on, he was asked who he wanted to win and he said, ‘I don’t care, as long as it’s not England’. So I thought, ‘Well, don’t expect me to support you in anything, ever.’ And I won’t. Ha, that’ll show him. I bet he’s hurting now…

It’s actually quite interesting as your team can be made up of any combination of players from each competing side, and you start to watch the individuals’ progress rather than a team as a whole. This can lead to a renewed appeal in a game which would otherwise have no significance to you – i.e. if you are an England supporter and watch football.

Speaking of which, it was really weird to see Robbie Scouser playing for the Queensland Fury, not least because they may well have the vilest strip in the history of football. He scored on his (and the team’s) debut with a fairly soft penalty, it must be admitted. But although he is slow, unfit, and lacking in power, his precision passing is still freakishly good. He is still a Messiah in my eyes.

So now, with the Community Shield done and dusted and the Fergie the red-nosed %^$#er already trying to intimidate referees (didn’t take long, did it?), the count down is on until the beautiful game is back in all it’s glory.

The only problem will be having to watch Little Michael in the wrong red. It’s just wrong. Other than that, the one true game will be back as of next weekend and coming to a television near me.

Drowning in swimsuit controversy

What’s with all the fuss about the new swimming costumes? From ‘technical doping’ to suggestions of denying the swimmers their records, the media has been full of spluttering comment about a sport they usually largely ignore.

At these most recent world championships, a fantastic 43 new records have been set. This seems similar to the 1976 Olympic Games in Montreal 1976 when the scandal was about the East Germans and doping. But it was also the first year that goggles were introduced. Swimmers could actually see where they were going – shock horror – and they wore Lycra for the first time. Twenty-six old world records tumbled.

Was there a scandal about their new developments? No, because the thing is – they still have to swim. And fast. Technology may help improve your techniques, but you still have to do the work yourself. You still have to get in a pool, and train for six hours a day. That’s not exactly easy, suit or no suit.

I simply don’t understand the anguish. So there’s this material that gives the wearers an unfair advantage. How is that different from those compression tops that footballers wear to help with circulation, or the shorts with extra stitching that rugby players use for ease of lifting in line-outs? How is it different from wearing an aero-dynamic cycling helmet in a time-trial?

We used to row in wooden boats, hit balls with wooden tennis racquets and cycle on bikes made from… actually, what did we ride before carbon fibre was invented? Innovation and advancement happens in sport as much as any other field, perhaps even more so because there are marketing opportunities which lead to revenue.

Ay, there’s the rub; some folk would like to think that sport is still amateur; we all play nicely and for honour and glory rather than filthy lucre. Training is cheating, and natural talent wins out every time. Nice thought, but it probably hasn’t happened since the Greeks competed naked (if then) at a variety of curiosities. Or is that the idea?

Do these people who protest (and probably only ever swim in the kidney-shaped pool on their holidays in Fiji – that always struck me as an odd design for a pool while we’re at it as it makes me think of surgical procedures) think we should still be paddling about in knitted bathers that come below the knee? Where should a line be drawn in the sand when it comes to progress?

Now FINA has bowed to the pressure and the suits will be banned in the future. Sure, we all like an excuse to vent some righteous indignation but I can’t help feeling that swimming is the new cycling – considered boring unless there is a scandal. Is it any coincidence that that Tour de France was hardly covered in the mainstream press this year? One doping scandal does not a news story make.

Hopefully this flood of crocodile tears will soon be water under the bridge and we can get back to concentrating on the beauty of the sport – for those that ever actually cared about it in the first place.

Besides, it has been ever thus; the man (or woman) in the best suit gets the best results.

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!