I like the high-concept nature of Herring’s recent shows; they have an overarching theme which provides a narrative and makes them feel more theatrical than the average comedy gig but room is allowed for digressions, ad libs and the odd bit of more traditional stand up material.   Here, he combines a Dave Gorman-style lecture (complete with slides) with an imaginary bike race in which he sets out to prove that he is better than Jesus, even going so far as to suggest that he may be the new Messiah.  I couldn’t help thinking that this would have worked better in the original show when they were the same age, but Herring just about gets away with it, perhaps due to the family resemblance.

I think I laughed more at COAB than I did at Hitler Moustache, a particularly notable achievement given that I had been weeping openly in Pizza Express less than an hour beforehand (I am nothing if not a horrible cliché of a woman).  The show opens with a series of quick-fire jokes which sees Herring likening the son of God to the Fonz, executing a neat water into wine joke and questioning how many communion wafers one would have to eat in order to consume an entire Jesus.  It’s also good to see his frequently used line ”I’m not saying that I’m the new Jesus…that’s for other people to say” and his recently discovered childhood stories in a fitting context.

At the centre of the show is a routine built around the epic list of names and “begats” at the beginning of the New Testament.  First, Herring demonstrates impressive powers of recall by reciting the entire thing from memory before revealing the “secret” – a ludicrous acronym even more convoluted than the one used by his driving instructor character in Fist of Fun.  By the time he went on to deconstruct the genealogy of Jesus with increasing levels of incredulity and rage, particularly at the presence in the list of someone with the improbable name of “Booz”, I was laughing so much that I could hardly breathe.  The close textual analysis of the Ten Commandments, revealing God to be in need of a good editor, could seem hackneyed in the hands of a lesser comedian but is perfectly placed and brilliantly delivered.

When compared to Herring’s other recent shows, you could argue that Christ on a Bike feels less satisfying: it doesn’t have the political punch of Hitler Moustache or the sweet sentimentality of Headmaster’s Son.  Nevertheless, it is one of the funniest comedy shows I have seen for ages.  I like to think that Jesus can take a joke, and I’m sure He would approve.

Oh, poor neglected blog.  I’m so sorry for abandoning you, leaving you with only dated cultural insights and depriving you of my witty prose and pithy observations.  The excuses are many and varied: work went mental, I went on holiday (twice), I did a comedy writing course which took up most of  my spare time but I also got to a point where I wasn’t looking forward to any of the things I had booked to see as much as I should have been, thinking only about where I was going to find the time and motivation to write about them afterwards.  In fact, I didn’t book to see a couple of things I quite fancied because the whole thing just got a bit overwhelming.  I’m sure you will agree that this is not a good state of affairs, so as the backlog of posts grew ever larger I was forced to give myself a few months off.

I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with this blog in the future but, for completeness, here is everything else I saw in 2010 that I didn’t get around to writing about.  I went to more comedy than anything else, partly because of the course I was doing but also because there were a lot of well-reviewed Edinburgh shows that finally made it to town. 

Comedy

• Russell Kane – Smokescreens and Castles, Bloomsbury Theatre
• Laughter Lounge with Russell Kane (MC), Richard Herring, Greg Davies, Andrew Maxwell, Tim Key, Tom Deacon, Kevin Eldon & David Baddiel, Indigo2
• Bill Bailey – Dandelion Mind, Wyndhams Theatre
• Jon Richardson – Don’t Happy Be Worry, Soho Theatre
• Tim Minchin & His Orchestra, O2 Arena
• Nine Lessons & Carols for Godless People, Bloomsbury Theatre

Music

• Philharmonia Orchestra – Laidov’s The Enchanted Lake, Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 & Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5, Royal Festival Hall
• Harry Shearer & Judith Owen’s Holiday Singalong, Purcell Rooms
• Suede, O2 Arena
• Philharmonia Orchestra & Jarvis Cocker – Peter & the Wolf, Royal Festival Hall

Theatre

• Bedlam, Globe
• Legally Blonde, Savoy
• West Side Story, Palace, New York
• Season’s Greetings, National

I also had tickets for three other plays which for various reasons I didn’t manage to see.  I’ve never done this before, so am wondering if it was symptom of my general ennui, or perhaps just sheer ineptitude.  To my great shame (especially at the  last one), they were:

• Deathtrap – I’d had a really shitty day at work and just wasn’t in the mood, especially as I had heard it was a bit scary and am an utter wuss
• Shirley Valentine – my friend bought me tickets for my birthday but I was ill on the day so she took someone else instead
• Hamlet – there was some confusion over the start time, for which I take no responsibility, so we missed it

So, in summary, please don’t abandon me.  I have really enjoyed writing these entries and being a (very minor) part of the community of theatre bloggers and I will definitely be back, although perhaps not with my previous over-zealous dedication to writing about absolutely everything I see as that way madness lies.  2011?  Bring.  It.  On.

However, before last month the only time I had seen the Frymeister in person was in the first class carriage of a Virgin Pendolino to Euston (I got on at Liverpool Lime Street and he at Stafford).  This was a very nerve-wracking experience because I spent the entire journey in terror that he was going to show himself to be a graceless oaf and all my long-held illusions would be shattered.  Fortunately, he was perfectly charming and even returned the slightly demented smile I gave him on my way back from the toilet.

When a smattering of live dates were announced to coincide with the release of The Fry Chronicles, the second volume of his autobiography, there was no way I wasn’t going to be there and so it was that I found myself spending successive Monday evenings in the company of the divine Mr F in two of London’s finest Halls, the Royal Festival and the Royal Albert.  Both evenings covered similar ground although the first felt more like a formal book reading, with a lectern and a number of lengthy extracts from the tome in question, and the second a more relaxed affair, complete with armchair and chaise longue.

The book, which I have now read, begins with our hero being released from prison and ends with him on the verge of both TV stardom and a cocaine habit.  I can think of no other showbiz autobiography in which the writer is so hard on himself, but he seems determined to show all aspects of his personality: insecurities, inadequacies and all.  It is sad to see how uncomfortable he is in his own body and the extent to which the outwardly confident persona hides a deep self-loathing.  He hinted at this in the live shows, telling of the difficult relationship he has with sugar in all its forms.  However, the highlight for me was hearing the story, complete with impression, of his first meeting with Hugh Laurie, to whom the book is dedicated and with whom he felt an instant “collaborative love”.     

The Albert Hall shows were much-hyped due to the Twitter factor but, despite a veneer of interactivity, the questions submitted by his “disciples” mainly served as prompts for anecdotes from the book.  Not that this is a bad thing – to be honest, I was a little concerned at the prospect of someone who suffers from low self-confidence taking to the stage without any real idea of what he was going to talk about.  I was surprised by how nervous he appeared – that thing he does where he pushes his fringe out of his face was much in evidence – and how moved he seemed to be by the reception he received.  I suppose you can have people telling you you’re a national treasure, but every so often you need to see it to believe it.

No expense had been spared in the staging of Shoes, with its cast of four singers and twelve dancers – the set featured a giant stiletto sandal (designed by shoe supremo Beatrix Ong) which served both as a staircase and a slide, three-dimensional projections and different trucks for each of number, so the fact that a West End run has now been announced for 2011 is not surprising.  The first half was stronger on the whole than the second but both had their moments: I particularly loved the story of a Hush Puppie wearing adulterer told to a Portishead-esque soundtrack, the hilarious tale of a pair of cursed wedding shoes staged inside a  giant picture frame and the gospel-tinged ode to shopping on the high street.  

There were a few Jerry Springer moments, particularly the Evita-like Imelda Marcos number in which two bodyguards acted as a chorus and  the series of interjections examining shoe and foot-related clichés but, although I accept there’s only so much you can say about shoes, I would have liked a bit more of an edge.  Ultimately, although I wasn’t really sure what the point of the whole thing was, Shoes made for an entertaining evening which made me embarrassed that I can barely walk in high heels, let alone dance in them.

Clybourne Park feels like two one-act plays held together by the common threads of property and race.  The first half is set in the 1950s and opens on a middle-aged couple discussing at length the meaning of the word “Neapolitan” in an ice cream context.  It soon becomes clear that they have suffered a shattering tragedy leaving them with a grief which the wife, played by the marvellous Sophie Thompson, masks with a tightly wound cheery exterior whilst the husband (Steffan Rhodri, giving a performance of such pent-up anger that I feared he may be heading for an aneurysm) withdraws from the world.  Eager to move as soon as possible, they are selling their house to a black couple and in doing so have upset the neighbours, particularly the bespectacled, be-bow-tied Karl.  Having given a splendid performance as Watson in Sherlock, Martin Freeman here takes a further step towards erasing the memory of Tim Canterbury, allowing Karl’s prejudice to gradually emerge from behind his neighbourly bonhomie. 

In the second half, the action shifts to the present day; the house is a dilapidated shell and a young white couple want to knock it down  to build a new home in its place.  The neighbourhood is now occupied by middle-class black families keen to protect their heritage and the situation is reversed.  The act climaxes in an absurd racist joke-off between Freeman’s increasingly exasperated husband and the self-assured representative of the residents (Lorna Brown), from which no character emerges with any credit.  The acting is much more naturalistic than the first half (seemingly a conscious decision of director Dominic Cooke) but still the characters are not listening to each other and the same ignorance and prejudice is displayed: everything has changed but nothing has changed.

Reading the foregoing, you would be forgiven for thinking that this all sounds very worthy but not a lot of fun, much like the overrated Oscar-magnet Crash, which explores similar issues.  I have thus far failed to give any sense of how laugh-out-loud funny the play is.  Some of the laughter was certainly born out of the discomfort of the overwhelmingly white audience but it was more than that: the writing is sharp and darkly hilarious, the characters are well-realised and the performances are pretty much perfect.  The ensemble cast is so strong that it’s very difficult to single out any individual, but I especially enjoyed Lucian  Msamati’s scene-stealing asides.  I could have lived without the ghostly goings-on at the end, but this is already forgiven: Clybourne Park achieves the rare feat of being both thought-provoking and entertaining and deserves all the awards which will invariably be heaped upon it.

Part two is structured in a similar way to the first, with a mixture of Falstaff-centred merriment and serious affairs of state in the first half and a shift of focus to the battlefield in the second.  The same company of actors return to reprise their former roles and take on new ones, and some of the musical refrains are repeated to link the two plays.  Oliver Cotton is on stage more frequently and is much more impressive as the ailing Henry IV, concerned for the legitimacy and security of his position, whilst Jamie Parker’s Prince Hal barely makes an appearance until he is called to his father’s bedside and must prepare to assume the crown.  When he finally becomes Henry V, he looks uncomfortable: the crown sits awkwardly on his head and he fiddles with his robes; although he has been steadily growing in stature, this is no magical transformation from fun-loving prince to serious king and Hal still has some way to go before he will lead his troops into battle at Agincourt.

Having given such a restrained and statesmanlike performance in part one, William Gaunt gets to let his hair down in a brilliant comic turn as Shallow: his conversation with Christopher Godwin’s Silence in which they discuss their dead friends like a couple of doddery old blokes in an old people’s home and the scene in which a succession of useless soldiers are paraded in front of Falstaff are genuinely hilarious, not just Shakespeare hilarious.  Sam Crane also gets to have a lot more fun as Pistol than he did as Hotspur, with a manic performance pitched somewhere between Kenny Everett and Lord Flashheart.

Roger Allam is again brilliant as the larger-than-life Sir John, from his first entrance in which he gestures to the audience to applaud him, through his strangely tender relationship with Doll Tearsheet (who is responsible for the best on-stage vomit since Tamsin Greig in God of Carnage) to his very public rejection by the new king at the end, his performance is perfect.  The crowd fell completely silent for the final scene, in which the crushed Falstaff’s braggadoccio fails him and he is suddenly revealed as a sad, shaky old loser.

There are more monologues in the second part than the first, from the king’s soliloquy about the pressures that come with the crown to Falstaff’s homage to sack (which I now know to be sherry; I like sherry).  It is testament to the quality of the acting that these moments are just as captivating as the more action-packed bits, although the raucous bar scenes in both plays are what I will remember most fondly. 

This has been a wonderful six hours of theatre and the perfect introduction to the marvellous Globe.  I will definitely be back.

Having been eagerly awaiting the film of Tamara Drewe ever since I read the book, I was very excited to score tickets to a preview screening, gifting me the rare opportunity to be at the forefront of cultural comment.  Apart from a significant omission towards the end, Stephen Frears’ film is a faithful interpretation of Posy Simmonds’ graphic novel, with the scenery and most of the actors bearing a striking resemblance to their cartoon counterparts. 

As in the book, Tamara Drewe herself is a bit of an enigma: Gemma Arterton is undoubtedly beautiful and gives a perfectly good performance but the other characters are so much more vivid and interesting that she struggles to make an impression.  It was interesting that in the Q&A session afterwards, neither Frears nor Simmonds really mentioned Tamara or Arterton; instead, they talked about the casting of the supporting roles and the quality of the actors.  Particular praise was reserved for Tamsin Greig as Beth, who has given over her life to the author husband whose pictures cover the walls of their house, even the downstairs toilet.  In a frumpy wig and dowdy clothes, she manages his career as well as the estate on which they run a writers’ retreat, doing everything from typing his novel to answering his fan mail and from cake baking to lawnmower maintenance.

Unfortunately for Beth, she has chosen to marry an unmitigated rotter; her husband Nicholas has no appreciation for anything she does for him, dismissing her patronisingly whilst philandering with a succession of younger women including Tamara, who had a crush on him when she was a gawky schoolgirl.  Roger Allam is just perfect in the role: he makes Nicholas a sleazy charmer whilst also showing his underlying cruel streak.  He is such a good villain that the Guardian-reading audience were almost hissing every time he appeared on screen, and seemed delighted when he got what was coming to him. 

Tamara also puts it about a bit, and there are two other men in  her life: her childhood friend Andy (Luke Evans), the boy next door with a heart of gold and a wandering accent, and the rock star Ben, played by Dominic Cooper in a performance seemingly modelled on Danny from Withnail & I.  The arrival of the latter to the village in a yellow Porsche attracts the attention of two bored teenagers, whose actions go on to create havoc for all concerned.  Much praise has been heaped upon these  young performers – not least by Stephen Frears - but I felt there was a bit of overacting going on, particularly from Jessica Barden as Jody, the feistier of the two.  The dialogue that Simmonds and screenwriter Moira Buffini have written for them feels very authentic but I felt that the performances too frequently crossed the line into caricature, with much over-enunciation and pulling of faces.

Presenting a chocolate-box view of the English countryside, complete with photogenic chickens, but with darker undertones, Tamara Drewe is very English and highly entertaining, with sharp writing, excellent performances and some great set pieces.  It is released in the UK on 10th September and if you fancy a couple of hours of rural escapism, you should probably go and see it.

Having made the decision to stand in the yard for the truly authentic groundling experience, I was surprised at how small the place felt, and how close it was possible to get to the action.  The experience is truly unique, creating an electric atmosphere amongst an audience of curious tourists, appreciative teenagers, massive theatre ponces and me, and the actors seemed to be relishing every moment.  There is nowhere to hide, but fortunately no one needed to: the comic episodes were greeted with raucous laughter and the more contemplative moments received total silence. 

As Falstaff, Roger Allam appears to have found his inner Brian Blessed; I think it must be the beard.  He seems to be having a ball and looks far more comfortable in his interaction with the audience than he did in La Cage aux Folles.  He has an incredible charisma, even in a fat suit and ridiculous wig, and delivers every line with fruity-voiced relish.  He also has a great chemistry with Jamie Parker’s Hal, who begins the play as a feckless mockney student type, in contrast to his earnest and angry contemporary Hotspur, but is hardened by battle and a sense of impending responsibility to start showing signs of the king he will soon become.  Henry IV himself pales a little in comparison (and looks like a sci-fi villain) but William Gaunt gives a marvellous performance of softly spoken restraint as his former ally turned opponent Worcester, displaying a quiet dignity when he is led off in chains to be executed.

The action flows beautifully, with a good mixture of rowdy crowd scenes, serious political debate and a bit of battle, and the pace never flags.  Three hours passed in a flash, despite the discomfort of standing: I have watched many things from a nice comfy seat that felt a damn sight longer. The joyousness of the whole thing was encapsulated in the curtain call, which sent the whole audience out on a high.  I did have a ticket for the second part on the same evening, but decided that my calves weren’t quite up to it, so I will definitely be returning at a later date to find out what happens at the end.

Not-very-interesting fact: William Gaunt once presented my friend Patsy with a video camera which she won for writing a poem about Del Boy which she pretended was about her dad. 

It’s because of stuff like this that no one takes my opinions seriously, isn’t it?

I haven’t seen the original film of The Railway Children (except for the final scene, which seems to feature endlessly in those 50 Best… clip shows), or read the book, but did have a vague idea of the story.  It’s pretty simple and wouldn’t actually take very long to unfold if it weren’t for the amount of pointless diversions scattered throughout, some of which are more entertaining than others but none of which serve to advance the plot.  There’s Mr Perks’ ill-fated birthday surprise; there’s the boy stuck in the tunnel and there’s the mysterious Russian author, all of which cause the ending, when it finally comes, to feel a little rushed. 

The staging works really well: the action is played out on a number of mini-stages on the tracks, moved in and out by hard-working stage hands dressed as Fred Dibnah.  The director never loses sight of the fact that the audience  are seated on both sides and somehow manages to make it feel as though the actors never have their backs to you without requiring them to conspicuously rotate.   Passing trains are evoked through clever use of smoke and sound effects, with the much-vaunted steam train making an appearance at the end of each act to great effect (although reversing it out again is a little trickier). 

The actors do a good job, although the amplification necessary to enable them to be heard in such a cavernous space creates a strange echo and doesn’t allow for much subtlety in their performances.  However, the three actors playing the children are so good that the fact they are all in their twenties barely registered, with Louisa Clein standing out as the excitable and slightly demented Phyllis.  The narrative device, which sees them switch between telling the story and participating in it isn’t half as clunky in reality as it sounds on paper.  Amongst the adults, Marshall Lancaster is good value as the comical station master, Mr Perks, and Caroline Harker is surprisingly moving as the childrens’ mother.

However good all the constituent parts are, I came away from The Railway Children feeling a little underwhelmed without really understanding why.  It is clearly being marketed as a show for children, as evidenced by the tacky and overpriced merchandise on sale in the foyer, but some of them just seemed too young to endure a two hour show which is fairly wordy and doesn’t feature any brightly coloured furry characters singing songs about numbers.  The little ‘uns were understandably restless and needed the plot explaining to them at regular intervals, which I found more than a little distracting, but maybe I’m just a bitter old spinster…

“Do you fancy The A-Team?”

“Yes,” I replied, “yes, I really really do”. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete philistine; there’s a place in my life for improving foreign cinema, but there’s also a place in my life for films in which buff men blow shit up.

I’m a tiny bit young for the TV series to have played a major part in my formative years, but I do love a good mindless action movie and that is exactly what the trailer for The A-Team, with its guns, stunts and explosions, promised it would be.  The action sequences become increasingly preposterous, from a helicopter gun battle to a flying tank to the wholesale destruction of a shipyard, but if you check your brain in at the door, I reckon it’s a highly enjoyable way to spend a couple of hours.

The plot, such as it is, is rather confusing: a lot of time is taken up establishing how the team gets together in the first place, then how they are sent to prison for a crime they didn’t commit, then how they escape, before they can really get started on their mission to find the briefcase full of printing plates which everyone seems very excited about.  I got a bit confused at times about who the bad guys were – the CIA agent starts out as a sinister villain, then turns into an utter cretin for a bit before becoming sinister again, and I couldn’t quite work out whose side Jessica Biel was on - but it doesn’t really matter.  The fun is in seeing how the four members of the team interact and how their increasingly elaborate plans come together.  I especially like the (slightly over-used) device of intercutting between scenes of the team planning round a table and the action playing out.

Some reviews have said that Liam Neeson is uncomfortable as Hannibal, but I really didn’t see that – he displays a crinkly-eyed patriarchal charm and looks like he’s having a whole lot of fun.   As do the other actors: the impossibly handsome Bradley Cooper as Face, who women just can’t help wanting to shag; Quinton “Rampage” Jackson (not sure that’s his real middle name) as B.A. Baracus and Sharlto Copley, who comes closest to capturing the spirit of the original character, as Murdoch.   Obviously, there is no character development or any individual story arcs to speak of, but the banter between the four team members is entertaining enough and provides brief respite from the relentless action sequences. 

I only have one (major) issue: where was the theme tune?