The Founder Volume 5 Issue 4

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12 The Founder | Thursday 4 November 2010 E X T R A Review Clybourne Park at The Royal Court Arts It is almost a staple rule of the stage that there is seldom a better way to be cruel than through comedy. Speeches and shocks and bald statements of fact are all well and good, but when it comes right down to it, there is really no better way of communicating unpleasant truths to an audience than by making them fervently wish they weren’t laughing. Just so, in Dominic Cooke’s bold new production of Bruce Norris’ sharp-tongued assault on racial intolerance in America, the laughs come thick and fast, yet always laced with poison. Taking place over two acts, the first set in 1959 and the second in 2009, Norris’ drama is a masterwork of wry symmetry, confronting the thorny intersection between property and race as it applies to the same Chicago house over a span of fifty years. The first act, something of a pantomime though it appears with its hoop skirts and sixties slang, reveals a darkly unforgiving picture of suburban intolerance, as the white, middleclass residents of Clybourne Park react to Russ (Steffan Rhodri) and Bev (Sophie Thompson) attempting to sell their desirable two-bed at a knock-down price, allowing the very first black family to move into the neighbourhood. The throughline of this act is one of savagely spiralling tension; the façades of friendship and neighbourly restraint gradually falling away as the friction builds towards inevitable explosion. Martin Freeman’s bigoted neighbour is a stunning piece of theatrical subtlety; a headtwitching, tic-ridden family man with a barely-controlled rage at perceived impropriety and an inability to keep his opinions to himself. Russ and Bev are desperate to sell the house to escape the memory of the suicide of their Korean War Vet son, yet early shows of neighbourly sympathy are short-lived and soon replaced by more heartfelt concerns that their actions will undermine property values. Fifty years later, in the second act, and old wounds are reopened, though this time it is a Julia Armfield white couple who want to demolish and rebuild the newly-bought house, much to the chagrin of a more ethnically diverse modern community. Echoes of previous tension abound as the same actors appear in different roles, trampling over old ground with all the same intolerances but none of the enforced etiquette of years gone by; proving, often through sheer force of indelicacy, that there is nowhere so misleadingly distant as the recent past. This play’s real genius lies in its ability to dispense with euphemism, often at the expense of what might be regarded as taste. The second act, in particular, is a fantastic display of a breakdown of delicacy; Freeman’s white house-buyer and Lorna Brown’s black neighbour trading racist jokes, whilst Sarah Goldberg’s shrieking white housewife’s mindless liberal outrage (together with the painful assertion that she has “loads of black friends”) neatly highlights the hypocrisy as inherent in smug political correctness as in outright antagonism. Freeman, in both acts, is the outspoken herald of white resentment and, whilst he is certainly no hero, the stigma of empty liberalism falls hard on other characters. Throughout the first act, even the apparently liberal Bev cannot help but patronise the black maid and her husband Albert; her continued efforts to present them with utensils she doesn’t need leading to one of the most powerful moments of the play, when Albert (Lucian Msamati) informs her that they “have their own things”. Interestingly, for a play about racism, nothing is black and white. All ethnicities are shown to be as capable of hypocrisy and intolerance, no matter how much the balance of economic power seems to have shifted from the first act to the second. Cooke’s production is a strikingly honest piece of wit and sociology, which leaves little implied or unsaid. Performances are universally stellar, with Freeman and Thompson offering particularly striking pictures of white anger and white guilt, whilst Rhodri’s heartbroken 1950s father is particularly compelling, even if only because he’s the bloke who pays Dave on Gavin and Stacey and honestly, that’s just weird. The power of property in bringing out resentment and intolerance is neatly played upon throughout, with the parallels between private property and territory on a much grander scale strongly highlighting the racial problems still prevalent in much of modern society. The production will move onto a run at the Wyndham’s Theatre without Freeman next year (largely, I imagine, because he’s due to start running around Middle Earth with a gaggle of dwarves any day now) and his loss will be a blow, but this play must still be viewed as a marvellous work of comedic honesty and a noholds-barred attack on hypocrisy in all forms. Review: Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Me and Juliet at the Finborough Theatre Alexandra Kinman Arts Editor Following the huge success of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s State Fair at both the Finborough Theatre and in the West End, Me and Juliet is the second European premiere of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical to be directed by acclaimed young music theatre director Thom Southerland. Paired with a superb backstage production team, including one of Royal Holloway’s own as stage manager, the performance is a well constructed and easily enjoyed enactment. With a heart-puppeteering love story as the corner stone, Me and Juliet gathers the audience into following the flurry of a hectic ‘show within a show’ scheme. The result is to keep the audience captive in their need to soothe the outcomes of several threads to the plot. Firstly, the ‘show within a show’ governs the audience’s initial concerns as we observe the peaks and troughs of many cock-ups and falters. Nevertheless, this comedy is thinly veiled, purposeful errorbased entertainment which serves up endless humour. As a result, the audience’s desire to have their show, as both the show we have paid to see and the show which the characters themselves are rehearsing, come off is the overwhelming need. In turn, our hopes are intertwined with the performance, and our need for a good ending for both (and paradoxically the same show) is intense. In turn, the love story almost takes a backseat as the audience is guided through the hilarious musical tumult of the characters’ organisation of their musical. Together with the tongue-in-cheek satire of ‘showbusiness’, and being conducted in a very broadwaylike heavy New York accent, the audience is constantly reminded of the play’s inbuilt satirical hilarity. Many jokes are made at ‘the business/ the industry’s’ expense, and having watched this play in a small ‘pocket-sized’ theatre, I felt my companions in the spectator’s seats were in a closely knit selection who were given permission to scoff at the ridiculousness of the arts. Knowing for a fact that the actors were unpaid only added to this. Nonetheless, the quintessential line that the show must go on reigns true…
The Founder | Thursday 4 November 2010 E X T R A 13 Arts ‘Strictly’ & ‘X Factor’: Revamped and Rejuvinated? As another academic year begins, almost with as much certainty you can guarantee the annual return of the country’s most popular reality TV shows. However, this year, changes are afoot on both The X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing. Vikki Jane Vile Does this signal some doubt from producers in their own formats after both hav‹e experienced plummeting ratings? Or is the pressure of the constant revamping from their screen rivals causing them both to crack? Having watched the opening episodes of both these successes of light entertainment, I remain unsure ... For the first time in the broadcasting of both shows, the seventh series of X Factor started five weeks ahead of Strictly Come Dancing, allowing plenty of time to hook viewers in before a single sequin has been sewn on a costume over on Strictly. So how did Simon Cowell’s unstoppable machine choose to abuse this head start? In the only trashy and tasteless way it knows how – exploitation. “I know!” you say, ”Don’t they do that every year?” Yes, my dear reader, but usually to their hapless contestants – not their own judges. And so here we had on the trailer of the first episode, footage of a frail-looking Cheryl Cole bent double over a desk barely able to explain the obvious that she thought she was “going down with something”. That something which we all know now was the malaria that bought her close to death. Presumably the nearest Strictly could get to this would be Brucie making his entrance before falling noisily down the stairs of the set proceeded by nothing but the eerie silence of the in-house band and an awkward smile from Tess Daly as she attempted to carry on by herself. With one judge described as being “hours from death” (Another classic from the Daily Mail) what else can the X Factor offer? A selection of guest judges at each audition location was one discernable difference this year, although what right Pixie Lott has to be judging talent is just as questionable as why Louis Walsh is still on the panel after spawning Jedward. And what of the contestants? The people this televised circus is supposedly for? A call girl on crack, a Tesco check-out lady, a Cheryl Cole wannabe, and someone claiming to be Freddie Mercury’s biggest fan who then went onto forget the words to We Are The Champions make up the illustrious line-up of this year’s boot camp. Over on Strictly, things are a lot more classy but changes are rife here as well and I’ve yet to be convinced they are for the better. The set has been overhauled and is now identical to its American equivalent Dancing with the Stars. Much loved professional dancers have been dropped, even Brucie can’t be bothered to turn up for the results shows anymore AND Alesha is staying! Series eight, according to the press, was meant to be the year Strictly went A-list. Rumours were flying of Sharon Osbourne and Gary Lineker being among the stars to trip the light fantastic but who did we end up with? Jimi Misti, anyone? Pamela Stephenson? ... Not so A-list, then. To add insult to injury, they’ve even thrown in Paul Daniels. Do we like this? Not a lot ... After my initial disappointment, however, it only took for me to see the opening professional demonstration in Strictly’s much hyped launch show to reassure myself that I am doubtlessly devoted to team Strictly. Everyone is such a pleasing shade of orange, the costumes are exquisite and once transported into the safe environment of the Strictly bubble you can be fooled into thinking all is well with the world, which is what has been enough to persuade me that this winter, I’m sticking with the sequins.
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The Founder Volume 5 Issue 4

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