Tag: Theatre Review
All the latest breaking news on theatre in the UK. Browse THEGAYUK’s complete collection of news, articles and commentary on LGBT+ theatre in the UK.
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THEATRE REVIEW | Tinderella, Cinders Slips it In is a real sparkle of a production!
Above the Stag theatre has done it again and produced another hilarious panto in ‘Tinderella: Cinders Slips it In.’ ★★★★
The theatre has produced many a camp panto in years past. These include ‘Dick Whittington: Another Dick in City Hall’ in 2009, ‘Sleeping Beauty: One Little Prick’ in 2011, and last year’s ‘Treasure Island: The Curse of the Pearl Necklace.’ But with ‘Tinderella: Cinders Slips it In‘ the Stag has outcamped, and outdone, all its previous pantos. It’s as camp as christmas and as gay as eggnog. And it’s hilarious.
The title says it all. The show is a take off on Cinderella, and in the Stag’s version Prince Charming is searching the kingdom for a man (and NOT a woman) who fits into the glass slipper, in the kingdom of Slutvia. And that man is Cinders. He cooks and cleans and does the chores for his wicked evil stepmother Countess Volga and her two vile daughters Nicole Ferrari and Maude Escort. But then one day, while on a gay app on his mobile phone, he meets Prince Charming, and it is love at first sight for both of them. But Cinders’ phone gets ruined (I won’t say how!), and he’s unable to contact, or be contacted by, the very handsome young Prince.
But there is a Fairy Godmother, in the form of The Fairy, and she’s the one who, with the help of the adorable Buttons, makes sure that Cinders gets to the ball to be reunited with Prince Charming, though the Prince’s father, King Ludwig, has no clue that his son is jonesing for another man. It’s all a laugh a minute when the show takes us from the Countesses’ kitchen to the King’s office to a courgette that gets turned into, funny enough, a mode of transport to which Cinders to the palace! We also are treated to songs about balls, a clever slow-motion scene that involves the entire cast, and enough campiness and cute boys to make even Alan Carr blush. And to top it off, we are spoiled with Slutvia’s Eurovision song!
What can one say about a show that has ok acting, ok singing, and an ok script? Well – it’s brilliant! You’ll be laughing from the opening scenes which include a giant rat, to the audience participation bits (there are quite a few and boy are they clever!), up to the final heartwarming and groin inflaming scenes. It’s a show that’s over two hours but it flies by. And the cast are perfect, from Joseph Lycett-Barnes as Prince Charming to Lucas Meredith as Buttons and Grant Cartwright as Cinders – everyone does their part, and they all act very well with each other! From the writers and director of total sell-out hits ‘Get Aladdin,’ ‘Jack Off the Beanstalk,’ and ‘Treasure Island – The Curse of the Pearl Necklace’ (Martin Hooper and Jon Bradfield) and directed by Andrew Beckett, Above the Stag has put on another memorable show.
Tinderella: Cinders Slips it In is playing until January 16th, 2016. Most performances are sold out but there are a few tickets left on various dates. To book, please go here: http://www.abovethestag.com/shows/
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THEATRE REVIEW | The Blues Brothers
The blues are back in town in the form of ‘The Blues Brothers Christmas Special’ at the Arts Theatre in Covent Garden. ★★★★
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THEATRE REVIEW | The Illusionist live at Shaftesbury Theatre
America and Britain’s Got Talent has quite the same format and it’s this bi-coastal variety TV show that springs to mind and also celebrates the essence of The Illusionist.
The Illusionist recently opened on Broadway in New York and currently running simultaneously with a different batch of Illusionist’s in London’s West End. I was accompanied by someone who was going to make this show her first Broadway experience and how rapid did any excitement dissolve and replaced with disappointment as the show came across as a highly, taut, expensive and stretched variety show.
Audience participation was relied on and the faces on the unlucky chosen were illusions of willing victims that seemed as though they were not embarrassed to be on stage but more so embarrassed to be associated with some of acts.
Ok, so despite the show being a glamorised magic show (thanks to the heavy advertising and prestigious theatres that house these shows), there were a few steals to be had. The Anti Conjuror shocked the audience by regurgitating a few razor blades that were strung through a piece of floss, ‘’how did he do that?’’, muttered the audience whilst covering their children’s eyes.
Technology was revealed on stage by The Futurist and his acts with bright technology and perfect timing were very welcomed – finally something decent and suitable for the kids in the audience.
No magic show is complete without someone escaping from something – The Escapologist made sure that was served up whilst being hung upside down in flames (of course).
The Trickster continued to blow fresh air throughout the whole show with his adult focused comical one liners and had the kids muttering ‘’what does that mean?’’. The Trickster certainly left the stage with the adults wanting more.
Good seats are important to view this show so everything on stage is beamed onto a screen for everyone that sits say beyond the 10th row in the orchestra. What’s the point of sitting beyond this and more so what’s appealing with going to a theatre to watch a screen?
The Illusionists create their standalone performances so don’t expect them to interact together. The show doesn’t offer anything that most viewers haven’t seen before.
I did leave the theatre thinking ‘’how did they do that…how does a show like this become Broadway worthy?’’ – that’s magic!
The Illusionist live at Shaftesbury Theatre, London & Broadway, NYC, 14/11/15 – 03/01/16
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THEATRE REVIEW | The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, The Birmingham Rep
★★★ – a delicious journey into Narnia
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THEATRE REVIEW | Four Minutes Twelve Seconds
James Fritz brings you West Croydon’s version of an Eastenders Christmas Day special, but with more tiers than one of Pat Butcher’s earrings and acting skills far superior to the likes of Dirty Den. ★★★★
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THEATRE REVIEW | The Prime of Ms. David Hoyle
Have you ever loved a poxy, gaping wound that never heals?
Have you ever loved a poy, gaping wound that never heals? Welcome to the pure disease of radical thinking, the open-heart artistry of David Hoyle. A precision provocateur, he’s a beautiful leper puking on the bland smirk of consensus dissent. Never afraid to offend, he’ll stare, point-blank, at dead-eyed conformity, and test-drive blanket idiocy to total destruction.
So, tonight –in character as a no-limits, libertarian headmistress for tonight’s show, ‘The Prime of Ms David Hoyle’ – he’s in his element. And, as always – perhaps acknowledging some fractured, kindred mind-set – his intentionally smeared make-up is a cosmetic-Cubist’s spin on Liza Minelli. It’s pithy, visual ventriloquism, an instant, persona transplant of Liza’s unshakeable self-belief, an immediate, autocratic departure point for Ms. Hoyle.
And it’s wholly appropriate. Tonight, David’s manifesting – and inverting – that patronising sense of belonging British schools cram into pitifully vulnerable minds. Quite brilliantly, he’s subverting the crypto-fascist overtones of Muriel Spark’s Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie novel into a school-night for unedited, sexualised scandal. How? With extreme satire, the preferred poison for killer, social comedy since theatre began. Essentially, it’s the freedom to question any standards of etiquette, taste and so-called decency, and push them to blatant heights of self-evident absurdity.
Therefore – as headmistress in tonight’s mock, end of school-term assembly – David unflinchingly proclaims his inflammatory manifesto. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and those clever enough to have transcended gender’ he begins, ‘We are now free from the ridiculous expectations of our genitals. It will be trans people, and trans consciousness that will liberate the whole of humanity’.Wow. Simultaneously utopian, hilarious and upstaging blinkered identity politics, it’s a typically stellar David Hoyle starting-gun, but not one winning full approval. One heckler –ex-forces, befuddled, confrontational – obviously feels his servile, binary-sexed values are being mocked, a surly, potential flash-point. But immediately, he’s beautifully love-bombed by David, and instantly evolves from feisty reactionary to besotted disciple.How could he not? David’s seductive power of surreal persuasion totally rewrites any opposed punter’s world-view with a stunningly queer lexicon. Fittingly, David queers our global pitch from its first, bedrock principle – education – and, as always, asks gloriously awkward questions.
‘Does education make us conform’ David ominously inquires, ‘by hacking off our beautiful eccentricities?’ Oh yes; British state and public schools give a kiss of Guantanomo Bay brutality for arty queens enduring term-time torment. But not tonight, as, quite gorgeously, our devil’s advocate headmistress unleashes three recent graduates of his maverick regime.
First, there’s Bambi Sexsmith, self-styled, queer conversion therapist, with her projectile-diction sermon on avoiding ‘Straight Complex’. In an assured blizzard of quips, she diagnoses, treats and cures any obstacles to thoroughly liberated, thoroughly queer existence. And, remarkably, that’s just for starters; each fabulously unpredictable prodigy from the Hoyle class of honour ramps the anti-hetero stakes stunningly higher.Take Ray, a flawless, drag-king Fred Astaire clone. Tap-dancing like a frenzied needle probing an addict’s veins, she strips to a startling androgyny, all duct-taped, flattened breasts and stencilled six-pack. A take-no-prisoners attack on the mediocre, mundane and pointlessly mean, David’s graduates conclude with the starkest, cautionary warning yet; enter, ‘Cis White Male’.
Naked, mute and nervous, his name scrawled on his belly, ‘Cis’ is a shocking indictment of state education crushing social and sexual dissent. Is there an antidote? For sure -Ms Hoyle’s fearless call to self-expression at any cost. It’s a fantastically liberating lesson that, ideally, should be taught and memorised from birth, the ferociously humane heart of David’s stunning rejection of global despair. Live free, live fierce, live now; there’s no finer riposte to mindless fascism.
David’s next show is December 9th at Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club.
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THEATRE REVIEW | Lovesong Of An Electric Bear
Alan Turing’s life is told, with the help of his teddy bear, in the new play ‘Lovesong of the Electric Bear.’
Yes, you read it right. It’s a teddy bear called Porgy (Bryan Pilkington in a teddy bear suit) who guides Turing (and the audience) through the events in his life. From his life as a young boy in France, where he was a bit different from the other boys, to his time in Bletchley, where he created his machine which broke the German code during World War II. It’s a strange and unusual little show, currently playing in the small studio upstairs in the Arts Theatre on Great Newport Street, redesigned to look like a codebreakers bunker.
It’s a true story, written by the late Andrew Wilson. Turing evidently did have a teddy bear, and it’s the teddy bear in the opening sequence who awakens Turing from his deathbed and takes him through the journey of his life.
It’s an incredible journey, a journey we all know very well from last year’s hit film The Imitation Game, which starred Benedict Cumberbatch as Turing. Not much new information on Turing is provided in this production, but it’s the viewpoint of the teddy bear giving advice and opinion on every move Turing which makes is interesting to say the least. And it’s quite funny, and surreal, especially when Turing (played stoically and confidently by Ian Hallard) starts ‘dating’ Joan (an excellent Laura Harling), and he takes her to meet his parents, but it’s always the bear who is in the background giving advise and musing about Turing’s wrong decisions. And it’s also the bear who advises Turing to get far away from the rent boy (Chris Levens, very good in all the roles he plays in this show) that eventually brought upon Turing’s downfall. And of course we all know how it ends, and that’s the sad part, there was nothing the bear could have done for Turing, in the play and in real life. Turing’s was a life cut too short, he was a man too far ahead of his time.
Lovesong of the Electric Bear is playing at the Arts Theatre until November 21, 2015
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THEATRE REVIEW | Penny Arcade, Longing Last Longer
All hail Penny Arcade. Her latest, solo show – Longing Last Longer – knifes gentrification in the guts in a non-stop orgy of conceptual homicide.
Deliciously stoked and provoked by the severe, outrageously queer Gospel of Quentin Crisp, she’s a multiple-orgasm messiah high on life, love and luxuriant language. Ah, but Quentin’s brilliant, misanthropic spite – an anguished, solitary voice of sanity in a worldwide disturbed ward – is only one voice in Penny’s polyphonic choir of existential fire. Frankly, she’s our Dante, Allan Ginsberg and Martin Luther King sex-changed to a post-indulgence, Mad Max Furiosa, a warrior poetess par excellence. All punk-rock poison to mass stupidity, and spitting incandescent, revelatory bile, she massacres cultural mediocrity on the spot.
It’s a gorgeous execution. Pointless identity politics and thought-police Nazis – the PC shock-jocks – are ruthlessly dispatched with stunning erudition and torn limb from linguistic limb. So they should be. Why lobotomise ourselves with divisive labels that set one social faction against another? Don’t fascist police states do that already? And that’s where Penny’s sublime, sheer art-attack joyously weighs in. Forget theatre; Longing Lasts Longer is language as visionary music, words and concepts blown as intoxicating, be-bop virtuoso jazz solos.
Utterly fearless, following no star but her own, outré contrariness and distrust of any authority – even her own! – Penny furiously asks the unsayable. Indiscriminately puking on taboos Labour, Tory and anarchist, she explodes orthodoxies cemented by dogma as utterly facile. And her most contentious target? Arguably, the mythic chimera of sexual freedom. Whatever labels our preening egos prefer – gay, bi, trans or straight – the physical reality is that females nurture and males take. ‘The biological imperative sees no difference between a c*** and an arsehole’, Penny declares with bravura crudity. How right she is. Guys will stick their dicks in anything; hello, glory holes? And even razor blades in prostitute pussies didn’t deter vets in Vietnam.
But don’t get her wrong. No prude, Penny’s partied for 45 years, the show’s soundtrack brilliantly accenting her excesses with a sonic blizzard of Nirvana, The Doors, Prince and more. Free your mind and your ass will follow, indeed; this is culture cut loose from classrooms and set wildly free as hot, sweaty, erotic dance. ‘I haven’t watched TV for 40 years’ Penny says, and why would she? She’s too busy living, the only known antidote to bovine, terminally-addicted consumerism and online ennui.
Impassioned, on a hugely physical and flame-haired roll, she decries the certifiably insane world of compulsory self-censorship and hair-trigger text warnings we’re sleepwalking into. ‘Mediocrity is the new black’ (as in fashion essential) Penny cries, and she’s so hilariously on the money it hurts. Apparently, even skimming textual trauma triggers the reality, so how vulnerable students approach American bestseller the Bible – crammed with sex and horror – beggars belief.
Frighteningly, Penny explains, our very powers of expression – a Niagara Falls of nuances – are being systematically impoverished by corporate consensus. Terrified to even expect sustained attention spans, we Twitter ourselves en masse to gnomic vapidity. George Orwell’s novel 1984 termed the process ‘Doublespeak’; with complex language deliberately erased, even imagining abstract concepts is impossible. Which perfectly suits repressive regimes and aggressive capitalism; the more inarticulate, easily swayed and passive drones we become, the better
‘You can’t call yourself fierce and demand a safe space outside of a mental hospital’ Penny inarguably states, succinctly nailing the paradox of fake, lip-service rebellion. So what will you do when, not if, the state dictates your life, liberty and pursuit of happiness? Penny’s answer is taking brilliantly-argued responsibility for her entire life, completely owning each trauma and rapture, with not a single, squandered second. Will you do as much? Don’t delay; ‘The roses in the shops have lost their scent’, Penny bewails, a shockingly astute, contemporary human metaphor. The message is plain, and passionately perfect; either live your own life now, on your own terms, or have it lived for you. Choose life. Choose passion. Choose Penny Arcade. She’s perfect salvation in a soundbite.
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THEATRE REVIEW: The Bodyguard UK TOUR
Based on the 1992 film of the same name and starring Alexandra Burke and Stuart Reid, The Bodyguard is the story of a pop diva, Rachel Marron, who receives threats from a stalker, leading her managers to employ Frank Farmer, former Secret Service agent and the best bodyguard in the business.
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THEATRE REVIEW | Dina Martina “Sitting Ovations”
Would you willingly embrace artistic schizophrenia?
Even fiercely kiss your inner, self-hating, subconscious bigot? Join the club. It’s a deliberate, artistic strategy stunningly deployed by stellar gay stars Penny Arcade and Franko B, the spectacular collision of two opposing points of view.
Arguably first expressed in literature by Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘Imp Of The Perverse’ and refined as ‘DoubleSpeak’ by George Orwell’s 1984, it’s contrarianism writ large as art. Which is where manic, barely-sane comic Dina Martina – the probable incest brat of Family Guy’s Stewie Griffin and Ronald McDonald – comes storming in.
Hailing from Seattle, USA, she’s 301 pounds of deeply skewed fun, a human CGI ball of deeply silly putty.
So why mention her size? Because it’s the raw material of her art, darlings, Dina’s comic rocket-fuel, like Jack Dee’s trademark misery. ‘I stick to a high-sodium diet for that lush, larger-than-life look’, she giggles, her huge, plus-size clown’s mouth dilating like a gynaecologist’s nightmare.
Think Heath Ledger’s Joker squeezed in a ball-gown cursed with Michael Jackson’s falsetto, and you too might run screaming for the exit. But wait; this funky assassin in a fright-wig only has one, single target, her own, all-too-willing self. Zoning in on personal pain with the exquisite virtuosity of the Saw torture-flick franchise, Dina masterfully misleads us from moment one.
‘I live a life without purpose’ she sadly observes, but who could possibly take this cosy, human cupcake seriously? And that’s precisely the point; we’re being taken for a brilliantly contrary ride by a Wizard of Oz Munchkin with the super-shrewd crowd perception of Sigmund Freud.
But even with hindsight, it’s hard to adequately conjure Dina’s utterly demented stage entrance. Grinning like a slaughtered, Hallowe’en pumpkin, all Sergeant Pepper frock-coat and ballooning flesh, she pipes out inane, disco lyrics like a hooker on helium.
How do we take her? At face value? Not quite. See, no matter how twisted you are, there’s always someone more extreme. Take dog poo; amateurs eat it dumped and stale, but dedicated gourmets suck it straight out. Just like comedy, in fact, and Dina’s surgically precise freak-show.
And I’m in awe. Frankly, she’s attempting – and pulling off – a knife-edge balance of audience sympathies, by deliberately playing gay public poison Number One, the mincing, often self-loathing cliché. Never met one? Then check out John Inman and Larry Grayson on vintage TV. Still guaranteed to give gay rights activists instant heart attacks, Inman, Grayson and company were the utterly bland, acceptable face of homosexuality for heterosexuals.
Try that now, and you’ll be as ostracised as white actors in blackface playing to Afro-Caribbean audiences. But remarkably, Dina embodies that fluffy, yucky stereotype – the target of mass straight derision – and still melts modern-day gay heartstrings.
And mercifully, Dina’s Sitting Ovations is utterly removed from the vile, exploitative voyeurism of Soho’s deeply morally dubious Box club. Instead, she’s conceptually elegant, a drag Noel Coward of devastating double-takes and exquisitely dry, social dissections. ‘I am currently single’ she quips, ‘due to an unspoken agreement between me and men’.
Okay, so the subtlety’s often swamped in a pell-mell parade of costume changes and video clips of spoof 1980s pop tunes, but it bites. Dina’s cracked, sectioned-on-glee-pills voice sweetly trills of infants raised on booze-filled pacifiers, and middle-aged housewives memorably disfigured by ‘Necrospheres’, facial fillers harvested from spoiled corpses. In other words, USA today through a gorgeously dark, twisted gay looking-glass Oscar Wilde would’ve killed to glance at.
But there’s far more to ‘Sitting Ovations’ than faux-naive vignettes of the grotesque, distasteful and gaggingly twee. Arguably most memorable is a moody, extended reminiscence of an encounter with a (frustratingly unnamed) vintage Hollywood legend. Young, gauche and dumb, Dina’s fabulously dismissed by the aged, but still super-chic madam stabbing a prawn in her cocktail and holding it aloft.
‘This empty husk of a formerly vital creature’ she hisses to a suddenly tomb-silent room, ‘reminds me of you’. Just like anyone rash enough to risk Dina’s quick, eviscerating, Dr. Jekyll and Sister Hyde wit, in fact. Me, I’m shrewd enough to stay way out the firing line; Dina’s an ongoing, monster talent steam-rolling any unwary opposition, and sometimes – like many reluctant celibates – it’s best to just say yes.
At the Soho Theatre until 24th October 2015
