SPINE by Clara Brennan - Soho Theatre

Review:

It was good.  The story was fantastic.  I thought her "Laaandaaan" accent sounded forced, which was a bit distracting, but Rosie Wyatt has a great energy on stage.  The set design is lovely, and the piece has really sweet things to say about having a backbone as a woman, and relating that to the spine of a book.  Most poignantly, a spine freely available in the dying world of libraries.

My response:

The books that have enriched my outlook on the world:

Roald Dahl, Matilda 

Taught me that a thirst for knowledge is cool.

DH Lawrence, Women in Love 

Taught me what love should look like. (FYI my favourite book ever)

T.S Eliot, Collected Poems 1909-1962 

Taught me that sometimes things deserve a second chance/reading i.e: The Waste Land

Henry James, The Turn of the Screw 

Taught me to trust carefully, and that it's okay to be unsure.

André Breton, Nadja 

Taught me that sometimes it’s okay that beautiful things happen in a moment, and then they’re gone.

Katherine Mansfield, Bliss 

For quite an academic reason. But generally, that women can pack a powerful punch against any insinuation that they might be ‘lacking’ in anything, anatomical or otherwise.

Jacqueline Wilson, all. 

Taught me about other people, and to be interested in other people.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar 

Taught me to look after myself.

Francois Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse 

Taught me to savour my youth, recognise loneliness, and to respect the virtues of honesty.

J.K Rowling, Harry Potter 

Provocation: what this series can’t teach you, nothing else will.

Most of these books are from my university library or reading list. I had the incomparable privilege of receiving that education (before the £9,000 a year tuition fees, at that) and of being able to sit in the library for 24 hours a day. But, for those who will not go to university, libraries are still standing. And for as long as they stand, the young can learn the lessons that Channel 4, YouTube and Facebook just aren’t suitable for. Because what these books also teach is patience, and to be gentle with the world.

Also: there is nothing I have learnt from a female writer that I couldn’t have learnt from a male one. I will continue forevermore to take wisdom from each and charge straight back out into the world with it.

That is all.

Different Every Night

I’ve been feeling a little fractured lately, and I’m going to attempt to explain why, through the medium of theatre.

Temporality is absolutely theatre’s best asset.  “Different every night”, “live” and “unpredictable” are all positive attributes of both watching and making it.  Likewise, whenever I review a show, I bear in mind that tomorrow night’s performance might carry a wholly different energy.  It is exciting, this element of the unknown.

As some may know, I recently started working for Theatre Delicatessen.  I first became aware of them when I was working on the Soho Poly Theatre Festival and volunteering for Secret Cinema.  Through both environments, I became interested in the question of “What constitutes a theatrical space?” and even wrote an essay on it for university.  One day at Secret Cinema, a girl handed me a copy of TimeOut and I read an article about their residency at Marylebone Gardens.  Already harbouring an interest in non-conventional theatre spaces due to the Soho Poly’s humble existence in what is now a storage room, the main thing that drew me to Theatre Delicatessen was the act of taking over an old office building.  They turn them into event spaces, art spaces, spaces for artists to rehearse, flourish and grow.  It is recycling, on an epic scale.

So here we are now, at 119 Farringdon Road, in the old Guardian office building.  There is a set date on the lease, and it is our home until further notice.  Artists come through our doors, rehearse their work, and leave.  We house and co-produce work, which brings audience through the doors who likewise come in, sit down and watch a show before I bid them goodnight.  The building itself is obviously still under development, and every time I go down to the basement to see what the SoundBoxed collective are up to, they’ve built or painted something new for their performance space.  Chandeliers have appeared in the event space.  The fourth floor is currently gearing up for ‘The Space is Inbetween Us’ by AlexandraBaybutt and David Somló, a production that by its very design, will be different every night.  

The bodily process of each day is the same, but what happens in between is very different.  It is exciting, it is exhausting.

***

I have quite a substantial soap box from which to shout about theatre criticism and regional theatre i.e: there is not enough coverage.  I am currently in the process of finding voices in Hampshire.  I really want to be able to tag team, so we can get more of the incredible work covered (Although Theatre Deli is a London Living Wage employer, I can’t afford to hop back every week.  So if you’re out there and interested, PLEASE get in touch).  It is great, and brimming with potential, and the only thing that made my London-move questionable.  But to go and review work, I leave this already temporal city to fly through my parent’s home, hop behind the wheel of my granparents’ old car, and watch and critically diagnose work that likewise, by nature, is fluid.  I then write the review.  I email it off and it is published in the ether and read by GOD knows who and...I get back on a train.  I head straight back to work, and people again fly in and out of those automatic doors with “Hello-how are you?-Goodbye.”  

It is exciting, it is exhausting.

***

A week ago, I went to the first workshop for the Soho Young Company Writer’s Lab.  For the first exercise, we essentially turned the main stage into a map of the world and stood where we grew up, where our parents grew up and where our grandparents grew up.  This was fascinating from a socio-geographical perspective, mainly because everyone spread further and further away from London.  But also to watch people climb over the seats to reach Mozambique, or to look up onto the balcony to see Canada.  We sat down again and immediately, the map disappeared.  I had just been at home, and at my grandparents’ home, how was I suddenly back in the Soho Theatre writing about it all?  Aptly, I have come away from the session with the beginning of a new play drawing on my ancestry, and of a fractured sense of belonging.  It was exciting, it was exhausting.

***

For the past fortnight, the King’s College Arts and Humanities Festival has been happening.  Within it, I was involved with a project organised by playwright Jingan Young which was a collaboration between poetry/playwriting/art to explore the theme of colony.  We took over this amazing little bar in the depths of the KCL strand campus and allowed stories to be told in a space that already has quite enough of its own stories to tell (just ask Ben, the barman.)  We watched as it turned from bar to theatre and back to bar, where we danced and drank in the very same space our talented actors had spoken and moved in.  It was incredible.  I feel very much as if we flew through that space at a rate of knots, shouting a whirlwind of stories with the sense of urgency that performing in a non-conventional space inspires.  It was exciting, it was exhausting.

Artwork by Aowen Jin, photo by Rebecca Yeo

***

Tonight, I went for a run.  Within a crazy week, sometimes an extra hour’s sleep really is preferable to half an hour pounding the pavements, so it has been a while.  But tonight, I think it only took a few seconds before all of that feeling of fragmentation, of discord and of temporality dissipated.  I returned home strong again, whole again, with restored acceptance of what the hell I’m doing here.  Of course a lot of that comes down to the rush of endorphins.  But also, it is in the simplicity of breathing in, and of breathing out.  Of being my body, having control over the space I cover, the speed at which I cover it and the pressure with which my feet strike it.  For each passing second, the pavement is only my running ground, nothing more.  

***

The thing about space that is used for theatre is that it is so radically multi-functioning.  What happens in that space is always a little bit magical.  Magical, but then it’s gone.

And, that’s why I’ve been feeling a little bit fractured.  There’s been a lot of magic, in very different places, where the only constant was my own tired, hungry, neglected body.  But I have now eaten, I have been for a run.  I will sleep.

Bring on next week.

Othello - Frantic Assembly - Nuffield Theatre - Southampton

Originally written for Exeunt.


The night I saw Frantic Assembly’s revived touring production of Othello, the Nuffield Theatre in Southampton was full to the brim with excited school groups. What was even better was that the kids had been set an assignment to review the piece, so it was pretty endearing to watch as they tried to scribble notes in the dark after the most poignant monologues and altercations. Best of all, though, was a moment when Steven Miller’s satisfyingly slimey Iago weaved his arm through Othello’s, standing behind him to likewise point towards the deed apparently committed between his wife and Cassio. The girl sat next to me, having clocked this symbolism, turned to her friend and mimicked the movement beautifully. What better character study could there be than to get out of the classroom and not just see the physical language, but to want to replicate it?

I loved Shakespeare at school (yes, I was that girl). But I had grown disdainful of his plays of late, purely because I couldn’t turn a corner of the world of theatre without seeing an advert or a review for yet another reimagining, restaging, rehashing of the same old stories we will seemingly play out forever more. However, in the same way that Frantic Assembly inspired excitement in the school audience at the Nuffield (cheering, whooping, rapturous applause), they have reawakened my love for the Bard.

To put it simply, it is due to the way that Frantic Assembly put together a production that makes this retelling the stunning piece of work that it has been heralded as. It is in the purposeful symbolism of the set design, the costume, the music. The calculated movements, the searing performances. It is due to framing the bar where this play takes place with a series of flats that move and bend to disorientating effect, communicating drunkenness or mental and emotional discord. It is the pool table, played throughout, that comes to its own climax when Lodovico tells Iago to “look on the tragic loading of this bed”: the careful setup of all the balls to pot both the black and the white.

Most provocatively, it is in having the ladies’ toilets on stage, while the gents’ toilets are out of sight. What is the meaning of this? Must we have the women’s private deeds flaunted infront of us, primed for criticism and slut-shaming, while the men can slip discreetly out of sight? Sounds familiar. I’ll leave you to wonder whether Shakespeare was simply ahead of his time.

There are more, so many more, moments of pure visual genius. The production is bulletproof. Everything has already been questioned before it reaches the stage so the implications of what we see are undeniably purposeful, rich in possibilities. And, let’s face it, Shakespearean verse is not most people’s common tongue to express lust or love, anger or jealousy. The physical gestures, however, are universally understood. Pass a pool cue through a girl’s hand at just the right angle and an audience will know exactly what you’re aiming for.

But, my opinion that all of this clever set design and physical language makes the original play clearer will not be shared by all, and I would wager that this is something very specific to already knowing it reasonably well. But Frantic Assembly have not brought this play into the tracksuit clad, party hard 21^st Century to accurately restore the production of Othello from the 17th Century. Although, neither is its stance as a direct response to the Yorkshire race riots of 2001 very obvious, except in hindsight.

Regardless, between a misplaced handkerchief and Scott Graham’s source of inspiration, the piece’s relevance prevails. What we see is a black man, feared and respected by his peers, who is manipulated by his friend to believe his white wife is betraying him for another white man.We see Iago and Emilia’s poisonous relationship, the sisterhood between Emilia and Desdemona, the comedic post-rendezvous debrief between Bianca and Cassio. We see women battling for equality, men humbled by their own masculinity and the furtive importance of trust and forgiveness in friendships and relationships.

Frantic Assembly tell those stories in a way that is more relevant, accessible and engaging, with all the fire that is less easily found in the text, but that music and physical gesture can evoke. That’s why we reproduce Shakespeare, and that’s why a Frantic Assembly retelling works so well. I have no doubt that the year 11s will look back on this production in 10 years’ time, when we are facing the next all-female/all-male/digitally enhanced/staged-on-the-moon production of Othello, and what they will remember is how much they enjoyed it.

Thank you, Frantic, for reminding me why I ever loved Shakespeare.

Joli Vyann Double Bill: Stateless and H2H. The Point, Eastleigh

Originally written for Exeunt.

It could be so easy for a company who combine contemporary dance and circus skills to simply fill an evening with crowd-pleasing spectacle and gravity-defying moves. Particularly a company with the daring and refined physical skill of this Hampshire-based company, Joli Vyann. And yet – although this production is ripe for provoking gasps and general incredulity, it harnesses these impressive skills and directs them towards storytelling. Presented as a double bill of pieces in development, the first, Stateless is an exploration of the human experience of immigration. It is told visually and literally, as we watch the four performers throw themselves between each other or jump between pieces of set. The risk factor is high, and the story is told to emotionally charged effect. 

The overall sense is that this is what life for these characters feels like, not only what it looks like. We also experience what it sounds like, as the piece is supported by a soundtrack containing interviews with real people sharing their own stories on immigration. This emphasises the context and the mood of the piece in a way that lifts it beyond abstract representation, and into something quite raw. When we hear a quote such as “I left the house without packing anything, not even my sanity” then see a girl fling herself tirelessly against an immovable wall of people, the motion is contextualised, making it all the more uncomfortably real. Suddenly, the issues surrounding immigration – particularly for those escaping from a volatile environment – feel much closer to home. 

In light of this, the close physical contact is somehow comforting in this story, even when they are standing on top of each other’s heads. The inherent trust implies that they have found a home within each other. They work together to assemble the scattered pieces of set and build a bridge, a process that is as beautiful to watch in creation as it is upon completion because the company work so fluidly with one another. There is a sense of hope and determination to this section as the pace is slower, there is more playfulness between the characters and it feels as if they are achieving something. The section culminates with the meeting of the two female performers on top of the bridge. “Stateless” indeed. 

Another voice comes over the soundtrack and now, the group are on the run from the police. This is cleverly and impressively imagined by use of a cyr wheel (a big hula hoop) which one of the male dancers sets spinning horizontally in the centre of the stage. The performers jump away from its grasp, afraid of being caught. When one of them is captured, he manages to control the hoop – to control the system – but not for long. The others swoop through the spinning hoop as if trying to save him but the hoop is softening in momentum. Time is running out. The music ends, stillness falls, and all we hear is the clatter of the wheel declaring his capture. 

Stateless is currently in development, predicted to have grown into an hour long piece by next summer. Although the piece in its current state was enthralling, I am excited to see where it will go next. They have laid the foundation in terms of theme and story, and shown physical potential for this to be a deeper exploration of the experience of immigration through a unique, potent medium. They are due to be at the London International Mime Festival in the spring. 

The second part of the double bill was a piece entitled H2H and was in stark contrast to Stateless, both in mood and theme. It focuses, after much deliberation between the girls and boys falling in and out of love with each other, on a couple giving birth to their first child. The piece was slow to build – as relationships sometimes are – and after the element of surprise that the first piece provided, it was at risk of paling in comparison. It deals with issues that are more familiar, and therefore, potentially less challenging. However, the light relief of smiling performers and comic moments was very welcome, and the piece eased into its own stride. 

Most delightful was the company’s novel use of costume, through which each person’s jumper was twisted and danced through until it became a ball of knots and, by appropriation, a baby. Here, the piece began to probe deeper into our society’s approach to parenthood and gender roles, showing the mother as primary caregiver while the father recoiled from the baby’s cries. Prepped for provocation having observed that, for the most part, the men supported the women, I had to ask – is this not just a lazy stereotype? 

The power of this, however, was to place the question directly within the world of performance, where motherhood is regularly postponed or is a career-killing choice for female dancers. It also makes a point about motherhood in general, and the laughter in the audience was out of sympathy while an exhausted mother retrieved the baby from its father’s hands. The baby was passed between the performers, as if travelling from mum, to dad, to babysitter until the knots of the jumper were untied, and the clothing was returned to its owners. Evidently, what held these people together had likewise unfurled and the physical, emotional support disappeared. They turned their backs on each other and left.

Produced by Turtle Key Arts.

The Edge of Our Bodies.

The Edge of Our Bodies by Adam Rapp - The Gate Theatre.  Directed by Christopher Haydon.

The audience’s shuffling and chattering is stunned into silence as Bernadette, powerfully played by Shannon Tarbet, appears infront of the stage and captivates us with just one look.   A breath, while we take in this teenage girl in a winter coat and school uniform, brimming with intensity and a darkness behind her eyes.  She takes a seat on a stool, framed by a border of flowers and three walls covered with ornate-looking mirrors.  She holds a leather notebook in perfect stillness.  We wait.

 

A daringly long time passes until, prepared and composed, Bernadette opens the notebook and begins to read.  There is an intriguing discord between herself and the text, as if she is reading someone else’s diary for the first time.  We learn that she is pregnant - unbeknownst to her boyfriend Michael - and she is journeying to New York to reach him.  But what we really want to know is, who is this girl?  Why is this story written down, and why does she feel so compelled to tell it?  

She reads on, her flow occasionally broken by unfamiliar noises or distractions within her own attention.  The first is a burst of noise from a television set that petrifies us all, adding to the already unsettled atmosphere of the piece.  It is as if the outside world is trying to penetrate this one surrounded by flowers and mirrors, and it alerts us to consider our own role – are we part of her imagination?  These moments build across the piece, softening in intensity and growing in clarity as we get to know the character of Bernadette, and as she lets us get to know her.  

The process is gradual, and what is withheld in vocal or character clues is compensated for in visual ones.  As Bernadette’s story unravels, as do the physical barriers around her.  She removes her coat, unties her hair and takes off her school tie.  But still, painful events are relayed matter of factly, even once she has put the notebook down and tells us the story herself.  Our pay off, graciously, is when Bernadette allows herself some release – to dance, to smoke, to play music loudly and smash things against the walls.  And yet, these are not the most heart-wrenching moments.  Something strange is happening, wherein Bernadette’s otherwise composure and hesitation to connect to her emotions is what is most difficult to watch.  

She ties her hair back up, and addresses us once more, poker-faced.

All of these frames of narrative - the notebook, the theatrical set and an audience before her – seem to be there for her own protection.  But protection from what?  Even within the story itself, she tells lies to the people she meets.  Having given up waiting for Michael at his house, she pretends to a man she meets in a bar that she is Diana the anthropology student, and allows him to take her to a hotel room.  Here she displays maturity beyond her years, and as the truth unravels, as does the security of the previous pretence.  While “Marc with a C” sleeps, it begins to snow.  But Bernadette feels numb to it, as if she is existing outside of her own body.  It’s time to stop pretending.

Her reaction to this revelation is to rip the set apart and the remains are cleared away.  But now, what protection does she have left?  Not quite ready to confront the situation alone, she returns to the notebook, and reads furtively by a ghost light.

Slowly the desperation eases and the mysterious atmosphere from the beginning of the piece is almost entirely cleared away.  We know her story, and we have witnessed the demolition of the barriers in her mind.  She is alone, besides her audience, and the general feeling is that Bernadette has reached some sort of closure.  She has an abortion and the relationship with Michael comes to an end, but the denouement of these plotlines is secondary to Bernadette’s own resolution.  What Adam Rapp, Shannon Tarbet and this sensitive production communicate is the gorgeous fragility not only of a teenage girl hurtling towards adulthood and the real world, but of all of our experiences of the world outside the one we create for ourselves.

 It is a lonely world, the world at the edge of our bodies.

Bernadette turns her back on us and leaves through a door at the back of the stage.  

She holds out her hands and laughs in the snow.