Richard III Review

On Saturday evening, along with a couple of like-minded friends (for like-minded, feel free to read batty!) walked into a tiny theatre space with no heating, no specialised lighting or sound equipment, no cafe or toilet facilities, having travelled up to London specially for the experience of seeing a production of Richard III performed by four women with minimal props on a performance space smaller than my lounge.

Batty? Perhaps, but the experience was magical and worth every mile traversed to get there.
The theatre itself contributed about 50% of the magic: it was the Rose, famous to anyone who has studied Shakespeare and Elizabethan Theatre, which, true to its name, has risen from under a sixties’ office block ready to be claimed as our own in the 21st Century.

The dimly lit foundations, gleaming under water, provided an atmospheric backdrop to the play, and a wonderfully haunting acoustic for the singing and drumbeats which added to the dramatic tension, as well as the other-worldly quality that permeated the performance.

The other 50% of the magic was supplied by four actresses from the Scrawny Cat Theatre Company, and if I had any questions about how four people would be able to present the myriad of characters Shakespeare put into this play (and I did!) the answer was ingenious: simple costumes, smoothly and efficiently changed, to tell us who is who, simple puppetry to represent child characters, and sharing the title role between all four actresses, each of whom brought a slightly different quality to a complex character, which served to point up Richard’s ability to be charming, scheming, openly evil or apparently sincere by turns.

Oh, and by judiciously trimming the play to omit some characters and bring it down to a length that modern audiences can cope with sans loo or heat. How those Elizabethan groundlings fared in poor weather I don’t know!

Like most people nowadays, I view Shakespeare’s representation of a villainous Richard as deliberate spin to please the Tudor overlords rather than an accurate portrayal of this historical figure, but let’s not allow a bit of slander to get in the way of telling a good story – after all, the tabloids today are just as happy to destroy reputations, and like so much of Shakespeare’s writing, there are elements in the play which provide food for thought about contemporary society.

An unusual take on a familiar play, but it remained true to the spirit of the piece and the audience was carried along by the story, able to suspend disbelief, as Coleridge would have put it, because of the acting ability shown by every one of the small cast. A truly inter-supportive team, each actress was able to change character not just with the costume – that served as a visual cue – but by a different stance, altered timbre to the voice, distinctive gait. It was evocative enough to make me sympathise with Queen Elizabeth’s loss of her sons, even while seeing them represented by nothing more than a couple of silky squares of material.

Sadly the run is now over. I feel lucky to have caught the last performance, and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get along to the Rose Theatre to soak up the atmosphere, and you’ll keep a sharp eye out for future plays at the Rose – and any being produced by Scrawny Cat.

If Richard III is anything to go by, a wonderful evening’s entertainment will be guaranteed.

Mojo: Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high!

Just over a week ago I was privileged enough to attend a performance of ‘Mojo’, written by Jez Butterworth, at the Harold Pinter Theatre just off Leicester Square, and I am still exhausted yet hyped up by the experience. Compelling, mesmerising and very, very funny.

That the cast will have managed to perform the play six more times since then speaks volumes about their fitness and dedication. The amount of energy expended must be enormous, let alone the vocal strength required to deliver lines at such a high volume and speed throughout the evening. Mojo, at least this production of it, is a thrilling and fast paced black comedy – the audience needs their wits about them to catch all the jokes and banter.

And that’s not taking account of the amazing amount of talent crammed on to that smallish stage.

If the play was cast with one eye to attracting a cross section of the populace who are not necessarily theatre goers, they succeeded: for the older Downton Abbey afficianados, there was Brendan Coyle, strutting around the stage without the aid of a walking stick using language that would give the Dowager Countess palpitations; for the younger Harry Potter set there was Rupert Grint in his first live theatre show, and I did spot a few familiar Ron Weasley scared faces on stage; and in between there was Colin Morgan, fresh from his TV exposure as Merlin, which I have to admit I’ve never seen, but may do so if Morgan’s performance on screen is as good as on stage.

Add in Daniel Mays, who everyone recognises from somewhere, and the relative newcomer Tom Rhys Harries, and you already have a stellar cast list, but for me the icing on the cake was the chance to see Ben Whishaw on stage: a much anticipated treat. And he didn’t disappoint – if there was a star of the show – and it was very much a collective piece – he was it, albeit by a short way. 

The play is set over a couple of hot July days in 1958, in a seedy Soho nightclub which, judging by an article in the programme, is very loosely based on the 2i’s coffee bar where real life Elvis wannabes were discovered – Cliff Richard, Marty Wilde... In the first scene we see their fictional counterpart, Silver Johnny, backstage preparing for his performance which, we later learn, is being watched by some important people. Right from the start, the tone is set as Johnny struts, jives, drinks, adjusts his hair – among other things  - and generally gives off an aura of extreme nervousness.

The next two characters we meet are Potts and his sidekick Sweets (so called because he provides the pills most of the characters are forever popping, which does nothing to dispel their edginess). Mays’ Potts is a sharp suited, oily quaffed fifties spiv, who anticipates a share in the dosh Silver Johnny’s talent will make for the team. He and Grint’s Sweets sit at a table in the upper room of the nightclub while the show is going on below them, and via their nervous banter the audience learns that Sam Ross, so rich his shoes are made of ‘baby fucking buckskin handstitched by elves’ is being schmoozed by the nightclub owner, Ezra. Sam, Potts asserts, will take Johnny to America and make them all rich. Given his physical jitters, one wonders who he is trying to convince.

As the rest of the cast appear, the atmosphere becomes even more stressed as the tensions between the characters add to their individual anxieties. Skinny Luke (Morgan), the cloakroom attendant, is clearly in awe of Ezra’s son Baby, simultaneously wanting to copy his clothes, for which Baby derides him, and in constant fear of possible violence from him. 

Baby himself (Whishaw) is a complex mix of psychotic tendencies, one minute chasing Skinny around the room armed with a sword, or throwing chairs through the air, the next almost catatonic and unresponsive, the next demanding and menacing. In one memorable scene he goes out to buy toffee apples for everyone, as a gesture of solidarity, but no sooner has he handed them round than his personality has undergone another change and he demands that Skinny pay him for them. Gradually we learn a few facts about his background - that he has been abused by his father for instance - which help us sympathise with him.

The following morning we meet the final character, Ezra’s manager Mickey, who brings the news of Ezra’s murder the night before. In the face of the disbelief of the others, Mickey and Skinny, who aligns himself to the person he believes has the power to protect him, assert the truth of the murder by announcing the body was found in the bins. In two bins, they clarify. Silver Johnny meanwhile has disappeared, presumably kidnapped by Sam Ross who was reluctant to share the proceeds of his talent.

The rest of the play explores the effect of the murder on the depleted team as Mickey and Baby vie for control and the rest desperately try to hold on to some form of sanity and security in the face of the threat of Sam coming back to deal with the rest of them. Mickey clearly knows what Baby is capable of and by turns placates and confronts him. 

Nervousness, insecurity and fear are at the very centre of Mojo, which can be read as a study in these emotions and their impact on characters who are already damaged. While Sweets and Skinny try invasion to find security in the shadow of peopple the wrongly perceive as more powerful and assured than themselves, Potts blusters his way through, Mickey bullies and Baby is terrifyingly calm and violent by turns. The only character who has recognised talent meanwhile is treated, quite literally, as a piece of meat by the others.

In the end, despite Mickey’s posturing and assumption of the role of leader, he can only throw out pointless orders, and it is left to Baby to finally take action to get Johnny back, which he does armed with a cleaver which – he tells the assembled horrified cast – has left Ross with a bit of a headache. In recovering the star however, the psychotic Baby has made a discovery about the betrayal of his father which forms the climax of the play, leading to another murder and finally destroying the nightclub team forever.

Judged purely on the plot, Mojo would be a depressing play. However, there is so much comedy of character, such as Potts' immediate joy on discovering Silver Johnny has returned (albeit that he is strung up by his ankles with Baby watching him intently) - Potts' exclamation of his trademark 'Fish are jumping and the cotton is high!' betrays his complete failure to understand the situation. Baby meanwhile, asserts that he has been spurred into taking action because: 'There's nothing like having your Dad cut in half to focus the mind'.

Can't argue with that!

Eb's Palsy 2

So how exactly does Erb's Palsy affect my life?

I have to think carefully about this because my first reply is that it doesn't, that I never notice it because I have had an impairment in my arm all my life and have learned to live with it: as I have learned any skill it is by incorporating the needs of my Erb's arm into it. There has never been a time - at least since birth - when I had the full use of my left arm so, unlike people who have sustained an injury in an accident for example, I know no different.

But of course the impairment in my arm has affected my life and the way I live it day to day.

I can remember in my early childhood being encourged to exercise my arm and being stubbornly resistant. None of my friends had to do exercises, so why should I? Why indeed, my mother probably thought, and let me be.

One of the first occasions on which I remember my arm being a problem was learning to play tennis. Although not a great sportswoman - as much due to my build and personality as to my arm - I had coped happily with rounders (the bat is held in both hands) table tennis (bat held in right hand and left hand simply has to hold the ping pong ball) and hockey. Tennis was fine until I learned to serve. The motion of throwing the tennis ball into the air ready to strike with the racket was impossible for me, since my Erb's hand refuses to rotate any further than a vertical plane, with the palm facing inwards. Throwing the ball up demands a palm-upwards posture.

So I developed my own style of serve, in which I held the ball with my hand facing downwards, and then flicked the hand back so the the ball was propelled in an upwards direction. Not as powerful as the correct movement, but it got the ball more or less where I wanted it to go. I have no memory of speaking to anyone about this - the teacher either failed to notice that I was doing it differently or - more likely - left me to find my own way through the challenge.

The next problem wa drying my hair - I could hold the hairdryer in my right hand or I could brush my hair with my right hanbd - neither was possible with a left arm which refused to move above shoulder height under its own steam.

I got round it by positioning the brush with my right hand, transferring it to my left and then picking up the dryer. Until my mother bought me a hair dryer with a brush attachment - it was, typically, her who felt upset by my inability to manipulate brush and dryer properly rather than me.

At no point do I ever remember being bullied about my arm. Yes, there were bullies in school and like many children I was picked on at times, but it was for completely other things. Very few people ever mentioned my impaired movement and when I spoke to close friends most said they had never noticed it - they may have thought I approached some tasks rather awkwardly but they thought that was just me. One boyfriend, when I shared the story of my birth, remarked: 'I did notice that your arm was a bit awkward when you do certain things, but I thought it was because you have big boobs and you have had to work round them!'

I know there are a whole range of severities of injury that come under the Erb's umbrella, and many sufferers will be more or less affected than me, but I have never really thought of myself as disabled in any way, and maybe this in itself has helped me cope.

As I have recounted above, I was taken for physiotherapy for the first two years of my life and my parents spent many distressing hours manipulating my arm to try to encourage the greatest movement and flexibility possble, and they did a brilliant job.

I understand that nowadays surgery is often performed to release the joint and aid movement: this was never an option offered to my parents, and I can't say whether I would have been a good candidate for a surgical procedure and what the outcome might have been. At least the parents of today seem to have access to better information about the range of options open to them, although of course this brings with it the responsibility to choose the way forward for their own child and the pressure of wondering whether the path they choose is really the best possible option for their little one.

Any childhood trauma is always going to impact just as much as, if not more on the parents than the child as I know from the time when my own son broke his ankle. It was him who had to undergo an operation to pin the broken bone, but it was me who bore the anxiety and hurt of seeing my baby - I use the term loosely as he was a strapping six foot tall fifteen year old at the time - suffer. When they had to inject him, knowing how scared he is of needles, I could have wept, and more than once I wished fervently that it could have been me rather than him going through the pain and trauma of an operation. In comparison, having a major operation myself was a breeze.

So I fully understand any parent who decides not to put their child through surgery, either because of the temporary suffering it will cause, or so that they can feel as normal as possible. Equally, I admire those who choose this route because they believe and hope it will give their child the best possible quality of life, whatever trauma that path may involve.

In some ways though, I am relieved that my parents did not have to make such choices, even though it is tempting to wonder what the outcomes would have been.

After the programme referred to in the last post, I was moved to look on the internet for information about Erb's Palsy, whiich led me to a brilliant support group, whose website can be found here:

http://www.erbspalsygroup.co.uk

It was through reading about the experiences of members of this group that I learned that my experience is nowhere near as unusual as I had supposed; that the birth injury that causes Erb's Palsy is recognised and sadly is still happening today. There are mothers and fathers with young children and tiny babies having to come to terms with the heartbreak that my own parents faced fifty five years ago.

 Wouldn't you think that the condition could be avoided nowadays with education, care and awareness raising?

Erb's Palsy

Ever heard of Erb's Palsy? I certainly hadn't until I saw a television programme last month, about Kaiser Wilhelm.

It was one of those things that feel like fate but in reality was pure chance. Scrolling through the channels in search of something to watch, there was what appeared to be a documentary about the Kaiser from the point of view of his childhood and his status as Queen Victoria's eldest grandchild. I am interested in history and so for want of something better to watch I stayed with the channel.

To start with it was more or less as I had expected - an account of Princess Vicky's marriage to the German Kaiser and Wilhelm's eagerly anticipated birth, during which there were complications rustling in a deformity to his arm. Yes, I knew he had had a deformed arm, but there was something strangely familiar with the story of his birth, and some of the extra details about his shoulder joint being affected made me pay more attention.

But even then it wasn't until a beautiful young Paralympic athlete called Rachel Latham was interviewed, and she demonstrated her own disability, that I realised. Or rather, until my husband pointed out: 'Her arm is exactly like yours'. He was referring to the limited movement and characteristic position at which it rested, with the hand turned backwards and outwards: what I now know is referred to as the 'waiter's tip' posture, for obvious reasons.

But the end of the programme I had learned that the condition which I have had since birth is called Erb's Palsy, that it is a recognised condition and that - sadly, although avoidable, there are still babies being born affected in this way.

My own story is that, like all Erb's Palsy sufferers, I was perfectly formed while in my mother's womb. I was born prematurely and, unlike many Erb's babies, comparatively small at five and a half pounds. My problem was that I was a breech presentation, just like Wilhelm.

Apparently the doctors had already turned me in the womb but just like the stubborn person I still am, I had turned back again so they had no option but to deliver me feet - or rather bottom- first. I suppose a Caesarian might have been an option but Mum was never offered one and I was not at that time in a position to question the medical staff on their decision. I was too busy being born.

So out I came, and Mum tells me I effectively got stuck and had to be helped out. In pulling me out of the womb, somehow my left arm got dragged out of position and I was born with my arms, not crossed in front of me like most babies', but one up above my shoulder.

Once born, I was examined and my parents were given the bad news: some nerves and ligaments in my shoulder had been damaged. This would in turn affect the muscle movement and strength and the result would be that my left arm would be permanently unusable and paralysed.it would fail to grow and instead would wither, the consultant informed them.

To my eternal gratitude, my father refused point blank to accept this diagnosis, and for ever after, while Mum referred to an 'accident at birth', he called it 'a bloody stupid midwife'. In those days, before litigation became the name of the game, no one ever suggested, as far as I know, suing for compensation and while I have nothing but praise and love for how my parents handled things, clearly, from what I now know, he was right and someone should have been held accountable for their actions. If only to stop more babies being damaged in this way. It breaks my heart to know this is still happening today.

Dad did however insist on being referred to someone higher up and I was recommended for physiotherapy. So every week for the next two years, my parents drove the fifteen miles to Norwich and back for appointments, and each and every day, often, they have told me, with tears pouring down their cheeks, they obediently manipulated and exercised my left arm as the physiotherapist instructed them. I still have the small sandbag, about four inches square, which Dad made to put under my arm as I lay in my pram, to stretch it and keep it extended.

I am absolutely convinced that without the work my parents put in during my first two years of life, the grim prognosis made at birth would have been my destiny.

Once I was discharged from physiotherapy mum and dad continued with the exercises until I was old enough to complain, and as I grew they did try to persuade me to exercise my arm myself, but you know how kids are - I couldn't see the point, I was happy with my arm as it was and I resisted. I could blame my parents for not being more forceful about this but I think they wanted me to be as normal as possible, and none of my school friends had to exercise their arms every day, so why make me feel different?

Anyway, the result of their own efforts was that my arm grew almost, but not quite, as long as the other; it won't straighten but only by about 15 degrees, I can't propel it above shoulder height and I can't turn the palm to face the sky.

But I can: live a normal life; drive a car (and a bus!); cuddle my husband with both arms; hold my children; ride a bike; swim; have a career; play the piano and guitar, and type these words with both hands.

I have so much to be grateful for.

Jam!

It must be the silly season – jam’s in the news.

If you are, like me, an aficionado of the work of the great Eddie of Izzard, jam is indeed special. If you follow Mr Izzard’s example and use the internet to research your subject, you’ll probably know that jam was invented by Mr and Mrs Jam, who live in a toilet somewhere...and that the premise of jam is to get some stuff – strawberries, plums, chicken, mustard, whatever – and jam it into a jar.

That’s why it’s called a jam jar. It was originally made for 1950’s schoolboys to capture and imprison tadpoles so they can either wait for them to turn into frogs and die because they are all jammed together in the jam jar and can’t breathe, or to pour over their sisters to scare them.

Once the frogs have been scraped out though, the other stuff can be jammed in.

I think there is some culinary process involved too, by which you have to boil it in a saucepan, add yeast, let it rise and then prove it – which essentially means making sure it is jam because it is actually illegal to put one of those sticky labels on the jam jar saying ‘Strawberry Jam’ if the stuff inside isn’t.

Once you have proved it is really strawberry jam (best way, I think, is to taste a spoonful of it – but try not to do that just after it’s boiled unless you think a blistered tongue is a good look) then you can jam it in the jar!

As I understand it, apart from the jam jar, two things are needed to make jam: some foodstuff – and in this conservative country we tend to use fruit-based stuff – and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. As much as you can jam into the jar.

And this seems to be the problem at the moment – some health-conscious officials want us to take the sugar out of the jam – or at least put less in.

So we have to ask ourselves why the sugar is there in the first place? Why not just jam a load of strawberries into a jar and spread it on your toast?

Because fruit goes off, that’s why! And who wants mould on toast for their breakfast?

So some clever person had the idea of adding sugar as a preservative – it used up the huge glut of fruit which would otherwise go off before you could eat it, it meant you could have fruit-based food for the next year – and it tastes good! All round winner.

You could spread it on bread or toast, on cakes, or get playing cards to make tarts with it – the obvious drawback with that being a male playing card would inevitably run off with the tarts, but that’s men for you – always on the lookout for a spare tart to cop off with!

Now, hundreds of years later, they want us to put less sugar in it to make it a healthier food. In the process, they admit, it will be a dull colour and taste awful.

Why not just ban jam totally – you might as well if you are going to enforce a dull, pale imitation of it.
Or – here’s a thought! Make ‘Reduced Sugar Jam’ and sell it alongside the real stuff – and see which one is more popular with the general public!

Oh – you’ve already tried that, and people prefer the sugary jam.

OK, why not advise everyone take to take 20 minutes’ exercise 3 times a week to use up the extra calories?
Oh, you’ve done that too. Well, it’s the nanny state then....... No sense in giving people the freedom to choose, is there?

Meanwhile, if you want me, I’ll be in the kitchen, tucking into homemade plum jam – because they can’t stand in your kitchen and tell you how much sugar to put in homemade jam....

...can they??

Pub Restaurants - a contradiction in terms?

Once upon a time (ie when I was a lot younger than I am now!) you knew where you were. There were pubs, which served drinks, and restaurants, which served dinner. If you wanted a sandwich or snack you went to a cafe and afternoon tea and cakes could be had in a teashop.


Then along came the fast food outlets, but they just added places where you could eat a burger for lunch or a kebab when you came out of the pub.


Now restaurants (and pubs) serve ‘traditional pub fare’ (or worse, ‘fayre’). Traditional pub fare is, surely, a packet of pork scratching with your pint! The only food choice to be made in our local twenty years ago was whether to go for cheese and onion crisps or salt and vinegar. If the establishment was really up market the landlord might even stock peanuts!


Now, they’d have us believe that traditional pubs have always served lasagne, shepherds pie and scampi and chips. I do remember chicken in a basket – introduced to keep punters at the bar downing drinks when otherwise peckishness would have sent them to the nearby chippie – and there was ‘Betty’s hotpot’ served in the Rovers Return at some time I seem to remember, but steak dinners and sticky toffee puddings were never part of the pub repertoire in my youth.


I am now confused as to what constitutes a restaurant, since so many pubs seem to serve more food than drink, and many restaurants have a bar at which you can drink before and after your meal... so where do you draw the line?


The only eateries which now seem to fully deserve the title of restaurant are those pretentious places serving the likes of ‘nouvelle cuisine’ which arrive at the table on a huge square plate on which is carefully and centrally placed a blob of some unidentifiable pureed vegetables of the portion size and consistency which I gave to my babies at four months old, topped with a sliver of fish or meat the size (and often the texture) of a postage stamp, the whole garnished with a twig of some herb or other and drizzled with a teaspoonful of some tasteless sauce. For which the mug – I mean diner – is charged three times the price of a huge plateful of shepherds pie at the local pub.


Suddenly, the thought of the pub restaurant doesn’t sound so silly – perhaps they were just filling the gap in the market!

To Autumn 2013

On this day in 1819 Keats wrote his famous ode.

But what would he have made of today's consumerism?

For the last few years I have been irritated by the Chrismas displays being wwheeled out before the summer holidays have even finished, so I have amended - a little bit - this famous poem to reflect what Autumn means 200 years on....



Season of mince pies and untimely Advent Calendars
Close bosom-friend of the grasping retail trade;
Conspiring with them how to load and pile
With tat, the trolleys that round the shops parade;
To bend with toys the Children’s Section floor,
And fill all aisles with chocolates and sweets;
To cram in every type of gift and card
For every family member; to set panic buying more,
And still more, food and drink we never need,
Until we forget warm days have not yet ceased,
For greed has o'erbrimmed their corporate plans.


Who hath not seen thee too early in the stores?
From September whoever wanders in will see
The tins of biscuits piled by the front door,
Turkish Delight, Yule logs, Christmas tree
Or if in the drinks section you may roam,
Drowsed with the fume of Cointreau, while the display
Groans with gin and whisky, Baileys and Cours;
Egg-nog and snowballs – when would we take these home
Except for Great Aunt Annie’s Yuletide stay?
And by the stock, with silver tray,
Staff offer little tasters, hours by hours.


Where are the Harvest celebrations? Or even Hallowe’en?
Think not of them, they make too little cash, -
A few buy apples and tins of stuff for the school assembly,
And trick or treat sweets and masks and all that trash;
Soon in a wailful choir Christmas adverts will begin;
The festive TV trailers, there among
The first Coca Cola advert assaults our ears;
And then we know we may as well give in;
Carols piped through all the shops decibels strong
We end up whistling Slade’s old song;
And celebrities tweet plugs for new CDs.