Birdland / Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Saturday 10^th May 2014

'Nothing is ever the same, once you've been on tv'

You could be forgiven for thinking that as this blog’s been quiet for a few weeks, I’ve been saving my pennies and shying away from thespian exploits. Wait! Are you kidding? Of course, you would be wrong!

In fact, I have simply been indisposed and overworked. Two weeks’ ago, my friend, Jacqueline and I enjoyed a Saturday of such theatrical adventure that it frankly finished me off. I retired to bed, snuffling. Feeling sorry for myself and watching repeats of Kavanagh QC, I remembered that Noel Coward wrote Private Lives when suffering from the flu. My attitude, tucked up in bed with a hot toddy, merely echoed a line of Victor Prynne’s. I looked at my computer, contemplated writing, then shook my head and muttered: ‘It’s very nice here...’

Two weeks’ ago, Jacqueline and I headed to see Birdland at the Royal Court. It was a matinee performance – not very usual behaviour for me and something we regretted almost from the moment of booking as it allows less time for cake-eating and general pre-show antics. In the event, however, it was a fortuitous choice.

Birdland is a new play by Simon Stephens. The plot is not particularly novel. It’s a study of the perils of fame. Paul is a pop star. He’s young, successful and rich, but as we watch, he becomes more and more self-involved, hurting those around him and losing touch with reality itself.

I’ve started losing all sense of who I am anymore. I do things that feel like they come out of nowhere. I check into hotels and I can’t remember my own name... Other people remember. They tell me. They know who I am. Everybody knows who I am in real life. I walk into a room and they all recognise me. They look at me. Their faces light up.

While the plot may not be exceptional, the play itself is engaging and at times, mesmerising. Andrew Scott is very convincing as Paul. He glitters and gyrates – the ultimate, posturing popstar. His greed is nauseating; his selfishness repulsive. He betrays his best friend and band mate, Johnny, sleeping with Johnny’s girlfriend, Marnie. He drives Marnie to suicide, idly suggesting he tell Johnny of the affair. He tries to buy his way out of this tragedy, offering Marnie’s parents money to assuage their grief: ‘Would that help? To pay for the funeral or anything like that or just to have a bit of money. Maybe you could go on holiday or something?’ Yet, he is an electric presence on stage. It’s difficult to take your eyes off him, and easy to understand why others – including the kind and sensible waitress, Jenny – are seduced by his charm.

The cult of celebrity:
my copy of Birdland signed by Andrew Scott

Scott deftly portrays Paul’s inner desperation and increasing vulnerability. A particularly touching scene comes late in the play when Paul is reunited with his father, Alistair, who he has not seen for several years. The play’s title, after all, draws inspiration from the Patti Smith song, ‘Birdland,’ about a boy’s wish to be reunited with his dead father. This reunion is awkward. Paul and Alistair struggle to find common ground to converse with one another. Alistair tells Paul news of his old school-friends, now living lives far removed from super-stardom: ‘Degs was going to come down... I saw him last week. In Currys. He couldn’t in the end. He had to work.’ He grudgingly confesses to his son that he is in debt after falling back on his bills and borrowing money from an internet site. To Paul, the sum - £960 – is a trifle, but Alistair is deeply ashamed. Paul tries to reach out to his father, to grasp the lifeline that his father offers, but he cannot give voice to his emotions. He cannot enunciate his cry for help. The moment passes and one feels, with regret, that Paul has lost his last chance of salvation.

The language of the play is a real strength. Paul and Johnny have the kind of languid, vacuous conversations that one imagines from bored stars on a tour bus.

‘Have we been here before?’

‘Not to this place.’

‘Have you seen anything here?

‘No’

‘I like the, the, the fucking, technicians.’

I very much enjoyed Paul’s vapid and amusing interview, where almost all he says is: ‘It’s great, yeah.’ I think we've all seen showbiz interviews like that! 

The supporting cast are also strong, some playing multiple parts. Daniel Cerqueira is especially good, particularly as Alistair, and as David, Paul’s impatient manager. The set too is interesting. The play is one continuous act. As Paul spirals towards doom, the floor gradually fills with water. By the end, the actors are paddling about. And Paul is drowning... drowning in fame... drowning in money... drowning in worthlessness.

All in all, in spite of its unoriginal premise, Birdland was unexpectedly thought-provoking and entertaining. The irony was yet to come, however...

A marvellous picture of Andrew Scott
from our first encounter at
the National Theatre last year! 

As most of you will know, Birdland’s star, Andrew Scott, is best known for playing Moriarty in the BBC’s Sherlock, alongside the infamous Mr Cumberbatch. The audience at the Royal Court was not universally young and female, but almost! After the show, I heard mention that Mr Scott always comes out of the stage-door to greet his fans. Naturally, Jacqueline and I set off to investigate. There was a large crowd of teenage girls – with, in some cases, their parents – at the side of the theatre. Andrew Scott emerged, clad in sunglasses in the middle of a London downpour. The crowd reached frenzy. To do him credit, Mr Scott was tireless in his acknowledgement of his adoring fans. He put his arm round trembling girls as they shrieked requests for photographs. He autographed programmes, given to him with shaking hands. He waited patiently while skittish parents snapped the requisite mementos.  

I must confess at this point that Andrew Scott has form when it comes to Jacqueline and I. Back in November, we were privileged to be outside the stage door on the night of the National Theatre’s 50^th Anniversary celebrations. It was a truly magical night - a night of a thousand stars. Once again, there were some Sherlock fans in the crowd, who were ecstatic to see Andrew Scott amongst the thespian throng. Once again, he made his way gamely round the autograph hunters, pausing for a photograph with a girl who was so overcome at his presence, she burst into tears. As he carried on signing away, an unassuming car drew up and its door opened. In a flash, the crowd’s attention was diverted and poor Mr Scott forgotten. I have never seen anything like it... 

‘MAGGIE!’ we cried as one!  

Almost as if Mr Scott remembered us and knew we had forsaken him for a Dame of the realm, our second encounter with him was sadly anticlimactic. We waited until the crowd of Sherlockians had died down, then approached and thanked him for his performance. His exchange with Jacqueline had something of the Lionel Bart about it:

She: ‘Thank you very much.’

He: ‘Thank you very much.’

I said: ‘Thanks for a great show,’ and got a ‘Yeah’ or suchlike in return. It was almost as if poor Mr Scott was taken aback that we didn’t want to throw ourselves at him and demand an embrace. Feeling rather ashamed and somewhat underwhelmed, we slunk away...

Subsequently, I can't help wondering what Andrew Scott really makes of it all. How deliciously, and terrifyingly, ironic to be starring in such a play and subject to similar fame! 

They know who I am. Everybody knows who I am in real life. I walk into a room and they all recognise me. They look at me. Their faces light up.

Our theatrical day out was not over, however. Here, going to the matinee proved an unexpected advantage. We wandered through Eaton Square, past the one-time home of Vivien Leigh. I wouldn’t mind living there myself! An evening in the West End was on the cards, and how better to spend an evening in the West End but at the theatre. Twice in one day? I hear you ask. Why, of course! 

For a long time, Jacqueline had cherished an ambition to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. We popped into the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and were able to secure two reasonably-priced seats for that evening’s performance. We then made a slight detour to our favourite cake shop in Covent Garden for some much needed sustenance (see Exhibit A).

The Theatre Royal is absolutely beautiful. I should think that unless one is wearing a ballgown, a diamond necklace and glittering tiara, it is impossible to feel anything but under-dressed. It made one long for the days where patrons dressed up to go to the theatre. Soon, we were to long for the days where patrons shut up at the theatre...

Exhibit A

The curtain went up on the visual delight that is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The scenery was magical; the costumes, sensational; the young actors, charming. Unfortunately, our enjoyment of this spectacle was marred by the fact that we were sitting in front of ‘the family from hell’ – as Jacqueline would later describe them. There were four children and a similar number of adults, and they talked continuously from the moment the musical began. By ‘they’, I mean the parents! The children were largely quiet, although the child behind me amused himself by kicking the chairs. Being the best of British, we huffed and puffed. We turned around and glared. Overcoming my natural urge to avoid confrontation, I was so angry that I even asked them – yes, actually asked them – three times to be quiet! PLEASE! ‘They’re not going to shut up, are they?’ said Jacqueline, in desperation. Alas, this proved to be correct.

In the interval, we attempted to collar one of the front of house staff. This proved a little more problematic than expected, but we eventually managed to declare our woes. Laurence Olivier himself would have been proud of the level of drama we managed to inject into this performance! It helped that, by this point, I was positively incandescent with rage! We were moved seats – further back from where we were previously sitting but mercifully, in an empty section away from any other theatregoers.

And so the second half began, and this time we were transported into a ‘world of pure imagination.’ The show is a veritable chocolate box of delights. There were some rather beautiful songs (Music and Lyrics by Marc Shaiman and Lyrics by Scott Wittman). My particular favourite was the gentle, ‘If Your Mother Were Here,’ sang to Charlie by his father.

The outstanding feature of the performance was the sets, however. They were quite simply breathtaking. Especially inventive was the giant television in the Bucket’s house, upon which Charlie heard news of the first four winners of golden tickets. Inside the giant television, the respective actors conjured up the family homes of Roald Dahl’s bizarre and beloved characters. The various rooms of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory were a series of excitements from the Chocolate Room with its river to the Nut Room with its savvy squirrels. The Oompa-Loompas dance with television screens in the Television room was dazzling. My favourite scene, however, was when Charlie rides with Wonka in the great glass elevator. Outlined in fairy lights, the elevator rose above the stage, while Charlie and his mentor sang ‘Pure Imagination’ – the only song from the 1971 film which remains in the musical. It was a truly magical and a moving moment.

The cast did not have a weak link from Grandpa Joe to Charlie himself. Douglas Hodge was wonderful in one of his final performances as Willy Wonka. (He’s now been replaced by Alex Jennings). The prickly, slightly sinister nature of Wonka’s character, evident in the book, was beautifully portrayed. Here was a man who couldn’t care less about the fate of the greedy Augustus Gloop or the selfish Veruca Salt; a man who had little patience with ignorance or humdrum normality, but who was attracted by Charlie’s infinite curiosity and zest for life. Special mention should also go here to the child actors, who exuded energy and style. Luca Toomey was making his final appearance after a year of playing Mike Teevee, and was rewarded with a special curtain call at the end.

The second half was not without incident, I must say. At one point, the usher had to dash down the steps of the Grand Circle to ask a woman to switch off her phone. She was sitting there, texting away, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the spectacle in front of her. Such behaviour! It didn't spoil our evening, however. While we felt rather short-changed at having struggled through the first half, it was a case of all’s well that ends well. 

Perhaps our day was really summed up by the wise Oompa-Loompas! When Mike is transformed to pocket size, they comment: 'Nothing is ever the same once you've been on tv.' Maybe today's audience members are too used to tapping away on their phones or gossiping in front of the gogglebox to concentrate on a show? For Andrew Scott, life is certainly not the same either! 

King Lear

16^th February 2014 – National Theatre (Olivier), London

1^st May 2014 – National Theatre Live

‘O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven’

Quite near the end of the National’s production of King Lear - and it is a long and gruelling play – the old king is reunited with his estranged daughter, Cordelia, and the faithful Earl of Kent. Dressed in a hospital gown, he has been confined by doctors in the French camp. Over the previous two hours, we have watched him slip into madness. Almost naked, he has stood on the heath and shouted in the storm. He has murdered the Fool in a frenzied rage against his daughters. He has blundered about, achingly vulnerable, trying to capture an imaginary mouse. When he first sees Cordelia, he is confused and she despairs. Yet, he attempts a speech:

Pray, do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you, and know this man;

Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.

Cordelia is brought to tears.

To any audience member who has cared for a friend or relative with dementia, as I have, this glimmer of recognition is painfully real and familiar. For a brief and heartbreaking moment, the confusion has lifted and the man is visible. He knows his daughter, and moreover, he can give her the comfort of telling her that.

Indeed, this production of King Lear – the fourth in the National Theatre’s history – is such a success precisely because of its familiarity. At its heart is a breathtakingly realistic and profoundly moving portrayal by Simon Russell Beale of a man’s descent into dementia. For once, it does not seem to matter that Lear is no ordinary man. The audience does not feel distanced from an historical ‘performance.’ Lear might be a king – a powerful dictator even – but his vulnerability, his anger, his fear at losing his mind is the same as any man’s. He could be you or I.

I first saw this production in February at the National. Last Thursday, it was broadcast to UK cinemas as part of the National Theatre Live programme. I’m very glad I chose to see it again, although I find the production almost painfully personal. Simon Russell Beale has based his interpretation of Lear upon a person suffering from Lewy Body dementia, a type of dementia closely associated with Parkinson’s disease. Those suffering from Lewy Body experience a decline in cognitive function – fluctuating alertness, loss of memory and the ability to think clearly and make plans, delusions and hallucinations. These are commonly alongside symptoms linked to Parkinson’s – the familiar shuffling gait, intermittent rigidity and tremors. Perhaps Shakespeare knew someone with symptoms such as these and based Lear on him or her? The first time I saw the production, I knew nothing about Russell Beale’s chosen interpretation. I had seen Lear a long time ago – a video of Laurence Olivier’s 1983 television production – but I remembered little about it. I was struck immediately by how much Lear reminded me of my own father – or rather, how much Lear’s struggle was similar to my own father’s struggle with dementia. It was only in the interval of the live broadcast, when a brief ‘behind the scenes’ piece was shown, that I learnt of Russell Beale’s intentions. No wonder it had seemed familiar. My father had Lewy Body and Parkinson’s. Russell Beale was spot on.

While there is much more in this production, it was as an exploration of dementia that it really struck home. Firstly, there was the fear. The most frightening thing about the descent into madness is not madness itself, but knowing that you are losing your mind and being powerless to stop it. To illustrate this, I must momentarily digress:

A few years’ ago, there was much written about the Margaret Thatcher biopic, The Iron Lady. Meryl Streep won an Oscar. As a portrayal of this country’s first and only female Prime Minister, the film left a lot to be desired. Its strength, I think, was instead as a portrayal of a woman with dementia. In the film, Thatcher, suffering from Alzheimer’s, imagines that her husband, Denis, is still alive. She is happy in the pretence that she is talking to him, dancing with him, receiving his counsel. It is in the moments of lucidity that she is most unhappy and afraid – when she knows that Denis is not alive, that sometimes she thinks he is, that her grip on reality is waning. This is completely realistic. A world of one’s own can be a happy and safe world. The most difficult stage of dementia is the ambiguous stage, when the lines increasingly blur between this world and the real world. It is at this stage that we find Lear at the start of the play. 

It is not until the end of Act One that Lear questions his sanity aloud. He has succumbed to the sycophancy of his daughters, Regan and Goneril, and divided his kingdom between them. He has furiously cast off his beloved Cordelia after she refused to flatter him, and banished the loyal Kent. 

The Lear we meet at the beginning of the play is not a loveable man. We are immediately confronted with the familiar trappings of autocracy. The staging and colour palate – from the deep reds and greens of Regan and Goneril’s dresses to the black army uniforms of Lear and his militaristic retinue – are reminiscent of 1930s dictatorship. This Lear is a king gone rotten – spoilt, so used to listening to yes-men that he is not able to spot the machinations of his elder daughters. Yet, we know it was not ever thus. The loyalty of Kent, the bewilderment of Gloucester, the honesty of Cordelia suggest that the king was a respected and loved leader, who has lately been seduced by the security of dictatorship.

Speaking about his performance in the interval film, Russell Beale noted that while the first time Lear mentions his possible madness is at the end of Act One,

O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven

Keep me in temper: I would not be mad!

this is not the first time he has thought this. He is a frightened man, living in denial. Cordelia’s truthfulness – her flat refusal to publicly declare her love for her father in order to gain a share of his territories – is an assault to the wall of flattery, dictatorship and deceit that Lear has built around himself. She honours Lear as her father, but does not respect the fripperies of his power.

Nothing, my lord.

We are presented, then, with a Lear brought low, not only because of his mistaken trust in his conniving elder daughters, but also because of an illness which doesn’t discriminate. It is also no respecter of kings.

Russell Beale fabulously depicts Lear’s fear, confusion, and eventual helplessness. He is first unreasonable – when living as a guest to Goneril and the Duke of Albany, he is seemingly oblivious to the inconvenience caused by the drunken partying of his followers -  then childlike, ripping off his clothes or blithely trying to persuade the blinded Gloucester to read to him. The truthfulness of his performance is magnified by the fact that he is one moment, extremely moving and the next, extremely funny. Even Gloucester (played brilliantly by Stephen Boxer), despairing at his pitiful state, finds himself smiling wryly at some of the king’s muddled advice. When living with loved ones with dementia, laughter and tears are often mixed. Sometimes you can’t help but smile. Better laugh than cry...

The supporting cast in this production are also excellent. Anna Maxwell Martin and Kate Fleetwood are perfectly matched as the sly, selfish, and increasingly demented Regan and Goneril. Sam Troughton is very convincing as the power-hungry Edmund, determined to get revenge for his bastardy, and Tom Brooke also stands out as his unfortunate brother, Edgar, who is forced to masquerade as a mad beggar. 

It is Russell Beale, however, who is utterly mesmerising - so mesmerising in fact, that you forget he is acting. At the end of the National Theatre Live performance, he was first on stage for the curtain call. For a moment, realities blurred. The difference between the broken, desolate Lear of the final scene and the actor now before us was immense. He jogged onto the stage, smiling, to meet the standing ovation.