THE CRUCIBLE at the Olivier, National Theatre - Children will listen...

The last time I saw Arthur Miller's THE CRUCIBLE, I was keen to see it again.  12 years later, I have...

I was not too keen when the National's new production was announced as it was directed by Lyndsey Turner who delivered a dreary LIGHT SHINING IN BUCKINGHAMSHIRE a few years ago; I was also dreading what they were going to do with the text - set it in Ukraine or Carnaby Street - the actors holding handheld microphones or texting their lines to each other? 

I need not have worried, Turner delivered a sturdy, in-period production, stripped down to concentrate on Miller's oak-like text, there is hardly any deviation from the grim relentlessness of his narrative.  Apart from the 2010 Regent's Park production I had also only ever seen the play in a 1980 BBC version with a great cast including Eric Porter, Daniel Massey, Denis Quilley and Peter Vaughn - and Nicholas Hytner's 1996 film with Daniel Day Lewis and a chilling Paul Scofield as Danforth.

Arthur Miller wrote it in 1953 as a response to the anti-communist atmosphere that was cloaking America, mainly with the McCarthy trials in the early part of that decade when Miller was himself called to the later House Un-American Activities Commitee where he refused to name names. Mirroring this "scoundrel time" as Lilian Hellman called it, Miller found himself drawn to the 1692 Salem Witch-hunting case when twenty innocent people were executed on the evidence of some of the town's young schoolgirls.

What could be dated polemic, in the hands of Miller, becomes a play which feels as contemporary as the day it was written. Time and again we have seen a situation when what is unreal and unseen is more important that what is real and provable, as long as there is a small group of people whipping up hatred and blame based on a handy believe system, THE CRUCIBLE will be timely - the most obvious recent case being the anti-semitism scam against Jeremy Corbyn and the left-wing Labour members. Miller based his play around the real people in the case with a little dramatic seasoning to give the terrible occurrences a believable basis. 

In the hardline Puritanical community of Salem, as misogynistic as it is pious, the schoolgirls have to think fast when they are caught dancing in the woods at night so their ringleader Abigail Williams declares they were made to commune with the Devil through the spells of a black slave Tituba.

When brutally questioned by her owner and his fellow menfolk Tituba agrees that she was made by the Devil to do his work - as were the people whose names she saw written in The Devil's Book. Soon the girls are caught up in the frenzy of the moment and scream out names of older women and men who they say send their spirits to torment them at night. Abigail seizes her moment for revenge by naming Elizabeth, the wife of farmer John Proctor with whom Abigail had an adulterous liaison when she was their servant but who was thrown out when Elizabeth found out about the affair.

Slowly we watch a small community lose it's collective mind, where to question the madness means that you are a suspect and every moment of possible salvation evaporates as their world spins off into a place where every denial is an obvious admission of guilt and recriminations are fuelled by grudges and petty dislikes.

Es Devlin's bare stone-flagged set with sturdy wooden furniture is very impressive, made even more claustrophobic by walls of pouring, bleak rain obscuring the stage before and during the action. Tim Lutkin's lighting is also kept to the minimum, creating an air of oppression.

The cast are uniformly fine: Australian actor Brendan Cowell makes a sturdy John Proctor, riven with guilt at unwaringly setting the madness in place by rejecting Abigail's advances after the end of their affair although he didn't quite hit the heights at the climax of the play when Proctor realises that, in admitting his guilt, he robs himself of the only thing he can call his own - his name.   

He was well partnered with Eileen Walsh as Elizabeth, a woman whose sense of duty leads her to not only inadvertently condemn her husband in the court's eyes but to make her realise that it had stifled their life together. She perfectly captured a woman whose joy has been lost through childbearing and subsequent illnesses as well as suspicion at her husband's affair.

Nick Fletcher gave us a hissable Reverend Parris who uses the hysteria of the girls to gain a place in the important male power structure of Salem, Zoe Aldrich made Ann Putnam an all too-recognizable figure of provincial snobbery and venal prejudice, Fisayo Akinade was equally effective as Reverand Hale the only authority figure who eventually realises what is really being perpetrated while the doomed forces of good were well played by Tilly Tremaine and Karl Johnson as the tragic real life figures of Rebecca Nurse and Giles Corey.

Erin Doherty was fine as the calculating Abigail Williams, the catalyst for the madness who is always one step ahead of the patriarchy but she was matched by Rachelle Diedericks as Mary Warren; her swift changes from sullen stroppiness to suggesting the loneliness of an orphan in a society ruled by the family to her defiance at facing her co-accusers in court and attempting to clear the name of the Proctors. Her terror was palpable when she in turn is accused by them and her final capitulation was heartbreaking.

Also impressive was Matthew Marsh as Deputy-Governer Danforth. He dominated the trial scene with his flinty determination that the letter of the law be adhered to - even as those letters were being twisted to suit the meaning he gave them: a frightening representation of power which ultimately is what the play is about - the perverting of justice and the truth by those who should be it's custodians.

Although the production had a few timing flaws - I suspect due to it being the first preview - it deserves to be seen.

 

FIDDLER ON THE ROOF at the Playhouse - Fathers and Daughters...

I couldn't get terribly worked up over seeing Trevor Nunn's revival of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF when it originated at the Menier Chocolate Factory as, while I admire the stagecraft that went into it's creation, it's not really one of my favourite musicals.  But it's glowing reviews, it's transfer to the Playhouse Theatre - and the fact that I had seen every other show in the West End that interested me - meant that my birthday theatre event found me journeying back to the Russian shtetl of Anatevka in the early 1900s.

In it's transfer to the Playhouse, director Trevor Nunn has reconfigured the stalls to echo his Menier staging so a raised meandering path runs through the stalls to bring you into the middle of the small Jewish town, it's a bit cumbersome in finding your seat but very effective and for once, I felt engaged with the show.  Of course being a Trevor Nunn production, it's very lengthy which for me only highlighted the repetitions in Joseph Stein's book, but as I said, I was engaged.

I have only seen the show once before onstage - a jaw-dropping 14 years ago in New York in a Chekhovian production directed by David Leveaux starring Harvey Fierstein and Rosie O'Donnell - and, of course, the Norman Jewison film version starring Topol. As I said, it's not a particular favourite of mine, mostly because I find the plot device of a Jewish village milkman finding the traditions he lives by erode through his three daughters marrying against his wishes too repetitive.  I will agree that this is done by degrees: the first falls in love with a nebbish Jewish tailor, the second to a Bolshevik, the third to a gentile - but, particularly in this production, the three daughters are played exactly the same, sound exactly the same - typical west end soprano - and are so resolutely two-dimensional, that it's like you are seeing one actress on a revolve.  The three boyfriends are all given different shadings but the daughters get no personalities at all.

I also am not the biggest fan of Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick's score which has it's standards - "Tradition", "If I Were A Rich Man", "Sunrise Sunset", "Do You Love Me" - but otherwise I find it fairly anonymous and repetitive. But as I said, I found Nunn's production to be involving with very good musical direction from Paul Bogaev which serves the score well, apart from the endless "Tevye's Nightmare" which proves that time is not always a continuum.

Nunn has chosen Andy Nyman for his Tevye and he is excellent, making him a very human-sized character, unlike the usual Star turn from actors taking their lead from the originator of the role, the larger-than-life Zero Mostel.  Without the character being figuratively spot-lit downstage while the other actors huddle upstage, it makes for more integrated story-telling with the town of Anatevka coming fully to life.

Like the daughters, the role of Tevye's wife Golde is a fairly thankless one; for ever careworn and kvetching at her husband's foolish dreams, but Broadway actress Judy Kuhn suggested more depth to the character than is on the page.  In particular the duet "Do You Love Me?" where Tevye finally plucks up the courage to ask Golde whether their 25-year marriage is based on love or just circumstance is a touching, almost embarrassed moment between Nyman and Kuhn rather than being played for comedy.

The other stand-out in the cast is Louise Gold as Yente, the gossipy matchmaker of the village; another two-dimensional female character but imbued by the ever-reliable Gold with a vibrant personality who again had colour and depth that was not suggested by the script.  I also liked Stewart Clarke as Perchik the stern Bolshevik student who is smitten by the middle daughter Hodel.

Of course the spirit of Jerome Robbins, the show's original director/choreographer, is ever-present in the big dance routines for "To Life" and "The Wedding / Bottle Dance"; for a man who has been dead 21 years, it's not bad that he gets named three times on the poster.  Matt Cole is responsible for the rest of the enjoyable choreography.

Robert Jones' set design brings the crowded Anatevka to vibrant life both onstage and off, while Tim Lutkin's subtle, shifting lighting gives the town the warmth of summer and the dark of winter.  None more so than in the final scenes when the mood turns sombre with the forced eviction of the Jews from the town.  Despite my problems with the show, it is impossible not to be moved by the final scene where lifelong friends and families say their goodbyes knowing they will probably never see each other again as they scatter over Europe and America.

As the snow falls on Tevye's shattered community slowly trudging out of their hometown, clutching their few possessions on a long journey to who knows what fate, Nunn shows his production is sadly very relevant to today's world of displaced people and the search for home in a world of prejudice and fear.

I am not always a fan of Trevor Nunn's work but here he gives us a memorable production of FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, maybe one to see again...

SALOMÉ at the Olivier Theatre - Cooch Dancers of the World Unite...

... you have nothing to lose but your veils... or the Baptist's head!

So here we are, another co-production between the National Theatre and Oy Gevalt Productions.  They really do make it too easy sometimes...

Here's a little-known fact for you Constant Reader... did you know that the National Theatre seats are light purple because it was Sir Laurence's favourite colour?  Well, he would have had a jolly old time last Monday as the Olivier had rows and rows of empty seats so he could have had his fill of it.  Of course that is never a sign that the play is at fault, there are countless examples of great plays that were flops on their first time out.  SALOMÉ ain't one of them.

The play is written and directed by Yael Farber who is a hot name to drop these days.  She's a South African female version of Ivo van Hove; a director who concentrates more on mood and visual effect above all else.  She scored big with her Old Vic production of THE CRUCIBLE in 2014 and LES BLANCS at the Olivier last year and I have a vision of Rufus Norris saying "We'd love to give you the Olivier stage again if you can think of anything suitable?" and Farber opening her bag and pulling out her Best Play and Best Director Helen Hayes awards for the Washington DC production of SALOMÉ and saying "Well..."   It must have been a thin year for plays in Washington DC last year. 

There is no escaping it once you are in... Middle Eastern wailing women erupt every few minutes, the set slowly revolving, a large cast from various ethnicities bellowing out their lines... although twice there was an arresting stage image which was remarkable - the heavy showers of sand that falls from the flies quite early on and Salomé going all Les Misérables and waving huge curtains about to spark a revolution.  However the striving to achieve memorable stage images above all else also led to some crashing clangers...

John The Baptist - here called Iokanaan - was tortured by having his head plunged continuously into a large bowl of water but after the nth time I thought "you are only doing that so when his head is yanked up it makes a huge spray of water across the stage" - use the sinks backstage if you want to play with water eh?.  Farber also came up with the whizzer idea to having The Baptist speak in Hebrew with his words translated in English on a screen at the back of the stage.  Again all well and good, but in a key moment, a light is shone from the top of the backdrop as Salomé climbs down a ladder to Iokanaan's prison cell where he recites passages from the Song Of Songs (allegedly - it could have been the Hebraic translation of WE ARE THE CHEEKY GIRLS for all I know) - either way the light shining in the audience's eyes and the obstruction of the ladder and Salomé made the translation unviewable.

But the ultimate "Oh Do Fuck Off" moment came just after that moment... so Farber wants to reclaim Salomé from the sexual being that patriarchal history has made her... so guess who is the only actor on the stage to strip off for a lengthy 'ritual' bathing?  Yep you guessed.. Isabella Nefar as Salomé.  Not Ramzi Choukair as Iokanaan who gets to keep his funky loincloth on, but the young Nefar.  Now if the actor can keep his loincloth on why can't the actress be covered as well?  It's still tits and ass Yael, you obviously need to re-read the lyrics to DANCE 10, LOOKS 3 from A CHORUS LINE.

So yes, there is the crux of the interval-less 90 minutes running time... patriarchal history has passed down that a young girl possibly called Salomé danced for her lascivious step-father Herod Antipas and when he told her she could have whatever her heart desired, she asked for the head of John The Baptist.  So Farber rewrites history and has Salomé won over by Iokanaan's revolutionary doctrine - and thank you Owen for explaining this to me - demands his head to provoke his followers into finally rising up against the Roman occupiers of Judea.  I bet Iokanaan was a bit pissed off when this was sprung on him.  Like, cheers bitch.

But here is what made me do a biblical facepalm...  the story handed down to us is that Herodias, Herod's domineering second wife, told her daughter Salomé to make her fateful choice as she knew that her husband did not want to kill The Baptist.  So where is this larger-than-life figure in the play?  Simple... she is written out, she doesn't exist.  Which flies right in the face of Farber's thinking that whoever Salomé was in actuality, once she demands the head of The Baptist she vanishes from the story.

She even goes to great - and dull - lengths to have the young Salomé represented as 'Salomé So-called" and the narrator to be called 'Nameless' but who is in fact the spirit of Salomé, returned from the sandy grave where she was buried alive after her tongue was cut out for becoming a revolutionary (are you still with me?)  Her belaboured point being that women have vanished from history and story-telling... yes Yael, like you have ditched Herodias because she does not fit into your Milly Tant cookie cutter as woman as victim.  Not wishing to come on all Camille Paglia, but conniving women like Queen Herodias or young women who could drive older men to promise them anything they desired like Salomé are to be championed too.

So there you go, 90 minutes where the occasional memorable stage image made you pound the sand that the script was as clunky and anachronistic as the titles for a poe-faced biblical silent screen epic.

Apart from Ramzi Choukair as Iokanaan, no other performances made any impression - indeed Paul Chahidi as Herod and Lloyd Hutchinson as Pilate both deserved Iokanaan's biblical water-boarding.  Olwen Fouéré as the older Salomé seemed to think she was speaking Beckett's lines.  If only.

Susan Hilferty's set -  but not the naff costumes - and Tim Lutkin's lighting gave the production what few moments of interest there were.  What annoys me most is that such arse-achingly and obvious woolly liberal revisionism like this is taking up space on the main National Theatre stage when major works of the theatrical canon are crying out to be seen.

And yes Owen you are right... Farber's contention that a young girl had a tiny moment in history but has vanished nameless into the sands of time is defeated by what's written on the front on the programme... SALOMÉ. If you have tickets for it I suggest you bring your bucket and spade to make your own entertainment.