***
Hello,
they say? Who they are I have no idea but they say it all the same. What’s he
doing trolling around Welwyn? Come on here expecting an insightful piece on
Dunstable Rep’s Abigail and stumble
on this. Barn Theatre? Sounds a bit shabby. And in Welwyn for God’s sake,
wherever that is. One of those snobby garden cities somewhere south of the B653
that we of the Bedfordshire ilk rarely visit. Might do John Lewis in the sales
on a wet day but nothing else. Don’t even have a football team as far as we know.
Grumble, grumble.
Or
something like that. My excuse, if needed, is that I did not fancy my umpteenth
viewing of Abigail’s Party, good as I
am sure it was, and if I didn’t post something soon regular readers would think
I had been washed away with the Christmas sherry. My abiding memories of Mike
Leigh’s piece are a stunning Alison Steadman (TV) and the equally brilliant
Angela Goss (Rep). Consummate fag in mouth Beverleys from yesteryear. My
abiding memory of The Ladykillers is
that team of beautifully crafted gangsters, forever captured on celluloid with
the innocent old lady of Katie Johnson. A classic 1950s film of the kind they
do not make anymore. Taking in a latter day stage version of those iconic villains
on a free Saturday afternoon seemed like a good idea. Better than a cold night
drive to Dunstable for my seventh Abigail. Besides, in daylight you could see
that the Barn Theatre, Welwyn, is a bloody long way from being shabby.
And
so was their set. Director Rosemary Bianchi designed it and this lady has
seriously good form. Her creation for Hitchin’s Hay Fever was the icing on the top of a very rich cream cake. And
in The Ladykillers, solid and crammed
King’s Cross terraced house oozed reality and seedy locality. The closeness of
the essential railway line where more than coal gets despatched to Newcastle
was cleverly hinted in the sloping slate roof. No detail was spared, including
the old fashioned front door beautifully slammed in the face of a gushing
guest, and my only grouse is that the acting space for five fiddling musicians
would require a pretty skinny cat for even a modicum of swing. But you can’t
have everything and overall Miss Bianchi’s set pleased. One got the impression
that this Barn lot do not do things by halves. No poncy black curtaining and
two symbolic wooden boxes for them. They did have a curtain. A downstage,
rather tatty, grey one. I shall draw a veil on my thoughts on that except to
say that it took gloss off a classy production. Highlighted actors would have
been better served by clever use of lighting. The company were well capable of
it.
So
what about those actors, highlighted or not, in a theatre and on a set bereft
of barely a smidgeon of shabby. The motley crew of villainous musicians
generally did a fair stab from a script by Graham Linehan that laid heavily on
crude visual comedy. None of the Ealing subtlety here. Wasn’t their fault if I
cringed a bit at cross dressing majors and desperate folks crammed in a
downstairs cupboard. It’s my age I suppose. Eamon Goodfellow gave arch villain
and mastermind Professor Marcus tremendous oomph and gave all of his scenes
that injection of pace that, sometimes, his fellow conspirators lacked. He had
a touch of Gyles Brandreth (google him)
about him which was engaging , even down to the slightly overdone nervous
laugh, and his second act speech justifying a travesty of musical orchestration
almost convinced even me. I formed the impression that this was a fine actor
thoroughly enjoying himself. No bad thing in such a load of nonsense.
None
of the other villains matched Mr Goodfellow for skill but all, even if not
totally erasing memories of Herbert Lom and his mates, made their mark. If I
single out one it has to be Adam Dryer’s Louis Harvey. This was the
quintessential squat foreign spy beloved of cartoonists. All black beard,
threatening hat, and metaphorical bomb under arm. Meet him on a dark night and
you would promise to always kiss and love your mother in law. Mr Harvey did not
always project lines with cutting flair but he looked, and sounded, every inch
a very nasty piece of work. Well worthy of a trip to Newcastle on the nearest
convenient train. And there were a lot of them. Chris White turned in a nice
cameo as a policeman richer in plod than imagination and Wendy Bage led a
plethora of elderly ladies with a nice refined aplomb. I loved the slamming of
the front door on her gushing face but, as I have said that before, I will not
repeat myself. These blogs don’t come cheap you know.
And
what of Mrs Louisa Wilberforce, that gentle old lady of Katie Johnson fame? Maureen
Davies did not eclipse her, who could, but she certainly matched her in a
performance both refined in its portrayal and faithful in its interpretation. I
loved her and the finest compliment I can pay Miss Davies is that, not for a
moment, did I make any comparisons. She contrasted and complemented her
extremely dodgy lodgers with a beautiful, old fashioned, dignity. And that, in
The Ladykillers, is how it should be. So
Barn Theatre, neither shabby in edifice nor in presentation, entertained on
my inaugural reviewing visit. Tainted with my opinion some would say. I hope
they like it. But, mindful of self preservation, I shall steer clear of Newcastle bound coal trains for a little
while. Just in case. Roy Hall
