Knees buckling beneath him, Spock crumples towards death. His hand slides down the glass panel in front of him. Looking into the eyes of his friend and captain, James Kirk, he offers justification for his self-sacrifice: ‘The good of the many outweighs the good of the few, or the one.’ With a defiant final gesture, an iconic palm with fingers split, he dies. Just outside a pound shop in Berlin.

Meanwhile, across town Frankie Dunn/Clint Eastwood removes the artificial windpipe of his million dollar baby, Maggie Fitzgerald/Hilary Swank in a laundrette and in the same city, next to an ice rink, illuminated by the soft glowing colours of a nearby funfair, Sergeant Keck/Woody Harrelson clutches his stomach and screams in agony, his platoon tending to him as he slips away.

Gob Squad’s twenty-minute film remakes seven such cinematic death sequences in and around Berlin’s public spaces. Playing on two screens, allowing comparison between the original and its everyday echo, it captures the sentiment and simultaneously sends it up: emotion marinated in ridicule.

However, it is the intellectual side of Live Long and Prosper that really thrives. Underneath the humour, there is serious investigation. The film almost turns against its own medium and outs its corruption of reality. The familiarity of these cinematic images – perfect tears rolling down perfect checks, empty eyes towards camera, red circles on white shirts – is here exposed as damning of itself. Life – death – doesn’t work like that. It is not neat; it is not eloquent; it is not tragedy-by-numbers. Yet these deaths, exquisitely framed and formed, feel real because they have come to supplant reality. After all, for most of us, death is only ever directly encountered on screens.

Hence, the very public nature of the space’s Gob Squad chose to invade. Their forcible intrusions of death, albeit fake, into the public sphere makes conspicuous that which is customarily tucked away. And yet, the city whirs on. In the background, suited legs and high heels catch the camera’s attention; shoppers browse shelves, tourists gaze out of windows, escalators climb on. The world is oblivious and, in its oblivion, the world becomes inhumane.

This makes for stark consciousness with the figures within the scenes played, where, for the most part, the focus is on the process of dying as much as the moment of death. The majority of the selected scenes involve a degree of self-consciousness. Whether it is in the grandiose monologues to those gather, tearful farewells to a loved one or simply in the eyes of a paralysed, mute fallen champion, there is an awareness of death’s encroachment. Death is the antithesis of the life that surrounds these scenes. It is a certainty always unprepared for, and these final moments of acceptance (or non-acceptance) are a mark of the impassable threshold.

Life always goes on. Where the originals cut off, Gob Squad linger on breathing corpses and those left grieving. This they suggest is the burden of the living – the really living. Films need not mourn. Perhaps they leave tears to be wiped away, but they need not mourn. Death alters life and it does so inexorably. In those contorted faces, those cradling arms, there is a thin thread towards those that pass by the recreations, caught momentarily on camera and it is in death’s permanent effects, its echoes and remnants that drag unseen behind us. For the passer-by, for all of us, oblivion is necessary. Without it, the burden of the living would be too great to bear.

Sacred Festival continues till 22 November 2009.

Best known for its 1954 Hitchcock treatment starring Grace Kelly, Dial M for Murder is an iconic number that many will be familiar with. Retired tennis player Tony Wendice knows that his wife Sheila is having an affair, but rather than getting too worked up about it he decides that this gives him some splendid moral leeway to murder her for her inheritance. So he spends a year laying down the pieces of his devious stratagem, dapper as ever in his day job as ‘professional husband’, until there’s just one thing left to do – pick up the phone and dial her death sentence.

But what he hears down the line on the fateful night isn’t exactly what he had in mind. Blast! It’s all gone wrong, and now he’s going to have to be extra devilishly clever to clear up the mess he’s made. But with Inspector Hubbard on the prowl, can he continue to be so insouciant?

This is a genre piece written over 50 years ago, and it goes without saying that the genre’s moved on somewhat since then. M would rather stand for mentally unstable – or how about mutilation? – in contemporary crime drama, and Dial M for Murder, in all its earnest attention to suspense, feels quaintly amicable by today’s standards. Besides, everyone’s seen and talked about the Hitchcock; the very phrase Dial M for… has a sort of proverbial ring to it. This is a play with vintage, and what it means to us now is something very different from what it would have meant to its contemporary audiences. You can’t just pull it off the shelf and say ‘here you go.’

Thankfully, director Lucy Bailey knows this and has rather spectacularly played up the kitsch in this production by West Yorkshire Playhouse. She’s painted the set lipstick-red with a danger-red telephone as its centrepiece. A viscous sense of malice oozes seductively from the stage throughout, with heartbeat and tinnitus sound effects punctuating some of the more wicked moments, and a revolve constantly turning the set – sometimes imperceptibly slowly – to shift and distort our perspective à la Hitchcock. The effects used in the climactic murder scene sent me into orbit.

With the whole murder plot explained by the plotter in the opening act of the play, and with no twists in the pipeline to speak of, Dial M for Murder is never a guessing game. So when the inspector turns up in the second half smelling something dastardly in the air, we find ourselves idly waiting for the penny to drop, privy as we already are to the mystery. The play’s writer (Frederick Knott) is going through the painstaking ritual of restoring justice to the world in line with the genre’s stipulations, and frankly the plot gets pretty dull at this stage.

But Dial M for Murder is all about suspense, about building tension, and the reason why we’re forewarned about the murder at the beginning to the detriment of mystery is so that we can nervously anticipate it. It’s an exercise in form, and one which West Yorkshire Playhouse pulls off tremendously well, with suave acting, innovative stagecraft and a playful direction that fondly celebrates a loved classic with a great sense of fun.

Run over

Between 1995 and 2002, four army cadets training at Surrey’s Princess Royal (Deepcut) Barracks died in circumstances that have remained ambiguous to this day. Mired in military bureaucracy, the cases saw little light of day until an investigation by BBC Frontline Scotland lifted the lid in May 2002. The ensuing media furore and the snowballing scandal culminated in the Armed Forces minister ordering a 15-month examination into what went wrong. What came out the other end in March 2006 – and the entire thing was carried out behind closed doors – was a forbidding document that ran to over 2000 pages and a press conference in which Nicholas Blake QC who conducted the review announced his conclusion that the deaths probably were self-inflicted. It was a sobering anticlimax.

The eagerly awaited conclusion reached headlines but that was where the buck stopped. Faced with all the heavy reading, journalists could do little more than relay the summary to the expectant public, and it was only weeks later when the saga was already a lesson learnt that the most engaged journalists were able to come to their own conclusions. Writing for the British Journalism Review, Brian Cathcart’s was that journalists were outmanoeuvred by the government. It knew the workings of the media and adroitly doused the flames of public excitement with a brick-like mass of information that the press couldn’t possibly penetrate in time. By the time Cathcart managed to go through it all and publish his thoughts, Deepcut was no longer news. ‘Journalism,’ says this play, ‘dropped the ball’.

Not that journalists were given noting to chew on. The review stressed that there was a lot to be desired from the way things were run at Deepcut, confirming accusations that bullying had become rife in the institution. It shed light on further aspects of negligence and profligacy which we could shake our heads at, and recommended in no uncertain terms that management needed to be tightened up - and of course it was, promptly and visibly. Then in January 2008, when the media storm had ostensibly calmed, the Armed Forces announced its plans to close Deepcut and put its land on the market for residential development. Mission accomplished.

But for the bereaved parents who continue to campaign for an independent public inquiry the problem extends far beyond the perimeters of a poorly run training ground. Their children died there for reasons that have never been fully clarified, and those in charge have relentlessly buffered their concern, first with a bureaucratic wall and then with a dead-end review undertaken in the shadows. What this affair has revealed is just how inaccessible the system is and just how difficult it is to hold the military to account. That much we saw and that much we mustn’t forget, cries out this play, and on leaving the theatre we are handed print-outs urging us to fight for transparency.

Deep Cut is an example of verbatim theatre: the script is a selection of interview excerpts, documented speeches and press items reproduced word for word and strung together into a narrative. The characters on stage are the cited individuals and feature Nicholas Blake, Brian Cathcart, and Private Cheryl James (1977-1995) parents whose long quest for answers forms the story’s backbone.

A verbatim script is a label of the playwright’s commitment to impartiality in approaching a contentious political subject they wish to discuss, and is driven by the ethos that the truth is shocking enough, that there’s no need for invention. Here there’s a third element. This verbatim script is an emblem of Philip Ralph’s support for Des and Doreen James who have said that after all these years their persisting distress is less about their daughter’s death than about the government’s thievish attitude towards the truth. In the play’s subdued denouement we hear their wistful pleas for a government that can tell the unembellished truth, and the unembellished truth is what Ralph’s script presents, symbolically at least. And by extension we get a play whose very format is a criticism of the way the government responded to Deepcut.

It is, of course, ridiculous to suppose that any piece of theatre can be entirely objective and ‘unembellished’. The very act of staging confers nuance and, besides, Deep Cut is a markedly dramatic play, propelled in this production by a fast tempo, exuberant acting, and a handsome set design. A play could never simply ‘tell the truth’, and the Cardiff-based Sherman Cymru are right not to hold back on theatricality. The aim here is to promote a cause using all the tools of persuasion drama has in store, and dramatic is what it has every right to be (just as court proceedings are).

Deep Cut’s setting is the dour but comfortable James family living room, aka ‘an ordinary household’. An irrelevant but thoughtful Christmas tree sits unobtrusively in the corner – glowing mellowly for Britain’s fragile integrity, shall we say – near a photo of the late Cheryl in uniform. The characters, who generally address their lines to the audience and rarely interact with one another, occupy the James home figuratively. The set is non-essential to the action and adjectival to the play- we could have had, say, an army barracks instead and the script would have kept its coherence for the most part. But Deep Cut is ultimately about the reality of the relationship between Britain’s government and Britain’s governed, and home sweet home is where the heart of the matter lies, where Deepcut hurts most, and where the message of this play is most pertinent. As the plot progresses, stacks of boxes and paperwork gradually pile up on set in an oppressive, tetris-like mess, overwhelming the living room as the affair overwhelms their lives. They need our help to tidy it up.

The overall feel of the production is far from dour or comfortable. It’s a punchy 75 minutes, paced like a rolling news channel during a crisis, with each speech urgently taking over from the last in a raucous fiesta of opinions. The actors drive the play like jet engines, pumping the polemic with fiery vigour. Amy Morgan puts on a wonderfully jubilant performance as Cheryl’s hyperactive best friend at Deepcut, speaking volumes about the happy-go-lucky atmosphere at the barracks in the few lines she has, whilst Pip Donaghy and Janice Cramer in the symbiotic roles of Des and Doreen James keep the play rooted in a poignant family tragedy without ever turning to blatant pathos. Tremors from Derek Hutchinson’s virtuosic turn of the ‘passionate investigative journalist’ archetype as Brian Cathcart could be felt in the Netherlands.

Deep Cut has been widely praised for its hard-hitting journalistic qualities, and scooped a number of awards during its Edinburgh Fringe debut run, including the Amnesty International Freedom of Expression Award. It has since had a run at London’s verbatim stronghold Tricycle Theatre, and been picked up by Revolution Films (The Road to Guantanamo, A Mighty Heart) for a possible adaptation. As long as Deep Cut tours on, Deepcut blazes on, and Des and Doreen’s campaign continues at www.deepcutfamiliesfightforjustice.co.uk.

Run over

Examining those momentary nothings that, taken together, make up a lifelong friendship, Levantes Dance Theatre misjudge the balance of design and substance and so succumb to a trite tweeness. All girlish giggles and glances, Room Temperature Romance is the dance equivalent of knotted pinkies that promise to be friends forever. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Often it calls to mind a French and Saunders flashback sequence: the sort in which the pair run through fields or bake cakes, only for one to fall foul of a clumsy disposition and fall down a well or become clouded in flour. Then, of course, they turn to one another and laugh, still ‘bezzie mates’ in spite of mismatched natures.

Eleni Edipidi and Bethanie Harrison make a clownish double act. Sharing stark Frida Karlo monobrows drawn on in marker pen, they create flashes of touching comedy but lack a strictly defined hierarchy that would allow their routines to gain momentum. The contrast of Harrison’s flickering eyes and Edipidi’s doltish, empty gaze simply isn’t enough. In fact, the whole piece has a soft focus fuzziness that prevents it from really achieving anything more than a pink and fluffy feel.

As dancers, they veer towards the distinctly unvirtuosic. The tatty synchronicity and dumpy clunkiness adds a certain everyday charm, matched by the doddering uncertainty of their older counterparts, who interrupt proceedings to stage manage with an air of fond nostalgia for mischief past. Too often, however, their choreography relies on monotonous call and response. It follows a pattern of withering domination and wilting submission, where Edipidi’s doe-eyed mimicry of Harrison inevitably relies on offering something a bit less good.

This monotony is, however, concealed – at least, on the surface – by the boldness of Room Temperature Romance’s design. The vibrancy of its colours and the cut of its clothes give it a sumptuous visual element. The emphasis on fashion, however, detracts from the bodies themselves, which seem mere motors for swishing hems. The result is to sap the instinctive oomph of movement, to stop us swaying subconsciously along in our seats.

Add to this too much stage business, noticeably overplayed clowning and hackneyed discussions of SMS etiquette and Room Temperature Romance drags.

In its final moments, as the stage fills with miniature mechanical pigs and the pair down Guiness in frosty pink gowns against a deep turquoise background, the piece reveals what might have been. It is a sequence at once surreal, real and fictional, sparking images and ideas of recognisable friendships while also turning an eye on itself.

Instead, Room Temperature Romance takes a widescreen view and fails to find the details that can turn its nothings into something special.

Run over

From my pulpit, I am engaged in a slur campaign. For no reason other than his political allegiances, I have written several libellous letters concerning the Mayor to my fellow townsfolk. All are, of course, left unsigned. After all, as the town’s priest, I cannot have suspicion turning my way. The following day, when the town council meet to banish one of this community, two names emerge – mine and his – before a surprising turnaround sees him escorted into the wilderness.

Do I feel guilty? Not a jot. Without the Mayor, my own political party of choice – the rigidly traditional Wrens – walk an easy path to victory and take control of the town. Personally, my own standing in the town increases, leaving me free to turn my slander on a new target: the quiet woodsman. Why? Because I can.

This is A Small Town Anywhere and, in it, suspicion and manipulation, paranoia and self-preservation are our rulers. Part balloon-debate, part role-playing game, part unscripted play, A Small Town Anywhere hands over the reins to its audience of participants, each of whom is given a role within the community, and allows history to be shaped by our decisions and snap judgements. Over two hours, a week passes and a dramatic one, at that, filled with elections, allegiances, coups, blossoming relationships and betrayals.

Ostensibly, we are trying to identify and cast out a figure known as The Raven, who knows a bit too much about each of us. I, for example, cannot have details of my affair with La Chantreuse emerge. Others have their own secrets to hide. However, in the course of proceedings, our individual objectives take over. In other words, as in life, there really is no ultimate, collective end. Instead, we find our own targets and employ tactics towards that end.

That this scope for free choice exists without scuppering the event towards chaos is a credit to how well-designed A Small Town Anywhere is as a game. We are observed and monitored through spyholes in the walls, through this never becomes intrusive, and both the disembodied, calming voice of the Town Cryer and the letters received each day serve to keep the game rumbling on apace. In short, the game can adjust to every possibility, including, on this occasion, a well-intentioned mutiny and a final refusal to sacrifice any member of the town.

The pacing is perfect, such that we are gradually immersed in a fiction to the point of investment. The functional rules are explained succinctly and delicately, though there is neither the possibility for nor the pressure of going wrong. Through email encounters with Henri, the small town historian, you gradually invent your character and a backstory of sorts. Yet, this is no Murder Mystery party; there is no sense of acting. You, yourself, are very much present in the small town. Your decisions remain yours, not those that your character might make. Not only does this remove awkward inhibitions, it allows the piece an ethical and political dimension beyond the bounds of the small town. You feel the weight of betrayals as much as the excitement of transgressions.

There are a few nagging concerns. The role of The Raven feels underdeveloped and, at times, a certain arbitrariness creeps in, such that targets are chosen simply to chose a target, but this, of course, brings its own implications. Equally, there is a sense that suspicion is often born of no more than prominence. It was interesting to note that those participants that stuck to running personal businesses were less likely to attract mistrust than those given public duties, such as the Mayor or the Publican. Perhaps, also, there is a feeling that the creators learn more than the players by seeing the range of possibilities and charting a wider history of the many different small towns that spring into existence.

Though I suspect that it may happen in due course, A Small Town Anywhere would benefit from sharing the outside perspective. At present, I know that, as the Priest, I acted less than impeccably with a certain relish. However, there is no sense of specific wrongdoings and the effects of actions. Without some record or judgement post-event, one doesn’t become fully accountable for one’s actions. Indeed, it becomes far easier to dismiss A Small Town Anywhere as mere play, despite the strong moral, political and social elements that exist therein. All they need is backing up.

But what if it is just play? Would that be so bad? After all, it is in the bar afterwards – swapping stories, exchanging experiences and dissecting the event – that a real community becomes apparent. As strangers connect afterwards, A Small Town Anyway grows in import. The game really does matter.

Till 7 November 2009

Aside from the poetic magnetism of its central figure, Jim Cartwright’s 1992 play has little going for it. The entire narrative pivots on a cabaret act of seven or so minutes when the coy little Lancastrian girl reveals the incredible scope of her sound-shifting, chameleonic larynx. All we want to see is Little Voice’s star turn, rattling through the familiar voices of Shirley, Cilla, Edith and Judy. The rest feels like a dragging inconvenience.

Thankfully, Diana Vickers (her off the telly) pulls the routine off with aplomb. Though her vocal simulacrums are never quite perfect enough to dumbfound, she consistently catches sufficient likeness to stand in for the greats. Equally, you only get half a sense of vocal chords possessed. The alien voices never quite burst forth intuitively and uncontrollably, but seem instead the result of quite conscious manipulation. The training process of rehearsals is always just about visible and slightly takes the edge of her rawness.

Let’s not get too excited about Vickers, though. Two other monologues – one sung, one ranted – she has to do little more than seek comfort in a baggy brown hoodie, stare at a record-player and be a bit sheepish.

Her casting, however, makes for a curious case. As a role, Little Voice demands a phenomenal vocal performance. Anything less and the entire play collapses, while to just about get away with it is to astound. In effect, we are applauding the talents of the actress for the routine performed and witnessed. It is the feat of cycling through incarnate incantations that impresses. However, the fiction leaves us predisposed to be impressed. We are inclined to applaud because actress and character are spun together. We see before us the reluctant performer that is Little Voice, we know of her father’s death and of her mother’s alcoholic awfulness. The narrative’s purpose is solely to sentimentalize the act and so prejudice us towards applause. In fact, Cartwright’s play is the fictional equivalent of the sob stories that clutter television talent shows.

The confusion, then, comes from Vickers’ own history. As an X Factor graduate herself, we cannot but associate her with Little Voice, as a young girl used to singing into hairbrushes, plucked from everyday life and bunged on a stage. We marvel at the actress, Little Voice and Diana Vickers all at once. The conflated whole strengthened by the mutual support of its constituent parts.

And yet, Vickers’ presence undermines the piece as a whole, given that she is a product of the very industry that Cartwright sets out to attack. Suddenly Ray Say (smartly played as slick as fudge by Marc Warren), the greasy small-town talent agent who ‘spots’ Little Voice on a late night visit to her mother, seems doubly vindicated; astutely ahead of his time, even. To be honest, this seems somehow symptomatic of the production’s true intentions whereby commerce is elevated over statement.

Perhaps, though, that’s fine. After all, Cartwright’s play is something of a fairy tale and, by ignoring the wider socio-political conditions of the time, director Terry Johnson has very deliberately placed the narrative in a bubble. Lesley Sharp meanwhile does her level best to make a pantomime of it all, over-dominating proceedings as LV’s monstrous mother, albeit, admittedly, without ever resorting to stereotype, and there’s strong comic support from James Cartwright and Rachel Lumberg.

Till 30 January 2010

Like so many Alexanders

This week on CW, Sarah Boyes reviews Kate Summerscale’s The Suspicions of Mr Whicher, and explores the historic interplay of detectives in fact and fiction, as well as the importance of secrets in constituting the modern self. Theatre reviews include Matt Trueman on the Barbican’s Raoul, whose cast of hundreds happens to share a single body, and Miriam Gillinson on the Arcola’s Yasser, about a conflicted Palestinian Shylock. And in films, Ion Martea reviews Tales from the Golden Age, a multiple-director piece about Stalinist Romania.

Meanwhile, Robin Walsh reports on the libel laws’ threat to science, and Michael Savage laments the Wallace Collection’s decision to indulge Damien Hirst. The final Battle of Ideas Satellite events in London explore the state of science on TV on Monday 26 October, and the merits or otherwise of American culture on Tuesday 27 October.

23 October 2009

June, 1842. A small detective division is created in the London Met, by special permission of the Home Office. Camberwell’s Jack Whicher is one of a small group of new detectives, on a salary of £73 a year, who is allowed to shed the traditional bobby’s blue and wear plain clothes on duty. The Times despairs at this disaster, writing in 1845 that there will ‘always be, something repugnant in the bare idea of espionage’ (p51).  But by the 1850s it’s emerging author Charles Dickens who captures the growing fascination with these quick-witted stewards of the street. Whicher’s boss Charlie Field inspires Bleak House’s Inspector Bucket, whilst the Road Hill case of this book goes on to be fictionalised by author Wilkie Collins. The Victorian detective is born, as the Introduction puts it, both ‘a demon and a demi-god’.

Kate Summerscale’s engaging recent book (winner of the BBC4 Samuel Johnson Prize for non-fiction; shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger), although billed as a ‘factual’ account, tells the story of the infamous Murder at Road Hill House. In 1860 baby Samuel Kent was found stuffed down the servants’ privy of a middle class Wiltshire home, his little body covered in blood and his tiny head swinging off. He’d been murdered - so murmured the local gossips - by a member of the upstanding Kent household. This is the first time a detective legitimately enters an Englishman’s home and grossly interferes in its family’s life, whilst the national press publishes all details to a captivated audience. Set amidst the giddy dynamics of an industrial, rapidly urbanising England, The Suspicions of Mr Whicher brings together themes of privacy, modernity, morality - and their discontents - to investigate the birth of detective surveillance. At bottom, this is a clever conceit on the role of author as detective which neatly juxtaposes crime fiction with the reality of crime detection.

Summerscale turns the crime genre on its head from the start by informing us the murder has already been solved. The murderer confessed, whilst the characters carefully listed on this book’s opening pages like a whodunnit play are all happily now dead. Mr Whicher’s suspicions though, whilst only truly confirmed with the passage of time, may perhaps (it’s barely hinted) have something left to them yet. This is an intelligent approach which gently nudges the reader to reflect on the real nature of detection throughout, and stays frustratingly, all the more because you know it’s on purpose, two steps ahead. Cf. ‘clue’ from the Old English ‘clew’ for a ball of string, the likes of which Ariadne gave to Theseus to lead him back through the twists and turns safely out of the Minotaur’s maze. Though Summerscale’s self-conscious style can be mildly excruciating, it’s this sort of historical detail (maps! train times! strange female underthingames!) carelessly tossed into intimately drawn scenes from Victorian life - coupled with the close relationship between this case and its fictionalisation - that gives you second order goose pimples in the retelling.

Predictably, much is made of the nineteenth century detective as a motif of modernity, a product of science and political progress with a daring dark side. He’s established as ‘a secular substitute for a prophet or a priest’, but this was no straightforward or simple substitution. At first, the detective was still shackled to the old ideas: detectives were masters of obfuscation and disguise; they could see things hidden to mere mortals with an almost supernatural sixth sense; often practised the now-debunked science of physiognomy, and relied a great deal on good luck to get by. Many used dastardly means and passed off their guesswork as disinterested deduction; the term ‘hunch’ was coined to describe the phenomenon of feeling intuitively towards the answer.

Eventually though, the ideal detective came to reflect the worldview of the fully-fledged bourgeoisie: the detective was thoroughly intelligent and self-reliant and enjoyed passive reflection; he believed in social order and equality before the law, while his own subjective individualism was at the centre of his worldview. Extolling these virtues, he was also allowed a vice or two. This is the pipe-smoking Sherlock Holmes created by Conan Doyle around 1887, though as Summerscale notes Holmes is a gentleman, unlike the upwardly mobile heroes of Dickens’ novels and the first real life detectives.

But wherever they came from, detectives shared with priests the special status of being both inside and outside of society at the same time. Priests acted as mediators between divine and earthly powers, offering support and paternal admonishment whilst acting as role models and moral advisors - they were respected wherever they went. Detectives too navigated between the new ruling and ruled classes yet belonged themselves to neither, they enforced the law of the land, dished out punishments and unburdened people by taking ‘confessions’, ultimately taking responsibility for drawing a boundary between what was socially acceptable and what wasn’t. The detective was like the crime novelist in telling ‘stories that could organise chaos’: he imposed his own order on the world. He was like the priest in being able to ‘absolve us of uncertainty, absolve us of guilt and remove us from the presence of death’ (p304): he alone could offer stability and comfortingly tell us that all would be well. 

Of course purging society of its chaotic elements was a grisly affair, which could verge on the obsessive, compulsive and downright macabre. Summerscale well documents the way the nation ‘turned detective’ in the Road Hill case. Intimate details of the Kent family’s life and intrigues of its past were laid bare to the insatiable public glare, especially through the increasingly influential national press. Whicher was sent letter upon letter outlining possible methods of the crime. The desire to find and punish a perpetrator is described as a gutturally collective experience, a way of securing social boundaries by removing a perceived internal threat; the related desire to join all the dots as if sketching a satisfying answer to some perplexing problem can come across as equally freakish in its detachment.

Yet this idea of the two-sided Victorians with their two-sided society, outwardly ordered yet harbouring a hideous inner madness, a reserved elite playing off the rasping masses, is perhaps a little old hat. More interesting is the variegated, capricious, nearly childish nature of the public, its outspoken loons and heady sense of vying interests, the incorrigible role of gossip in communicating known but unaccepted truths. Making an obvious comparison with today’s haphazard blogosphere, tepid news headlines and roster of watery celeb stories, what seems missing now is any sense of a shared container in which conflicting opinions can develop into broader positions, any opportunity for winning round real supporters, any reaction against the conservative old authorities by the progressive newer ones. Today, it’s not so much that idle gossip or baseless speculation corrupts, but that in the absence of anything to be corrupted, it simply gnaws away itself into nothing.

In fact there’s little to suggest any section of Victorian society was scared of using or making authority in the same way that politicians, judges or journalists seem today. Against to the tedious illiberalism that colours contemporary debate, the Victorian public looks infinitely sympathetic and persuadable, if not a little vicious or easily bored. Summerscale muses that Whicher failed to court even working class public sympathy in accusing a middle class girl of murder; neither could the jury stomach condemning her to death even after her own confession, defaulting instead to the more traditional Christian nunnery. But perhaps there’s odd hope in Whicher’s failure, and a lesson in always being able to push further: the underlying thrust of this book is that crime fiction can often be truer than its humdrum reality.

Yet in both, the detective is an individual daring to order the world in the way he or she sees fit. Contemporary author Iain Banks pens such a rogue in Complicity, one of his many books set in post-Thatcherite Scotland, though his is outside of the law and rather than sending criminals to prison conducts vigilante killings on the guilty. V for Vendetta is a vaguely similar film where the purposefully faceless V is more explicit in invoking the authority of a yet to be constituted people to legitimise his anti-governmental acts. The detective figure in both cases fights the forces of social chaos in the name of a forgotten social good; in today’s climate he’s further orientated against the state and functions rather as a corrective to the demise of the old legal and moral authorities - along with the class politics which made them.

But the nineteenth century didn’t only produce the detective hero: the penny dreadful was first circulated following the UK’s first Education Act and subsequent swelling in numbers of literate youth. As respectable early crime novels were serialised in the national press and enjoyed a healthy week-to-week relationship with their readers, these gruesome chapter-by-chapter cheaper alternatives told terrifying tales that gave us at best dashing highwayman Dick Turpin. Magistrates back then had penny dreadfuls to blame for youth crime rather than rap and Youtube, but unlike today, youths had GK Chesterton on their side. Chesterton admonished the moral hypocrisy of those critical of penny dreadfuls by pointing out the depravity inherent in more respectable literature; he stressed the very human need to tell stories whilst noting the often traditional romantic nature of these ones, which importantly rarely had any full bodied characters of any sort.

These stories could also double as a warning of the ills awaiting those who dared challenge the dominant order, whilst their tone was mainly Christian, promoting piety and threatening eternal damnation for those who dared complain. The Victorian detective could similarly be understood as a coercive force: he protected private property and policed petty theft amongst the poor. He spied on the politically problematic. He inevitably invaded the privacy of even the respectable folk. In one way another, the popularisation of crime fiction was a general consequence of an emerging capitalist class beginning to consolidate its authority over the toiling masses.

Yet the resulting tension between public and private - well known from the risqué Victorian BBC docudrama, where it tends primarily to lead to good soft pornography - is sometimes assumed at the cost of being explained. It seems only its transgression by Mr Whicher and his men that gave the private real meaning as a place apart from the state; whereas what was shocking to most was the sense of interference in family life. Thinking on the present, the absence of the family as a social institution in any significant sense makes it difficult to see what constitutes an infringement of privacy in the same way. Defences of privacy on a more individual basis fall short of capturing the importance of the private sphere as a place for interaction and making relationships outside of the state. Not only is state intervention both welcomed and at an all time high, but the extent of CCTV, blanket smoking bans, alcohol control zones, ‘terrorist’ monitoring techniques, over-zealous childcare regulation and so on makes it unclear exactly what is being intervened on in the first place.

In fact, what gradually emerges from this book is the idea of ambivalence, or ambiguity. Summerscale frequently mentions that individuals keep and find secrets. Whicher has one - he probably joined the police force to escape a young woman he’d made pregnant; Mr Kent has one - his finances are askew, whilst his children’s governess was in before his wife was out; son William has one - taking the recipe for artificial pearl creation he develops in Australia to his grave. What matters about this new crime detective is he can uncover such secrets; and Summerscale as an author-detective aims to recast the past through a similar process.

Secrets are something the characters both make for themselves and construct themselves around, they form the fulcrum for their engagement with the world, allowing them to have both private and public parts. The content of these secrets frequently goes unrecorded and untold, like the blank piece of paper William leaves locked in a vault. Never fully expressed or maybe in some way inexpressible, they’re permanently unresolved, ambivalent, showing the tantalising possibility of finding something new about the past coupled with the impossibility of ever being certain. It’s these pregnant unknowns that allow the detective to make up, and remake, their chaos-organising stories at will, giving a space for human choice to determine whether things go one way or another, but also a space to hide from making one. Ultimately, the existence of secrets, the need to have them, signals a more pervasive and uneasy sort of limitation to the world these characters inhabit – along with the modern detective’s ability to make meaning from it.

The Suspicions of Mr Whicher ends with the bombshell that the convicted Constance Kent confessed just before her brother William, then still under suspicion for murder, was due to inherit £1,000. ‘Her act of atonement liberated William, made his future possible’ (p302); this impenetrable brother-sister pairing echoed in the likes of Henry James’ eerie Turn of the Screw. Whicher had apparently suspected the two conducted the murder all along. But as to Summerscale’s suggestion that the purest kind of detective story is like Dickens’ last The Murder of Edwin Drood, which remains to this day elusively unfinished, perhaps the purest detective story is ultimately no detective story at all - and no need for one, either.

Damien Hirst is the enfant terrible turned grand old man of contemporary art, master of the grandiloquent gesture and media darling of the postmodern age. The Wallace Collection is a dainty gem of a gallery, a nineteenth century collection with a wonderful concentration of delicate French eighteenth century painting and decorative art. We don’t need to see the show to know that they are incompatible.

In fact, Hirst’s paintings are shockingly bad. They are crudely painted, shallowly conceived, derivative and trite. They are pastiches of Francis Bacon, hewing close to the original but with none of the panache. But they are not only poorly crafted. The symbolism is laughably shallow – a skull and an ashtray, for example. Oh my gosh – I get it, smoking and death, that’s soooo clever…

It’s ironic because apologists for Hirst defend him as a thinker rather than a maker, as some one who has changed our idea of art and, in that awful cliché, ‘pushed the boundaries’. But after Marcel Duchamp signed a urinal and Andy Warhol exhibited his Brillo Boxes, pushing boundaries has just become the new conformism, each iteration more trite and desperate than the last. Hirst’s concepts are especially obvious, requiring no thought and offering no reward to sustained engagement.

For a donation of £1 you can get a little booklet by Hirst about his Wallace favourites. It’s crudely written and devoid of insight, recycling silly clichés like ‘any interpretation is good’ and offering childish naivety like ‘I love the light and the dark in this painting’ and ‘all the paintings here create an illusion of 3D space on a 2D surface’ (no shit, Sherlock). The most striking aspect of this isn’t that a famous artist has little to say about art, but rather that so many otherwise intelligent people continue to lionise him as a great ‘conceptual’ artist.

It matters not at all that some people like Hirst. His fans and detractors can happily co-exist, and pour scorn on one another without the slightest harm to either side. But this show is more corrosive, because he has been permitted to upstage really great art. The worthy object of our vituperation is not Hirst, but the people at the Wallace who allowed this to happen.

There are many failings. It was an aesthetic and critical failing to see these daubs as worthy of the Wallace. It was a moral failing for the Wallace to accept £250k to do-up the gallery to Hirst’s specifications, lending its kudos and boosting Hirst’s market value. And it was a failure of nerve to think that the Wallace’s historic holdings are not worthwhile in themselves, and need re-energising with something sensational.

Wallace director Dame Rosalind Savill embarrasses herself with this tragic aspiration to cool, and she sounds a fool when she draws comparison between these inept daubs and the sublime beauty of Poussin’s ‘Dance to the Music of Time’. But the real harm is to the institution and its public. Savill has misunderstood the Wallace, turning it from a quiet space for contemplation into a raucous playpen, taking down the great art and putting it into store so that she can showcase mediocrity. She claims that Hirst’s paintings have a ‘real connection’ with those in the Wallace. Other than being made of paint, they do not.

In 2006 Savill said that huge numbers of visitors were ‘more a problem than a bonus’. Now she claims to ‘love the idea of people queuing around the block’. But these small rooms cannot cater for large crowds. The Wallace has staked a great deal on getting people through the door for this show. From the evidence of my visit it seems to be doing this by filling the galleries with schoolchildren ferried in to copy Hirst’s silly daubs. They have no choice about attending, but we can vote with our feet. The Wallace re-opens in February, when this foolish experiment will be over.

Till 24 January 2010

Britain’s arcane and archaic laws limiting freedom of speech hit the headlines last week when a court injunction prevented newspapers reporting on parliamentary questions about the involvement of oil trading corporation Trafigura in dumping toxic waste in the Ivory coast. The court order provoked a minor constitutional crisis, as it challenged parliamentary privilege (MPs in the House are the only people in the UK with unlimited free speech) and the long-established right to report on the House of Commons. The repressive effect of the libel laws has also been felt, with science writer Simon Singh being currently dragged through the courts for writing an article critical of scientific claims made by the British Chiropractic Association.

In this context of increasing confrontation between journalists and the courts, and to celebrate City University’s new masters course in science journalism, the University hosted a debate on the specific impact of the libel laws on the reporting of science, and assembled a prestigious panel of speakers to discuss the issue. Speaking first was Simon Singh, who spoke about his experience of being sued for libel, and the chilling effect that the threat of legal action was having on science journalism. He mentioned the case of Peter Wilmshurst, a consultant cardiologist who criticised a clinical trial he was involved in in an interview, only to be sued by the corporation backing the research for supposedly libelling them. He criticised the immense expense of fighting a libel case, the unfair balance which reverses the ‘innocent until proven guilty’ basis of the criminal law, and urged the case for reform.

Second up was Ben Goldacre, a medical doctor and author of the Bad Science column in the Guardian, who won a previous libel case from a vitamin salesman who claimed his products would cure AIDS. He argued that medical science is underpinned by criticism and argument; that it is possible to kill people on a ‘biblical’ scale through incorrect scientific understanding, and that continual reassessment of knowledge through open and robust dispute is absolutely essential. Tracy Brown from Sense About Science, who run a ‘Keep Libel Laws out of Science’ campaign, gave a number of examples of scientists and journalists who’ve had articles spiked or have been forced to self censor by the libel laws; protecting sub-standard scientific claims through legal mechanisms.

John Kampfner, formerly of the New Statesman and now of Index on Censorship, spoke about the science libel laws in the context of the broader attack on free speech. He mentioned the Trafigura case, the culture of taking offense and the practice of issuing byzantine gagging writs that prevent even the existence of the writ being reported. Finally, Duncan Lamont, a lawyer who has litigated in both sides of libel cases defended the existence of the laws, arguing that people need recourse when slandered in the press, and pointing out that despite Goldacre’s defence of the medical profession, doctors are often the biggest litigants.

But when the discussion opened up to the floor, Singh, Goldacre and Kampfner all backed away from the logical conclusion of their arguments. The discussion rapidly moved from how to fight against the libel laws to how they might be reformed most effectively; Singh began discussing how access needs to be cheapened so more people can sue. They missed the point that the problem with the libel laws isn’t their abuse by evil corporations, but the idea that the state has the right to regulate what we’re allowed to say. Also, there was an element of special pleading in the idea that science journalism should be made exempt from the libel laws: whilst it is completely correct that science needs open and honest debate, it could be argued that political speech needs greater protection. But despite these problems, it is encouraging to see such high profile figures defending their rights and making the argument that the public need to challenge these laws. These laws are a threat to free speech, and this beginning of a backlash against them needs to be supported.

Yasser Mansour – a Palestinian actor set to star in a regional UK production of Merchant of Venice – has lost his props and isn’t happy about it. In fact, he’s livid, and Abdelkader Benali’s play Yasser tracks the reasons why. Benali’s piece is set in Yasser’s dressing room on opening night and is an extended monologue, which recounts the tale of this man’s lost props, near-lost girlfriend, fragile identity (which has neat parallels with Shylock’s situation) and conflicted childhood in an unstable Palestine. But although this play, produced by Anglo-Dutch company Double Agent, is probing and emotional in places, it is not a great piece of drama: it is too scattered and too damn angry to really reach out to its audience.

William el-Gardi is an excellent actor, with buckets of passion, who owns the stage easily and looks like an actor in control. But despite Gardi’s graceful and persuasive authority, there is something hardened and inaccessible to his performance. He is angry – and I mean really angry – for almost the entire piece, and it starts to wear the audience down. It is tough to listen to (no matter how valid his character’s complaints might be) and even the visceral impact of his blazing, enveloping rage cools a few scenes in. 

It is not only that a character this angry is hard to watch – he is also hard to believe. His anger seems wrapped up in memories from the past, and although he is obviously a passionately political man, whose girlfriend accuses him of ‘ranting and raving’, I can’t buy this level of intensity for this long. Are we meant to believe this ranting man is genuinely preparing for his performance – or does that not matter a jot here? Are we meant to take this as a realistic rant, prompted by a shitty chain of events on opening night, or is this meant to be loose, symbolic and more theatrical piece?

Ideally, this type of monologue should be a blend of the two – the realistic and the theatrical – that uses the neat framework of an actor’s opening night to fluently explore the events that led up to this moment and monumental role. The only problem is, I don’t trust the framework – not once does this feel like an opening night, other than a few scattered tannoy announcements, which break up rather than complement the show. Perhaps, if we could have sensed the countdown to curtain up, there would have been more urgency here. As it is, it feels like these few ‘realistic’ touches (from director Teunki van der Sluijs) are there to remind us of the situation, rather than cement it. This lends the show a whiff of inauthenticity, which makes it hard to trust in and give oneself over to.   

Just as the real moments don’t feel tangible enough, nor too to the flights of fancy and flashes from Yasser’s past feel quite bold, released or dramatic enough. These scenes should flare into life, but they are a touch stiff and muted. It feels like we are watching Yasser reconstruct his life, rather than watching this life unfold, in another world and another time. Obviously, this is one man creating a wealth of people and scenarios, so the options for these flashbacks are limited – but it would’ve been good to see less stress on the actor creating the moment and more emphasis on the stage giving life to that moment. This way, the play would’ve been able to sweep over its audience, rather than jumping between ‘past and ‘present, ‘symbolic’ and ‘real’, but never quite merging the two.

Still, the fact that the final big speech - with Yasser the Palestinian delivering Shylock the Jew’s defining monologue (‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’) - works very well, is testimony to the sound intellectual reasoning behind this piece and the links it is trying to forge. This central comparison is a useful one and when Yasser gives voice to Shylock’s words, one can sense the fragility of this Palestinian’s identity, the anger this fragility has created and the stubborn, blazing strength of his own national pride. It is a powerful moment, but a quiet and restrained one, too. It is telling that the first time Yasser simmers down – and trusts in the words to create the emotions – is also the first time that the anger, pride, passion and fear contained in this piece are released on-stage and into the audience. 

Till 24 October 2009

When four young directors team up with a young Golden Palm winner to shoot a short film based on the latter’s scripts, each taking on a story to be collated into a final comedy feature, one cannot escape the thought that the young directors are just tagging along. It looks like little more than a gimmicky career opportunity for them, and a chance for the celebrated director to boast about his cool mates and himself (with only half the effort). Yet, somehow, after watching Tales from the Golden Age, we realise that we might have been mistaken. Each of the five episodes breathes with the same technical rigor as if the film was owned by a single director.

Cristian Mungiu (4 luni, 3 saptamâni si 2 zile [4 Months, 3 Weeks & 2 Days] (2007)) teams up with four young hopefuls (Hanno Höfer, Răzvan Mărculescu, Constantin Popescu and Ioana Uricaru) to recreate the social legends of the Communist era. Tales from the Golden Age is in fact a collection of seven such stories, each directed by a different director. In the UK, we get a chance to view five of all of the seven episodes that make up the film. The production team has decided to tailor the final product depending on the each destination country. The central question is what makes those five episodes appropriate to the British market.

The Legend of the Official Visit opens the film with its lyric picture of Communist countryside. Everyone is preparing for the official visit of a delegation of some kind – well actually just a convoy that will pass by the village on the motorway, but party officials can take no chances. What if the convoy decides to stop? Will they see people just getting themselves on with their lives, or will they see an entire village stop their economic activity and prepare for a party glorifying the great Communist dream. What unravels is a detailed view of the sheer poverty of the country, coupled with the immense dedication and ‘good will’ of the people to give everything they have for the sake of satisfying the party officials. In around thirty minutes, this comedy tells us more about the hypocrisy and meaninglessness of the politics of the time than most feature films on the subject have covered so far. This is an overture that opens the door to the mood of the ‘Golden Age’, and allows us to enter seamlessly into that social psyche.

The second story is arguably more familiar to the Western eyes. The Legend of the Party Photographer tells the simple story of how the press and the photographers themselves become artists of deceit, all for the purpose of earning their living. Ceauşescu was not a tall man, but on all the official photos he had to be the tallest. Sometimes his gallantly would come before the demands of propaganda, but the party ensured that his behaviour never caused political problems: the challenge for the party photographer (Avram Birău) starts when the party leader decides to take his hat off while listening to Giscard d’Estaing. Maybe he was just too warm, but what could the people think on looking at the front page? Is Romania’s fearless socialist leader taking his hat off to the glory of capitalism? What is brilliant in this film is how much credit the leaders were giving the public in their ability to read metaphors into newspaper articles. But as history told us, no lie remains hidden forever.

This portmanteau film is a one about the common people and their sacrifices they are forced to make just to ensure they live an ordinary life. The Legend of the Chicken Driver is arguably the best in illustrating that. Grigore (Vlad Ivanov) has to drive over 250 miles a day with a sealed truck full of chickens. The rule is that he should arrive at each destination by evening, and under no circumstance should he open the truck. The trouble is that Grigore is in love with an inn owner Camelia (Tania Popa), and he would do anything to spend the night at her place. Fortunately for him, one of his wheels is stolen while he’s there, and he is happily forced to spend the night. When asked to open the truck to feed the chicken he finds they have laid a lot of eggs. And what happiness is there for Camelia to have so many free eggs in the Easter shortage! Shot in Mungiu’s distinct style (although the production team refuses to tell which director shot which film), this episode plays masterly with the party illusion that common people were living the Communist dream. The real truth is that most remained devoutly Christian, most learned how to deceive the state in order to lead a capitalist existence, and above all, most of them were living their lives driven by human emotions (such as love, lust, hunger) rather than the party ideals.

Preparing for Christmas, policeman Alexa (Ion Sapdaru) wants pork meat in The Legend of the Greedy Policeman. The trouble is that his relatives bring him a real live pig into his tower block. The challenge is how to kill him without the neighbours knowing, using only flat utensils. This is the episode that will have you glued to your sit with anxiety. Many may not understand why Alexa needs so much meat to feed his small family, but without question they will enjoy the process. Romanian cinema has rarely got so close to dark humour, but it is appetising to see that there are a lot of ingredients there.

The final story, The Legend of the Air Sellers, is easily the most accessible for the foreign viewer, despite the fact that the premise is slightly far-fetched. Bughi (Radu Iacoban) is a charming chap who has found out that he can make more money out of selling empty bottles than a doctor or professor could throughout a year by doing their job. The interesting fact is how he goes about it. Teaming up with a schoolgirl Crina (Diana Cavallioti), they embark on a stylish Bonnie and Clyde-style chase throughout the city in search of those money-making bottles. The director of this episode uses the same lyrical movement as the great Arthur Penn, playing mischievously with danger and sexuality in a decaying world.

Tales from the Golden Age is a fresh film for the media-branded Romanian New Wave. All five episodes show these are not just experimental directors who deny the validity of the cinema that came before them. For them the use of handheld cameras and non-professional actors is not an end in itself. What they care for is to make a film that works artistically, but for once, a film that can work commercially too. It is undeniable that the film will fare better in the ex-Eastern block, but their skill at delivering stories that can be understood by those with little knowledge of the historic facts without jeopardising the complexity of the social order they are trying to portray, should be celebrated. Akin to a collection of short stories, reminiscent of Kipling, this film may help Romanian cinema in a way that few had expected.

Raoul is not a one man show. If it seems that way it is because its cast of hundreds happen to share a single body. James Thiérée is legion. There are times when each of his limbs seem controlled by a different consciousness: his arm slapping his astonished face whilst the other tears at it like a protective bystander. Elsewhere he genuinely seems to multiply – as if by mitosis – and shapeshift; his body morphs into all manner of animals, objects and even elemental states. To watch him is to be astounded by a fluid being unbounded by its own human limitations.

And yet, as a show, Raoul gains its weight precisely from its humanity. It wrangles with an overwhelming existential crisis, full of fear, loathing and furious exasperation. To belittle it as spectacle alone would be to ignore the fact that it is a circus of the self.

On entering we are faced with a jaunty cubist landscape of white sheets that seems a shipwreck of twisted sails or a theatre torn down, its curtain railings come unhinged. Beneath them is a shack of scaffolding poles, itself filled with musky knick-knacks. This is the isolated Raoul’s castle. It protects him from both the world and another figure: a hostile self that lays it siege, charging at the walls and forever gaining entry. The two Raouls are inextricable. No matter how the first tries to escape – hiding in oil drums, cocooning himself in bed, pondering himself in the mirror – the other always catches him unguarded. Raoul’s is an existence stalked by his own self, confronted by an ugly, unwanted doppelganger at every turn as he attempts to fend of crisis with self-definition.

There is a certain tragedy about this first Raoul. He is a man always at odds with himself; a hapless figure forever tying himself in knots. He tries to cross his legs only for them to slip off one another. He tries to play music, but gets only the grainy crackle of scratched vinyl or the final combative blasts of an elusive symphony. His reflexes are unexpectedly reversed and his even his clothes prove evasive. Thiérée’s dazzling skill as physical comedian, his deftness with repetition, never absolves this tragedy. We laugh just as much as we associate with this man, caught as he is in a cycle of unattainable objectives. Ever tried and all that.

Alongside this is Raoul’s crippling self-consciousness, not only in the form of his stalking self, but also in our presence. At several points the house lights bathe us in light and he stands at the edge of the stage on show, vulnerable, judged and paralysed.

Yet, Raoul must duel not only with himself, but also his environment. As his house diminishes and decays, the world becomes ever more watery. Oversized creatures, airy elephants and metallic fish – junkyard creations, all very much manmade – approach, sometimes inquisitively, sometimes threatening. His clowning follows a steady pattern. He discovers, shares with us, loses control and moves on, such that the universe seems wondrous but beyond dominion.

I suppose the show hinges on the credit it is given by its audience, whether we will look beyond a clown and see a philosopher. For me, the leap was unavoidable, but I can understand how others will see only a man engaged in human origami. Perhaps this is true of all circus or visual theatre. Either way, there can be no doubting the skill of Thiérée’s performance. What does undermine it slightly is the ‘how did they do that factor’ – our need to understand the mechanics of an illusion, such that when the timing is the slightest fraction out, we spot the trapdoors that makes his duplication possible.

But then there is also an honesty to Raoul. At its end, with the white box become black void, he takes flight unexpectedly. Perched at the stage’s edge, he rises slowly, inexplicably, faster and faster, spinning up a cyclone onstage. Then the lighting shifts from illusion to revelation. Our eyes become accustomed to the dark and we make out two stage hands frantically operating a crane. Order is restored. It is as if Thiérée throws us a wink. We know that our eyes have often been tricked, but here is his confession. Even as he flies above our heads, Thiérée admits that the theatre cannot make a man fly, but also – wonderfully – it can.

The stage makes possible and Raoul revels in its own fluid liminality. It is filled with mirth and melancholy, humanity and beauty, small triumphs and inevitable failure. Afterwards, coursing the city and boarding the tube, Raoul’s world of fluctuation lingers. It may take a while to readjust to the tedious solidity of ours.

Till 23 October 2009

Let’s start with the good stuff – the set works very well. Roy Williams’ Category B takes place in an unnamed UK prison, and Rosa Maggiora’s skeletal staircase sketches in the backdrop nicely, as well as merging neatly with the Tricycle’s existing metal framework. Other positives - Williams has an excellent ear for dialogue, a sharp eye for detail and his writing is shot through with a great sense of mischief.

Unfortunately, Williams’ skills haven’t combined well in this zesty but somewhat overblown prison drama. Put simply, Williams has given himself too much plot to handle. What starts as a promising, feisty observational piece, casting light on a prison system kept largely in the dark, quickly descends into melodrama with more twists than an episode of The Bill. There’s little Williams can do to pull things back and the plot, in its eagerness to surge ahead, tramples over the play’s characters, atmosphere and authenticity.

It’s a shame, because there are some catchy stories in here that, if teased out correctly, could have fizzed into life to interesting effect. The play opens with young offender Rio’s first day in jail, following his recent involvement in a suspected gang rape. But although Category B turns out to be Rio’s story, he doesn’t re-emerge from the shadows until late in the first half. Instead, we spend a lot of time with the ‘extra’ inmates – the dodgy drug dealers, one with a particular passion for Star Wars and all with family they love back home - which is good fun, but not always necessary and never hugely convincing. The bad guys feel suspiciously safe (particularly Abhin Galeya’s Riz, who has a nice glint in his eye but needs to be much harder) and though Williams paints them with lots of colours, he lays it on too thick and the cracks start to show.

What we should have seen more of is Rio’s relationship with fellow inmate Errol (Karl Collins) who, we learn after plot-twists aplenty, just happens to be Rio’s long-lost father. It is this relationship that glues the play together, but we only see it in flashes and the two spend little time together, bar a few pivotal and pushed moments. Williams is left with too much catching up to do and, in the second half, as Rio carries out increasingly extreme actions in the name of filial love, the plot starts to feel a little silly – the scenes lashing around in the dark for emotions that have barely begun to bubble to the surface. 

These near-empty emotional outbursts pop up throughout the piece, especially when Rio and Errol are involved. In the final scene, Errol – now on parole thanks to his son’s sacrifice – discovers his half-hearted attempt to protect his son inside has gone awry. Collins has got fire in his eyes and a radiating presence on stage, but the play hasn’t prepared him well for this moment and his breakdown – wailing, writhing and growling in disappear – is awkward rather than affecting.

The scenes in the guards’ quarters feel equally shaky – I just don’t believe in any of the characters, which makes it hard to respond to the system they supposedly represent. At the heart of the guards’ lair is Sharon-Duncan Brewster’s Ange – matriarch of the prison, feared and fancied in equal measure. Ange’s rule of terror (as well as her later change of heart) is meant to say big, bad things about the corrupt underbelly of the UK prison system, but Brewster simply isn’t scary enough and it’s hard to imagine these thundering, towering prisoners cowering in her wake.

Paulette Randall’s clunky direction doesn’t help to smooth over the cracks, with every scene change heralded by a sombre sweep from the violins (later, when things get darker – persistent, heavy cello chords), along with the heavy clanging of prison doors. It starts to feel oppressive in the worst sense of the word and, whilst the play ends with Errol scrambling to get back inside, I was happy to slip away. 

Till 29 December 2009

Clocking in at just under an hour and featuring a cast of over one hundred and twenty, Slung Low’s Beyond the Front line, teems with more ideas and innovation even than you might expect to see in a three hour epic. Consisting of three distinct but complementary parts, it seamlessly blends theatre with art instillation.

The audience takes on the role of inspectors investigating the set up for the new deployment of troops to Salford. As such we are divided into groups and dispatched with headsets. We are reminded by a prim commander that the military exists not only to protect us, but to save us from the having to experience the trials that our protection necessitates. This lays down the crux of the piece: no matter the reasons and morality behind a conflict, a soldier exists in a whole other world of experience. The evening gives us a taste.

We are guided around the new Salford base camp. We come under fire. A genuine electric thrill runs through us as we are told to get down. We flee to a safe zone via trucks. In the back of the van a performer (and writer of this excellent segment, Chris Thorpe ) spits a string of binary at us and details a software engineers trauma at how his system is being used in combat. The proximity is startling, there is the smell of gun powder and the crackle and hiss of our hea phones only adds to the tension. There are four such trucks, each with a different performance so that different members of the audience end up with a very different experience.

We enter a medi-tent where a swarm of nurses fastidiously attends to a troop of empty but haunted beds. Nine line narratives are whispered from their pillows. We wander from bed to bed laying our heads down to listen, talking to each other, exchanging our own quiet reflections and experiences of the evening. It is in creating an environment where such conversations with complete strangers seem natural that the piece really comes into its own. The nurses with their calm manner lead us into position, music rises aided by the talents of singer and violinist Ros Hind. We move the beds in formation until their dance descends into a funeral march, a fitting finale for such a bold and fascinating piece. Thought provoking, ambitious and brilliant.

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