My Nights Out At London Theatre

Jussi Kangas: Pyynikki Summer Theatre, Tuntematon Sotilas 12.7.1961
(Tampere Museum picture archive)

One of my real passions in life is theatre. Ever since I was a little girl and my mother dragged me and my sister to the summer theatre in Tampere (a revolving stage in Pyynikki which is still going strong and which you absolutely must visit if you're in central Finland during summer), and later to the grand Swedish Royal Dramatic Theatre in Stockholm, I've loved the stage. As a little girl I wanted to become an actress (who doesn't?) and then a theatre critic, but as often happens life got in the way, we moved to the country, and I became a novelist instead.

Now that I'm finally living in London, the capital of good theatre, I'm taking every opportunity to see as many plays as humanly possible (and my back and wallet allows…) I've seen great performances on all the notable theatres such as The Donmar Warehouse, The National Theatre, Hampstead Theatre, The Almeida as well as some famous West End Theatres (too many to mention!) and some small stages such the Arcola and The New Diorama Theatre. There are so many stages, so much on offer here in London that some time ago I decided to set up a designated blog for my reviews.

Me as aspiring actress during my Dr Zhivago phase.

If you like theatre, and want to find out if a play is (in my humble opinion) worth seeing or not, go and visit my theatre site, Strindberg's Daughter. There you'll find stories on all my nights out at the theatre, the good, the bad, and the totally disastrous ones when the only option is to walk out of the theatre…and get a headache.

King Lear at The Donmar Warehouse

Photograph www.telegraph.co.uk

I know King Lear has been the hottest ticket in London for some while, but when our excellent 'theatre agent' booked the seats for us in March 2010, I'm sure none of us knew what a treat we were in for. At the time we we chose it, I think, because it was Shakespeare, and because of Derek Jacobi. But I can see now why the play is getting such good reviews. I can hardly begin to explain how deeply this production affected me.

When I sat down in the intimate theatre, I was taken aback by the simple stage: shoddily painted blanks of wood made the space look like an old shed. But as the cruel plot advanced, the stage took on a sinister air; it became a blank canvas onto which base human emotions could easily be drawn. And later, blood shone brightly and horrifyingly clearly against the whitewashed walls.

Derek Jacobi was wholly absorbing in the title role; his foolish pride, which in the course of the play turned into old age madness (dementia?) was so convincing it was painful to watch. I'm sure many of us in the audience could relate to an elderly parent's misguided loyalty causing havoc in family politics, be that they wouldn't be as dramatic as those in a Shakespearian kingdom. All the same, the fact that I at least could compare the emotions portrayed by the cast of this ancient play to modern life surely reflects not only the masterly writing but also the superb acting.

Whenever I go to see a Shakespeare play, I'm always worried that I won't be able to follow the plot. The language is said to be so difficult, but I once the dialogue starts, I find it almost easier to follow than some modern accents that I'm not used to (I find Scottish really tricky). I studied Shakespeare only very little at school, but find the phrasing so beautiful, the English so correct, that I almost wish people spoke like this all the time.

There are also those moments when you recognise a title, or a synonym, or a proverb in the play which has been used in modern literature. This time my Eureka moment came when the fool, mocking the madness of King Lear, says under his breath, 'And I'll Go to Bed at Noon.' I hadn't realised that the title of one of my favourite novels, the Booker short-listed tale by Gerard Woodward, referred to the play. I can see the connection now; in the book the family struggles to hold onto each other in the face of alcoholism, the modern drug, comparable to the lure of power which destroys King Lear's family.

I musn't forget to mention the rest of the excellent cast. Ron Cook as the fool was witty and tragic at the same time. Gina McKee and Justine Mitchell both gave brilliant performances as the power hungry sisters, Goneril and Regan, as did Pippa Bennett-Warner as the vulnerable and trustworthy Cordelia.

The only weak performance I saw was that given by Alec Newman as Edmund. He seemed too obviously nasty from the very first scene. As I've said, I'm no Shakespeare expert, but I felt his role demanded some slow development. We are aware too soon that he is bitter about his birthright - or the lack of it - and bears a grudge towards his legitimate brother, and the whole world he and his Father inhabits. I would have wanted the actor to have grown more sinister as the play went on, not to be the villain from the very start. But this is but a small complaint in the face of what was a totally awesome performance.

Every time I see a Shakespeare play I promise myself to study him further. This time I must keep to this promise.

Strange goings on in the arty world

Picture: www.guardian.co.uk

I wasn't going to write a review here of Sondheim's Passion which has just been suspended at the Donmar Warehouse. Mainly because I actually don't like writing negative reviews, and partly because I love opera and hate musicals (somehow one precludes liking the other, I don't know why). I didn't really think it was fair of me to sit here and write a long piece about how much I hated the Passion simply because it wasn't my thing. How we booked the seats remains a mystery; in a very English way my friend and I blamed each other until Husband leaned over in the darkening theatre just before the singing was about to start and whispered, 'I'm sure it was my fault.' For the painful one hour and forty minutes (without interval) that the musical lasted and while I alternatively prayed that the singing would magically stop or failing that a trap door would open underneath my seat, I wished I could have blamed someone else but myself for the error. At the end I joined the other enthusiastic theatre-goers in the mad clapping. But for me it was to show my appreciation that the performance at last was over.

Then this morning I read that one of the actors in The Passion was shot at during a performance on Saturday. A gun used on stage during a duel fired something else than smoke. You can imagine the emails that have been flying back and forth between the four of us who absolutely hated the performance. 'It wasn't that bad', 'Must have been a critic', etc... I believe the actor in question is recovering, and that the performances will be resumed in a day or two. I know I shouldn't think it funny; still it's a strange co-incidence.

The second odd thing that happened in the arty world this week was the need for Corrections in the UK edition of Jonathan Franzen's new novel Freedom. I'm sure all the journalists who coined the many different versions of that title must have thought the stuff really writes itself. I heard Franzen on BBC Radio 4's Start the Week this morning and according to him there were about 250 changes that he'd made to the final text, even though according to the publishers, Harper Collins, the errors in the early edition which mistakenly went to print included some small typos and a few missing commas. Call me a cynic but I smell a rat: how can a wrong file of what some critics have called the New Great American Novel be printed out? Could this just be a way of increasing sales even more? In any case I bet the recalled copies of Freedom will become collectors items in a few days' time when the rest of the run has been pulped. I'm almost regretting I didn't ask my friends at England's Lane Books to hold back a copy for me.

Picture: www.almeida.co.uk

On Saturday we had tickets to see another play: the House of Games at the Almeida. I'm afraid this play too was a disappointment. The script was awful, completely predictable, in parts confusing and in parts what I can only assume was intentionally abstract. The acting was stilted, caused, I'm sure, by the poor writing. It was like watching a really bad episode of The BBC's Hustle, and that's saying something. I shan't go on, as I fear for the safety of the actors: guns featured strongly in this play too. All I'm hoping is that they're all water pistols, rather than supposedly blank-firing real ones. And that just because once again my clapping at the end was more out of gratitude for being able to go home, than appreciation, the co-incidences end there.

It was all about the pants last night

Photo by Johan Persson

When I sat down at the Donmar last night I suddenly realised that I knew absolutely nothing about the play we were about to see, The Prince of Homburg. As usual my good friend had booked the seats months ago so normally I have time to at least read a review or two. But because of the Big Move and the long time I'd spent  'galavanting around the Nordic countries' (words of my good blogger and twitter friend, Wildernesschic) I hadn't read an English paper for weeks.

When the lead, The Prince played by Charlie Cox (above), entered the stage wearing very fetching knee-length military boots, with his braces hanging down, my heart sank a little. Only a little because as those of you who read my theatre reviews know I do quite like a man in old fashioned attire, especially if he is a Dominic West lookalike. But I generally hate military themed plays, Shakespeare excepted, of course.

Reading the programme I soon found out the play is set in the 19th century, and was used for war propaganda by the Nazis. An intriguing study of power written by Heinrich von Kleist, but really not my cup of tea. Had the men's uniforms not been so sexy, and the acting been so wonderful, I wouldn't have enjoyed it at all. But the cast which included Ian McDiarmid, Siobhan Redmond, David Burke and Julian Wadham were so outstanding it was difficult not to engage with the action, however far-fetched and arcane the plot was. Charlie Cox's Prince had the perfect combination of naivety and courageousness which was the eventual downfall of his character. And Ian McDiarmid as the Elector was so frighteningly authoritative you could quite imagine him ruling a whole nation single-handedly.

The excellence of the acting did not, however, take my mind of a more urgent matter. In the taxi on the way to the West End, I noticed that the zip of my newly acquired trousers had broken. The Joseph ski type pants were only being held up by the top bit at the waist. Luckily I'd paired the outfit with a loosely fitting Episode top which came to the top of my knees, so no-one would be any the wiser about the disaster lying beneath. There was just one problem - going to the loo.

I held on at the theatre but later, after we'd ordered our food at the Ivy, I just had to take the plunge and visit the Ladies. 'Good luck,' whispered my friend as I, wearing (for me) high heeled Prada sling backs started the walked across the crowded restaurant. In the privacy of the cubicle I tried to work the zip down from the top. But it would not budge. Finally, quite desperate now, I got one side down and was able to wriggle myself out of the pants. What a relief! Victorious, and not more than a little affected by the Bellinis we'd had as aperitifs, and the wine at the theatre, I decided to tackle the zip and fix it. Of course you'll know that things are never that simple in my life. Naturally I broke the bloody thing. 'It came off in me hand, Chief' as the naval saying in our household goes. There I was in the Ladies' loo at the Ivy with pants that would no longer zip up. 'A safety pin?' I hear you ask. I know I'm a mother, and (nearly) a responsible adult, still, I'm not the kind of person who even carries a packet of tissues with her, nor an umbrella, unless the skies are clear with the sun beaming down. So the chances I'd have a safety pin were pretty remote.

I was thinking fast. The food would have already arrived at the table; I needed to go back. There was nothing for it. I took the trousers off and blessed the sunny weather in Finland which had left a little bit of colour on my legs, as well as the unusual foresight I'd had to shave in the shower earlier. My pants just about fitted my Top Shop clutch bag, although it was bulging badly. I stuffed the bag under my arm and strutted out of the restaurant, trying to resist the temptation to pull at the short dress. I reminded myself that when Kate Moss had a wardrobe malfunction last year at the Dorchester, she just tied her dress up around her waist and carried on partying. I was in good company.

I didn't notice anyone's reaction in the restaurant because I didn't look. Only Husband made a comment, whispering, 'Your legs look great.' Bless him.

I must have been dreaming...

During our flat-hunting weekend up in Hampstead we had the good fortune to see another play at the Donmar Warehouse on Saturday. This time it was the turn of Simon Gray's The Late Middle Classes with Helen McCrory, Peter Sullivan, Eleanor Bron and Robert Glenister. I have to admit to an initial disappointment that the cast did not include that other, to me rather more dishy Glenister, Philip, who Husband had promised I'd get a close look at. He feebly admitted his mistake in the foyer when faced with overwhelming evidence that it indeed was not the chain smoking, whisky swinging cop from Ashes to Ashes who was to take the lead in that night's play. I was gutted.

But having recovered from that blow, I settled down to watch the play, a story of a talented boy's coming of age in 1950's, post-war England. Unlike Christopher Hart in today's Sunday Times, I didn't think that the story of the boy was a sub plot. The first act started with a confrontation with the now grown up Holly, and his old music teacher, the rather lecherous Mr Brownlow played by Mr (wrong) Glenister. The play ended with the same scene and in between we witnessed the momentous events that unfolded in the year before Holly started senior school. To me this signifies only one thing: the play was indeed all about the boy, Holly, and what happened to him.

I also don't agree with Mr Hart in that the play was dull. Far from it. Without giving too much away, all I can say is that the small sexual gestures and subtle innuendoes made by Mr Brownlow sent shivers down the spine of our party, making us very much engage with the play, and wonder throughout: did he or didn't he?.

Perhaps because I'm foreign, the portrayal of the middle-class English couple trying to solve their marital problems rang very true indeed, as did the way the Father could not discuss sex with his son. And the observation of Mrs Brownlow, the music teacher's Austrian mother, of how the English are 'Always so very nice but not often so very kind,' could not have hit the nail more on the head.

Seeing The Late Middle Classes at Donmar was a great pleasure, as was a meal afterwards at Hix, where I had the best asparagus with Hollandaise sauce I've ever tasted. This was in stark contrast to our digs during the two days in Hampstead. We had the unfortunate luck to stay in the most shabby, uncomfortable, overpriced B&B I've ever come across. The room, which hardly fitted the four-poster bed was dirty, hot and badly kitted out. The bed was so hard a 1950's camp bed would have been more comfortable. The TV was new, but the small desk, the rattan chair (who has rattan chairs any more?) and the bathroom had seen better days. I'm not sure what has happened since 2003 when La Gaffe won a price for best value in the Which guide. Were the gold plated taps, plastic bath with a jacuzzi and a film-star mirror lights (one bulb of which wasn't working and the rest were mismatched) less worn out then? And one would assume that the crack in the basin occurred some time after 2003. But worse than the shabbiness of the room was the inclusive breakfast. At £125 per night one would expect more than a self-service meal of  sliced bread (to be toasted by the customer), a few slices of suspect-looking and tasting cheese and ham, over-cooked cold eggs plus some cereal stored in plastic containers and a pot or two of warm yoghurt. The coffee was the only redeeming feature, the only item bought to the table. I felt most sorry for a German couple who meekly asked if there was a chance of some fried eggs. 'No,' was the short reply. Surely in London the least a tourist could expect is an English breakfast?

I was left wondering why there is so little choice of good hotels and B&B's in NW3. And even though we were left less than happy by our 'gaff' at least we didn't this time have to stay in the 'Suicide Towers', otherwise known as Hampstead Britannia Hotel...And the surprise bottle of champagne our good friends left for us went along way to make up for our poor lodgings.

Roll on the summer's Big Move when hopefully we can sleep in our own Gaffe in London.

Colourful London is the latest choice

OK, the decision's made: We're moving to London.

Just joking.

We still have no idea where our next home is going to be. Last week it was Helsinki, the week before Stockholm, week before that Portsmouth (a curve ball?), then it was Bath and a week before that London. It seems we've now come a full circle. But I'm starting to feel sorry for my friends. I can see it in their eyes: They've lost all confidence that we'll ever move away from the sticks.

But it's so difficult to decide. And every time I go to any of the above places I feel I'd like to live there. Sometimes I think we should just throw all the names in a hat and get on with it.

So this week I'm full of praises for London. It's not difficult to have a good time in London. Especially with the kind of friends I have. The weekend started off with a last minute decision to go up on Friday morning, rather than Saturday. Who needs to stay at home and pay bills and do tax returns when there's a ride in a car up to town on offer? I hastily texted a friend who I don't see often enough and by a miracle or miracles she was free. We had a fantastic lunch, trying to eat between catching up with each other's lives. It's amazing how much you can talk while eating when you want to.

We stayed in a new hotel, Grange St Paul's, near the Cathedral, a beautiful part of the city, and quite a befitting location for a trip up in the Christmas season. The view from our sixth floor window was stunning. I'd stay there again had it not been for the huge queues to check in and check out again. Plus they charged £5 for two tiny bottles of water. I know you pay for your own stupidity (we don't usually touch a hotel minibar just because it seems like a license to print money), but I'd come to believe that there's a unspoken hotelier code, which says the first bottle of water is free. Especially in a heavily air-conditioned room. Obviously I'm wrong. I calculated that we paid about 1£ per mouthful of water. After a night out with Husband's work colleagues, we certainly badly needed hydration, but it was only Evian. Oh well, lesson well learned. And I'm fairly confident the staff were aware of my unhappiness when I expressed it at reception. As were all the other people still queuing up to check out.

To calm down Husband and I had a long brunch. I drank wine as having water somehow didn't seem fitting.

In the afternoon I was taken by another great friend to see 'Artic Blue' exhibition by a young Finnish painter, Alexander Gough. His winter scenes depicting what Finns call the Blue Hour, the time between sunset and darkness, were breathtaking. He'd captured the magical colours of Northern Finland perfectly. The black and blue light of the night reflected up to the trees by the snow, or the faint rainbow shades of the sunset, were so true to life I felt as if I was standing in a Lappish forest somewhere around the Artic Circle. There were also two lighter canvases of the bleak, flat light of the day, with snow heavy on the trees. I'd not heard of the artist or seen his work before, but I would really, truly recommend his beautiful paintings.

The culmination of the weekend was seeing Red at the Donmar. But I didn't. See red, I mean. Because the play was fantastic. Written by John Logan, it describes the latest, troubled, years of Mark Rothko's life, through discussions he has with a new young assistant, played excellently by Eddie Redmayne. Alfred Molina as confident, argumentative, egoistical Rothko is also superb.

The action, which takes place entirely in the artist's studio, centres around a commission Rothko had for the Four Season's Restaurant in New York. His unhappiness in the commercial nature of the work is fuelled by the naivety and purity of his young assistant. The critics have called the play, directed by Michael Grandage, as a 'first-rate production of a second-rate play' (Susannah Clapp in The Observer). I disagree. Even such good direction, set, lighting and acting cannot overcome poor words. Not in the small space that is the Donmar stage, not in a play with just two characters. If the play hadn't been up to it, none of the rest would have mattered. But then perhaps that's just me. I also saw heavy symbolism in the text: Rothko's young assistant I was certain was his younger self. I felt the artist's early life in violent Russia was heavily projected in the assistant's tragic family history, as well as the final dismissal of the young, eager assistant by the older, wiser, disillusioned Rothko, 'Make something new.'

Perhaps we'll too take Rothko's advice and think of a new place to move to?

Breakfast at Tiffany's

There's almost nothing I hate more than seeing a bad play. Perhaps expecting a good evening at the theatre and then being utterly disappointed is worse. The waste of your time, money and effort is infuriating to say the least. Added to this, you then have to sit there, clap before the interval and then again at the end of the play.

OK, I'm sounding like a complete lovey, an art buff, who's life is filled with art gallery visits, plays, exhibitions and champagne events....but I'm not. I am a perfectly normal, financially challenged person who'd rather not pay for bad art.

So you've guessed it: I really did not like the Theatre Royal Haymarket's production of Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Firstly, the American accents were universally awful. The actors spoke in put-upon phoney inflection no New Yorker would have understood, let alone dreamt of expressing themselves in. Even Miss Friel seemed to have forgotten herself and descended back into 'English actress does American' rather than use her considerable experience from starring in a US TV series.

Second, the script, which I believe was probably quite good, lost its effectiveness due to the fast and frequent stage changes. One or two actors would barely have time to deliver their lines, before the stage was dimmed and furniture was moved about, by these same actors or stage hands, and we found ourselves in a different room or a different time of day. If the production was aimed at the 30-second attention span society, it succeeded. I don't think there was one scene that lasted longer than this. In a two and a half hour play this means a lot of stage arranging.

Many of these short scenes played for either laughs or wanted to titillate. We saw the lovely Miss Friel naked. In what I can only presume was in the interest of balance, the male lead also stripped down and showed us his assets. Give me Dominic West any day. In fact give me a Donmar production every time. Even a bad one. At least what you see at Donmar is in some way honest, done with integrity, with the aim to want to put across the theme and message of the play, rather than what I believe was attempted here at the Haymarket: to sell as many seats as possible with a favourite and actually a good actress in a play that the theatre knew would be popular, in a way (with nudity) that would be popular.

I have nothing against popularity, or popular art. It's what makes it possible to have culture, to produce art, I get that. But call me a purist and a spoil sport. Nudity is not sexiness. And there was no sexiness in this play which after all was about a prostitute and her life during the Second World War. How can you do that? How can you produce a play with these actors, with this script, with this subject and not make it sexy? Somehow The Royal Haymarket managed it.

Husband, who loved Anna Friel in Donmar's Lulu, which had more than its fair share of nudity and titillation, had been looking forward to seeing Miss Friel again. But even he thought the play poor. After we'd discussed the various artistic merits of the piece (or lack of them) he made a comment which became my favourite, 'Her bum was a bit saggy.' In hindsight, just for those lovely words it was worth sitting through one of the most painfully boring plays I've seen in a while.

Madame de Sade at Wyndham's

As I sat down in the theatre on Friday and leafed through the programme, I realised that by the end of the 'Donmar at the West End' season we've seen all the productions. (We have tickets to see Hamlet in August). This is not intended as a boast. It's to note that so far I've only liked one of the productions, Twelfth Night. This is unusual because I rarely come out of the original Donmar Warehouse without having loved the play.

Is it because the Wyndham's is a traditional theatre whereas Donmar Warehouse has the audience seated around the stage and the actors don't have to worry about projecting their voices to the back of a large auditorium? Of course in order to attract the big name actors and to be able to stage large productions, the numbers matter. But even so.

In Madame de Sade, acting, as one would presume with stars such as Dame Judy Dench, Rosamund Pike and Frances Barber, was outstanding. The subject matter was interesting, as was the construction of the play, with the different viewpoints of the Marquis represented by the various roles. But something else in the play didn't work.

Firstly there was no interval. The play was divided into three acts, all set several years apart. There are problems with this format: a) how to let the audience know time has passed b) how to make the audience believe time has passed. The first was dealt with by projecting the date on a screen lowered between the acts, as well as several clumsy lines announcing how many years had gone by. Second problem was sorted out with make-up and the addition of a stick to the the older character of Miss Dench. None of these worked. My daughter noted that it's always difficult in a play to show the passing of time - on screen it works so much better. A play which may have worked in the 1960's does not work in 2009.

Secondly there's the subject matter. Obviously it's still shocking, particularly when the Marquis' victims were young, but what relevance do the actions and reactions of the women in this play have in today's world? A powerful man, a titled man with good connections, is found to have had violent, sexual orgies with some prostitutes and servants in a seedy seaside town. A few women, including his wife, mother-in-law, wife's sister, a devout Christian friend and a titled woman of ill repute contemplate these actions through a period of 20 or so years. In pre-revolutionary France, the women have little else to talk about. In modern Britain they would have got on with their lives while they let the sad man wither in a high-security prison somewhere. So why would we now be interested in what the women in eighteenth century France made of the Marquis de Sade?

When the play was about to start, only a few moments before the curtain was up, a couple in front of us found out their tickets had been for the previous week. They were removed from their seats while the owners of the correct tickets for the correct night installed themselves in front of us. Half way though the play I envied the couple who'd missed their night at the theatre. I imagined them sitting in a bar somewhere, laughing at their mistake, enjoying a glass of wine.

But no, I didn't really wish I'd missed this first production of Madame de Sade in the West End. I just wish it could have been done at the Warehouse. Perhaps then the passing of time would have felt smoother and the reactions to the sexual violence more relevant.