Deathtrap: Disappointing Despite Jonathan Groff

I'm so glad I posted that video yesterday. It makes last night's disappointment all the more, well, explainable, really.

You can read my review of Deathtrap here on londonist. But as you can guess, I've got a few more things to add...

Now, first up, I've nothing but praise for most of the cast in last night's performance of Deathtrap. Simon Russell Beale was suitably awesome (reminded me of MH, which is unexpected and quite funny); Jesse St James, sorry, I mean Jonathan Groff filled Cliff's boots perfectly; and Claire Skinner was just great as a fragile 70s housewife. (Estelle Parsons wasn't good, but then her part was a complete mess, so you can't really blame her.)

My quibbles, however, are many. And are mainly with the play, and the way it's been promoted over the last few months. Deathtrap the play is just SO FAR from that "theatrical trailer", I was almost convinced I was in the wrong theatre. Once again, like that Judi Dench Midsummer Night's Dream, the gulf between my expectations and the reality as it happened on stage before me has put me in a terrible mood. I was expecting something epic, filmic, inventive, modern and moody. I was waiting to feel Six-Characters levels of awestruck and breathless again.

Instead, the word that wouldn't leave my head was "kitsch". Now, watch that youtube clip from yesterday, and tell me how far from kitsch it feels.

As well as that, it was baggy and slow at times; obvious in its "get ready to jump" set-ups at others; it was smarmy and smug; and it was old-fashioned - and not in a good way.

There's also a teeth-clenchingly rubbish repeat of what's just happened at the end, with an awkward voice-over that made me feel like I was being treated like an idiot. And there's some problems with the sound; something like an echo whenever Estelle speaks in her not-that-funny accent that really should've been sorted out.

And then, my main quibble: now, I love a bit of self-reference in a play. Any sideways, knowing nodding to the audience generally sends a shiver up my spine. If there's a moment of metadrama to be found in a play, I'll be there, enjoying that particular practice of pointing at theatre through theatre. (Shakespeare does it; Stoppard does it; Six Characters blew me away with it: I'm a fan.)

But with Deathtrap, there was just TOO much. And it was the worst kind of nodding too: one with a big West End theatrey hat on. An expensive, exclusive-in-the-negative-sense (err, non-inclusive?) elitist hat. The kind that says "this is a plaay", with a long, Stewie Griffin style "aay". A witty plaay, that takes place in a thee-ater. The kind that says aren't we funny, we're sending up a sacred artform here, naughty, naughty us.

It's the kind of theatre that puts people off theatre. In many ways, the worst kind.

Perhaps I'm coming across as overly negative. I have to say, I had a pretty bad overall theatrey experience that evening (the lovely ET excepted). Uncomfy seats, coughing and whispering all around, a tall guy in front obscuring half the stage, and being plonked back in Row Q does not a happy critic make.

The funny thing is, I agree with almost all the positive points other reviewers have made. I nodded through those WEW boys - I concur with everything they've said here. But maybe while they liked those things, I didn't.

I can't help thinking I've been left feeling short-changed after watching that damn trailer and, once again, by believing the hype.

Spotted: Clive Owen (and then some...)

When: last night
Where: Jerusalem at the Apollo Theatre

I had a fantastic time last night, in the main because JC was able to come with me for a change. And we had a great meal before we even got to the theatre.

And then there was the celeb spotting. JC was really enjoying looking around the audience, saying, "oh, that's... that's... oh, whatsisname..." And, for once, my brain kicked into gear, and I said, "Clive Owen?" and got a "Don't be ridicu... oh, it's Clive Owen," back from JC.

But Clive wasn't the only one. Sure, he might've been the biggest name there, in Hollywood terms (even though I can't stand the way he talks with the back of his mouth), but there was more than just Clive Owen in the audience at last night's masterpiece.

We also saw Felicity Kendal, Ben Miller and Nigel Planer.

Jerusalem itself was mind-blowing. There'll be more said on the topic, you mark my words...

And of course, this isn't the only time I've been in the audience with Miss Kendal recently. It seems she likes following me to shows.

The press night of Enron at the Noel Coward in the West End was one of my biggest celebrity spotting hauls to date. (Again, I reviewed it for londonist.) I'm pretty sure my friend Felicity was there, but so too were John Simm, Frank Skinner, David Dimbleby, AA Gill, Cillian Murphy, Monkee Micky Dolenz (nice hat) and Benedict Cumberbatch. Crazy, n'est pas?

Not only that, but on the same row as me were Charles Dance and Lindsay Duncan. "Charlie," as one of the ferociously annoying bright-young-things in front of me called him, was attending the after-show party. I can't speak for the others, but I'm sure they were all there.

Best of all was Rupert Goold. Sure, he'd won an award for Enron earlier that day. But did he have to arrive later than everyone else, and take his seat in the middle of a row, in the middle of the stalls, waving, air kissing, and shaking hands with everyone around him?! It was the most theatrical entrance I've ever seen a member of the audience achieve. Even counting the seemingly drunk Su Pollard at the Open Air Theatre in the summer. Pretty impressive.

It's been a surprisingly star-spangled start to the year. Long may it continue.

The Little Dog Laughed: Friend, and a Friend of a Friend

Last week's second trip al teatro was to see the new (to London) American play, The Little Dog Laughed.

As well as all the excitement of a movie star's West End debut, seeing a Bond Girl live on stage alongside Charles Dickens' great-great-great-grandson AND the quite wonderful Tamsin Grieg (she should play a funny, ballsy lesbian more often: it makes her very, very sexy), really, the most exciting thing was knowing that, at any moment, should any evening-cancelling accident befall either of the guys up on stage, Taylor would have to step in.

Yes, my one famous actor friend-of-a-friend Taylor James (JC was at school with him) is trying his hand at the mysterious art of understudying.

Of couse, I find this totally fascinating. What does he do all evening? How does he keep psyched up to go on stage at any moment, knowing he probably won't? What does he do with all that adrenaline and energy when eventually the evening's over, and he hasn't been able to get that audience-reaction buzz that surely fuels all performers? Is he bored? Does *he* get a night off? What if he's ill? And, in a show where there's one understudy to the two male characters, what happens if they're both run over by buses?

(I know the answer to this last one: they've got insurance. Mundane, but true: if both boys are ill, people would get refunds on their tickets.)

And here's a link to my review on londonist.

The Little Dog Laughed is very slick and very funny; but I thought it was a little too glib to be truly brilliant. That's glib as in lacking in sincerity, being a bit too blase or facile: lacking in depth.

And I felt a bit awkward about some of the laughs. Here we have a liberal, South-East England, middle class audience, who've all happily bought tickets knowing they're seeing a play about homosexuality, with the odd gay kiss and at least one bare male bum (clenched). No-one's offended, enlightened, or otherwise: everyone's just laughing along jollily. Are we laughing at gays as a group? No, sir. Are we laughing at gays being afraid of coming out? Not really. I suppose we're laughing at Hollywood's homophobia. We're laughing at the ridiculousness of a huge, showy, glittery industry being openly anti-gay.

And I'm not sure if that's laugh-out-loud funny.

Hence my slight confusion over some of the laughs.

But then JC pointed out that satire doesn't have to be about something funny. In fact, quite often its about things which really aren't funny at all. Which of course, is true. (Today's story about Chris Morris' Four Lion being a perfect example.) JC's clever.

Missing Out: The Great Londoner

Tomorrow, Charlie Chaplin, The Great Londoner, opens at the London Film Museum.

The blurb calls it "An exhibition devoted to the greatest artist in the history of cinema".

Sadly, as today's press invite landed in my inbox this morning (and it closes at 5pm), I've missed the press showing, which is a shame. I think the exhibition sounds kinda fun. More blurb:

Visitors will discover exciting new insights into the life and career of Charles Chaplin, the boy from the London slums who won universal fame with his screen character of the Tramp, and went on to become a Knight of the British Empire.

Then I realised this is simply another section of the disappointing Movieum, which I've written about before. It's due to be a permanent exhibition. So just another section of the already hopelessly unwieldy beast. Let's hope it's been put together with a little more panache than the other sections I've seen.

But even on the website (which is a nice example of a badly put together website) there's confusion. At the bottom of the page about the "new exhibition" (if it's a new permanent collection, call it a bloody new permanent collection), the same thing seems to have another name:

The Charles Chaplin – Citizen of the World exhibition will be a permanent feature and entry is included in the admission price of the London Film Museum.

Quelle mix-up.

And what about the name change? Are they rebranding themselves? I have to say The London Film Museum certainly has more googlability, and makes far more sense to your passing tourist than the dreadful Movieum name.

But all these little errors and inconsistencies just make me itch. If you can't get your website right, I'm really not convinced you've got ANY of your facts straight. Maybe I'm being pernickety. But if museum curators and their website copyists aren't pernickety, then surely they're in the wrong job?

Hot Tin Cats and Celebrity Stalkers

So, I was lucky enough to see and review the star-studded Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Novello on Wednesday.

It was very good, but never really pitched over into great: at least, that's what I tried to get across in my londonist review.

I rather wished they'd cut it, to be honest. It's not easy for anyone (the stars involved included) to keep the level of excellence / tension / interest / sparkle up for that length of time.

On the other hand, that Tennessee Williams knows a thing or two about writing plays, doesn't he?! They don't hand out those Pulitzer Prizes for peanuts. (Once again I'm aghast at the narrow-but-deep structure to Eng Lit at school / uni which means I can tell you about the different ways ol' MacB can say "Is this a dagger I see before me" and the suggestions behind Sir Toby's "A plague o' these pickled-herring..." but doesn't know the plot of any single Tennessee Williams play. And don't get me started on Chekhov, Brecht or any of the others...)

As well as an amazing front-row-of-the-circle seat, there was other excitement for the evening.

Leaning out over the stalls (no vertigo for me here), I spotted a familiar cream puffa jacket. Yes, Miranda Sawyer is stalking me. She might've come in a long time after me to distract attention from the fact that she is following me to the same cultural engagements, but it's no use. She clearly wants to *be* me. (Ahem.)

Alongside the celebs on stage (Richard Blackwood?!), and the celebs in the audience (there was someone else on my row I really should've recognised, but can't work out who it was: singer? presenter? Ah, well), I rather thought I'd had enough "spotting" for one night.

Then, at London Bridge, who should appear but the lovely Clive Rowe! With a soft black hat pulled firmly down over his eyes (and ears), and his collar up against the rain, he looked a million miles away from the character he must've finished prancing around as in the Hackney Empire just an hour earlier: Widow Twanky.

Poor Clive really wasn't sure which train he needed to get on. Everyone was rushing about in that "last train of the evening" kind of way. I was very close to going to help him out. On the other hand, I was impressed / couldn't believe that London's finest Dame is taking public transport all the way across London every night. I wanted to help... But the Londoner in me took over, and I just watched rather than going to say hello. I tell you, they're all stalking me ;-)

I wonder what he would've made of Cat. He would certainly have made a great Big Daddy, I'm sure.

Musical Excitement: Sister Act

Oh, it's been a long time a'coming, this one.

In fact, I wrote about Sister Act's arrival into the West End for londonist back in November last year.

Then came the marketing juggernaut. The show's producer, a little old lady called Whoopi Goldberg (you might've heard of her), appeared on BBC Breakfast, on the Chris Moyles Show, Loose Women, the Justin Lee Collins Show, (presumably) Jonathan Ross and the One Show. She talked about Sister Act the Musical in the metrolondonlitepaper, in magazines, online.

There was launch party invite (which I missed due to a damn last-minute HP crisis).

There's been wall-to-wall (in the pre-FB meaning of the word) advertising; from Tube station hoardings to animated MPUs on our site... It's been remarkable.

Brilliantly today I was offered a couple of comps to a preview next week. On a day when work wasn't going as well as it should. Little things like this make me a very, very happy bunny.

Yay. Musicals make life better.

My Romeo and a Rubbish Juliet at Shakespeare's Globe

People who know me well know that I'm fairly obsessive when it comes to Shakespeare, Shakespeare's plays, Shakespeare's Globe, and, in particular, Shakespeare plays at Shakespeare's Globe.

I'm happy to pay a fiver and stand; I've been there in my role as an English teacher, with a fab student; I've sat in v good seats with my bro, sis and sis-in-law; I've even been down on Shakespeare's birth-deathday and got into the free fun such a date brings.

And happily I've been freely cushioned and charmed by the press people on a couple of visits.

As a result, I've been lucky enough to see and review the following to date:

• Othello (May 07)
• The Merchant of Venice (July 07)
• The Frontline (July 08)
• and now, Romeo & Juliet (May 09)

But last night was the first time JC had been. It was nice to go with a fresh pair of eyes, but I'm sorry the play he saw wasn't quite up to scratch. I'd told him how good I thought Ellie Kendrick was going to be: sadly, she totally failed to live up to my enthusiastic promises.

But it was still a lovely night out. CB and her mate J were there, as was my new friend Nick Curtis (!), and a few other critics I recognise (like KB). And I think (hope!) JC enjoyed it too.

I simply love the place.

I'll stick my neck out and say I'm pretty sure Shakespeare's Globe is my favourite place in the whole of London.

Sure, it's uncomfortable, awkward, hard to hear, and, well, quite hard work. But that's what Shakespeare's like too, so it feels like a totally fitting venue to me.

I love how you can watch other people watching the play. How you have to work hard to get the most out of it. How you do have to strain to hear. How people do this weird endurance thing with the hard benches and the standing, and still come back.

And I'm looking forward to seeing more things there in the future.

Musical Excitement: Spring Awakening @ The Novello Theatre

After not really understanding about this show, particularly as we were illustrating it with some dodgy rehearsal pics on site, I'm now beside myself with excitement about tonight's press trip.

Then I read some more about it, perused the reviews, and watched Chad work himself up into a suitable lather over the show.

Yes, thanks to my former uni-and-flatmate CB, who's now lucky enough to work for SOLT, I'm tagging along as a plus one to the press night of the transfer of Spring Awakening to the West End. Hurrah.

There have been a few bad ones (Mme De Sade, Obama on My Mind, Dirty Dancing) in the last few weeks. Let's hope this is going to turn it all around...

More to come...

More on Madame De Sade

What did I say last time? "It's going to be good."

And, yes, my press seat in row E certainly was. Next to another critic, it was one of the best in the house, and I'm very, very grateful to my boss for handing it over.

However, I wrote "it's going to be good" with regards to the play. And I'm sad to say it wasn't. It took a while, but I finally pulled my ideas into a review for londonist. And other people agreed:

The Times's two stars: "It's lead, gilded lead, highly decorated lead, but still lead."
The Guardian's three stars: "The acting and staging are breathtaking, the play itself is an example of the Higher Tosh"
The Whingers: "It should have served as something of a warning to the Whingers that Madame de Sade was written by Yukio Mishima whose own ritual disembowelment and decapitation (aka seppuku) was severely botched and mocked. Why did he do it? Perhaps he had been obliged to sit through his play once too often."

And so on.

Not many of them talked about the projections on the back of the set. Word counts and lots to say and top-line opinions and all that.

But, given the sumptuous set and all that jazz, I found it really distracting from all that talking, which was, incidentally, where the drama was supposed to be, according to the programme notes:

…the narration is advanced by Racinian tirades - often lengthy descriptions given by a character of some event or perception. Mishima believed that the dialogue itself created the drama and that the brilliance of the costumes and the extravagance of the period would add the necessary visual appeal. (With thanks to the Whingers.)

So, Anna, the little sister is chatting about being in Venice. But not without a ripply water feature on the back wall. There's a description of a fire: cue barely discernible flames rippling, a bit like the water did, on the back wall. And there's a retelling of a riot; so let's have some mismatched images projected... on the back wall.

It really doesn't help when you are trying to listen to the pretty inscrutable, heavy dialogue that keeps coming at you like a barrage of so many fat, unread, improving non-fiction novels on philosophy and morality and more.

Enough already. Either you believe, with Mishima, in the drama of the dialogue, or you don't.

And if you don't, why are you putting on this play again??

Theatrical Excitement: Madame De Sade @ Wyndhams Theatre

After being blown away by Ivanov, with Ken Branagh, directed by Michael Grandage, as part of the Donmar West End Season last year, I'm very, very, VERY excited to be seeing Madame De Sade tomorrow night, on what appears to be the second press night.

Hurrah. I was offered the (single, meh) press ticket by my boss. Amazing. I'm so grateful.

The excitement crescendos on a number of levels.

First, and most importantly, I'm getting to see the lovely Dame Judi Dench on stage for the first time. I've been a big fan for a long time now. It probably triggered by seeing her in Mrs Brown, in Bond films, in Shakespeare in Love and on telly. Or by reading about her playing a wonderful Lady Macbeth at the age of 20, while I was studying at Liverpool. (This last fact may or may not be correct - I'm sure it was wonderful, I just don't know how old she was - but surely the point is that my interest was aroused...) Tonight's research has revealed a few more choice nuggets:

• I love the fact that when she played Lady M opposite Ian McKellen at The Other Place in Stratford, Michael Billington was there, reviewing it: "If this is not great acting I don't know what is." (Not that exceptional a quote, I'm sure MB said other things besides, but apologies: I'm using wiki. Here's hoping he's there tomorrow; he might be seeing it tonight, though.)
  
• She's also a singer, having played Sally Bowles in Cabaret. Here it is on YouTube. She played Sally when she was 34. Which kinda kills my current silly "life's-going-to-be-over-when-I'm-30" vibe stone dead...
  

Second, the rest of the cast is pretty impressive. I can't wait to see Rosamund "Perfect Skin" Pike do her thing on stage either. She was at uni with JC, dontcha know.

Third, this is the kind of show that's got even the sensible people at the Guardian getting into mischief: Dame Judi Brings Home the Bacon...

Fourth, and cheeky, I know, but it's a press ticket, so hopefully I'll get a great seat. I saw Ivanov from a vertigo-inducing standing position at the back of Wyndham's, for just a tenner, on the last weekend. Even from that distance, after that many shows, watching the top of Branagh's head and missing some of the play through awkward sight-lines, I could still tell that the acting, the directing, the whole shebang was brilliant. I can't wait to be able to see that from a decent seat (in the stalls?).

It's going to be good.

Sublime and Ridiculous: Royal Albert Hall to the Hen and Chickens Theatre

It's been a pretty odd day, events-wise.

Alongside the launch of The King and I at the Royal Albert Hall, I also caught the press view of Obama On My Mind at the Hen and Chickens Theatre, not in Camden, as I'd mistakenly thought, but in Highbury / Islington. (North of the river is such an impenetrable maze...)

So, heading for a post-11pm cliche, it really has been a day swinging from the sublime to the ridiculous.

I channelled Olivia Jools at the Royal Albert Hall, knowing no one in an awkward pre-launch mingle, but was thrilled to finally hear from the real Raymond Gubbay (I thought, like the Colonel in KFC, he was long gone, and more of a semi-mythical character than a real-life person), a lovely bloke from the RAH, who's about to retire, and the wonderful Maria Friedman, about to take on the role of Anna. She sang "Hello, Young Lovers" in a nicely, unpolished version. I think she's going to be good.

Then, after work, it was all about the trusty 43 up through The City, and into the unknown of Highbury and Islington. Which I still manage to get confused about after all this time.

The Hen and Chickens is a delightful little pub theatre. Obama On My Mind is an odd, inappropriate little musical. Indeed, from the outset, when the cast all came on in pink hats with wobbling pigs on top, overfilling an under-funded space, it seemed to be as far from the impressions I have of Obama as it is possible to ever, ever be. A whole galaxy. Light years away from the slick, well-funded machine that got this clever, slick man into power. Actual, real, whole, light years.

I'll write the review in the morning.

Musical Excitement: Obama On My Mind @ the Hen and Chickens Theatre

Very excited about tomorrow evening's entertainment.

I've got press tickets to see what's become known as The Obama Musical, or Obama: The Musical at the Hen and Chickens Theatre in Camden.

It's actually about the campaign trail from the p.o.v of an American in London, I think. You can listen to the theme toon on their site. This from The Graph:

Written and produced by the Ohio-born Teddy Hayes, The Obama Musical focuses on the personalities behind the Democratic candidate's campaign.

Songs in the show, due to receive its premiere at Barons Court Theatre next month, include Obama and Me, which is sung by an obsessive member of his team and includes the lyric: "We are a pair/like chocolate and éclair".

Hayes said: "I've done a bit of work for the Obama campaign and this is a send-up of what happens behind the scenes."

Except, it seems things have changed since that report, as it ain't at Baron's Court, it's at Hen and Chickens.

As well as being intrigued about seeing a new musical, I'm also excited about finally hitting another one of London's pub theatres I've been researching recently. Review coming...

Plus, I just like the idea of someone else waking up with "Obama on my mind..."

Review: Sunset Boulevard at the Comedy Theatre

Seen any Andrew Lloyd Webber this year? And I'm not talking about watching the Lord spout his meaningless witterings about "raising your game" and "going on a musical journey" on some Saturday night TV show.

I'm talking about bona fide, spine tingling, heart-string tugging clichéd-but-we-love-it musicals that seem to hit the right note (pun intended), every.single.time.

If you don't have the ALW gene, the one that makes your eyes well up when the two doomed leads start singing that octave-separated duet, the one that increases your heart beat when you hear that flute solo, the one that roots for that unwitting, innocent outsider pulled into an odd gothic entanglement (The Woman in White, The Phantom of the Opera, Sunset Boulevard), don't worry. But, well, I'm sorry: this might not be the show (or even the review) for you.

Sunset Boulevard is the Tony Award-winning 1990s musical of the 1950 film of the same name. It tells the story of a tragic relationship between an old silent movie star, Norman Desmond ("the greatest star of all", played here by Kathryn Evans), and a young writer called Joe Gillis (Ben Goddard). This reworked version, directed by Strictly Come Dancing's Craig Revel-Horwood, is greatly paired-down from the blockbuster it became, and features a cast of actor-musicians.

Like Avenue Q, there's a moment at the start of this Sunset Boulevard where you have to enter into a contract with the people on stage. In AQ, you agree to accept the puppets. Here, it's about the instruments. Yes, they're going to be playing their instruments on stage, in view, while dancing, while acting; in some cases, while having a conversation. Pretty much throughout. And yes, you have to go with it.

In fact the result, as well as being in awe of the incredible talent on stage, is an interesting one. While playing and watching in the sidelines, the musicians add another kind of participatory, voyeuristic audience to a play which is very much about playing, theatre, being on show, celebrity and audience.

The two leads are fantastic. Crazy self-obsessed old bat Norma Desmond is a dream role for any actress (Glenn Close, Elaine Paige and Petula Clark have all played her). Kathryn Evans' gorgeous full-bodied voice suits the big show-stopping songs perfectly. She also brings a desperate lonely physicality to the role –those long fingers, that long neck, those long eyelashes – that makes her more than a match for Ben Goddard's big-statured Joe.

Goddard shines as Joe, too. It helps that he's rather gorgeous, as well as being a likeable, troubled rake. I didn't mind watching Ben being stripped down to the pants of his writer's clothes and trussed up in tails at all. Joe's as enamoured with fame and celebrity as he is disgusted by it; this duplicity comes through particularly nicely in the rousing title song which Goddard totally nailed after the interval.

The rest of the cast are also ace. Kudos must go to Laura Pitt-Pulford making her West End debut as Betty, who not only manages to play the flute while "sunbathing" lying down, but also manages to get herself upright, gracefully, seamlessly without a break in playing. The girl's got stomach muscles.

Norma and Joe's wonderful New Year's Eve tango was a particular highlight; which is to be expected from a show directed by Revel-Horwood.

Tellingly, for a show about a writer, it has some lovely one-liners, some nice cheeky quips, some excellent turns of phrase and rhyme in the lyrics and the script. That's lyricist Don Black for you. He's the chap behind Born Free, a handful of Bond themes, and lots of other top notch classics. And here he's paired with Christopher (Atonement, Dangerous Liaisons, The Quiet American) Hampton. Here's a fantastic profile of Mr Hampton.

There are less successful moments. I didn't love the awkward, over-long car chase. The full-cast numbers occasionally felt a little clunky on the Comedy Theatre's stage. (Is it too small? Were we sitting too close – for once – and too on one side to appreciate the blocking?) And Ben Goddard occasionally needs to relax his (lovely, big, musical-instrument caressing) hands when he's singing.

But these are minor quibbles in a fantastic, magical piece of musical theatre, which really lived up to my expectations.

Take anyone under 18, whose New Year's resolution is likely to be to give up whichever musical instrument they currently hate practising because it's uncool. And anyone of any age with a pure and simple interest in theatre craft, and everything (clever props, gorgeous costumes, great sound and lighting) that goes into creating the magic of a show. And of course, this is must-see fodder for everyone with that secret ALW gene. Go, believe the illusion, and be taught "new ways to dream".

Sunset Boulevard is playing at London's Comedy Theatre until 18 April. Photo of the two leads tangoing is by Robert Day.

Musical Excitement: Sunset Boulevard

How stunning is this picture?!

I've been interested in Sunset Boulevard since listening to Elaine Paige singing (the grammatical awkwardness of) As If We Never Said Goodbye on some Divas compilation of Mum's.

Then, a few Christmases ago we watched Amy's Andrew Lloyd Webber: The Royal Albert Hall Celebration and Glenn Close doing her fantastically nutty performances as Norma Desmond.

That night, I headed straight to wiki, to find out more about this musical that I recognised the songs from, but had never seen, nor knew anything about.

So, I was really excited to hear that Sunset Boulevard was coming to the West End this Christmas.

Two cheeky emails to PTA, and I've been offered two press tickets to the day after press night. Which is good enough for me.

Watch this space for the review.

Theatre Review: The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes at Wilton's Music Hall

The Royal Shakespeare Company opens its London winter season with The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes, at Wilton's Music Hall, a crumbling old relic down a back street in Tower Hill, which last night reeked of soporific mulled wine.

The play, like its venue, is a curious mix.

It's a new history. It's about English philosophy after the Civil War, by an American with an Italian name (Adriano Shaplin).

It's based in a time when theatre was banned, written in blank verse. It's very like Shakespeare, but with the occasional modern "Bollocks!" nudgingly reminding us of its relevance today.

In a time of massive change, upheaval and uncertainty (knowingly referred to as the "pamphlet age of instant reply") two factions develop. Hobbes, the celebrated philosopher, played by the John Hurt-like Stephen Boxer, is full of the arrogance that precedes a fall. Goaded by out-of-work actors Black and Rotten (James Garnon and Angus Wright provide punchy light relief), he battles a group of modern scientists. (You'll recognise Boyle – the one with the Law – and Newton at the very least.)

Despite its title, The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes is actually an ensemble piece. Once Hobbes has met his comeuppance, the pendulum of tragedy continues to swing, as new kid of the block, Newton rails against Boyle's former protégé Robert Hooke (the gorgeous Jack Lasey), and a new generation of thinkers trample over the discoveries of the last.

Puritanical protector Cromwell pops up at the start; more dramatically pleasing is the rockstar king Charles played with relish by Arsher Ali. Ali, with his long hair, long cuffs and long legs in skinny jeans had more than a hint of Russell Brand about him. I couldn't help smile when Charlie looked mischievous about his naughtiness in exile, thinking about the currently disgraced Brand.

The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes provides a fascinating insight into the development of scientific thought in the Restoration. The money required, the politics of patronage, the radical experiments going hand-in-hand with extreme religious views and fervent patriotism.

Does that make it sound rather dry? It isn't. Thomas Hobbes is also about personality, celebrity, ambition, authority, prodigy. Shapiro isn't afraid to tackle many tricksy topics; I've never been in an audience so deep in analytical conversation as the interval drew to a close.

I have to apologise for a lack of deep knowledge about all the -ologies, -isms and -osophies battered across the stage. But the play was no less enjoyable for that.

These RSC men (and one woman confusingly playing a man, Amanda Hadingue) are clearly enjoying themselves, as they chew through this meaty material. They swing and jump around Soutra Gilmour's terrific three-tiered set with so much energy over the two-and-three-quarter hours, it's impossible not to go with them.

The show's by no means perfect. You can't help feeling short-changed as too many characters with too many stories and too much science fly by without the time to elaborate. At one point, the play descends into physical theatre, ideas escaping as bodies surge about the stage; later, as London burns, you get the feeling you're watching a trilogy that's been mashed into one evening's entertainment.

Giving the final lines to the actors, as Hooke ran from his humiliation, was a little twee and in-jokey, and left the play feeling a little flat.

While the characters of Rotten and Black were high on the favourites list, Hooke, with his charismatic, troubled, love-me attitude, and scraggy indie band frontman appearance was surely who most of the audience were rooting for. Or was that just me? (Checking the script, it seems a final soliloquy from Boyle had been cut...)

Nevertheless, if you're getting excited about Channel 4's upcoming The Devil's Whore, are longing for something both a bit Shakespearean and totally unfamiliar, or just want to see high calibre acting in a remarkable setting, make sure you check this out.

The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes plays at Wilton's Music Hall until 6 December.