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bgcolor="#FFFFFF"> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="archivesummerautumn10.html" class="style2">Reviews Archive <span class="style4">Summer & Autumn 2010</span></a><br /> </p> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="archiveedinburgh2010.html" class="style2">Reviews Archive <span class="style4">Edinburgh Festival Fringe 2010</span></a><br /> </p> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="archivespring0910.html" class="style2">Reviews Archive <span class="style4">Spring 2010</span></a><br /> </p> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="archiveautwin0910.htm" class="style2">Reviews Archive <span class="style4">Autumn-Winter 2009-2010</span></a><br /> </p> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="archive08.htm" class="style2">Reviews Archive <span class="style4">2008</span></a></p> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="archive09.htm" class="style2">Reviews Archive <span class="style4">2009</span></a></p> <p align="left" class="style2"><a href="http://www.totaltheatre.org.uk/search.html" class="style2">SEARCH ALL REVIEWS</a><br /> </p> <p align="left" class="style2">&nbsp;</p> </td> <td width="20" valign="top" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"><p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&nbsp;</p></td> <td valign="top" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"> <h1><span class="style5">&gt; <a href="http://www.totaltheatre.org.uk/search.html">SEARCH</a> all current and archived reviews, <a href="http://www.totaltheatre.org.uk/search.html">click here</a></span><br /> <br /> </h1> <h1><strong>Total Theatre Reviews Summer & Autumn 2010</strong></h1> <p><b>ROH Firsts<br> Linbury Studio (Royal Opera House), London<br> 13 & 16 November 2010</b> <p>Now in its eighth year, The ROH Firsts has become a premiere event in the London  new work calendar, drawing a wide range of young artists exploring dance, theatre and circus. The three different programmes, across six nights, place these forms against one another giving a good taste of where our artforms might be heading. <p>Saturday night s acts included Smallpetitklein s <i>S/He</i>, a sleek, fluid dance duet, noticeable principally for the sharp contrast in the stature of the dancers, lending a quirky perspective on an otherwise lilting vocabulary. Rachel Mossom brought a lightness of cultural observation in her duet with film <i>Tutto Posto</i>, playfully unpicking cultural gestures. The material had a warming deftness to it, though the tempos needed fuller exploration to find the depth of this piece. Developed in collaboration with The School of Pharmacy and Royal Pharmaceutical Society, Dante Or Die Theatre s work-in-progress <i>Initial Side Effects</i> explored our medicinal intake through first-person testimony and dance-theatre  the work s potential lies in the company s frankness with the subject matter, uncovering our most intimate complaints, whilst the vocabulary needs a firmer direction of purpose to support this. Top of the bill was Collectif and then... s <i>Instants</i>, an ROH commission and development of their work from last year s Firsts festival. Mixing beat-boxing, a domestic interior and dual cloudswing atop a claustrophobic platform, the three performers found a sense of playfulness investigating the potential of these devices, but the narrative and voiceover needed more embodiment in the action to get this urban relationship going. <p>Tuesday s programme provided work that felt more developed. Sugar Beast Circus (Jeunes Talent Cirque Europe short-listees and Roundhouse artists-in-residence) staged a richly atmospheric and soporific fusion of documentary film footage and minimalist corde lisse work, evoking the rich darkness of the Indian subcontinent and its circuses, whilst playing delicately with narrative fragmentation and animation. In stark contrast was the relaxed, charming deconstruction of five popular dance styles by Birmingham-based Spiltmilk Dance. Jarring Disco against Frank Sinatra, and Mozart against the YMCA and the Macarena, there is still room for more complexity in the compositions but these are digestible chunks of contemporary choreography from a promising young company. Technically stronger and more mature, though sharing a certain playful quality, were Bell and Golfieri in their striding muscular duet <i>That Was The Time I Stopped</i>. Making evocative use of lighting and a deadpan attitude, this piece has a weighted rhythm that draws you into its dark world. Finally Genius Sweatshop fused design, puppetry and circus to carry the audience into the shifting memories of the old sea dog, Albert. With a great grasp of fluid transitions and a keen eye on the selection of images this felt more detailed and layered in its construction than the narrative suggested  a company finally finding a seamless fusion of narrative and circus skills. <p>With pre-show entertainment by Bedlam Oz and post-show music from a different artist each night, the ROH has gone some way to turning Firsts into a mini-festival, rather than merely a new work billing; and with the high calibre of the work this is an important part of sustaining the arts in the UK. Long may it continue. <p><b>Tom Wilson</b><br><br> <p><b>Lysistrata<br> <i>Actors of Dionysus</i><br> Shaw Theatre, London<br> 9 November 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsnov/lysistrata.jpg' alt='Actors of Dionysus, Lysistrata' title='Actors of Dionysus, Lysistrata' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>In the right translation, <i>The Lysistrata</i> is one of Aristophanes' most accessible comedies, in which the women of Greece unite to stage a sex strike to force the Greek city states from warring amongst themselves. Actors of Dionysus latest version uses a new feisty contemporary translation by David Studdard that revels in bawdy knob-gags. The unfussy staging is dominated by a two-level scaffold that crudely echoes the Greek skene. This crudeness is followed through in the grotesque contemporary stereotypes of horny ex-soldiers and vampish girls that trot across the stage, appealing heartily to this mainly teenage audience and somewhat similar to the <i>Carry On</i> films of the 1970s. Effective in establishing an engaging world, these choices also stutter, as although it s possible to enjoy the earthy urges of the characters, the satire of the situation doesn t quite come through and we re left with the crudeness without the poetics. <p>The actors attack with gusto throughout, Kieran Garland and Mark Katz skilfully rendering the male chorus as a rhythmically precise double act, replete with quick-fire character changes and a rough <i>joie de vivre</i>. Kali Hughes, as the sexually provacative Fanny, finds a suitable playful teasing, whilst Lindsay Sharman s experience of stand-up comedy brings a robust resignation and complicité to her role as Nikki. Tamsin Shasha s Lucy struggles to match the intensity of the other characters, and her campaigning zeal feels at odds with the world she has been cast into. <p>Physically confident as the performance is, at times the images feel underdeveloped, equally fixing the wider context of the staging to the observance of remembrance at Wooten Bassett jars against the conditional message of the play  that war is bad, only when it's amongst yourselves. The difficult final shift in tone in the original text isn t fully solved in this version and Shasha struggles to bring the political pronouncements of Lucy to a suitable conclusion. <p><b>Tom Wilson</b><br><br> <p><b>Slung Low<br> <i>Anthology</i><br> Everyman, Liverpool<br> 29 October 2010</b> <p>Performance is unique amongst the arts in its ability to so directly move an audience from a single starting point into multiple spaces. And such potential is what underlies the format of Anthology. Seven writers each wrote a new site-specific work; each story began in the theatre auditorium, and after an initial introduction, each took a group of audience members off on a journey around the city streets outside the Everyman. <p>Matthew David Scott s We Sing Faster in the City, directed by Alan Lane, is the story of Peter O Neill, a charismatic milkman with an unreconciled sadness for the death in childbirth of his mother. As we meet O Neill, small tears in the fabric of time are spreading throughout the city  an anomaly that gives O Neill the chance to avert the maternal death by preventing his father from gaining his mother s affection (though at the cost of his own birth). Aside from acting as a narrative tool, this device presents multiple opportunities for theatrical intervention in public space  the back of a parked-up van plays host to a 1940s beach in Southwold, whilst a quiet back street acts later as the backdrop to an encounter with a mysterious woman from O Neill Snr s past. <p>Headphones worn by the audience throughout both amplify O Neill s words and provide a strikingly cinematic pre-recorded soundscape. This serves to both influence the audience mood (tear-jerkingly so at times), and provide a sharpened focus to the action. Such focus meant that the effect of the Liverpudlian Friday night around us was strictly controlled  when we passed a pub, it was because O Neill directed us that we noticed the occupants, not because the liveliness of the interior drew our gaze. <p>Though I hankered after a more holistic linking of the seven stories than that provided in the introductory ten minutes, this was forgivable as thoroughly researched writing, excellent performances and innovative directing combined to provide a multitude of new perspectives on the living city. <p><b>Tim Jeeves</b> <p><i>Coordinated by Slung Low, Anthology collected stories by Robert Farquhar, Lizzie Nunnery, Matthew David Scott, Kellie Smith,Esther Wilson, Laurence Wilson and Jeff Young.</i> <br><br> <p><b>Slightly Fat Features<br> <i>Variety in the Factory</i><br> Tobacco Factory Theatre, Bristol<br> 27 October 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/variety.jpg' alt='Slightly Fat Features, Variety in the Factory' title='Slightly Fat Features, Variety in the Factory' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>It is half term and the Tobacco Factory is packed full of families with young children. The atmosphere is slightly raucous, even before the show begins, tinged with wonder and a Christmas-morning sort of excitement. The makeshift red cabaret-style curtain clashes with the fabric pinned around it, and the stage is framed with a few tattered suitcases. The performers, as they arrive onstage, are slightly tattered looking too, and they immediately get laughs and a general settling down as they sing a ýÿwelcomeýÿ song using ukulele and mandolin, followed by a straightforward but seamless juggling routine using some nice, shiny, sparkly red juggling clubs. <p><i>Variety in the Factory</i> is a collection of street theatre artists, offering a simply curated cabaret-style evening of comedy, trickery, buffoonery, some high skills, some predictable gags and some surprises. Goronwy Thomýÿs energy pulls the seven-strong cast together, and his laidback, quick, gentle compering style relaxes and captivates the audience. This is crucial to its success as a show, as almost all the individual acts rely on audience interaction, and Thom and Coýÿs creation of a happy, party atmosphere is possibly one of their most valuable skills. <p>This is not to underestimate the range of the collectiveýÿs abilities, which are delightfully inventive ýÿ including, for example, a complicated ýÿacrobaticýÿ trick involving a wind-up robot, a roll of tape, a hammer and a plastic elephant. You may have thought that a timed escape from 100 metres of clingfilm would not be of interest to you but I assure you it was performed with finesse and was very funny indeed. The edgily bonkers Herbie Treehead sings his popular ýÿHappy Songýÿ, and the entire audience sings along. Most impressively, twelve umbrellas are shoved through quite a small box inside which the versatile Richard Garaghty changes from shirt and trousers to ragged shorts and a desert island beard ýÿ at which point, bizarrely but brilliantly, a long lost friend of Garaghtyýÿs from the audience chooses to declare himself. <p>All in all an immensely likeable, funny, feelgood evening of uplifting silliness and nonsenseýÿ and the audience were great too. <p><b>Geraldine Harris</b><br><br> <p><b>Charles Linehan<br> <i>Inventions for Radio 1964</i> and <i>The Clearing</i><br> Greenwich Dance Agency, Greenwich | Dance Umbrella<br> 28 October 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/theclearing.jpg' alt='Charles Linehan, The Clearing | Photo: Richard Hubert Smith' title='Charles Linehan, The Clearing | Photo: Richard Hubert Smith' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>Charles Linehan returns to Dance Umbrella and with two new works both responding to musical scores. <p><i>Inventions for Radio 1964</i> is performed to Delia Derbyshire s recording of people s reflections on their dreams. This textured 13 minute piece of early sonic experimentation has a deep and fluid quality that carries you into its embrace. Likewise this duet hangs and scoops through the space, evoking a dark buoyancy rooted in the grounded and  released vocabulary. At times the sound score lured me away from the dance and I found myself letting the movement wash over me whilst paying attention to the collage of monologues on tape. Choosing to move the lighting rig during the piece was an interesting idea, but wasn t nearly developed enough beyond the initial shift to sliding the lighting state through the space and was left without a conclusion. <p><i>The Clearing</i> sustained the rooted and expansive, yet whip-like choreography, now in quartet form. Here Linehan achieved a shift between intimate and cavernous space with some deft lighting and positional choices. The piece raised echoes of the lovers from <i>Midsummer Night s Dream</i> as the two women and two men twisted in duos and trios, shifting around and pulling each other through the space with an undercurrent of simmering tension and resistance. Even the momentary embraces felt cool and distant. Richard Skelton s score provided a haunting sparseness to the work, redolent of a deserted cityscape, or scrubland. Again, at moments, the score pulled me away from the dance, but the overall effect was deliciously soporific, worming its way into the body to sit uneasily in the pit of the stomach. <p><b>Tom Wilson</b><br><br> <p><b>Mikhail Karikis<br> Xenon: An Exploded Opera<br> St Peter s Methodist Church, Canterbury | Canterbury Festival<br> 26 October 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/xenon.jpg' alt='Mikhail Karikis, Xenon: An Exploded Opera' title='Mikhail Karikis, Xenon: An Exploded Opera' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'><i>Xenon</i>, 'strange(r)' in translation, is a curious title for this curious piece, staged as part of the Canterbury Festival. This is the sixth part of the  exploded opera , the previous parts having been staged at other East Kent festivals. <p>The first half presents a series of  figures within an office, each one isolated in some way. The narrative feels like a convenient context that allows a variety of ideas to be placed against one another. Most striking in this section, if only for her gentle conviction, was Monica Ross attempt to recite, from memory, the 30 articles of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Around this, the composition created a sense of disorder, but this feels like a distraction from something more compelling. The final image of a returning absent colleague, covered in inflatable beach items, tries to be a climax but instead is too sharp a contrast to what s gone before and it comes across more as bathos, if not faintly ridiculous. <p>The second half of the work jumps sharply in another direction, beginning with <i>Sounds from Beneath</i>, a film exploring a disused colliery via a choral re-creation of the sounds of a working mine. The sounds are evocative and in isolation this is an intriguing work, if a little overplayed in the editing of the images. Following this a series of songs and vocal improvisations explore loss and grief. The technical quality of the voices continue to be high and there are some lovely moments of harmony and counterpoint within the work, particularly from the female voices, but the costuming (each person dressed to suggest an ore or rock) undoes our ability to engage with the emotional content of the work. As such this emphasises the overall feeling in the piece of a disjoint between the quality of the vocal performances and the aesthetic choices of the staging. If only the latter had been stripped back it might have sold itself to me more. <p><b>Tom Wilson</b><br><br> <p><b>Jonathan Burrows and Chrysa Parkinson<br> <i>Dogheart</i><br> Robin Howard Theatre, The Place, London | Dance Umbrella<br> 25 October 2010</b> <p>Sans his usual collaborator, Matteo Fargion, Jonathan Burrows returns to The Place with another cheekily provocative experiment in choreography. For over two decades Burrows has been pushing, fairly vigorously, at the boundaries of what might be called choreography. <p><i>Dogheart</i> centres on what Burrows terms 'writer-ly concerns', and in particular an exploration of poetry s relationship to both dance and film. The text forms the initial focus of the work; spoken in canon, unison and counter-point by Burrows and Parkinson it concerns itself with mundane observations of a house and a street. Burrows is more audible and directly addresses the audience, Parkinson more introspective. The endings of lines are overly emphasised, creating a rather curious cadence to this element. In contrast the dance retains Burrows interest in a minimalist rendering of dance vocabulary  this material felt less developed and targeted than his usual compositions, and though retaining Burrow s weighted directness it didn t grab the viewer firmly enough to pull them into any specific territory. The projected elements though were delightfully rough  pencil drawings of images from the text, arranged and rearranged to deconstruct and recompose our associations, unpicking the way poetry might work on the audience. <p>Overall this piece, though not unenjoyable, feels less like a sum of its parts and in need of more connection between the three forms. Burrows post-show discussions are in many ways mandatory, for they always uncover a breadth of ideas and concerns, often supported by provocative asides, which illuminate the work. <p><b>Tom Wilson</b><br><br> <p><b>unitytheatre and Les Deux Mondes<br> <i>Gold Mountain</i><br> unitytheatre, Liverpool<br> 16 October 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/goldmountain.jpg' alt='unitytheatre and Les Deux Mondes, Gold Mountain' title='unitytheatre and Les Deux Mondes, Gold Mountain' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>With the Unity rightly proud of its role in the Liverpool theatre scene, it's pleasing to see the home city play such a central role in this collaboration between David Yip and the Canadian company Les Deux Mondes. <p>At its core a statement of forgiveness, the play, written by Yip, is an adaptation of his father's life: a tale of a peasant born in China who leaves his home village to seek his fortune (the gold mountain of the title), first as a sailor on board the merchant ships, and then after by eking out a living as best he can in Liverpool. <p>Accompanying this narrative is a sometimes overpowering multimedia show, created by Les Deux Mondes. Projection, light and sound are key elements throughout, often as present in the performance as the two performers, and on many occasions real-time speech and silhouetted action mingle magically with the pre-recorded, providing a powerful interplay of absence and presence which echoes the relationship Yip has with his long-dead father. <p>At other times though, the technical elements becoming something else, an alienating device that takes our attention away from what should have been a simple and honest tale, and distract us with tricks that verge on gimmickry. <p>The performances of Yip and Eugene Salleh, the other performer in this two-hander, are both competent and engaging to watch, showcasing their talents in an understated and alluring manner. <p>In spite of this, the tale with which we are presented, and the manner in which it is told, never quite lives up to what is promised. We are shown a man with many weaknesses and little luck, who lives a life filled with mistakes, though never do we find ourselves really caring about him, and without this, miss out on the crucial moment of resolution and forgiveness that Yip himself has obviously experienced. <p><b>Tim Jeeves</b><br><br> <p><b>Waxwing Theatre in association with the New Diorama<br> <i>9:21 to Shrub Hill</i><br> New Diorama Theatre<br> 13 October 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/shrubhill.jpg' alt='Waxwing Theatre in association with the New Diorama, 9:21 to Shrub Hill' title='Waxwing Theatre in association with the New Diorama, 9:21 to Shrub Hill' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>After a slightly panicked taxi ride and a hesitant venture down a glossy glass arcade, the New Diorama Theatre was found nestled amongst office blocks only just abandoned by the suited and booted. Inside its welcoming and cosy glow, Waxing Theatre, founded in 2008, presented their third show, exploring the mundanity of daily routines and the forgotten enchantment of the world as seen through a childýÿs eyes. Featuring seven grey, downtrodden passengers on a commuter train, it was the arrival of a small Technicolor boy called Archie, depicted by a papier mýÿchýÿ rod puppet with shiny green eyes and an oddly long neck, which acted as the catalyst for their remembering. <p>However, with the blow of the station guardýÿs whistle, it quickly became apparent that there were various theatrical elements and styles present which were going to jar. A chorus of three unexplained women flitted about, robotically voicing a city slickerýÿs text messages and exaggeratedly shivering when an imaginary window was opened. They felt awkward in the space and turned out to be an early warning sign of some half-hearted attempts to lift the carriage into fantastical realms. This was a place where snack trolleys offered passengersýÿ their heartýÿs desire alongside a cup of coffee for ýÿ8.72 and randomly placed movement sequences displayed their inner torment, disturbing the clarity of certain scenes. <p>Frustratingly, the piece skimmed only the surface of individual experiences during short bursts of conversation, diminishing pathos, whilst incessant interruptions came from the irritating ringtones carefully matched to members of this motley crew: a sleazy neckerchief wearing vegan, a charming cockney Grandma and a whiny American tourist. Although this devising ensemble identified recognisable commuter characters it felt as if their different dimensions had not been fully investigated, resulting in the performance of clichýÿd stereotypes. <p>Moments of interest included the clever manoeuvring of seating blocks to provide different perspectives throughout the journey and a whimsical sequence of play with clothing, creating a magical snake which weaved through the air. Although the intention to magnify lifeýÿs little peculiarities was admirable, ultimately in this production it felt as if mundanity had prevailed. <p><b>Olivia Ivens</b><br><br> <p><b>Chikamatsu Monzaemon<br> <i>Love Suicides at Sonezaki</i> <br>Wiltonýÿs Music Hall, London <br>4 October 2010</b> <p>A forest of green bamboo is printed on the mind by <i>Love Suicides at Sonezaki</i>. The projections use woodblock prints contemporary to the Japanese story, first performed in 1703. Onto this are layered hand-held branches, lights and ribbons to symbolise souls. Tokubei (Delia Remy) and Ohatsu (Yuriri Naka) take their lives. <p>Written by 16th/17th Century dramatist Chikamatsu Monzaemon, <i>Love Suicides at Sonezaki</i> was based on then recent events in Osaka, but was quickly banned because so many couples copied the final scene. It may seem both cold and romanticised today. Thereýÿs no great psychological realism or detailed backstory beyond the conman Kuheiji (Andrew Futaishi) and corrupt politicians. The lovers seem to take a quick decision based on a different moral code. But the undiscovered country is magnetic. <p>Beautiful puppets, hand-built at Wiltonýÿs, have a sense of belonging. However, they speak more when left to their own devices, having a quiet moment in the background, than when crowded out by the puppeteers. <p>The speech can seem trite or suffer from sententious delivery, from the opening lines by a blindfold narrator that 'we are floating through a sea of stories'. Itýÿs particularly counterproductive when words intervene to tell us about silence or that 'the last agonies of death are indescribable'. <p>However, the singing is excellent, with an original soundtrack by Rolando Macrini and Emma Ringqvist that includes haunting a capella and a rock song about a karate black belt. The second half is a violin recital by Peter Sheppard Skaerved in response to the play, with music ranging from Heinrich Ignaz Franz Biber (1680) to Philip Glass (1967) and contemporary compositions (2002-07) that require the fiddler to play both voice and violin. <p><i>Love Suicides at Sonezaki</i> is visually delicate, even if some of the animation is oddly static. Itýÿs ambitious in interweaving Bunraku puppetry, still and moving images, music, acting and text. The transitions can be both abrupt and intriguing. Interesting choices include using two female actors to play the young man and girl. And the last violin solo, a coda to their death, is simply called <i>Alone</i>. <p><b>Charlotte Smith</b><br><br> <p><b>Theatre Temoin<br> <i>Jukai</i> <br> Blue Elephant Theatre, London<br> 30 September 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/jukai.jpg' alt='Theatre Temoin, Jukai' title='Theatre Temoin, Jukai' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>It doesn't start so well. Opening with a mask sequence set in a Japanese village, Jukai has a grating overemphasis of character and mannerism that is intentional and quite possibly culturally historic, but, still, <i>grating</i>. It's a relief when the narrative cuts out to a French writer, Natalie, who is working on a children's book set in Japan and is visiting the country (which she otherwise has little knowledge or experience of) for research. The story she's writing bothers her, seems to branch and outpace her authorial control, and subsequent scenes in the Japanese village see the folk-style comedy broken apart by the appearance of a demonic Shogun and the rape of a young girl. She gives birth and flees with the child into the forest Aokigahara, the Sea of Trees. Then what happens? Natalie doesn't know; she journeys to the forest herself to find out. <p>As it moves ever further from its initial register, <i>Jukai</i> develops a spare, careful, apt language. There's fine musical accompaniment from two multi-instrumentalists throughout, with some particularly striking effects to suggest water and, more abstractly, the dense, unending space of the forest. The forest itself is delicately represented with sheets of suspended paper drawn up and down; low, flowing mist. The full moon shines through the skin of a lifted drum. Fleeing the Shogun the girl carries her child into the river, loses footing, and the bundle of blue cloth in her arms is pulled from either end into a fluttering ribbon of water. Her silhouette against it sinks down. <p>Playing Natalie, Julia Yevnine isn't all the way convincing as an artist tortured by the unfolding consequences of her own created world, though the manifestations of her obsession ýÿ fatalism, self-absorption and irresponsibility ýÿ ring truer, as does her assumption that her good-natured boyfriend Alex will serve patiently as the guardian of her solitude. <p>The production's writing can be formally too elaborate. There's a scene where Natalie breaks out her painstaking Japanese to ask questions of the forest ranger ýÿ he speaks English just fine, but she's holding stubbornly to a misplaced idea of sensitivity and immersion. The sequence is familiar and funny, and, without trying too hard, brings the audience back around to considering the ethics of cultural appropriation. Elsewhere though there's a feeling that <i>Jukai</i> overextends itself in assembling the necessary symbolism for a complete thematic circuit: a tourist who Natalie meets by chance travels into the wood to end her life (perhaps), carrying a Japanese doll that traditionally is the vessel for the spirit of a dead child. <p>Still, <i>Jukai</i> is for the most part a thoughtful and subtle piece, pared down and, in the end, quite moving. <p><b>John Ellingsworth</b><br><br> <p><b>Trestle Unmasked with Blindeye<br> <i>Burn My Heart</i><br> New Diorama Theatre, London<br> 28 September 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsoct/burnmyheart.jpg' alt='Trestle Unmasked with Blindeye, Burn My Heart' title='Trestle Unmasked with Blindeye, Burn My Heart' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'><i>Burn My Heart</i> has what you might call a heightened narrative ýÿ one that neatly outlines its themes for the sake of a larger picture. Adapted from the novel of the same name by Beverley Naidoo, the play is set on a farm in Kenya and follows the friendship of two boys ýÿ Matthew, son of the white landowner Mr Grayson, and Mugo, son of Grayson's Kenyan stableman Kamau. Events are driven forward as the British imperial presence, represented by the character of the Major, react to rumours of a vast and spreading rebel group, the Mau Mau. Anyone could be Mau Mau ýÿ everyone. As Grayson starts to doubt the loyalty of Kamau, Lance, the Major's son, saunters into Matthew's life and begins to strip away his confidence and trust in Mugo. Anyone could be Mau Mau, he says ýÿ everyone. <p>With Trestle Unmasked one of the companies behind <i>Burn My Heart</i>, the publicity slightly oversells the total theatre aspects of the piece. It has a nice way of using sound to achieve the equivalent of scene fades ýÿ children counting down as they play hide and seek trailing off into a tense encounter in the kitchen of the Major, or stamped rhythms breaking into the terror of horses trapped in a fiery field ýÿ but the physical theatre elements are underplayed, and I think as a conscious choice in respecting the urgency (and reality) of the story. Jumping from chair to chair Matthew and Mugo climb a ridge; the Grayson family mime-eat a meal. You wouldn't call it poetic. Perhaps you would call it fluid ýÿ a language that is chiefly representational. <p>Plaudits are due the cast, each of whom play four or five characters they must rapidly switch between, also taking up instruments to provide music and the occasional sonic effect (a dangerous, running elephant is well rendered with a clumsy mix of trumpet, whistle and accordion). Special mention to Gýÿhane Strehler, who takes the character of Lance on an awful downward journey as his game of playing an adult turns realer and realer. <p>Blindeye, the other company behind the play, exist to make work around national and international human rights issues, and the impetus and ambition of the piece is to give people (like me) who've never heard of the Mau Mau uprising a spur to look back and to learn. And what remains in the mind is the story ýÿ leavened for a time by the charm of the characters, but in the end terrible and bleak. <p><b>John Ellingsworth</b><br><br> <p><b>Acting Like Mad<br> <i>Spare</i><br> New Diorama Theatre, London<br> 18 September 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewssep/actinglikemad_spare.jpg' alt='Acting Like Mad, Spare | Photo: Tina Engstrýÿm' title='Acting Like Mad, Spare | Photo: Tina Engstrýÿm' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>Almost as bewildering for its audience as it must be for its actors, Sebastian Rex's <i>Spare</i> harnesses the latent discomfort we feel when confronted with ambiguously abusive sexual encounters. Cast completely at random every performance, all of Rex's actors are required to learn every part. Dressed in a municipal white uniform that is redolent of mental institutions, the actors blindly select their parts from a pile of white boards. This experimental tactic is completely disorientating: all notions of an actor's suitability for and association with a role are entirely displaced. Spare follows the thought processes of Qwerty, Pranty and Voorty, as they question what constitutes an abusive experience. <p>With 40,320 permutations, there is no risk of the cast becoming complacent. Indeed, this seems to be part of Rex's aim: he wants his actors to be as uncomfortable as the characters they are playing. Confronting a series of potential rapes (an anagram of 'spare'), Rex's practice mirrors his material. Forgivably not completely flawless, the cast handle this trying task surprisingly well. The highly stylised choreography lends each character their own immediate identity and, as such, facilitates a curious and almost frightening sense of otherness. <p><i>Spare</i> challenges the logic of cause and effect, and interrogates the superficial sincerity of many of our everyday relationships and interactions; every false word we speak has the potential power to drive someone towards a dramatic decision. As the characters shirk their responsibilities, they mark the pure white clothes of their victims with handprints of black paint; the Police Officer closes his vantage point and the Parent sinks into and slips through the comfort of an armchair. <p>A brave and daring new approach to theatre, it's fortunate that Rex's skill as a director equals his ambition as a writer. Although the actors experience the occasional waver, and the complex direction of the storyline is initially a little more muddied than perhaps it ought to be, <i>Spare</i> treads over exciting territory. Subject and style are exactly matched: a sterile environment is conjured, in which every relationship is intentionally contrived. Constantly renewing itself, Rex's perplexing Beckettian nightmare really demands more than one viewing. <p><b>Helena Rampley </b><br><br> <p><b>TinkerTing<br> <i>Hunger</i><br> Tobacco Factory Theatre<br> 15 September 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewssep/hunger.jpg' alt='TinkerTing, Hunger' title='TinkerTing, Hunger' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>Returning to the Tobacco Factory after receiving a standing ovation at the 2009 Bristol Festival of Puppetry, <i>Hunger</i> is a collaboration between Pickled Image and Norwegian companies TinkerTing and Nordland Visual Theatre. It is based on the novel of the same name by Norwegian Nobel Prize winner Knut Hamsun, which I had not read in advance of seeing the show. <p>The lead character is a starving writer, an impressively crafted lifesize puppet with gaunt skeletal face, gaping eyesockets and painfully pronounced ribs. Two puppeteers (Per Arne Lýÿset and Gisle Hass) provide an arm each, contribute to different sides of his character, and work together in superb partnership to create a surprisingly expressive whole. Only minutes into the show the face of the puppet draws the audienceýÿs full attention, rather than the two subtle faces of the understatedly dressed manipulators. <p>The nameless character struggles to write, endlessly fiddling with scraps of paper and a pencil as he is gripped by a crippling hunger. A sense of fantasy and confusion is created by the placement of the writer-character as ýÿnarratorýÿ (though the only spoken words are a sparse mixture of Norwegian and made-up language). When he visits a clerk to sell him some writing, the simple clerk puppet is created by our lead character, and his arms become the clerkýÿs arms. Later, he becomes preoccupied in a flirtation with a lady, represented by a doll-headed mannequin in the corner of his room. When his preoccupation turns sinister, it is impossible to tell the extent to which the narrative is a delusion of the writerýÿs starved mind. <p><i>Hunger</i> is a bold and difficult choice for a piece of puppet-theatre, as it addresses themes of the mind, fantasy and delusion, which in live performance would more easily be expressed through spoken word, facial expressions and the eyes. A large amount of audience interpretation is required, which is rather unsettling but empowering too. If you like a tight plot, action, an easy watch, this is not for you. It is a very well-crafted piece of work and a thoughtful study rather than a gripping yarn. <p><b>Geraldine Harris</b><br><br> <p><b>Simon Wu<br> <i>Oikos</i><br> The Jellyfish Theatre, London <br>8 September 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewssep/oikos.jpg' alt='Simon Wu, Oikos' title='Simon Wu, Oikos' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>The Jellyfish Theatre has an eerie beauty: a beached whale of a building washed up near the river in Southwark, a slatted wooden collage, an ecological dinosaur. Lovingly built by volunteers, and only there for a couple of months. <p>Wander round at dusk to the twinkling bar, and you see big water-cooler bottles transformed into mask-like sculptures by primary-school children. Pallets, glittery boards and a message can be seen on the main structure. <p>The space is apt for <i>Oikos</i> (ýÿee-kosýÿ), Simon Wuýÿs play about a deluge. The ceiling does look solid, designed by Berlin-based architects Kýÿbberling and Kaltwasser. But you still feel the fragility of the shelter. <p>Projections of offices and London buses work well on the walls. The set includes old furniture, but itýÿs less subtle than the building itself. And, unfortunately, the play itself does not live up to the surroundings. <p><i>Oikos</i> centres on a city banker, Salil (Neil dýÿSouza), a self-made man whose marriage is collapsing after an affair with his secretary. This is revealed during an emergency, as the flood waters rise across London, in a rather contrived way. <p>The writing is clichýÿd, with a rags-to-riches tale of ýÿlife was hardýÿ to cornershops to due diligence. It takes a stab at reality and fantasy ýÿ the riparian drama and the mysterious Ganga ýÿ but neither gets off the ground. <p>The direction can be clunky, and the characters of the daughter Lily (Amy Dawson), and mother Assana (Dido Miles), are strained and annoying. The movement is exaggerated, with wasted energy. <p>The project remains lovely, but more from an architectural point of view, as the play is strangely disconnected. You still emerge transfixed by the building, not wanting to leave. If only the walls could speakýÿ <p><b>Charlotte Smith</b><br><br> <p><b>Deborah Pearson<br> <i>Like You Were Before</i><br> Forest Fringe @ Alphabet Video Store, Marchmont, Edinburgh<br> 23 August 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsaug/likeyouwerebefore.jpg' alt='Deborah Pearson, Like You Were Before' title='Deborah Pearson, Like You Were Before' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>Take three girls: Emily, Stephanie and Deborah. Young women whose relaxed and intimate three-way friendship is captured on video by one of them, Deborah, who has just bought her first camera. For various reasons, Deborah doesnýÿt get to see the video for years ýÿ and when she eventually does, she is struck by that peculiar quality ýÿreal lifeýÿ filming has to record things one hardly notices at the time ýÿ proving that there are many ways to view anything; that we constantly edit our own past; and that memory is an ever-shifting construction of the imagination. The video never changes, but she is changed and will continue to changeýÿ <p>The piece is set in an independent video store in Edinburgh, a beautiful ready-made site with red decoupaged walls and a quaint wooden staircase, in which the only added ýÿpropsýÿ are two old-fashioned monitors and a cosy lamp that casts a soft light over Deborah, who for most of the piece is stood or sat behind the counter, hand on chin or gazing reflectively at the screen, a calm and gentle presence. On one monitor is that first-ever video. Itýÿs just a try-out-your-new-camera friends-in-a-cafýÿ film, with a few self-consciously arty shots of the room or objects on the table. Current-time Deborah points these out to us with ironic amusement. The past-time Deborah is (inevitably) off-screen for most of the time, although we hear her voice. Current-time Deborah looks us in the eyes and speaks her words along with the video, which has an eerie and amazingly poignant effect; a kind of ritual affirmation of the nature of ýÿpast selfýÿ ýÿ an identical twin with the same genes, but growing on a different path, and constantly changed by exposure to the world. Sometimes the film is rewound so there can be reflection on something observed in retrospect; at other times the film is fast-forwarded to avoid moments deemed awkward or worrying in the present moment. <p>On the other video runs a film shot from a train window in a backward-facing seat. Important to sit facing back, says Deborah, so that we can see the immediate past expanding out before our eyes, giving us the chance to reflect (rather than be hurtled into the future facing forwards). On monitor one, the video shifts to footage taken at the airport as Deborah leaves Canada to live in the UK, not knowing when or if she will return ýÿ a pivotal moment of change captured and reflected on. <p>For the most part, beautifully structured and delivered, although thereýÿs a slightly awkward and unnecessary physical action/movement section that draws us into the larger space of the video store, which shifts the tone in an odd way as it is in such a different performance mode: the core material of the two sets of onscreen footage and Deborahýÿs interaction with those is quite enough on its own. <p>This aside, it is a truly lovely piece. In its conception, devising and performance, <i>Like You Were Before</i> is a moving and thought-provoking miniature ýÿplayýÿ that punches above its weight. <p><b>Dorothy Max Prior</b><br><br> <p><b>Hannah Walker<br> <i>This is just to say...</i><br> Forest Fringe @ The Mock Turtle, Edinburgh<br> 21 August 2010</b> <p>Hannah Walker presents a warm and engaging fusion of intimate performance and poetry, housed in a beautiful and welcoming environment (designed by Theodora Lecrinier), wherein you sit with her at a table and share wine, and ýÿ if you like ýÿ your thoughts and ideas on the subject matter (though you're also welcome to simply watch and enjoy). The central premise is very simple: this piece is about saying sorry. Hannah asks what an apology <i>is</i> ýÿ why do we do it, and what do we do when we want to apologise for things that really matter? <p>The stories and interspersed poems are wonderfully written and delivered. Hannah shares stories of her past, and ýÿ without ever asking for sympathy or empathy ýÿýÿunpicks the very fabric of her identity and how and why she feels compelled to apologise for everything (in turn, reflecting on notions of cultural identity and the use/misuse of language). <p>This self-reflective tone invites the audience to reflect on their own memories and moments. Her writing is lush, and tinged with a lightly bitter edge. The emotions she feels are acutely illustrated, and she paints a picture of the memory with a kind of clarity and pitch that allows you to both understand her feelings and connect to your own. <p>Her presence is confident, mature and smooth, and the content utterly endearing and engaging. I walked away from this piece feeling hyper-aware of when I say sorry (which has plagued me ever since). I felt lucky to have been a part of this seemingly secret little gem of the Forest Fringe programme. I was also pleased I was able to listen and share my own thoughts and feelings on the subject, which she welcomes but never forces: it adds all the more to the experience. <p><i>This is just to say...</i> is a lovely and playful piece that has a fruitful future ahead of it. <p><b>Robert Jude Daniels</b><br><br> <p><b>Me & The Machine<br> <i>When We Meet Again (introduced as friends)</i><br> Forest Fringe @ Forest Cafýÿ | Forest Fringe, Edinburgh<br> 18 August 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsaug/whenwemeetagain.jpg' alt='Me & The Machine, When We Meet Again' title='Me & The Machine, When We Meet Again' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>At only six or so minutes in length <i>When We Meet Again</i> is a little gem, hidden in the basement of Forest Fringe. Finding yourself in a darkened room with goggles and earphones on, you start to realise that this performance is going to be somewhat different from most. On a screen in the goggles you see a short film and hear instructions. The ýÿinvisible womanýÿ off-screen tells you that: ýÿýÿwhen I first met you, you could see me but I couldnýÿt see youýÿýÿ. What follows is a one-to-one performance that tricks your mind into thinking you are somebody else, somewhere else. As the video is filmed from a first-person perspective, replacing your point of view with that of the performer onscreen, the immersive experience becomes deliriously disorientating. <p>Amongst other things, the instructions teach you to dance with a person you canýÿt see, after which you are joined by the ýÿinvisible womanýÿ and are transported to a beach. Making use of all the senses (including the usually un-represented taste) to create this tantalising performance, Me & The Machine successfully use technology to make you question the illusions it presents. This is an out-of-body experience which leaves you, only a few minutes later, alone in a darkened room, making you conscious of how technology shapes human interaction, and raising questions as to the direction technological advancements are taking us. Most of all, however, it leaves you wanting moreýÿ <p><b>Chloe Preece</b> <p><i><i>When We Meet Again (introduced as friends)</i> was presented at Forest Fringe and also at Dancebase, various dates in August. It was shortlisted for a Total Theatre Award in the Emerging Company category.</i><br><br> <p><b>Bootworks Theatre<br> <i>30 Days to Space</i><br> Forest Fringe @ Forest Cafýÿ | Forest Fringe, Edinburgh<br> 18 August 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsaug/space.jpg' alt='Bootworks Theatre, 30 Days to Space' title='Bootworks Theatre, 30 Days to Space' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>At 24, James Baker realised that his childhood dream of becoming an astronaut was yet to be fulfilled. A common enough dream, but few would attempt the challenge of getting into space whatever it took. With a degree in performing arts, he tackled the problem the only way he knew: making the journey into space a durational performance, involving nothing more than a six-foot ladder and a shiny spacesuit. NASA defines space as starting 50 miles up, so he calculated that to achieve this distance of 50 miles would mean ascending and descending the ladder for eight hours a day for 30 days ýÿ hence the ever-present spaceman on the ladder in the Forest Fringe foyer throughout August. Ground control in the form of Andy Roberts provides support and counts his climbs. <p>As James tirelessly pursues his goal, he marks the ceiling with a star at each ascent, leaving a visual representation of his journey that can be followed from hour to hour, day to day. With people constantly coming in and out of Forest Fringe to check on his progress, he has captured the imagination of many. Much of the power of the piece is in the exchanges between audience members and ýÿastronautýÿ James or ýÿground controlýÿ Andy. The performance is a charming example of durational theatre, connecting with the child in all of us, and giving us some much-needed hope of achieving our dreams, however impossible they may seem. <p>James demonstrates an inspiring amount of both eccentricity and willpower. I wish him luck in achieving his dream: he has contacted NASA asking for honorary designation as an astronaut but unfortunately has so far not received a reply. (Editorýÿs note: mission accomplished ýÿ James reached space on Day 30 ýÿ 30 August 2010.) <p><b>Chloe Preece</b> <p><i>30 Days to Space was presented 1-30 August 2010 by Forest Fringe at the Forest Cafýÿ, Edinburgh. It won a Total Theatre Award in the Innovation category.</i> <br><br> <p><b>True West and Trifle Gathering Productions <br><i>The Charity Shop Cabaret</i> <br>Tobacco Factory | Edinburgh or Bust 2010 <br>29 July 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsjuly/charityshopcabaret.jpg' alt='True West and Trifle Gathering Productions, The Charity Shop Cabaret' title='True West and Trifle Gathering Productions, The Charity Shop Cabaret' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>After a successful rural tour in summer/autumn 2009, Cornish collaborators True West and Trifle Gathering Productions preview this free show at the Tobacco Factory before heading to Edinburgh Festival Fringe for a run in the Ballroom at the Voodoo Rooms. <p>The publicity, design and set-up are a little crass, a bit plasticky and twee, and I worry before the show starts whether it is going to be poking fun at an unsuspecting section of society, ýÿ la <i>The League of Gentlemen</i>. Half way into an introductory song-and-dance, though, Elspeth (Kyla Goodey), Leonard (Adrian Mercuri) and Marion (Sally Crooks) have entirely endeared themselves to the audience and have our full attention. Elspeth is the controlling and lonely but very vulnerable owner of the junk-filled charity shop, which is on tour to Help the Jadedýÿ no, wait, that should be J.A.D.I.Dýÿ thatýÿs Jazz And Disco dancers In Debt (cue topical jokes on ýÿcurrent climateýÿ and TV talent shows). With anorak-wearing, fisherman-bearded Leonard, who is a half-man, half-dingo Australian, and bespectacled Marion from Tunbridge Wells, whose character takes elements from Garth in <i>Wayneýÿs World</i> and the child in <i>Little Miss Sunshine</i>, Elspeth has taken the shop on tour, hoping to raise money for her cause. <p>The three characters and their relationships with each other unfold wonderfully through the show, interspersed with audience interactions (bingo, an auction, a wacky gameýÿ), some well rehearsed and funny dance routines, that range from line dancing to pole dancing, and some great sketches, most memorably a routine based on the English tea-break that becomes almost erotic. This is a unique blend of sketch show and cabaret underpinned by a truly funny and engaging theme, and a strong and consistently interesting narrative. The bric-a-brac set and cheap costumes serve their purpose well. <p>With the flexibility, interaction and audience awareness of a street theatre show and the quality script and highly developed characters of a conventional studio piece, this is a fun, feel-good and (in Edinburgh) free show that it would be a shame not to fit into your busy Fringe schedule this summer. <p><b>Geraldine Harris</b> <br><br> <p><b>ENO/Punchdrunk<br> <i>The Duchess of Malfi</i><br> Disused office building, Gallions Reach, London<br> 13 July 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsjuly/punchdrunk_theduchessofmalfi.jpg' alt='ENO/Punchdrunk, The Duchess of Malfi' title='ENO/Punchdrunk, The Duchess of Malfi' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'><i>The Duchess of Malfi</i>, a new opera (composed by Torsten Rasch with libretto by Ian Burton after John Webster), is staged by Punchdrunk in a disused office block in East London. <p>As is often Punchdrunk s method in working with large-scale productions, the narrative is deconstructed and rearranged into a series of looped performances set in a wonderful fantasy land of installations (which in this case include a forest of metal trees; secret fur-strewn dens in abandoned offices; and a cathedral replete with wooden pews and signs exhorting the value of purification). <p>The audience, free to wander the building, encounter  in no particular order  scenes depicting or referencing Webster s terrible tale of incestuous desire, insanity, torture, and child-murder. The story culminates in the execution of the eponymous Duchess. The audience are silently directed to all gather in one large space for the denouement: a familiar Punchdrunk tactic that in this case leads to a visually stunning, physically gruelling, and musically enchanting piece of  total theatre that is long enough and engaging enough to be classed as a show-within-the-show. <p>The production bears the Punchdrunk stamp, sharing elements of staging with previous work. The model is perhaps more <i>Firebird</i> and <i>Faust</i> (i.e. a big, empty space completely transformed by what is placed within it) than <i>Masque of the Red Death</i>, which revelled in the architectural discoveries of BAC s Victorian splendour. Having said that, the architecture of this concrete and glass temple is exploited beautifully. Moments to treasure included the sudden realisation that I could look down two floors through plate glass walls to see an orchestra below in the atrium, the music coming through with a muffled, dreamlike quality. A lone dancer, right next to me, hit herself repeatedly against the glass, as if desperate to throw herself down towards the music. <p>Familiar Punchdrunk themes and tropes abound: the plight of mad/oppressed women (c.f. the lone female character in <i>The Yellow Wallpaper</i>; Madeleine Usher in <i>Masque</i>); a fascination with chemicals/poisons/perfumes/apothecaries; and an ongoing obsession with shrines and religious iconography  another magic moment was finding myself in a dark corner and reaching out to encounter, terrifyingly, the hand of a statue (referencing the Duchess flight with her servant-lover under the cover of a pilgrimage to a shrine to the Virgin Mary). As always, Maxine Doyle s choreography is a vital element  there s a good helping of her characteristic intensely physical and sexually charged fight-dancing, enjoyed greatly in an encounter in a lift with two mad-cat female performers, and a very lovely scene where a solo oboist leads a pack of crawling  madmen through the audience. <p>Some critics have taken issue with the fragmented narrative  the argument being that one has to have pre-knowledge to understand the story  but for me that was less a problem than the challenges that were obviously there in moving a whole orchestra (as opposed to a few nimble actor-dancers) around the space. The musicians struggled with the task of relocating discretely, and with staying in a neutral performance mode between set-pieces; and there was no dramaturgical logic to the clusters of chairs and music stands dotted around  although attempts were made to integrate their existence into the piece with, for example, sheet-music used in many interesting ways, including as leaves on those trees. <p>So all-in-all not as  successful as some other large-scale Punchdrunk works; yet worth it all just for that final scene, and at the other end of the spectrum, for the opportunity to sit quietly next to a harpist in a forest of metal trees! <p><b>Dorothy Max Prior</b><br><br> <p><b>Catalyst Theatre<br> <i>Nevermore</i><br> Barbican Theatre, London | BITE<br> 6 July 2010</b> <p><img src='../images/reviewsjuly/catalysttheatre_nevermore.jpg' alt='Catalyst Theatre, Nevermore' title='Catalyst Theatre, Nevermore' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>Life is but a dream  and who are we to say where dream ends and reality begins? Or as Edgar Allan Poe put it:  All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream. <p>Catalyst Theatre are not the first to be drawn to Poe s life and work as subject matter: others include Punchdrunk, Lou Reed, Al Seed/David Hughes Dance Company, and Paper Cinema. The appeal is obvious, but the challenge is to create something that justifies the interpretation or transposition of Poe s writings to another artform. <p>Catalyst s unique form of highly visual and ultra-stylised music-theatre suits the subject matter perfectly. <i>Nevermore</i> could perhaps be described as a burlesque opera. The  facts of Poe s life are presented to us with an ultra-grotesque Gothic sensibility  terrible tales of tuberculosis, alcoholism, literary rejection, and romantic abandonment presented as larger-than-life cartoons. Although we are mostly held in the burlesque mode, there are moments of real horror: for example, in a story of childhood bullying in which the young Poe is forced to watch as his pet mouse is skinned alive. <p>The show is a visual feast: the costumes a kind of carnivalesque re-interpretation of Victoriana; the set comprising a number of sliding screens, creating a (literally) multi-layered vision; the many marvellous props and artefacts including a pop-up book and a whole menagerie of  big head animal masks. Those who want to amuse themselves picking out the visual references to Poe s stories might spot a grotesquely pounding Tell-Tale Heart; a Black Cat with  Scissor-hand claws; and, across the back wall, alternating washes of colour that evoke the journey through the castle s many-coloured rooms in 'Masque of the Red Death'. <p><i>Nevermore</i> was composed, written and directed by Catalyst Theatre s artistic director, Jonathan Christenson, and designed by Bretta Gereche (long-term collaborators who have created a very special style all their own). The ensemble of seven are superb: beautiful singers, and gifted physical actors. Having followed the company from their first UK appearance with <i>The House of Pootsie Plunkett</i>, it was great to see them programmed at the Barbican. <p>If there s a quibble, it s that <i>Nevermore</i> is tied a little too tightly to the linear narrative of Poe s life: perhaps it could have allowed itself to break away from the timeline a little more& <p><b>Dorothy Max Prior</b><br><br> <p><b>Various Artists<br> One-on-One Festival<br> Battersea Arts Centre<br> 6 July 2010</b></p> <p><img src='../images/reviewsjuly/ontroerendgoed_smileoffyourface.jpg' alt='Ontroerend Goed, The Smile Off Your Face' title='Ontroerend Goed, The Smile Off Your Face' padding='0 0 5px 5px' align='right'>Buzzy, busy, with a couple of extra bars thrown in for good measure& The first thing that strikes me about the festival of one-on-ones at Battersea Arts Centre is how sociable the whole experience is. Positively gregarious. <p>This is the sort of background noise that the critic usually filters out. But the set-up defies the normal boundaries, separates yet brings together the audience, spreads into unknown corners of the building (and on some days, you can get carjacked outside too). The experience is billed as a journey, with at least three individual shows, but also time to  explore, refresh and reflect (read: queue) in between. <p><i>The Smile Off Your Face</i> by Ontroerend Goed is a centrepiece. Some of the tricks have already been explained to me, yet it s a new experience. Blindfolded, in a wheelchair, you are pushed around, in a dark maze, until a final, structural revelation. It s both cheap and complex, with some genuine intensity and a fakeness that s both powerfully Brechtian and a bit tacky. <p>There s a child-like simplicity at times. A gentle rattle, the feel of stubble, someone guiding your feet, snatches of half-heard speech, disorientation.  I m crazy about marzipan, a woman tells you, as she feeds first chocolate, then a mandarin segment, then a small marzipan ball into your gaping mouth. <p>At the other extreme, it s blatantly adult.  I couldn t resist, a man with tears in his eyes says of pinning you up against a wall. This doesn t ring true. Company members ask intimate questions, find some erogenous zones and chide the audience into a sense of personal inadequacy. It s skilfully produced, but feels a bit jaded. <p>Ampersand Media s <i>Headlines</i> is successfully topical, as two characters respond to a news item about banning the burqa in France. But a downside is that the piece is short: the first monologue feels like it s still being hotseated, the second character is confidently drawn but over in a flash. <p>Some of the other work struggles to get off the ground. <i>Through the Wardrobe</i> is a fashion-filled installation, but apart from a regressive charm of crawling and dressing-up with a performer, it is left standing. <i>You Me Nothing</i> has a chair and window-cloth in a room. The feedback form, with a choice of twelve adjectival boxes to tick about Franko B s work (from  banal to  empowering ), seems more soul-searching than the piece itself. <p><b>Charlotte Smith</b><br><br> <p><b>Improbable<br> <i>Lifegame</i> <br> Lyric Hammersmith<br> 8 July 2010</b> <p>How do you go about reviewing something which is different every night? <p>In some ways, this is a false question; the nature of live performance means that every night is different anyway. But Improbable s <i>Lifegame</i> is likely more different than most. Each show revolves around a guest, interviewed by the company onstage, without prior knowledge. Segments and scenes of their life are concurrently dramatised, with company members playing parents, siblings, teachers; and sometimes with the participation of the guests themselves  a kind of cameo appearance in the stories of their own lives. <p>I first saw <i>Lifegame</i> several years ago, and memory (as the performance sometimes illustrates) can distort. Sitting in the theatre tonight, however, familiar sensations arise; a particular mixture of fascination, hilarity and a kind of squirming embarrassment. <p>The performance this time, though  improvised as it is  feels more mature, and more comfortable. This must have much to do with the guest for the evening, the game and eminently likeable actor Kerry Shale. From early childhood, through school, adolescence, self-discovery and maturity, the performance gently builds a fiction out of the guest s descriptions of reality. <p>The company s methods are deliberately low-tech. There are a few items of costume, some basic props and furniture. Their skills as improvisers, musicians and puppeteers are all commandeered, but nothing is polished. We re entertained, not taken in as we might be by a glitzy biopic. <p>Then again, this changes as the performance continues. We  this audience and only this one  really are getting to know the person onstage. We know about his father s hair, his mother s cooking and the name of the girl who kissed him first. The effect is of a great and developing intimacy, as well as a story which keeps us on the edges of our seats for the full two hours, because we want to <i>know</i>, so much, every detail. <p>Ultimately, it s absolutely moving. As well as the skills of the Improbable team, there is surely an element of the actor s art in Shale s own self-presentation  his ability to tell a story, his openness mixed with professional timing and hubris and self-mockery. <p>Not to take anything away from Improbable  quite the opposite  but the show is wickedly simple. Take a life; unfold it; hold it up to the light. Pain and hope, love and sadness are all in the weave. Improbable s format and skill, coupled with a willing participant, just allows us to feel the fabric. <p><b>Cassie Werber</b><br><br> <p><b>Rimini Protokoll<br> <i>Best Before</i><br> ICA, London | LIFT<br> 1 July 2010</b> <p>Best Before, an interactive theatre piece by the Canadian group Rimini Protokoll, is strikingly different. Performers are not so much actors as  experts and audience members are not so much viewers as computer gamers. In itself, the concept is exciting: an interactive show in which the audience dictate proceedings. However, in its self-conscious effort to be different, Best Before somewhat allows concept to override content. <p>Each audience member is provided with a gaming console and requested to make decisions such as whether they want to be male or female and whether they want to feel pain or not. These dichotomies are initially thought-provoking, and the effects of our decisions are transparently shown; those who have chosen not to distribute wealth equally visibly grow in height. <p>After a while, though, it seems as if the repetitive lifestyles of the experts who are explaining the process to us are reflected in the action of the evening. The cyclic movements of a traffic flagger, a computer programmer and a games tester are inflicted on us as we repeatedly make decisions that impact on the tiny, virtual, coloured blob that represents us. The ultimatums with which we are faced are unrealistic, in the fact that they are irrevocable and in that they present an unnatural antithesis: when in life is it ever possible to make a finite decision about whether we want a world in which people s talents are equal or diverse? The ability to make us reflect on our own decision-making process sharply fades. <p>The strongest part of the show occurs when the separation between real and fake is blurred. Occasionally, a decision we make has an impact (albeit in a representational form) on our real surroundings: as each onscreen character dies, a bean bag is thrown onto the stage, reminding us of the true gravity our digital decisions would have were they real. Overall though, the show is just too slow: it consists of a series of extremely similar actions, and several instances in which large chunks of text we are able to read for ourselves are read out loud in a laboured fashion. What is surreal for half an hour becomes mundane after an hour and forty-five minutes. <p><b>Helena Rampley</b><br><br> <br /> <br /> <br /> </td> <td width="10" valign="top">&nbsp;</td> </tr> </table> <!-- InstanceEndEditable --> <table width="800" border="0" align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"> <tr> <td><p align="center"><span class="tt_footertext"><a href="#top"><strong>^Page Top</strong></a> | <a href="/index.html">Home </a>| <a href="/news/index.html">News</a> | <a href="/magazine/index.html">Magazine</a> | <a href="/links/">Links</a> | <a href="/awards/index.html">Awards </a>| <a href="/Reviews/">Reviews</a> | <a href="/general/about.html">About</a> | <a href="/general/contact.html">Contact</a> | <a href="/join.html">Join TT</a></span><span class="style4"><br /> </span></p></td> </tr> </table> <p align="center" class="tt_footertext">website by<br /> <a href="mailto:gabzfp@hotmail.com">Gabz Digital Media</a> &amp; <a href="http://www.kindnesscreative.com">Kindness Creative </a></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <script type="text/javascript"> var gaJsHost = (("https:" == document.location.protocol) ? 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