January 19, 2023
The Tragedy of the Horny Teenagers: Spring Awakening at the Almeidaby Randi / January 20, 2022It’s Theatre Thursday! Today’s show is the play ‘Best of Enemies’ that I recently saw via livestream thanks to the Young Vic’s incredible decision to make all their shit available while you sit on your couch, which I love.
In 1968, American politics seemed volatile and people were fighting publicly and openly in a way that made everyone think ‘oh mg we are never going to be able to agree so we will never be able to get along or live in harmony and everything should be dictated by hate and I hate you’ and that only lasted a few years and everything is different now. I joke! See name of website! “Best of Enemies”, the new play by James Graham based on the documentary based on the famous TV segments, is the story of how television shifted to profit off of this opposition politics by pitting two well-known yellers against each other: William F. Buckley Jr. (would be a trumper today?) and Gore Vidal (would be getting into trouble on Twitter today?).
Buckley was a shlamiel conservative who founded the National Review and was super big on ‘Christian values’ in the American political sense and not the actual Christian sense; Vidal was the intellectual and author known for his wit and being in the same social circle as Andy Warhol and stuff I guess. During the 1968 primaries, ABC, then trailing in the ratings, had the great/fateful idea to pit these two figures against each other in a string of live debates where they could be like ‘no I’m right and you’re wrong’ ‘no I’M right and you’re wrong and here’s why’ ‘here’s your old man!’ kind of stuff.
Discussion of these debates have lasted all these years because 1) it changed how TV networks reported on politics and 2) Buckley called Vidal a queer and threatened to punch his face apart, on live TV. The play covers both of these aspects, though I would have loved more on the former, which I found fascinating. As Buckley, David Harewood (from Homeland) is strong and as unlikeable as he should be, and I appreciated the colorblind casting for someone known for being on the wrong side of civil rights issues so often (and sometimes he admitted as such, which is rare for his ilk today). Charles Edwards’ Gore Vidal hit that perfect note of ‘I know this guy’s right and I mostly totally agree with him but man is he pompous’, which is spot on. Both were infuriating to watch at times, making me want to yell at my TV, which is exactly what ABC was originally going for so they captured that well.
The scenes of their actual debates were among the most compelling, as the drama was fully harnessed then. The extensive look into both of their personal lives was well intentioned and seems necessary in concept for fleshing out the drama, but in practice it contributed to the parts that dragged. What stood out for me in this play was actually, as I mentioned, the interesting behind-the-scenes talks at ABC about how they could boost their ratings, and the old-school journalists who gasped and clutched their pearls at the idea of having such opinionsss presented front-and-center instead of cold hard facts. Would watch a whole 10-part documentary on that shit.
The other aspect of the play that stood out for me was how positively astounding Syrus Lowe’s performance as James Baldwin was. When he came out on stage and said his first maybe three words, husband and I said at the same time ‘oh that’s James Baldwin?’, that’s how uncanny his physical presence and manner of speaking was. LOVES IT. His role in the story was a nice way to ground it historically, as was the tiny Andy Warhol ‘cameo’ (so funny). Other historical figures, like Aretha Franklin, didn’t deliver, but that could be a problem of comparison, outshined as anyone would be by Lowe.
What worked well in this play was the interplay between the dramatization of the events and the real speeches or photos shown in projections, out-Ivo-ing Ivo yet again. It positioned this event well in its point in history and served as a reminder of how history is made at night repeats itself, as this could have largely been taken from TV today.
I could have done without the super loud scene changes and loud music. We know from Mrs. Buckley’s lime green dresses that it’s the ’60s; the music is extraneous.
Act II drags quite a bit compared to the first; watching political arguing in a world that is 99% political arguing is exhausting, y’all. It was heavily personal attacks instead of ever talking about real important issues, which I guess is all political commentary at its core, but it’s very frustrating nonetheless. The frustration is not helped by the epilogue-y part with the woman decades later pontificating on what it all ‘really meant’ without really saying anything. It felt tedious and bloated. And I could have done without the whole ‘imagine what they’d say to each other now!’ bit. Didn’t they hate each other? Weren’t they real people? Don’t put words in their mouth, especially when the words don’t measure up to the ones they were famous for. So the play would benefit from some tightening up, but it does have a lot of captivating moments.
Other bits:
The livestream didn’t have an interval countdown clock, which is very stupid.
My favorite part is when one audience member had her mask below her nose and I groaned and said ‘ughhh pick up your mask lady’ and then the next time she was onscreen her mask was on properly; it’s like she heard me.
May I remind the entire UK theatre world of my long-standing offer to give your American-accent-featuring plays a once-over during a rehearsal so that no one ends up shouting ‘conTROversy’ during actual performances.
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What It’s Like Seeing The Normal Heart During Another Pandemic
TL;DR it’s soul-crushingly ironic.
A few weekends ago, we had the complicated privilege of seeing Larry Kramer’s seminal work, The Normal Heart, now playing at The National Theatre. Kramer wrote the play, which premiered in 1985, during and about the rise of the AIDS epidemic in New York City in the early ’80s.
Whenever people talk about The Normal Heart, they use the phrase ‘searing indictment’. I mean not without good reason – it works, and it sounds good. It’s a ‘searing indictment’ of state and federal governments, of all aspects of the health system that failed to do literally anything to help the sick or help curb the spread. And, of the hindsight granted to us in viewing a community that was stuck between a rock and a hard place — not wanting to ruffle too many feathers in their attempt to get people to care, but doomed to fail unless they did so.
What this production ended up being, however, was an indictment of our present theatre-going community, and, of course, the entities tasked with ensuring our welfare. I am not comparing the situations or the people involved, but it was beyond ironic to see a play about a world-changing pandemic during a world-changing pandemic, and upsettingly so. You don’t want the lessons of Kramer and of AIDS and of incredible words like The Normal Heart to simultaneously be relevant and ignored, yet here we are.
In the play, Ned Weeks (Ben Daniels) is painted as the odd man out for being so quick to anger, so full of rage that he easily unleashes, while his peers try to remain calm and reserved and polite, as though that ever accomplishes anything. Early in the show, Ned says some whoa there things about Jews in the Holocaust and in America during the war who didn’t fight against what was happening. He rails against Jews for not fighting for what was right, as though they could have done anything. For the rest of the show, Ned lives firsthand through a refutation of this speech, as he and his community become the new embodiment of the powerless, with no one listening to them and no one willing to help except one lone doctor, Emma Brookner (Liz Carr).
There’s a lot I can say about this always moving, emotional show. I could talk about Ben Daniels’ lead performance, and how capably he carried this heavy, heavy show. I could talk about the quality of the supporting cast. I could wonder why it seemed like the famous Act II monologue of Dr Emma Brookner, always hailed as the most impressive featured role, seemed truncated even though it wasn’t. I could talk about the fine directorial choices like the gradual accumulation of physical junk on the floor, or in contrast how for some reason the play overall felt more overtly didactic than any production I’ve seen before, like it was solely a sequence of monologues.
However, none of these critical aspects of the play itself feel remotely important when considering the overall experience of this play, happening now, in this climate. I think of this experience and I am filled with incomprehensible fury. This audience at the National at a performance on a Saturday night represented the worst showing for maskwearing I’ve seen anywhere since the pandemic began. And I’ve been to America. Twice. I never knew what irony was until I was watching this play about how people weren’t taking a pandemic seriously while surrounded by people not taking a pandemic seriously. Ned yells at his friends when they refuse to entertain the idea of even suggesting to gay men to stop having promiscuous sex for now; they say this is a matter of personal freedom and identity. Guys, that’s just toooo on the nose, isn’t it? Ned says that their personal freedom is endangering HIS life. And a man across the aisle clapped and hooted while coughing openly. I wholeheartedly recognize and approve of Ned’s fury at his fellow man in failing to join him in his, because that’s how it feels being one of the few taking this pandemic seriously. Watching in real time as his righteous indignation, so beautifully and honestly written by Kramer, performed by Daniels, directed by Cooke, fell on such conspicuously deaf ears, it felt like the unavoidable condemnation was on our society now, not then.
Of course the situations are different, and the ignorance is based on different kinds of hate. Yet the emotions are the same — the frustration, the feeling of being abandoned, the feeling that your fellow man doesn’t care, the knowledge that he doesn’t. Because in case you didn’t know, we are indeed still in a pandemic that our government is refusing to take seriously. People in the healthcare community are on the news begging the government to do something, and the government responds with promises to the business communities that they won’t implement another lockdown, as though people in business can’t die of Covid. All the theatres I’ve returned to up to this point have politely and carelessly suggested that audience members wear masks, but without an actual rule that patrons must wear masks, it seems like roughly 80% do not. And for some reason, theatres state their belief that unless the government has a mask mandate, they do not have the legal authority to make or enforce one, which is a bunch of hot hot garbage.
Without an actual mandate from the theatre, and without staff enforcing the wearing of masks, theatre audiences are widely unmasked. I assumed that the kind of people choosing to see The Normal Heart, people voluntarily seeing a heart breaker about this sort of systemic and personal failure to curb a pandemic and help victims, would be the kind of people still wearing masks and giving a shit. I was very wrong!
I honestly still cannot wrap my head around the extraordinary irony of listening to Ned scream at his friends and community members about how they don’t care and aren’t doing enough, while we were sitting next to people who don’t care and aren’t doing enough, and who have the gall to cheer (and then ignore) the lessons being taught onstage. It’s seriously distressing to hear these lines about how other people are pretending nothing’s wrong and they don’t care if others die so long as they can go on acting in their own self interest, when that’s exactly what’s happening. It took all my strength not to turn to all the maskless people and be like, ‘aren’t you guys hearing this?’ Dr. Brookner’s big moment has her screaming at a medical committee that decides not to fund her research into AIDS; she yells at them to just do something, anything, or they would all be dead before they could. And the audience APPLAUDED. The people around us coughing and not covering their mouths and wearing their masks around their necks APPLAUDED. No, it’s not the same, what people could be doing to help now versus what they could do then. Because what we could do now is unbelievably simple and we have the scientific community’s data and backing instead of deadly stymieing. Just wear a mask. And you’re still refusing. You’re clapping at someone in play being angry at others for not doing anything, and yet you are refusing to do the easiest fucking thing of putting a fucking piece of cloth over your nose.
I do believe that individuals in our theatre community have a lot to answer for; two years in, we have the knowledge and ability to be responsible members of society on our own volition, without being ordered to give a shit by controlling entities or governments. But, as we’ve seen, humans won’t do the right thing en masse unless ordered to. So I blame the National Theatre, having the balls to put this show on and ignore its lessons by not enforcing mask wearing or having literally any awareness of it being a pandemic. (I also continue to blame the NT for its long-standing problem of having no ushers around in case of trouble. A few times up in the circle in the past years, I’ve searched desperately for a staff member to help with issues (including one audience member who was ill), and couldn’t find anyone in the whole upper level lobby or anything. They never have anyone anywhere once the show starts. Ridic.) And above all, it is the systemic fault of the Society of London Theatres and UK Theatre membership organizations for not issuing ANY regulations for their theatres. (Obsessed with their bullshit CYAs, like how SOLT’s website has a section for ‘well-being’ to help members and stuff deal with the pandemic. You know what would help everyone’s well-being? A mask mandate.) Literally while writing this, I got an email from Telecharge reminding me how all Broadway theatres are requiring proof of vaccination and enforcing mask wearing. Londoners, you officially lose your right to make fun of Americans. If Broadway can do this, London can do this. FUCKING DO IT.
Islander at the Southwark Playhouse: This Mystical Folk Musical is the Strongest in London Right Now
I can’t even pretend to do my usual joking around or easing in to the review with a funny story or quip. Islander, the new Scottish folk musical at the Southwark Playhouse, is a perfect show. It’s flawless. There’s not one line, one beat, one twist of the story that isn’t purposeful, genuine, and portrayed with an artistic verve that I haven’t seen in a UK-bred work in ages. This tiny little amazing show, performed in the Southwark’s ‘Little’ room, a claustrophobic black box theatre, is showing up every major West End musical right now with its intriguing, unique sound and its captivating story. You all know how much I adore pointing out the things I would fix or change in shows to make them tighter, deeper, better/faster, higher, stronger. That’s my favorite thing, to consider how I could take a good show and make it great (or a bad show and make it watchable). The only thing I can even think of for Islander is that they moved this black trunk, the only set piece, around a lot for no real reason. THAT’S IT THAT’S ALL I GOT.
Straight from this summer’s Edinburgh Fringe, where it won a Best Musical award, Islander (conceived and directed by Amy Draper) is a four-hander (see previous posts; change approved) telling of life on a remote Scottish island from the perspective of a young girl (Bethany Tennick) named Eilidh (not how I would have spelled ‘Alie” either) and, well, everyone else she comes into contact with (Kirsty Findlay). Eilidh’s quiet, secluded life bursts open to fascination, first when she discovers a beached whale calf, and then when a mysterious young girl arrives on Kinnen (I’m going to be spelling everything wrong, okay? those accents are HARD) claiming she’s from the mythical floating island of Settesea. The connection between the two visitors is other-worldly, thrilling, and keenly conveyed, like Islander as a whole. But the way they get this supernatural, mythical storyline (with a book by Stewart Melton) to seem completely grounded and believable makes this show truly brilliant. At times it feels poignant and political, a commentary on perhaps our own Brexit struggles. At times it feels like a coming-of-age story (complete with a pretty funny way to portray a phone ringing.) At times it feels like a small town drama with all the frustrations and problems you’d expect. And it all works together.
The friendship between the two girls amid this vibrant portrait of life on the remote island, completely with a wide range of well defined characters, are all impeccably done. Findlay’s ease in dipping in and out of the various characters she inhabits is a masterclass in character and voice work, like watching a young Tatiana Maslany but live on stage (and if she were an amazing singer). Together with Tennick’s wide-eyed innocence as Eilidh, the two create a thriving town of believable, indelible characters with nothing but their own talent. No sets, no real costumes, no props, just the words they’ve been given and what they can do with them.
And what they do with them is made into magic with the distinctive musical sound created by Finn Anderson. His music is beautiful and often moving. And the way it’s performed is the key here. The two performers create an immersive sound using a soundboard with looping technology, so we see them in real time take one phrase of sound and add on and on and on until they’ve created an entire world of incredible music informing all aspects of this seaside village life. The two are both wonderful, truly talented singers, but they do so much more than sing. They create the sound of water dropping from a dilapidated ceiling, they create the sound of a turbulent storm, they create the sounds of whales and the sounds of angry crowds and they somehow know exactly what buttons to push to get it all to record and stop and start flawlessly and I got confused just trying to watch what buttons they hit and how it worked and I was like WHAT IS HAPPENING THIS IS MAGIC for the entire 70 minutes.
Like a famous predecessor from the Fringe, if there is any justice this show should Fleabag its way into the consciousness of the entire civilized world. It’s beautiful, magical, and absolutely enchanting (and not as raunchy/unsuitable for watching with your family). This is the musical I’ve been waiting to come out of the UK since Matilda, a remarkable show that I can’t find any fault with. Islander ends its run at the Southwark on Saturday but with any luck will continue somewhere else.
INFORMATION
The show is 70 minutes but like all London theatres nowadays, they hold the curtain until every latecomer has arrived, which I cannot stand. I will pay extra to the theatre that starts the show when it says and tells latecomers YA BASIC. Also throw people on their phones out, okay? That’s the theatre I want. Anyway this audience was pretty great. It’s hard to be rude when you are in the round and everyone can see you!
