I feel like talking about the set, which is never a good sign. This tale of a talented student, a good clean living young lad who is radicalised by a group of extremist muslims when he goes away to university at the time of the Rushdie fatwa didn’t quite work. The play describes his journey as he is led into the possibilities of violence before finally being horrified by how far his new friends are prepared to go and renouncing it in favour of pursuing love and developing his talent. The central performance by Jonathan Bonnici, a new young actor was spot on. He shone as Shahid and was engaging, truthful and natural but some of the other performances were too stereotyped and one or two were almost caricatures. This made for some nice comedy (especially from Robert Mountford as Shahid’s brother Chili) but it sometimes did a disservice to the subject matter. It was important that we should believe that this group of people were prepared to kill for their beliefs and understand why. We needed more rounded and believable characters to be able to do this fully.

I think most of the problems were caused by the script. Hanif Kureishi is a fine writer but he has not really succeeded in adapting his own material convincingly this time. It is too preachy and didactic, and sometimes comes near to cliche. I didn’t want to see them sitting around discussing issues- I wanted to know what made them tick. The old maxim of show, don’t tell. There was some very nice physical theatre woven into the story and it would have been interesting to see this developed more, the cast were talented movers and handled the speed of the production, the choreographed moves and the fast changes well.

There is an important play to be written about this subject and we need to see it, it’s an enormous pity that this wasn’t it. The setting was all there for it to happen. Three walls formed a lovely cool white room, in traditional Georgian style (representing old England I suppose) which was cleverly lit with constantly changing slogans of the time in neon colours, decorative features and backdrops projected onto its surface. This allowed settings to change quickly and kept the pace moving, as well as adding a pointed commentary on the times. The coup de theatre at the end when the three walls of the room were flung back to the floor by the bomb just as the hero was making a new start was a fine ending and deserved a better play.

Interesting that Brecht’s didactic theatre written in 1944 filled the main house for last Thursdays matinee while this one- an NT production in the much smaller courtyard theatre- was at least three quarters empty. Maybe the teachers who could have used the schools pack which the NT produced were more comfortable dealing with issues in the abstract and the young multi racial community all around the theatre who should have been a target audience knew enough to realise that they were in danger of being condescended to.

Brecht is not one of my favourite playwrights. It’s all a bit too hectoring and didactic. I understand that he wants his audience to stand back from the characters and judge their actions rather than identifying with them so much that they forget what he is trying to teach you, but I would rather learn in my own way from the characters by identifying with them in exactly the way he doesn’t want me to. All the same, it’s theatre and I really like Shared Experience so there I was, in the middle of a matinee audience full of young teenagers who were ready to howl with laughter every time the cynical debased soldier said dickhead and wolf whistle at the sight of a man sitting in a bath. I would say that they need to grow up but probably that’s what they were there for.

There was a lot to enjoy, especially when the stronger writing kicked in in the second half and the two 24 carat performances were able to come into their own. James Clyde had enormous presence, attack and control as the singer and Azdak the judge and Matti Houghton made a very touching and heartfelt Grusha, making the most of the fact that she was the only actor allowed to stay absolutely inside her character for the whole play. It was a relief to be able to take her side and stand with her against all the cynicism which threatened to destroy her.
The chorus of local people were very good and worked especially well with James Clyde. Thankfully I managed to keep my envy of the fact that they were up there on stage singing and reacting under control- I’d have loved to be sitting with them.
The was some wonderful use of puppetry as the child grew up. The moment when he walked into the courtroom and we saw him on his feet for the first time drew gasps of pleasure from the audience and the company really made him live. Lots of nice nice touches in the staging too- a river made from a long cloth unrolled at speed in shades of blue, Grusha crossing a ravine with two ropes and some strobe lighting, and a huge effigy of a murdered judge built around a surgical stand which could be pushed around at speed. There was also a bag of rehydration fluids attached to the judges chair (which was a barbers chair- echoes of Sweeney Todd) and I thought that was a nice touch.

I suppose my two reservations were that I really don’t think the writing in the first half is always strong enough and there were a few of the cast who couldn’t quite pull off the control needed to play the character and stand apart and play the message at the same time. I think that’s probably a very difficult trick to pull off.

A really worthwhile afternoon then, especially if a few of those kids who were so irritating grow up to love theatre and be annoyed in their turn.

A very clever two hander, short, simple and well constructed, which also packs a powerful punch. The audience are made to identify very quickly with the two characters as both the script and the performance style is very open and personal. Often we were being spoken to directly and the warmth and intimacy which this involved was quite charming. It was also clever how the play restricted itself to the central injustice of apartheid, the lie that one human being is worth more than another because of their colour and should be treated as such, allowing us to understand that by getting to know the characters in a very personal way. The fact that Sizwe had to give up his identity in order to maintain a simple right to live where he wanted and support his family was horror enough- especially when the actors had built up such a personal relationship with the audience. Both of them were excellent. Louis Emerick showed great versatility as Styles and Buntu and quickly established a rapport with the tiny matinee audience. He has great presence and used that to full effect. Seun Shote is charming and funny but he also showed great presence and dignity in his speech asserting his worth as a man.
The set was quite beautiful. It was made up of sepia photographs of township people and back projected images were used right through the show to add colour and resonance. During the street scene the whole back wall of the theatre was used to provide a township street as a setting and it gave the enclosed scenes which we were mostly seeing a context which worked very well indeed.
Only one tiny mis-judgment. I wouldn’t have had John Kani and Winston Ntshone’s names used within the play as it broke through the suspension of disbelief. It will have been meant as a tribute but it still shouldn’t have been done.

This was a lovely idea. A group of artists were each given a room in the Hayward to fill. This simple premise gave the exhibition a playful quality, and a diversity, which I really liked. Some of it didn’t work for me but I suppose that was inevitable.
My favourite room was After the Dream by Chiharu Shiota. It was beautiful and dreamlike. You walked around the room through a curving tunnel made out of a cats cradle web, formed from dark string. In the centre of the room, viewed through the cats cradle, were five plain, papery, delicate dresses with the sleeves lifted towards each other, facing inwards, as though they were taking part in a still dance. It was like something from a fairytale and children were enjoying running round it while adults walked quietly with a sense of wonder. Shiota calls what she does drawing in the air and that describes it well.
I also liked Thomas Hirschhorn’s room, Cavemanman. This was most definitely a return to chilhood, an artists superden, a trail with four open spaces, caverns made from flattened cardboard boxes and masking tape. It seemed huge and had turning corners and ups and downs so that you made surprising discoveries as you went along and didn’t know what to expect or really understand what you were seeing. You had to guess and there were no right answers. When I was seven or eight I would have been beyond ecstatic to be allowed to make something like this!
I was looking forward to Yayoi Kusama’s room too, full of green turf and red spots and the trees along the south bank looked great with their flamboyant red spotted trunks.
Another thing which would have delighted me even more as a seven year old than it did now was Yoshimoto Nara’s room, My Drawing Room, a small Japanese wendy house filled with everything he would have around him to work. It was as if he had just slipped out for a moment and we were allowed to sneak close, look though the windows and snoop.
Pipilotti Rist had made a room full of dreams and nightmares. A dark space where you sat and were spoken to by projected floating body parts, slowly moving and distorting thorough space. It was surreal and beautiful and distinctly odd. The kind of thing you half remember when you wake up, something which almost makes sense and makes you feel there is a secret there which you are almost graping the meaning of.
I have been wondering what I would do with an empty room at the Hayward ever since.

I have never seen or read any Racine, my only previous knowledge was hearing what a phenomenal part it is for an older actress and how good Diana Rigg was in it back in the nineties. It’s the standard by which French actresses are judged, so there is scope to be great which is a bit of a double edged sword if you’re going to tackle it. Anyway, it was all new to me so I sat up straight ready to listen, relying on Ted Hughes translation to keep me interested and entertained if it all got a bit heavy. No worries about those reviewers who wanted something different from the translation, it was sure to be good enough for me if it came from him.

Well it’s not Shakespeare, or anywhere near, that’s for sure. There are some wonderful speeches (especially one where Hippolytus declares his love for Aricia) which Ted Hughes had done a great job on but Racine is nowhere near as good. He knows how to plot and twist the emotional knife and the whole thing charges along like an express train towards the inevitable buffers, but there isn’t the warmth and humanity of Shakespeare there, and the verse isn’t as beautiful or rich. It’s full of high energy posing which struts and frets rather than breaking your heart. If any French scholars want to argue with me they are welcome. It’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it. It wasn’t too much of a disappointment, as Shakespeare can see off most playwrights.

The acting was wonderful. I first saw Helen Mirren as a very young Lady Macbeth for the RSC early in her career and she has the same beauty and fragility of gesture on stage that she had back then, and the same formidable stage presence and great verse speaking. Phedre needs to be beautiful and forceful so that her falling in love with her stepson is credible and tragic, not a silly middle aged woman’s folly so both those things are important. Dominic Cooper was just as good as Hippolytus and he also did the verse justice. He was able to make a good, principled character edgy and interesting. Just for the record he is also extremely handsome. Margaret Tyzack is still on stage acting with great power and clarity after all these years, which is good to see, and everyone else was great. Not a word to say against any of them.

The set was beautiful. It was the great curving sea terrace of a palace set into a cliffside, swinging round to the left and it was perfectly lit to suggest the sea beyond and growing menace as time went on. It was a big empty space with just three skeleton chairs and a single step along the front of the proscenium with sand beyond it and Nick Hytner used the characters like chess pieces on it relying mostly on character and verse to keep the momentum going. What few effects there were worked really well, particularly a jug thrown in temper to spread wine like blood across pale stones, and especially the terrible moment when Aricia drags the sack containing Hippolytus body across the stage leaving a trail of blood.

I was so lucky to be there.

This is such a cleverly worked out play, with a killer piece of staging at the end of the first act that the technical skill of the writing tends to overshadow everything else. The dinner party scene is a delight to watch, very clever and very funny. It was good to see it on stage as it isn’t revived very often and it is one of Ayckbourn’s best comedies. As you would expect from the man himself the direction was excellent and the pace never flagged. Some of the cues and physical comedy require split second timing and great confidence and they got it. There was almost no overacting which is always a relief at the SJT when it happens and a full matinee audience of mostly older and even elderly people loved it. There were some nice period touches in the set too. Loved the crochet blanket and the posh frocks. Brought back memories.
I do have a few quibbles. Take away the bravura of what is actually happening and the characters are not that complex or interesting, the little mouselike wife was trying too hard and needed to rein herself in a bit, and the final ending doesn’t live up to the first act finale. Nice work though.

Funeral Tea.

Walter liked funerals. Not the funerals of his family and friends of course; they had been terrible, especially his mothers, only the funerals of people he didn’t know. He liked hearing about people’s lives, he liked the quiet and the sense of occasion, and he liked being a part of it all without being noticed. He never got in the way. It was easy for him to sit apart from people at a funeral as they always assumed that he knew somebody else and he was never spoken to so there was no chance of him saying the wrong thing and upsetting somebody. He had his own simple rules to make sure that he behaved correctly, and not speaking to anyone if he could avoid it without being rude was the first of them. He never went to a crematorium and he didn’t want to. That was usually by invitation, just for family, and it seemed to him like a conveyor belt of grief that diminished rather than celebrated a person’s life. He never went to a funeral tea either. You had to give your condolences if you did that and he would have had to explain himself. It would have felt grubby, as though he was just looking for a free meal.

All funerals were different, but now that Walter had been to quite a few, he could see a pattern and he had begun to feel a sense of a whole generation passing on. He liked that. It was his generation who were passing on, the generation who had lived through a war that wasn’t real to most people any more and put up with the austerity after it was over for far too long, so he had a right to be there. People were spoilt these days, they felt that they could have everything without trying. It wasn’t their fault and he wouldn’t have wanted the young ones to have a hard time, but they were still spoilt. You noticed that when you watched them at a funeral. It didn’t touch them in the way it touched the older people. The young ones had their own lives, they had everything in front of them, and they were just desperately sad for a while rather than changed. That would come later. They would think back and wish that things had been different, they would regret conversations that they had never had and want answers to questions that they had never asked, but for now they were busy inside their own heads and looking forward not back, which was as it should be. The older people were silent. Their own lives were mostly lived in the past now however much they liked to think otherwise. They had been here before. Their faces were stoical, pale and drawn, shadowed by grief. They were mourning their own death as well as that of their loved one. Another strand had been pulled from the fabric of their own lives, leaving them thin as gossamer. It was a stark reminder that none of us are here forever. Strangely, Walter didn’t mind that. He had outlived almost all his friends and family and he had no children. There seemed to be less and less to keep him hanging around. Seeing other people off was a worthwhile way of spending his time while he waited.

Today’s funeral was the biggest that he had been to for a long while. The kindly man smiling out of the front of the service sheet must have been well liked. His name was Henry Jackson and his dates were proudly set out underneath his photo. Just living had become an achievement now that he was gone. He had managed three years more than Walter had, so far. Three more years didn’t seem very long. Walter wondered when they would be bringing the body in and then he realised with a jolt that Henry Jackson was already there. He wasn’t used to that, there was normally a bit of a procession. Henry was right at the front, neatly packaged in pride of place before the altar, which was no more than you would expect. He still had a wife and what must be a son and two daughters. They were already there, right next to him, huddled close at the front. Walter didn’t know them of course, but it was easy to pick them out. There was a look that close family had at times like this. They might as well have had name badges on. There were hardly any empty seats. All around him there were dark suited older men who looked as if they belonged together, almost in uniform. He was glad that he had dressed up smartly, as he always did. He had a good look round, scanning everything he could see without turning his head. The church looked modern to him, even though it had been built almost forty years ago in the nineteen sixties. It was a large, square, barn like Roman Catholic one with the altar set right in the middle on a big stage. There were seats on three sides and a narrow band of stained glass all the way round the top of the brick walls which let light flood down into the space. Right over the altar in the centre of the roof there was a big clear glass window which acted like a spotlight sending a beam of holiness down onto the sacrament. Arthur wasn’t a believer, but he watched the dust spiralling around in the shaft of light appreciatively, enjoying the drama of it. This was going to be a requiem mass too, he didn’t get to go to many of those, so there would be plenty more drama. There would be smoke and incense and bells. A proper send off.

When the priest got to Walter’s favourite part of the service, the part where you found out what the person had done with their life, it became obvious why it was such a big gathering. Henry had been a mason, and a stalwart of several charity committees, a great example of what his mother would have called a “do gooder”. Walter had always wondered why his mother never seemed to think that doing good was something to admire. After all no matter how full of themselves some people might be they still helped others didn’t they? Anyway, he was pleased to see that doing good was unquestionably something to admire this afternoon, there was a whole army of Henry’s fellow masons and charity workers here to prove that. Right at the end of the service there was a beautiful prayer about sending Henry up to be with the angels while they wafted incense around him. Even for someone who was waiting to see an angel before he was prepared to believe in it that was a nice idea, and it made the lady who had slipped into the empty seat next to Walter at the last minute sniffle and get her tissue out. He turned to look at her. She had hair that looked like it wasn’t going to move in a hurry, and she was wearing a smart navy blue dress (such a serviceable colour navy his mother would have said) and matching shoes. There was a string of pearls round her neck which matched her earrings. All very tidy. She was on her own. When it was all over and she started to get herself worked up about finding a pen to fill in the little card that they had given everybody Walter broke one of his own rules and spoke to her.
“Would you like to borrow mine?”
He had filled in his own card before the service, having decided that just doing that wasn’t being a nuisance to anybody and he might as well.
“Yes please.”
He watched while she wrote her name in tiny neat handwriting. Margaret Dawson.
“Thank you.”
She smiled at him and gave it back.
“Did you know Henry then? Such a lovely man. Lovely, lovely man. He’ll be very much missed.”
For a few moments Walter panicked. He could hardly say that he had just come to have a gawp, but when you got down to it that was what it amounted to. Then he pulled himself together. You couldn’t go wrong if you said a few nice things about someone who died. That always went down well.
“We weren’t close, no. He did a lot of good work by all accounts.”
Margaret nodded.
“He certainly did. He was a great help to me when my husband died. I feel I would like to go to have a bit of tea, show the family some support, but I don’t know whether that’s appropriate on my own.”
Walter frowned, wondering what was coming next. She looked at him anxiously.
“Are you planning to go?”
Walter was about to say that he needed to get on his way and wish Margaret well when he suddenly had a surprising thought. Why shouldn’t he?
“Well I wasn’t going to, since I’m on my own as well, but perhaps we could go together. Keep each other company.”
That pleased her. He could tell that from her face and it made him grow inside. It was a long time since he’d felt useful to somebody.
“Thank you so much. I’d appreciate that. My husband would have wanted me to be there.”
He took their two cards and placed them together in the brass plate which was being held out towards him.
“My name is Walter. Walter Harrison.”
Margaret smiled.
“Pleased to meet you Walter. My name is Margaret Dawson.”
He already knew that of course but he didn’t mind hearing her say it again.
“Shall we go?”
The tea was in a small hotel near the crematorium which specialised in such things, and it was a good one. There were proper tablecloths and plenty of good coffee. By the time Walter was sitting down with a plateful of sandwiches, sausage rolls and plain crisps he had been told quite a lot about Margaret. She was a retired hospital administrator and her husband had been a town councillor, an accountant and a former Lord Mayor before he had had his own funeral in the same church two years before. Thankfully Walter hadn’t been to it, he could be sure of that because he would have remembered the church. He could imagine Margaret with a chain of office round her neck and a big hat. She also had three Yorkshire terriers and she liked Torquay. In return he managed to avoid telling her too much about himself but halfway through his second sausage roll he was startled into admitting that he lived on his own and had no family. She shook her head.
“That’s sad. I think the world of my grandchildren.”
He made a rueful face.
“Oh, it’s not so bad. I keep myself busy.”
She brightened.
“That’s nice. What do you do with yourself?”
Now Walter was in trouble. He could hardly say that the way he kept himself busy was by going to funerals. It was a complicated business and Margaret might not understand. In fact she might run a mile, and he was starting to enjoy himself.
“Oh, this and that, you know.”
Margaret nodded. Politeness had been taken care of and she was more than happy to spend the next twenty minutes telling him all about what she did. Which was quite a lot. By the time she had finished explaining about the Women’s Institute and how it wasn’t all jam and Jerusalem but more to do with naked calendars and women’s rights Walter’s head was reeling and he was entranced.
“I’d no idea.”
Slowly the small crowd of people began to thin out. One by one, two by two they made their way over to the family table and said goodbye. Walter watched them carefully. It was a series of conversations which nobody wanted to have but there was no way of getting out of the door without. Henry’s wife had a fixed look on her face. She had worked out what to say now and how to get it over with quickly. She was restless, pulling at her dress and wanting to go home, glancing over at her son anxiously. He was watching her too, knowing that it was too soon. They would have to be there until the bitter end. When Margaret finally announced that she was leaving and walked over to the table Henry walked behind her and stood well back.
“So sorry Elaine. It’s a terrible loss. I’ll be in touch.”
Elaine smiled and looked down. Everybody had said that, but the house would still be empty when she finally got home.
“Thank you for coming.”
She looked at Walter, frowning slightly, trying to place him. He held out his hand quickly.
“Lovely service.”
She nodded and took it.
“Yes. Glad that you could be here.”
Margaret made her way towards the door, head down, not wanting to get involved in another conversation, with Walter behind her. He was glad to feel the cool air on his face and breathe deeply again. She turned and smiled at him.
“So. Thank you very much for your company. Much appreciated.”
“The least I could do.”
Walter was quite pleased with himself. He wouldn’t need to worry about getting himself something to eat when he got home now. Margaret gave a deep sigh.
“I have another one to go to next Friday at St Oswalds. George Harper, one of my late husbands rotary colleagues.”
For once in his life Walter thought quickly.
“He was a nice man George. Perhaps we could go together?”
She nodded with relief.
“That would be kind. I was dreading going on my own. Shall we meet outside the church at half past ten?”
Walter shook hands and made his way towards his bus stop happily. He had been told the date and time of the funeral and there was almost a week to find out who George Harper was. Things were looking up.

This was a very interesting evening. I didn’t like A Quiet Belief in Angels when I read it for our book group and this gave me a good idea where the aspects of it which put me off came from. R J is a nice speaker, easy to listen to, relaxed and not at all pompous. Apart from anything else (such as natural temperament) this probably comes from the fact that that he had to work so hard and so long before achieving success as a writer. Over twenty unpublished books are hiding in his attic. Very long ones too. This is something to admire. I have written two unpublished novels in the last few years, each hovering around 100,000 words and I am in awe of his dedication. I am so glad that he has achieved success as he really deserves it.
He shares an editor with Ian Rankin now and I found that quite telling. His early work, by his own admission, was far too long and overblown and I would say that even A Quiet Belief in Angels is still too long and could do with cutting. People have been very complimentary about his American settings and characters (he is English- from Birmingham) but I felt that I couldn’t really get involved and believe in it or get lost in the settings. It was all at one remove for me somehow and left me cold.
Good man anyway. I hope he enjoys seeing his film of it get made.

Seth Lakeman is a folk musician, a great fiddle player and singer songwriter, but on this evidence he also manages to give out the energy, presence and mesmeric attraction of a rock star. At this moment he has it all, musical talent, showmanship, looks and experience and he is right at the top of his game. His audience are a varied bunch but the young cool ones who have come to rock out on their feet at the front are the ones who carry the evening. The rest are somewhere in the shadows, leaving their seats to creep forward into the edges of the heaving crowd at the front as the gig goes on. None of us could take our eyes off the man. He played through all his most familiar songs (other than The White Hare which I missed) without for a second going through the motions or letting his energy flag, cranking up the pace and volume and flinging them at us as if he was playing them for the first time.
Can’t wait for the next time.

This was a long evening! We began with an engaging set from Paul Liddell. He can do amazing things with his guitar and effects pedals and I liked his performance more than his songwriting. A nice start. Then we had Belinda O’Hooley and Heidi Tidlow who could have done without the daft jokes but were really moving in songs like Whitethorn, which I love, and Belinda’s Christmas song. “I just want one more Christmas to be little with me mum.” A lovely set which was a nice bonus.
But we were all waiting for Billy. Billy Bragg is a force of nature. He has been punching out his music with enormous commitment for a long while now and he still remains engaged and politicised. His gig at Beverley folk festival was vintage Bragg. He knows his audience and is ready for everything that they can throw at him. There were chants of “Billy Billy” and he needed that control. His audience have sometimes worried him a little over the years, as he admitted, but he can cope. We were given an hour and forty minutes of his own brand of political comment and humour, dating back to the nineteen seventies and forwards to the present day. His opening song was a hard hitting comment on todays expenses scandal and later there was an acapella song written as a plea for a written constitution so that we can hold the political classes to account. There was some softer stuff (what he described as rambling Bill Bragg) but not much. We didn’t really want it and given that we now have a BNP member of the European parliament he probably didn’t want to give it to us either. The highlights for me were a blistering version of Woody Guthries lyric “You fascists are bound to lose”, his new song Climbing Constitution Hill and hearing Between the Wars live as his final encore.
Probably the most important thing about this gig was that it showed us a man who is still forward thinking and creative. He said that he has no time for nostalgia and after listening to him play live I believe him. The world might not be an easier place if there were more people with his energy and passion but it might possibly be a better one.