A Knock On The Roof - Review

Royal Court Theatre, London

*

Written by Khawla Ibraheem

Directed by Oliver Butler

Khawla Ibraheem

Khawla Ibraheem is Mariam, a young widow in Gaza and mother to the pre-teen Nour. The play's title refers to the sound made by small projectiles dropped by the Israeli military to signal an impending attack and to allow individuals to run for cover.

In her 75-minute one-act monologue Ibraheem offers little considered analysis of the Gazan conflict. Understandably, Mariam dreads the incoming missiles and bombs, and outlines in verbal detail the images of the region’s destruction that have already saturated Western media. However she makes no comment at all on the possible embedding of Hamas militia amongst Gaza’s civilian infrastructure and communities, a practice that exposes vulnerable non-combatants to lethal harm. Similarly, while we know that Hamas had constructed a network of tunnels underneath Gaza, Ibraheem is again silent when it comes to pleading for these tunnels to be deployed as air-raid shelters.

One can only ponder as to why the Gazan authorities appeared to have been so content to risk the lives of their citizens, and equally why Ibraheem is so reluctant to criticise their stance?

Culminating in a predictable ending, A Knock On The Roof is more melodrama than message.

Runs until 8th March

Photo credit: Alex Brenner

What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank - Review

Marylebone Theatre, London

*

Written by Nathan Englander

Directed by Patrick Marber

The cast

In one London season Patrick Marber has managed to helm two productions drawn from the Holocaust that range from the writings of a genius through to the cheaper scribblings of the gutter. His (still-runnning) production of The Producers channels Mel Brooks’ brilliance at making the evil of the Nazi’s Jew-hatred become the target of our mocking laughter. What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank however is a shallow and sensationalist take on modern Jewry that is viewed through a disappointingly skewed prism.

The play is set in the home of Phil and Debbie. These are two Floridian Jews who, if they were real rather than fictional, may just possibly possess more cultural integrity than writer Nathan Englander has bestowed upon them, their take on their faith proving to be little more than an inconsistent mix of facile liberal cliches. 

Opposite them and visiting from Israel, are the ultra-observant Shoshana and her husband Yerucham, the two women having been the closest of childhood friends before Shoshana discovered orthodoxy.

Englander’s arguments are shallow and one-sided. In a play that was updated last year to reflect the conflict in Gaza (so let’s call this script a version 2.0) the dialogue spoken by Phil and Debbie sounds at times as though it has been penned by the Gaza Health Ministry. If this is v2.0, then the play is actually crying out for a v3.0 to reflect the barbarity of being held captive by Hamas that is only now being reported upon by the recently released hostages. Of course there will be no such further revision, but these recent events serve to indicate just how clumsy, untimely and naively examined, Englander’s arguments prove to be.

Cheap jokes about the Holocaust pepper the play’s final act in dialogue exchanges that would not be out of place at a gathering of neo-Nazis rather than a household of middle-aged Jews. Lob in a reference that equates Jewish nationalism with White Nationalism and the whole shtick becomes quite nauseous.

This is a starry cast delivering an evening of slickly performed intellectual vacuity. One to avoid.

Runs until 15th February

Photo credit: Mark Senior

Boys from the Blackstuff - Review

National Theatre, London

*

Written by Alan Bleasdale

Play written by James Graham

Directed by Kate Wasserberg

Barry Sloane

Recent weeks have seen the stage translations of two television classics from the late 20th century open in London. John Cleese’s adaptation of Fawlty Towers has been a delight - taking his claustrophobic Torquay hotel and literally transporting its set, characters and storylines across both miles and decades to create theatrical magic. James Graham’s attempt at transitioning Alan Bleasdale’s bleakly brilliant Boys from the Blackstuff however marks a departure from Graham’s typically trademark genius and proves a depressing disappointment.

In the 1980’s Bleasdale’s six teleplays, each exquisitely photographed and acted around Liverpool, spoke with wit, tenderness and tragedy as they told of the challenges faced by the city in those times. The desperation and desolation of a group of men who’d previously earned their living laying tarmac (the titular blackstuff) won the nation’s hearts. Back in the day when there were only (just) four UK TV channels, Boys from the Blackstuff, with the late Bernard Hill’s remarkable interpretation of the defiantly damaged Yosser Hughes made for sensational viewing.

Indeed, the 1980s were fertile years in which the performing arts captured Liverpool’s pain with Willy Russell’s musical Blood Brothers emerging to be a timeless gem, still packing out theatres to this day. With hindsight, James Graham should have left the era well alone. Bleasdale’s original, skilfully directed by Philip Saville, took an hour-long episode to graphically flesh out each of the series’ characters. Today’s iteration sees Graham snatch vignettes from each of those original storylines and attempt to mould them into a two-hour blob of drama. The result is shallow, crass and un-engaging, with the tragic pathos of Bleasdale’s original, sacrificed on an altar of pseudo-relevant scenery, projections and a distracting (and on this press-night, technically disastrous) soundscape. 

The play has moments of a fine portrayal of human suffering from Barry Sloane’s Yosser, but otherwise - and this is a disgrace for a show that stems from such an outstanding pedigree - the evening is a bore.

Music from the 1980s is piped into the auditorium before and after the show. The Special’s Ghost Town, playing before curtain-up, could have been foretelling the post-interval gaps that were to emerge in the audience. And indeed when the somewhat depleted throng did return to their seats after half-time, it was Paul Weller coming through the Olivier’s sound system with The Jam’s song That’s Entertainment. If only.

Runs at the National Theatre until 8th June

Then at the Garrick Theatre from 13th June - 3rd August

Photo credit: Andrew AB Photography

London Tide - Review

National Theatre, London

*

Based on Charles Dickens' Our Mutual Friend

Adapted by Ben Power

Songs by Ben Power and PJ Harvey

The cast of London Tide

Like an incoming tide of the River Thames, so has London Tide, PJ Harvey and Ben Power’s musical adaptation of Our Mutual Friend, washed over Charles Dickens’ original reducing the 19th century classic to a slurry of mediocre melodrama that runs for more than a mind-numbing three hours. 

Alongside the writers, Ian Rickson’s direction is equally to blame for such an uninspiring evening. Rickson reduces the Thames’s majesty to a figment of our imagination, treating the Lyttleton’s massive proscenium space as a virtual warehouse, albeit one that has a floor that rises and falls along with undulating rows of lighting gantries - suggesting the river’s tidal flows.

Of the acting company Jake Wood is woefully underused as Gaffer Hexham a muscular, menacing Thames Boatman. Elsewhere, the actors try to make the best of this ghastly script, in a show that is not helped by Harvey’s monotonous melodies being poorly sung. The modern songs are grim and lazily written. By way of example, “London is not England, England is not London” must surely rank as one of the most inane lyrics ever to have been sung on stage.

It’s not just the wilful damage that Power and Harvey have wrought on Dickens’ writing - it’s that a sizeable slice of the National Theatre’s all too precious budget will have been consumed in this deluge of pretentious moralising.

London life has been far better served by Lerner and Loewe’s My Fair Lady and Barrie Keefe’s The Long Good Friday, both of which portrayed the city’s gritty contrasts. When it comes to musical interpretations of Dickens, the capital can consider itself well in to be seeing the return of Lionel Bart’s Oliver! later this year.

Runs until 22nd June

Photo credit: Marc Brenner

Othello - Review

Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, London

*

Written by William Shakespeare

Directed by Ola Ince

Ken Nwosu and Poppy Gilbert

With the action being set in 2023 London, this take on the Moor is more Moorgate than Venetian. And with most of the male characters being played as Metropolitan Police officers, Shakespeare’s dialogue has been liberally butchered too. Countless references to “Scotland Yard” and exclamations of “Guvnor!” make the evening feel like a badly written episode of The Sweeney that drags on for an excruciating 3 hours.

In trying to make this troubling tale of treachery, jealousy and racism accessible, director Ola Ince has cheapened the original. Mangling the Bard’s prose with contemporary slang not only disrespects the verse, it blunts its beauty. Shakespeare's early, subtle and nuanced and expressions of love are trampled by this treatment, leaving the plot hard to follow for those unfamiliar with the story. And while this may be the Wanamaker Playhouse with its famed candelabras, far too much of the play’s time is inexplicably wasted lighting, hoisting and snuffing out the flickering flames.

Struggling to break through the crackle of the police walkie-talkies punctuating the show, Ken Nwosu makes a decent attempt at the title role with a passionate performance. Equally Ralph Davis as Iago is appropriately villainous, and (what should be) the play’s final scene does prove surprisingly moving. Poppy Gilbert as Desdemona (or Desi as she’s frequently referred to in another act of textual carnage) saves her best for her swan song.

Ultimately this production is little more than a thinly-veiled attack on London's police force. While the Met may be a flawed institution for a variety of reasons, to clumsily denigrate it on the back of Shakespeare's verse is lazy politics and equally lazy theatre. Ince should try writing or directing an original piece to make his point about the cops. His corruption of Shakespeare's writing kills both the argument of the original, carefully crafted text as well as his more contemporary beef against the police. 

And of course, at the end, Othello gets tasered. Natch....

Runs until 13th April

Photo credit: Johan Persson

Further Than The Furthest Thing - Review

Young Vic Theatre, London

*

Written by Zinnie Harris

Directed by Jennifer Tang

Jenna Russell

If ever Arts Council England require reasons to justify their axing of funds for London projects, they need look no further than the Young Vic’s current revival of Zinnie Harris’ 1999 play, Further Than The Furthest Thing. 

As an exploration of exploitation, the story is a tedious study in how a remote island community is destroyed by the evil wider world. Drawn from the 1960s history of Tristan da Cunha, this production could have been so much more. Indeed, the supporting essays in the programme make for an excellent read.

It turns out that the essays are better than the production itself, for what Harris and director Jennifer Tang offer is overblown and lengthy with disappointingly two-dimensional characters. The usually brilliant designer Soutra Gilmour offers up a set that inexplicably (and quite possibly expensively) spins on the Young Vic’s revolve at a pace that’s as lethargic as the narrative. If Harris’ script had been filleted as ruthlessly as the island’s harvested crawfish then it might, just might, have had the potential to be an hour-long radio play. That around a third of the audience vanished at the interval is one of life’s easier to solve mysteries.

Jenna Russell, as always, delivers a top-notch performance. It is only a shame that the material she has to work with is so trite and dire. Further Than The Furthest Thing ain’t far enough for this dismal disappointment.

Runs until 29th April

Photo credit: Marc Brenner

Titus Andronicus - Review

Wanamaker Playhouse, London

*

Written by William Shakespeare

Directed by Jude Christian

Katy Stephens and Kibong Tanji

Mel Brooks’ The Producers opens with Max Bialystok, King of the Broadway flop, reading the dismal reviews of his latest show Funny Boy, a musical take on Shakespeare’s most famous tragedy, Hamlet.  As the lights went down for the opening of Titus Andronicus and the cast burst into song, for a moment one may have feared that the evening was likely to be a reprisal of Bialystok’s Funny Boy. Sadly, those fears were confirmed. All that was missing from the confected balladry was the all-female cast singing All The Nice Girls Love A Candle.

Titus Andronicus was Shakespeare’s first tragedy and his most viciously violent play. Done well, it can blend horror, humour and pathos into an evening of troubling yet moving entertainment. Jude Christian’s production however at the Wanamaker Playhouse (that theatre’s first Titus) is a pretentious attempt to sanitise the fabled gore, replacing blood and injuries with dumbed-down interpretation and chopped-up candles, playing for laughs at times when none are required and reducing the Bard’s brilliance to banality.

The now standard trigger-warning in the programme warns of the vast array of troubling themes in the play. The warning however fails to mention the extreme boredom and confusion that await the audience once the lights go down and the Wanamaker Playhouse’s famed candelabras descend...

Titus Andronicus is a play that demands the audience be shocked as a part of its structure. Typically this involves classy stagecraft, brilliant acting and, frequently, litres of stage blood, all combining to create the illusion of horrific human suffering. In Christian’s production the stagecraft is childish and trite, where rather than suspending our disbelief at the ghastliness we are supposed to be witnessing, Christian abuses it. The actors may be working hard on stage, but their direction has been lazy.

The classically trained Katy Stephens (reviewed as Tamora at Stratford on Avon in 2013) actually makes a decent fist of Titus and she’s matched by the similarly talented Kibong Tanji as Aaron the malevolent Moor. But that's it. 

There is virtually nothing to redeem this take on Titus Andronicus, and compared to Lucy Bailey’s magnificent version of the play that last graced the neighbouring Globe's stage in 2014, it is hard to believe these two productions emanated from the same company. The Globe fail to promote the author of the lyrics that bookend the show’s two halves, which is hardly a surprise - the lyricist should be ashamed of them.

Bloody awful!

Runs until 15th April

Photo credit: Camilla Greenwell

Swan Lake - Review

Churchill Theatre, Bromley

*

Music by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

Swan Lake, like any classic work of art, stimulates a lot of expectation. Sadly however, on this showing, the International Classic Ballet Theatre fail to deliver.

The sloppy lack of co-ordination between the Swan maidens gave an air of hectic chaos rather than elegant beauty, with Prince Siegfried struggling to lift his Swan Princess. Even then, Odette's performance failed to stand out against her corps de ballet.

The most impressive performance on the night came from the Jester, whose movement was graceful and precise.

Elsewhere the costumes seemed amateur, the scenery was uninspiring lacking even a fog machine to create the illusion of the enchanted lake. There was barely any contrast between the settings of the lake and the palace, with a desperately disappointing climax to the tale.

The printed programme failed to name either the (rather good) orchestra or the dancers.

All in all, a lame duck.

Runs until 14th January, then tours

Handel's Messiah The Live Experience - Review

Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London

*

The production's dancers, orchestra, choir and projection

He’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy. 

Or to be specific Gregory Batsleer the Artistic Director of Classical Everywhere and conductor of tonight’s Messiah is a very naughty boy. He has taken Handel’s work, a piece of exquisite beauty that to be fair is performed by his musicians to a fabulous standard and wrapped it in the mediocrity of migraine-inducing projections and pretentious dance and poetic add-ones.

The English Chamber Orchestra and London Symphony Chorus, together with the evening’s four soloists are all magnificent and beyond criticism. However, in a ridiculously self-indulgent programme note, Batsleer takes it upon himself to make classical music respond “to the times in which we live”. If this production is an interpretation of making music respond to the present day then Batsleer needs to take a long hard look at himself.

The Theatre Royal Drury Lane may be a work of architectural magnificence, and after Andrew Lloyd-Webbers magnificent refurbishment, a comfortable venue too, but its acoustics do not lend themselves to major choral presentations. And quite why Martina Laird and Arthur Darvill were rolled out, complete with Mad Max costumes, to spout obscure blank verse that they hadn’t even been able to memorise (unlike the magnificent soloists) is a modern Mystery tale,

And then there was Tom Jackson Greaves’ choreography, funnelled into a narrow gap between the on-stage orchestra and Drury Lane’s pit. The movement was clearly precisely rehearsed and delivered by talented dancers, but it bore no apparent relevance to Messiah and together with the ghastly projections, served not to complement but to distract from Handel’s genius.

The evening’s musical money-shot was duly delivered with aplomb, as half of the audience rose (almost akin to a pantomime singalong slot) as the other half scratched their heads in bewilderment, to salute the famed Hallelujah Chorus.

This production sees one of the canon’s most magnificent works reduced to a pound-shop opera. A Christmas turkey.

Hamlet - Review

Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at Shakespeare's Globe, London

*

Written by William Shakespeare

Directed by Sean Holmes

George Fouracres

"Fuck you Fortinbras!", as uttered by Claudius, is but one of the early revisions to Hamlet that Sean Holmes subjects us to in this, the first production of the play to be performed in the candlelit intimacy of the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at Shakespeare's Globe. 

At least in 1994, when Disney offered up their take on Hamlet, they had the decency to re-name their version 'The Lion King'. The artistic team at the Globe lack such grace. Their interpretation of this finest of tragedies is sloppy in its revisions with text chopped and re-written, inappropriate songs and chants introduced and amidst a general demolition of the fourth wall, audience singalongs included too. Perhaps the Globe's team had taken Shakespeare's description of his audience to heart, the groundlings being "for the most part capable of nothing but inexplicable dumbshows and noise". Either way, it is notable that no name is posted in the credits to take responsibility for this ghastly adaptation.

This Hamlet comes across as no-more than a big budget student production, a play more likely to have graced the Edinburgh Fringe, rather than one of the country's leading Shakespearean venues. At least at Edinburgh the tickets would have been considerably cheaper and the show would have been likely to have lasted little more than 1 hour, rather than the interminable 3+ hours on offer here.

Ultimately it is hard to say what is more troubling. The butchery to which Shakespeare's prose has been subject or the rapturous applause, standing ovation even, that the whooping audience bestowed upon the production. This reviewer is privileged to be familiar with the text, having seen the play on many occasions over the decades. On the night that this production was attended, the Playhouse was packed with at least two parties of of school students. What a betrayal that these young people are being exposed to, seeing Hamlet perhaps for the first time in their lives, performed at times as little more than a pantomime with so much of Shakespeare’s verse savaged.

This is cultural vandalism of which the Globe’s trustees should be ashamed. The one star rating is for George Fouracres' decent work in the title role and by John Lightbody as Polonius. The rest is silence.

Runs until 9th April

Photo credit: Johan Persson

Dracula - Review

The London Library, London


*


Adapted by Kate Kerrow
Directed by Helen Tennison

Sophie Greenham and Bart Lambert

It may well have been a bloody good idea to stage Dracula in the London Library, amidst the very books and shelves that more than likely inspired Bram Stoker as he composed his Gothic horror classic. But much like the blood that the infamous Count sucked from his victims, so has Creation Theatre’s take on the tale drained nearly every drop of passion from Stoker’s beautifully penned original.

Helen Tennison’s  production assumes an audience familiarity with Stoker’s tale and characters and notwithstanding an overly detailed synopsis included in the pricey (£4) programme, it is left to the play’s two actors, Sophie Greenham and Bart Lambert to assume a variety of roles and costumes as they attempt a curiously retrospective interpretation of the story. Unfortunately, their numerous characters are barely introduced, let alone (pun alert) fleshed out, and whilst the play’s setting within the Library’s grand Reading Room is unquestionably magnificent, the show itself proves a tedious and mediocre melodrama. 

No blood can obviously be splashed upon the hallowed walls of the St James’s Square building and so the special effects, such as they are, are conveyed by way of video projections onto the room’s curtains and pillars. The videos however have an insipidly low luminescence. This, combined with a directorial blandness that ignores for example the (very different) geniuses of a Werner Herzog or John Landis, means that these mini movies fail to frighten. Hell, even a spot of Hammer Films’ kitsch would not have gone amiss in a bid to give the evening even the faintest hint of a pulse. All the while Greenham and Lambert’s performances waver between deadly earnest and parody in a contrast that just doesn't work.

This website has long argued that good horror demands the suspension of the audience’s disbelief, ideally from a great height. Dracula at the London Library, albeit well intentioned, makes for anaemic theatre.

Runs until 1st March

Photo credit: Tristram Kenton

Romeo and Juliet - Review

Union Theatre, London

*

Written by William Shakespeare

Dramaturg and adaptor - Joe Mackenzie

Directed by Andy Bewley

The Union's current offering finds us watching the star crossed lovers here played as two gay teenage boys who belong to rival youth football teams, respectively the Capulets and Montagues. This blog has long argued that one needs to be a genius to try and successfully improve or innovate upon the Bard's work - and there's little sign of such inspired creative talent in this latest iteration.

There could have been some potential here. Both football and the (thankfully dwindling) hooligan aspect of its culture are famously and toxically homophobic. Sadly however, what could have been an imaginative and bold new telling of the beloved script is entirely trashed. 

Andy Bewley’s direction is confused with one never being quite sure if the focus is on the fabled yarn or upon homophobia, or simply just the sport itself.  Admittedly, despite the fact that the soccer aspect of the show adds absolutely nothing of significance to the adapted love story, the few and far between moments of onstage football movement by Sam Perry (Juliet) and Abram Rooney (Romeo) do impress. 

The music, composed by Laurence Morgan is unnecessary. Why this production was designed to be actor-muso is never explained, while the sound design adds nothing to the production, except for a few head tilting moments of confusion as to why members of the ensemble enter on stage at any given time, playing gleaming, pristine instruments… badly.

The acting is honestly mediocre. There are a small number of hard hitting performances including Gabrielle Nellis-Pain as the Nurse (or Physiotherapist in this production) whose performance is charming and adds a warmth to the otherwise dismal goings on.

And Henri Merriam here playing the female Friar Lawrence, who notwithstanding the beautiful and emotional portrayal of her material, is shown here as a slightly dodgy groundskeeper,  who provides the 17 year olds with overly strong Rohypnol...

The direction and adapted script fails to find the importance and gravitas behind the root of the passion which brings the young lovers romance to fruition. Beautiful moments of poetry and art initially written in Shakespeare’s words are diminished and somewhat insulted by cheap quips and the hope of a quick laugh.

It is surprising that this production has been backed so passionately by the Union, which can provide (and has provided) much finer work than this in the past.  Rarely has the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet been so tragic.

Runs until May 20th

Reviewed by Charlotte Darcy

The Diary Of A Teenage Girl - Review

Southwark Playhouse, London


*


Adapted by Marielle Heller
From the graphic novel by Phoebe Gloeckner 
Directed by Alexander Parker and Amy Ewbank

Rona Morison

Southwark Playhouse's website describes The Diary Of A Teenage Girl as "a coming of age adventure of a San Francisco teenager who begins a secret affair with her mother's boyfriend". Rarely has a show's blurb been quite so cynically exploitative. A truer description would have been "a brilliantly performed study of how a 15 year old girl, vulnerable and impressionable, is preyed upon by the the child-abuser who's dating her mom." But that's not quite as catchy, huh?

A stunning troupe of actors capture Marielle Heller's interpretation of Phoebe Gloeckner's original work. But just because a graphic novel translates a human journey into a comic-book narrative doesn't make the story comical.

Try explaining that to the Southwark Playhouse audience, whose chuckles early on as Rona Morison's juvenile Minnie is penetrated by Monroe, her mother's adult boyfriend, are simply nauseating. Kookie kids discovering sexuality amongst their peers is one thing - and Heller/Morison's exposition of the highs and lows of teenage angst are, quite possibly accurate. But it's no laughing matter when a drama portrays an emotionally neglected girl being exploited by a predatory paedophile.

All the performances are flawless. Morison, who is onstage throughout, offers up a consummate performance that is as tragic as it is brilliant. She not only captures the transient shallowness of adolescence, but also manages to convince us of Minnie's need and desperation for love. Everyone else plays carefully crafted caricatures that support the young girl's arc. The recently Olivier-nominated Rebecca Trehearn gives a scorchingly powerful turn as Minnie's distant, dysfunctional mother, confronted with the unspeakable and confusing horror of discovering her lover has been abusing her daughter. Jamie Wilkes' Monroe is chillingly and believably ordinary in his portrayal of a domesticated monster.

This production of The Diary Of A Teenage Girl takes a 5-star cast and bundles them into a 1-star vehicle. (Not surprisingly, Heller's 2015 movie version of the tale bombed at the box office too.) While being a 15 year old girl who is Bowie-focussed and sexually curious may well be normal, to describe the relationship between Minnie and Monroe as an "affair" sees the producers stray dangerously close to bestowing Monroe's criminality with an acceptable facade of normality too. Powerfully performed for sure, but in the hands of directors Parker and Ewbank, the story is reduced to little more than a prurient peep-show into the devastation of child sexual abuse.

Runs until 25th March

Photo credit: Darren Bell

Dusty - Review

Charing Cross Theatre, London


*


Directed by Chris Cowey

Alison Arnopp

Dusty is a show that has attracted a huge amount of challenging press during a troubled preview run that has lasted many months. So it is a brave (and largely new) cast that step up tonight to take their bows before the press. 

To those in the audience used to an evening of well-crafted entertainment – for which London’s theatre scene both on and off West End is rightly praised, the evening is a dreadful disappointment. The glorious brass-heavy chords of Pino Donaggio’s You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me open the proceedings (always a worry when the biggest number opens a show) and from then on its downhill all the way.

Alison Arnopp tries to be an energetic lead, but Dusty she ain’t. I’ve seen better Springfield tributes. To be fair though Arnopp’s blushes are spared for much of the evening as the iconic songs are more often than not played back via poorly synched videotapes from the 60s. And when it’s not VT, the stagehands are (noisily) putting up and taking down the paraphernalia that projects a holographic Dusty. They needn’t waste their time.  

It’s not just Dusty’s technology that disappoints. The script is dire too, though maybe for a show set in the 1950s/60s, for the dialog to sound as wooden as a Crossroads episode of Crossroads was possibly intentional?

There are glimpses of human talent on stage – Whitney White’s Martha Reeves offers the evening’s one moment that comes close to spine-tingling, whilst Francesca Jackson’s Nancy, (and not so long ago, one of the BBC’s Nancys too) duetting with Arnopp in How Can I Be Sure, goes a long way to confirming Jackson’s star quality. 

But you know what? This show is gonna make its money back and then some.

Britain is (in part) a nation laden with Baby Boomer grannies who LOVE Dusty Springfield. Their failing vision may (thankfully) not allow them to spot the difference between actor and avatar, but they’ll happily hand over their hard-earned pension to let the nostalgia wash over them. Mark my words.

Now booking to 21st November

Dead Mine

Available on DVD & Blu-ray

*

Directed by Steven Sheil



Miki Mizuno

Some films create an impact that can leave you pondering for days after viewing. Dead Mine is one such movie and the question it provokes is just how director Steven Sheil, who directed the chillingly inventive, funny and downright brilliant Mum & Dad just a few years ago could have lost his creative talent quite so spectacularly, helming this tedious production that seems to have wasted nearly every aspect of its (probaby not miniscule) production budget, on a film that could easily be titled Dead Loss.

Set on a remote Indonesian island, it follows a modern day group of treasure hunters as they seek out wartime gold, stumbling across an apparently abandoned Japanese mine from 1945. It's not unoccupied though and within its catacombs are the survivors of wartime experiments: elderly, mutated  and murderous.

Frankly, like any treasure from Indonesia, this is all a bit far fetched. In scenes that are a poor homage to Neil Marshall's wonderful The Descent, as these explorers venture deeper into the mine workings, the rare plot developments are unsurprising and cliched.

To a person, the acting is as wooden as the scenery is plastic. Occasionally, there is some bloody chicanery as a WWII vet proves himself a dab hand with the samurai sword, but other than that, with its simplistic and oft repeated camera angles, the film is dull. One can only hope that amongst this movie's mayhem, Shiel's creative muse has not ended up being incarcerated deep underground. He needs it returned.

Be warned.  Should you watch this movie you run the risk of wasting 90 minutes of your life that you will never get back. Like a deadly disused mine shaft, avoid.

Piranhaconda - Review

Available on DVD and Blu-Ray , certificate 15

*

Directed by Jim Wynorski

The CGI star of the show!

If there were Oscars for truly trashy B-movies, then the team behind Piranhaconda would be walking away with a fistful of statuettes. These would be more than deserved as Roger Corman, the acknowledged genius of the B-movie horror genre, is credited as executive producer on the film.

However, where Corman’s talent has previously led to iconic movie gems such as Little Shop of Horrors, this movie is unfortunately, not in that league. Corman made films in an era when the sloppy corner-cutting luxury of CGI was simply not available to filmmakers and special effects, even cranky ones, required love and effort, however corny the plot-line. Piranhaconda is barely an affectionate nod to its namesakes Piranha and Anaconda, the first of which, certainly in Alexandre Aja’s recent 3D remake, was actually a very well made horror movie, with outstanding visuals and suspense and genuine, as well as tacky, tongue in cheek gory humour.



Set on Hawaii, where the DVD’s publicity enticingly states that Michael Madsen leads the cast, three  groups of characters a naturalist unit (led by a Professor, Madsen), a low-budget horror film crew and a gang of vicious kidnappers find their paths fatefully crossing at just the same time as the legendary creature of the film’s title, is making an unwelcome re-appearance. To make sure that there is no chance whatsoever of suspense creation, director Jim Wynorski helpfully introduces his gargantuan reptile during the opening credits sequence. So atrocious is the 100m long snake,  that one hopes the CGI  creation might, just might, be a sub plot arising from the low-budget “film within a film”.  Sadly this is not the case, as it turns out that the full extent of that movie’s horror extends to an actor jumping out from behind jungle vegetation with a mask on his head. No, the Piranhaconda as a python is more akin to the Monty family as opposed to predatory reptiles. The only fearsome maneater in this tale is Rod Stewarts ex-wife Rachel Hunter and even she does little more than raise the average age of the female cast members.

To its credit the film presents some beautiful panoramas of Hawaii and at times the dialogue is so cheesy, that it merits a pantomime-style laugh. When the piranhaconda looms up behind its next unsuspecting victim, the temptation to shout out “ It’s behind you” can sometimes be overwhelming.

If you enjoy low-cost special effects, corny gags, and numerous bikini clad young actresses, then this movie is for you, ideally washed down with copious amounts of alcohol.  Otherwise, stay out of the water.