Review: A Chaste Maid in Cheapside, by Thomas Middleton. Rose Theatre.

Thomas Middleton had London in his DNA, and the city he lived and died in was a dirty, cruel and fascinating place. The turn of the century and change of monarch were accompanied by huge confessional, social and economic upheavals, and the rapid growth of an entrepreneurial and urban middle class. The era was beset by horrific plagues every twenty years or so, which wiped out 20-30% of the London population each time. With ongoing growth in economic activity, this meant more demand for less labour, and so even the proles experienced a rise in income and aspirations. Everybody was desperate to climb up from the mud and open sewers, and these people looked up at those with inherited wealth with growing envy and disdain. This after all, was England only thirty years before the Civil War, and the Levellers. As a London intellectual and jobbing playwright, Middleton was grappling with the complex creative destruction whirling around England's capital, which would all end in tragedy. One sensed that Middleton knew this. 

A Chaste Maid in Cheapside was his Abigail's Party - a funny, vicious exposing of the aspirational classes and the seedy urges lying beneath.  Cleverly directed by Jenny Eastop, the Mercurius troupe brought a pared down text to life, with hilarious and surprising results. One sat and chuckled as plot was joined by plot; and the narrative was lost as the pitch rose to a crescendo, leaving us with a marriage - the traditional resolution to Early Modern comedies. One was, however, left rather shaken - and the confusion, sleaze and artifice remained as the laughter and applause died down and we shuffled off into the night. All very Joe Orton - who also used over-complex absurd comedies to unsettle, and swivel the spotlight on his aspirational middle class audiences. It comes as no surprise that Orton was a fan of Thomas Middleton, and acknowledged a debt to his trailblazing work. 

Perhaps then, the play would have been better set in the 1960s than the 1950s, as was the case here. When I read that this production was set in the doo-wop decade, my heart rather sank; but  it worked well visually and musically, and wove some unexpected cultural synergies (flick knives used as combs, twirling skirts . . ).

The acting was utterly terrific. Beth Eyre had a difficult role in Moll, in the sense that she was the love interest in the piece, the sweetheart, but she subverted these expectations well through some clever stances and glances. Stephen Good was wonderful as the successful but naive goldsmith, Yellowhammer, bringing a welcome authenticity amidst the whirling artifice. His wife was played by Josephine Liptrott who gave an engaging and powerful performance of the pragmatic brains in the marriage. Timothy Harker (as Allwit) simply burst onto the stage, effusing glee with his ill-earned lot, and continued to entertain throughout. Fergus Leathem ably played Sir Oliver Kix, one of the undeserving rich, desperate for a son, not because he particularly liked children, but because it would mean a large inheritance. Richard Reed portrayed Touchwood Senior as a louche teddy boy, bringing a sly, lascivious humour to the proceedings. Harry Russell took on the role of  his younger brother, another ted and chancer, but with a just discernible heart amidst the seething moral swamp. The role of Sir Walter Whorehound is a gift for any actor, and Andrew Seddon didn't miss an opportunity to camp up the memorable Falstaffian reprobate. At one point he collapsed into the seat next to my friend and engaged her in smutty Jacobean double-entendres. If only I'd had a glove handy I could have joined the play.

Overall, then, the quality of acting was outstanding - nuanced, skilled and tuned into the audience. Bravo Mercurius! However, the - the - stand-out performance of the evening went to the marvellous Alana Ross, who played two roles to jaw-dropping effect. As Lady Kix, she simply lit up the Rose with a sassy, mercurial, hilarious performance tinged with desperation. Brilliant. 

This then is a must see. Well done, Mercurius, and you lovely people at the Rose for having the imagination to put this on, and pull it off so well. And thank you to that great Londoner, Thomas Middleton, for writing something so entertaining, so unsettling, so now. 

Not a man in sight: Henry IV, and Man to Man, by Manfred Karge.

As I clapped at the end of an entertaining performance of Henry IV at the Donmar Warehouse, it struck me that in my last four visits to the theatre, I had not seen one man on stage. This trend started a couple of weeks back, when I saw Martin Parr's beautifully realised "Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang". Actresses Katherine Heath and Lucia Capellaro were so compelling, I was lured back the following evening. Sitting in the ruins of the Rose, I was even more swept away with the heady brew of sonnets, cello and narratives of loss.

The next women-only venture was a mistake, actually. I thought I had booked a ticket for Hamlet, so turned up at the Park Theatre, Finsbury Park ready to marvel at a finely wrought analysis of mind. Turns out, I had got there a week early, so I asked what was on that night. It turned out to be Man to Man by Manfred Karge - a solo play about an East German woman faking being a man, through her whole life. Her husband had died, leaving her with no livelihood, so, after considering her few options, she decided to go into work disguised as her dead spouse. This saga through Nazism, post-war reconstruction and German reunification sets up a harrowing tale of deception, risk, humiliation and slow and unsettling transformation into a defeated, bitter, male retiree, who has almost forgotten his sex. The play was written by Manfred Karge, who joined the Berliner Ensemble in 1961 at the behest of Helene Weigel, wife of Bertolt Brecht. The Brechtian themes are strong, and actress Tricia Kelly bravely laid bare the frustrations of sustaining male identity amidst wild lurches in German society and identity, transforming herself into an embittered, drunk, unattractive pensioner. You could almost smell him.

In the programme, special mention was made of the translator of the script, the late Antony Vivis, who produced an inventive, jarring and sometime rhyming word flow. Listening to the rhythms and juxtapositions made me realise the crucial role of the translator in art such as this.

Later on in the bar, an attractive well dressed woman  breezed in and greeted friends around the table. I realised with a shock, this was Tricia Kelly, who only twenty minutes earlier had festered resentfully in stained trousers.

A week later, I got a standing ticket for Henry IV, which was set in a women's prison. Effectively, this was most of the glorious Part 1 with the main bits involving Falstaff and the rise of Hal from Part II added on. This was highly entertaining, but worth seeing for one overwhelming reason - Harriet Walter playing Henry IV. Shakespeare was cautious in his portrayal of the usurper King, and the role thus has rather limited, subdued material. Walter, however, used these lines with such world-weary authority, that she shed new light on the whole role. No longer a marginalised part; with Harriet Walter, Henry IV reclaims the play that bears his name. It was an amazing performance.

Tomorrow I'm off to see the Hamlet I had intended to see last week. Looking forward to it - though seeing men on stage will be something of a novelty. 

The Woman in the Moon, by John Lyly. Rose Theatre, Bankside, London.

Do yourself a favour, and grab the last remaining tickets to the Dolphin's Back production of John Lyly's comic masterpiece. Last Thursday, a sell-out audience grinned, cackled, and glowed with admiration as this talented troupe brought the long-forgotten 16th century gem to life.

John Lyly deserves to be much better known. A bright Kentish Lad, born in 1553 in cosmopolitan Canterbury (which also also spawned Christopher Marlowe eleven years later), Lyly excelled at Magdalen College, Oxford before bursting onto the London literary scene with the publication of Euphues, The Anatomy of Wit (1578), and Euphues and His England (1580). In these prose works, Lyly introduced nothing less than a revolution in the English language, which - in his work at least - made it sparkle with style, irony and wit. By the age of 30, Lyly was widely feted as England's greatest writer, and this reputation did not diminish until well after his death. Indeed, (as James Wallace, director, writes), in his introduction to Shakespeare's First Folio, Ben Jonson places Lyly among the pantheon of England's greatest writers.

The Woman in the Moon is radical - feminising and paganising the origins of the universe; exploring the nature of female character and actions. Dissatisfied with Mother Nature's generation of a perfection to rival their own, the planets decide to derail Pandora's transition into the world. Beginning with Jupiter, and depressive, moody Saturn, each planet's undermining of woman is a chapter itself. We encounter the despondency of Saturnine woman, the belligerence of Martian female,  the allure of Venutian temptress. Each planetary influence is an orchestral movement in its own right, and each somehow brings the person of Pandora to a complex, multivalent completion.

Men in the play are easily-duped, unilinear and comic; wholly dependent upon the mood or whim of womankind. It is interesting, then, that this was a play written with Elizabeth in mind - indeed it is documented that she attended a performance of it by the Paul's Boys. Like Shakespeare's later playwriting for James I, John Lyly was not precious, or consistent in towing a party or royal line; and Lyly's exploration of womanhood was ambiguous and provocative. At the end of the play, Mother Nature asks Pandora to choose the planetary influence she wishes to make permanent; she selects Cynthia (or the Moon) under whose spell she is mad, capricious, indecisive and self-contradictory.

Elizabeth, at the height of her powers in the 1580s, was none of these things; indeed, she would have been disdainful of the character Pandora chooses for women. This raises interesting questions about Elizabeth (whom Lyly would have known well). Was she disdainful of other women, or the modes of femininity approved of in the late 16th century? Which of the planetary influences upon offer would she have recognised in herself - if any? In raising such fundamental questions about female personalities, and doing so so publicly in front of Queen and audience, John Lyly shows a provocative confidence - cockiness even.

Though the themes of the play run deep, the script is light, funny, fast-moving. The Dolphin's Back troupe did a wonderful job balancing deep, dangerous themes with light, saucy gags, and the result was ninety minutes of theatrical bliss. As Pandora, Bella Heesom took us on a dazzling journey through conflicting expressions of womanhood - a bravura performance, which showed amazing adaptability and inventiveness. Those playing the hapless men in the play worked to great comic effect, with James Askill again a joy to behold, and a name to watch out for. The great male foil in this was the crafty but appealing Gunophilus, who was entertainingly played by James Thorne. This was very much an ensemble production, however, and in a way it is unfair to mention particular names. Bravo to all.

The Dolphin's Back is a superb group of creatives, who have skill, wit and depth - from James Wallace's direction, to the quick, fun-loving cast, to inventive stage design and lighting. The DB are committed to resurrecting neglected scripts, and bringing them to life for modern audiences - and they do it with authority and a great sense of fun. As such, Dolphin's Back are my favourite troupe - and I can't wait to see them again in the Massacre at Paris. (Spoiler alert - it's brilliant.)

The Massacre at Paris, by Christopher Marlowe, Rose Theatre, London.

The Massacre at Paris concerns the horrific events around St Batholomew's Day in August 1572, when tensions between Catholics and Protestants blew French society apart. In three days of carnage, Catholic mobs slaughtered over three thousand men, women and children in the streets of Paris. As the massacres spread out across the country, a further ten thousand people were murdered in other cities around France.

This ethnic cleansing was the most shocking outrage of the time, and sent tremors throughout a Europe riven by confessional tensions. Christopher Marlowe was only eight years old at the time of the massacre, but he would have experienced its aftermath at close quarters, as Huguenot refugees from the continent flooded into his home town of Canterbury. Such events and their consequences are all too familiar to us nowadays, of course.

As a Cambridge Uni spy working in the wake of the massacre, Marlowe probably knew people who had witnessed the bloodbath first hand. By the time he had grown up, the event had reconfigured England's security and foreign policies; and it is no coincidence that, as a young adult, Marlowe himself was involved in a spying mission in a Catholic seminary in Rheims. In his later guise as a playwright, Marlowe saw the potential appeal of a play on the subject, and drew on his knowledge of those three days and their aftermath to write the Massacre at Paris. Nowadays you would file the play alongside movies like The Hurt Locker, Hotel Rwanda and 9/11; and it suffers the same pitfalls as more recent post-genocide dramas - how to manage political bias; how to weave in emotions other than horror and outrage; how to portray violence in a way that does not become slasher porn. The Massacre does not successfully surmount these problems - but really, how could it?

That said, it is an important example of theatre being used for the consideration of serious current events. At the time of its composition, Elizabethan guidelines on theatre - upheld by the Master of the Revels - proscribed controversies about religion, or the portrayal of living, or recently living, people. Marlowe's play brazenly flouted both of these conventions, and he got away with it. Perhaps the reason for this, is that Marlowe had produced a powerful piece of anti-Catholic propaganda - one very much in tune with the ongoing religious persecutions in England. An uncharitable reading of Marlowe's Massacre is that it is not a piece of liberal hand-wringing about genocide - but is instead a highly politicised demonisation of England's papist Enemy Within. The play thus stands as a problematic example of media bias in times of ethnic strife.

So, bravo to The Dolphin's Back and the Rose Theatre for tackling this troubling text. The Rose was the first theatre to be built south of the Thames. Erected by impressario, Philip Henslowe, in 1587, it premiered all of Marlowe's plays, with great actors such as Edward Alleyne pounding the boards. This couldn't have been a more different production to the brilliant one man show of Faustus I saw at the Rose last month, starring Christopher Staines. Here we got full ensemble, great costumes and a huge dose of collective enthusiasm.

The Director, James Wallace, was faced with a highly problematic task, not simply in terms of subject matter, but in terms of the patchy text that has survived to today. He dealt with some more pedestrian passages cleverly, allowing them to provide naturalistic, somewhat modern, reprieves from the more ornate language. I found the uses of plain demotic, as in "Come. Let's go" (Exeunt) refreshingly direct. No rhyme. No clever twist or barb. Fine.

The direction was great throughout, with inventive use made of the wide open spaces behind the stage. The acting was terrific, with each of the cast committed and convincing. Four performances stood out for me. Kristin Milward was chillingly charismatic as the manipulating Catherine de Medici. John Gregor carried the narrative and much of the action with an intense study of the evil, ambitious Duke of Guise; a man obsessed with Caesar, embodying perverted religiosity. Lachlan McCall played the aggrieved, protestant leader, Henry, King of Navarre with infectious, heroic charisma. For me, McCall's performance highlighted the resemblance between the King of Navarre and the later figure of Shakespeare's Henry V. There is little doubt that the Bard of Avon will have seen a production of the Massacre, so maybe there is indeed some of Marlowe's Navarre in the later Henry. James Askill, meanwhile, gave a clever and highly entertaining portrayal of the Duke of Anjoy's journey from murderous brat to dissolute king - a really wonderful performance that reminded me of Peter Ustinov's Nero, and was none the worse for that.

Overall, then, the play was superb, inspiring and insightful, not just about Elizabethan times, but our own. I don't believe in star rating systems, but if I had one, I would give the Dolphin's Back production of the Massacre at Paris five stars. Well done to all involved. And if you haven't already got a ticket . . . well what are you waiting for?

The Massacre at Paris by Christopher Marlowe runs at the Rose Theatre, Bankside until 29th March. You can book your tickets here:
http://www.rosetheatre.org.uk/events/event/the-massacre-at-paris-by-christopher-marlowe/

Dr Faustus vs The Duchess of Malfi

Who would win in a fight between Dr Faustus and the Duchess of Malfi? This question bugged me as I contemplated seeing two major Enlightenment performances in one day. It was a difficult one to call . . . Faustus was clever and powerful; the Duchess, sexy and spirited . . . Mmmm.

Such musings aside, rattling down the rails towards London, I viewed the prospect of the forthcoming dramatic marathon with excitement, conscious that this day could mark the point when my Bardoholicism escalated to an addiction to English renaissance plays generally. I mean, talk about dabbling with crack cocaine. John Webster's tragedy, the very first production at the new Sam Wanamaker theatre at the Globe? Then, a couple of hours later, Christopher Marlowe's Dr Faustus, performed in the remains of the Rose Theatre, the very place it was performed 420 years ago? Reckless behaviour. I really had no chance.

Strolling from Kings X down towards the river I passed the homes of many great, and not so great, former Londoners. Thomas Carlyle, Kenneth Williams, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, Dr Johnson .  . .and eventually reached the Globe. I had managed to secure the very last ticket in the entire run of Malfi, a ten quid standing job on the last row of the upper balcony, which had - my booking webpage informed me - "a severely restricted view". Shuffling along a raised platform to find my place, however, I was pleasantly surprised by the view and acoustics. Not to be feared at all.

The theatre itself is a wonder to behold. Sam Wanamaker, the visionary behind the Globe (and father to actress Zoe), envisioned plays being performed all year round. The completion of the theatre this year marked the completion of this vision. It is a building within a building, with a roof -   a near perfect reconstruction of an indoor Elizabethan/ Jacobean dramatic space, all made of wood, supported by pillars, and - get this - illuminated purely by candle light. I thought the result would be gloomy, and was prepared not to like it. Not a bit of it. The candles brought the space to life in a much more dynamic, interesting way than brute electric lamps.

The music in the gallery petered out, and the play began . .

The Duchess of Malfi was first  performed in 1613, and it has divided critics and audiences ever since, largely because of its gratuitous violence and the unrepentant sexuality of the Duchess. For these reasons, the play has had long spells out of rep altogether; however, the 20th century saw its re-admittance into the canon of great plays, with fierce advocates such as TS Eliot and WH Auden.

The story is about corruption, class and the subjugation of women. It is dominated by the Duchess, a rich widow, whose brothers forbade her to marry again, so that they could keep the inheritance intact. A young, spirited and passionate woman, however, she fell in love with, and married a man of lower status; and thus had to keep the arrangement secret. Three kids later, however, the facade was crumbling, and her brothers got wind of the situation. Here indeed were the brothers from Hell.  Her elder brother, a Cardinal was an evil, machiavellian,  intemperate man, disposed to acts of cruelty and depravity. Worse still, her twin, Ferdinand, was mentally unstable and prone to fits of jealousy, betrayal, greed,  revenge. Not good news for the duchess, who had dared to go against their word.

Through the machinations of the complex, melancholic figure of Bosola, Ferdinand tried to traumatise her, and drive her mad through revealing a waxwork of her dead husband and child (though they were actually still alive at the time); and through inviting lunatics to invade her privacy. I said the brothers were nasty. Eventually, the long suffering duchess is strangled. Pathetically, then, Ferdinand comes to her body and regrets what has happened, uttering the lines, "Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle. She died young."

Gemma Arterton as the Duchess is a joy to behold. Perfectly cast, she exudes modernity, intelligence and integrity and  lights up the stage with a proud sexuality. She is, however, surrounded by the dark forces of bigotry, corruption and opportunism; and, ultimately, darkness prevails. This interplay between light and dark was explored skillfully throughout the play by the use and positioning of the candles. Arterton's chemistry with the delightful Alex Waldmann, who played her husband, was vivid and charming.  Her portrayal of strength and dignity in the face of insufferable insult and violence was electrifying. A performance like this affirms and invigorates; and, like everybody else in the theatre that afternoon, I fell in love with the Duchess.

But this was not a one woman show. James Gardon as the Cardinal was entertainingly dissolute, and Sean Gilder was fascinating as the devious but ultimately moralistic Bosola. Denise Gough was great as the coquettish, dangerous Julia; and David Dawson's Ferdinand was compelling as he became increasingly repulsive. Needless to say, they all died horribly - this is John Webster, after all.

I left the bloodbath . . . I mean the theatre  . . . with just time for a red wine, then went onto meet friends M and AK for a quick meal and catch up. Onto the Rose Theatre. This could not have been a more different experience. We entered a small, cold ante-room, where there was a table with cans of beer and small plaster busts of Shakespeare for sale. A pretty young woman with a bobble hat next to us rubbed her gloves together and said she had come prepared. We were shown into the "theatre" in the archaeological dig, which consisted of a daunting looking desk with some books on it, and a chair - that's it. It was all rather intimidating, even before Christopher Staines took a seat and distractedly glanced around the assembled.

What proceeded was one of the most astonishing performances - of anything - I have ever seen. Christopher Staines took on the whole cast of Faustus himself, and rendered the script as a kind of internal/ infernal monologue leading to madness and death. As is well known, the play itself has a menacing theme, being about a brilliant academic, who, dissatisfied with the limitations of human knowledge, sells his soul to the devil for twenty four years of being able to do . . . and know . . anything. This menacing - indeed borderline blasphemous - play had electrifying effects on the original audiences in the same place 420 years before. In one performance, apparently, Faustus' incantations summoned up real demons, who were seen by a whole audience, leading to mass trauma, and one of the lead actors - Edward Alleyne - repenting and dutifully performing good works for the rest of his life, including the foundation of Dulwich College.

If anybody could raise real demons in London this night, it was Christopher Staines, whose already daring performance gave way to fifteen minutes of tightrope rant. This led him to tear down the curtain behind him, to reveal the illuminated circle of the original Rose Theatre. He careered around this like a madman, yelping out weird, unstable narratives and paradoxes . . . ending up with him back at his desk, toying with the idea of Marlowe spinning in his grave. Staines then returned to the orthodox text, which crescendoed to a desperate plea to God to save his soul.

This was strong stuff indeed, which had me laughing, wincing, sinking into the allure of utter, unbridled freedom; and the dread of eternal torture. At the end of this, we clapped and gaped at this astonishing performance, in the very place it had been performed all those years ago. Rather than spinning in his grave, I suspect Marlowe was nodding in approval.

Outside, London glittered and shone. The day's dramatic journey had subtly recast my view of the city, and deepened my appreciation of its endless creative currents. By the Thames that night, we clinked whiskies and chuckled at our good fortune - being here, now.

As I walked up Borough High Street to my hotel, my mind returned to the burning question of the day. On the evidence of these plays, who would win a fight - Faustus or the Duchess of Malfi?

Of course, Faustus could do anything he wanted, and could, merely by wishing it, destroy the Duchess. However, having set eyes on her, he wouldn't want to. The Duchess would pace to his desk, and close his books, and calm his fears of Hell. The Duchess would smile; and she and Faustus would take a bow.

That's how all fights should end.