Author: Brett Herriot

**** (4 stars) 

“A wonderful summation” 

How do you celebrate the life of a much-loved British Treasure who died far too young after bringing joy, fun, and laughter to millions through her work? 

You get Paulus the Cabaret Geek and pianist Michael Roulston [of Fascinating Aida] to bring her songs to life, and laugh yourself silly for a couple of hours in the company of fellow-devotees, that’s what. 

As Paulus quips at the start, it takes two men to do the job of one woman [and only half as well].  It’s almost impossible to put into words just how talented Victoria was.  This bouncy northern woman, whose figure did not conform to the sylph-like dimensions expected by the entertainment industry, and whose accent was most definitely not the expected RP, brought a new way of being funny to our screens in the mid-80s.  A keen observer of people, her uncannily accurate understanding of feelings and motivations, she was never vicious in her humour – always kindly, never belittling even the silliest of people, laughing with, not at them. 

Her way with words was wonderfully witty: she would build a song with ever-increasingly ridiculous phrases which culminate in something so outrageously funny that you simply have to howl with laughter again and again.  She could also do quiet tragedy, pathos, sympathetic understanding of human suffering, with warmth and generosity.  One of the most moving things I remember seeing was Victoria as Housewife, 49, a play based on the wartime diaries of one of the many people who contributed to the Mass-Observation project.  Understated, self-deprecating, unsparingly honest – such a contrast to the bouncy, sparkly pianist with a beaming smile we usually think of. 

Paulus definitely had the bounce, the sparkle, the energy, and Michael definitely had the fabulous piano technique.  Together they gave us a selection of Victoria’s songs and jokes, switching from humour to pathos in the blink of an eye, and celebrating both a talented artist and the legacy she has left in the camaraderie that grows between perfect strangers once they realise they are all ardent fans.  Mention is also made of the wonderful women who joined her in so many dramas – Celia Imrie, Julie Walters, and so many more: there seemed to be no end to Victoria’s talents, and her generosity in writing fabulous parts for her friends. 

Linking all this, Paulus told of the transformational effect on himself as a lonely, chubby boy of eleven who was simply different from everyone else at school.  Her shows were something he could watch with his mum and much older sister.  Finding someone who was also different from the accepted norm of entertainers of the time gave him the courage and confidence to start performing – and look at him now!  A shared love of Victoria’s humour led to a friendship with Michael Roulston – and look at them now, too! 

Impeccable diction in an age where word endings are usually swallowed; a wonderfully flexible and expressive voice; a delightfully outgoing personality – all these attributes belong both to Victoria and Paulus.  I should also add, a bloody good memory – all those words!  And in songs like Northern Song, which is simply a random collection of phrases associated with ‘being northern’, there’s no narrative line to help you along the way.  So many outstanding characters brought to life – the sad, lovelorn eleven-year-old silently yearning for the sixteen-year-old with whom they share nothing but a daily journey on the school bus; the lonely widower who’s just lost his wife and keeps making two cups of tea in the morning; the outrageous goings-on of a Saturday night out; the sad realities of a modern romance.   

We laugh with her at the ridiculousness of life – but are never brought down into gloom and despondency.  We are encouraged to get real, to give up the relentless fight against ageing, and live for now.  One of my favourite songs [new to me] from the evening was the joyous catalogue of all the women as whom she wanted to be reincarnated, culminating in the woman whose Christmas preparations include putting her sprouts on in November…   

If you have a dream, go with it: all there is is now… What better life advice could you ever be given?  And what a wonderful summation of Victoria’s own life. 

What a lovely way to end a show. 

But  

That wasn’t the end 

We did get all we had been waiting for: the Ballad of Barry and Freda, aka Let’s Do It 

Words fail me 

It was brilliant 

What a way to end a show, what a way to celebrate Victoria Wood. 

LOOKING FOR ME FRIEND: the music of Victoria Wood, Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, RUN ENDED by UK Tour continues for more information go to: www.lookingformefriend.com 

***** (5 stars) 

This is an exhibition which needs visited again and again – it’s so full and rich you’d get violent indigestion if you tried to take it all in in one short visit… I turned up for one of the regular Tuesday and Thursday lunchtime tours, and am very glad that I had sufficient time to restore myself with a bowl of [excellent!] Indonesian soup and a cheese scone before diving back into the exhibition for a more leisurely examination of everything on display.  Of necessity, the tour only looks at some of the extensive collection on display, which includes many exquisite works by other artists alongside those of Peploe, Fergusson, Hunter and Cadell. 

Were there only four Colourists?  Well…there were other artists with similar ideas – but many of them, both men and women, died young, and before the Four had become established as a group.  How come they are a group?  Well… a strong bond of friendship seems to have grown up between them over the years: they went on painting trips together, encouraged and criticised each other, and those who survived longer were devastated by the deaths of their friends.  Why were they all men?  Well… not for the lack of talented female artists of the period, but largely because they died young, often in childbirth.  Why ‘Scottish’?  Well…  three of them came from Edinburgh, the fourth from Bute; they mostly came from wealthy families, so could go to Paris to study and paint – and of course there they came into contact with artists, styles of painting, and ways of living that were in strong contrast to their ‘respectable’ and mostly grey home city. 

And why ‘Colourists’?  Well…there’s a sudden explosion of colour into their work, and with the colour comes life, and joy, and a sense of freedom from care – creating a painting that makes the viewer feel something, rather than simply faithfully reproducing what the artist is looking at.  There are landscapes, and still lifes, and portraits, and accompanying them are a wonderful assemblage of works by artists who influenced, assisted, accompanied the four Colourists on their journey of exploration of the world around them.  Whistler, Singer Sargent, Lavery, Augustus John, Derain and others add context and contrast, and the explanations that accompany the works also name the people who contributed to [or hindered] the gradual coalescence of the foursome into a recognisable group of artists with a recognisable style.  As a Quaker myself, I was interested to learn of the somewhat biased approach to assembling exhibition material of Roger Fry, member of the famous chocolate family, who didn’t seem to think the works of these Scottish artists worthy of inclusion. [but then I wasn’t particularly Impressed by the only example of Fry’s own work – Farm Buildings – on display at Dovecot.] 

Okay, enough blethering – what about the pictures?  Well, I could wax lyrical about most of them: and I still can’t quite fix on The One I Would Steal If I Could.  [This approach, which is one I generally employ at exhibitions, leaves out all consideration of how it might fit into my tiny flat or how the theft could be managed!]. It was a joy to see paintings I know well from Scottish collections I’ve visited, and even more joy to see paintings new to me, which I’d happily see again and again. 

One of the most surprising of my ‘likes’ was Composition with Grey Leaves and a Sliced Circle, a work by Duncan Grant which shows the influence Cubism was having: it’s a wonderfully random yet perfectly balanced assemblage of shapes which simply glows with colour.  [On which note, I loved the warm, rich red of the walls on which all the works were hung.]  Another surprise was Robert the Bruce and De Bohun by Eric Robertson.  Labelled ‘ rare example of Scottish Vorticism’, it’s a wonderfully swirling canvas showing the moment when the two heavily-armed horsemen clash in battle in a wonderfully Scottish landscape.  Near that is a Fergusson painting of Three Submarines – another surprise to me, for the subject this time.  Another glowing surprise was Arenig, North Wales by James Dickson Innes, a Llanelli-born artist whose painting to me seemed almost tropical in its feel and colouring. 

There’s a superb drawing by Cadell of his lover Charles Oliver – at a time when homosexuality was illegal, Oliver was referred to as “my most faithful friend” and called his “manservant” – it’s a lovely, intimate portrait which sits beside two other, more ‘public’ Cadell oils of The Boxer [a champion boxer who became a much-loved policeman in the Grassmarket] and The White Shirt, which is thought to be of a Black merchant seaman from Cape Verde who settled in Leith. 

There’s a good sprinkling of paintings by women artists – look out for Anne Estelle Rice’s Seascape with Sailing Boats, Bessie MacNicol’s The Pink Hat, Margaret Rice’s Red Bowl, Devon Cottages and Portrait of Flossie Jolley – but the exhibition’s overwhelmingly male-dominated. 

And of course, there’s a wonderful collection of canvases by the four Colourists – still lifes, landscapes, portraits; old favourites and new delights.  Which one would I steal?  With so many to choose from, it’s a really difficult choice – I’m torn between Fergusson’s Jonquils and Silver from 1905 and Cadell’s Carnations [1913].  I overheard a couple’s conversation which suggested they would nick Cadell’s Loch Creran, Argyll which he painted in 1932. 

Which would you choose?  

The Scottish Colourists: Radical Perspectives Dovecot Studios, Edinburgh, Run Continues https://dovecotstudios.com/whats-on/the-scottish-colourists

***** (5 stars) 

“Continues to thrill and enthrall” 

Nearly ten years since its first appearance at the Tron in Glasgow, Pride and Prejudice (sort of) continues to thrill and enthrall audiences everywhere.  [Even in London, where it picked up some awards… ]  

I’m in the happy position of having seen the show before lockdown, and several times since.  In a way, I envy the people in the audience for whom it was their first time – the thrill, the shock, the delight of encountering this cast of wonderfully witty wisecracking women.  In the interval I overheard a young woman say to her friend “I can’t work out what’s going on – I’ll have to read the book”… 

And what a book!  Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice definitely deserves its place at the top of the romcom list – and again, I must envy anyone who’s encountering it for the first time.  Isobel McArthur was one in 2018, when she was asked by the Tron’s artistic director, Andy Arnold, to come up with ‘a re-staged classis’ for the main slot in his summer programme.  We must all be profoundly grateful that she picked P&P… 

The cunning thing about being a playwright and actor is that you can write yourself a stunning part.  In this case, McArthur wrote not one but two – combining the roles of Mrs Bennett and Fitzwilliam Darcy gave her the opportunity to shine as two supremely contrasting characters: the empty-headed, irrepressibly voluble husband-hunting mother and the deeply thoughtful, emotionally repressed wealthy landowner.  The other members of the cast need to show equal talent in character- and costume-switching at the drop of a hat: all in all, it’s a marvellous construction of an admiring homage to a masterly storyteller. 

The basic plot line – Mrs Bennett needs to find husbands for her five daughters.  In an age where women are dependent on men for their livelihood, the Bennett family will lose their home and income when Mr Bennett dies.  The only solution is marriage to rich men – at least one daughter must oblige, in order to provide for her sisters and widowed mother.  Charles Bingley rents one of the big houses in the area, and immediately becomes a target.  His friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy, is much richer, and therefore even more desirable – until his reserved manner and unfriendly behaviour turn the neighbourhood against him.  Jane, the eldest Bennett girl, is instantly drawn to Bingley: her next sister down, Elizabeth, is slighted by Darcy at a ball and conceives an instant dislike for him.  The younger sisters, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia, do their level best to complicate the plot while displaying how unbelievably silly they are.  Can the course of true love ever run smooth, given the obstacles it has to overcome? 

Isobel McArthur chooses to tell this story from the viewpoint of the servants in the households in which the action takes place.  Rarely mentioned in the novel, they are fundamental to every action of the main protagonists, who would have nothing to eat, nothing to wear, and nowhere clean to sit without them.  These servants give a running commentary on their lives while acting out what they observe in the course of the work – and this is where the incredible shapeshifting occurs…   

Basic white smocks and black boots form the basis of all the costumes [the yellow rubber gloves are discarded].  A [generally brightly-coloured] overdress or swirling coat enables the transformation.  A cast of five actors means an amazing amount of incredibly quick offstage [and in at least one case on-stage] changes: the accents and manners change equally swiftly, and leave me, as always, amazed at the complexity of the choreography and person-ography – do they never get confused as to who they are now?? 

This alone would be sufficient to make this show outstanding.  Add to this a wonderful crafting of dialogue, some authentic Austen and some very much McArthur, and you have a play that has you laughing from the get-go.  And it doesn’t stop there.  A musical score that is by turns witty and enchanting gives the cast the opportunity to let rip vocally in a succession of songs that perfectly encapsulate each significant moment in the drama.  Will you still love me tomorrow?, Where have all the good men gone?, I need a hero, my favourite of all You’re so vain, and many, many more showcase the musical talents of four of the cast.  Much is made of the fact that Mary should never be allowed to sing in public – so when she finally gets to strut her stuff at the close of the show, the whole audience cheers. 

And these cheers and laughter accompany the whole show.  We are engaged right from the start, and forget [as do the servants] that they are merely observers of the action and have to return to their subservient roles when the party is over – the clearing up has to be done, and this is their mind-numbingly dull life.  No wonder they make the most of every opportunity to observe the goings-on of their employers, and find fun wherever they can. 

Favourite moments?  So many…  the dumpster episode; the entrance of Lady Catherine and Mr Collins’s doing the splits; Darcy’s silent, lovestruck stares; Charlotte Lucas’s poignantly hopeless longing; Mr Bennett’s total silence; Wickham and Darcy’s ability to command the heavens and create instant starlight with the click of their fingers; and so many more I can’t list them all.  Caroline Bingley’s incomparable self-absorbed rudeness.  Elizabeth’s wonderful outburst of rage at Darcy’s proposal. Darcy’s moveable portrait.  My utter delight at hearing Darcy’s confession of being in love with Elizabeth before he’d realised it, reproduced verbatim from the novel, was perhaps the best moment of all. 

Throughout all this marvellously master-minded mayhem, the cast move with sublime ease and joyful exuberance.  It would appear that they’d been acting together for ever – but last night, understudy Isobel Donkin went on for Emma Rose Creaner, and looked as though she’d been playing her characters from the beginning of the run.  Eleanor Kane, Rhianna McGreevy, Naomi Preston Law and Christine Steel completed the line up of five insanely talented, exuberant, super-energetic firecrackers, who simply have a ball on stage, and are all actors to keep a keen eye out for in future. 

If you’ve never seen Pride and Prejudice (sort of), don’t delay – get a ticket today!  You’ll laugh till you cry, you’ll be lifted out of any blues you might be feeling, and leave the theatre with a spring in your step.  It’s even possible that you, like me will become an ardent fan, hardly able to wait for the next opportunity to get your fix of Jane As You May Never Have Seen Her Before.  Aberdeen, you’re in for a treat next week! 

Pride and Prejudice (sort of), Festival Theatre, Edinburgh, runs until Saturday 26^th April for more information go to: https://www.capitaltheatres.com/whats-on/all-shows/pride-and-prejudice-sort-of/2414 

TOUR CONTINUES 

**** (4 stars)

“Spellbinding!”

Imagine the stage – dominated by a huge rock set in front of a misty Highland landscape, atop of which the Monarch of the Glen proudly stands.  A giant thistle sprouts in the background, an enormous shortbread finger hovers above us, and a ‘jolly Scottish tune’ is perhaps designed to entice us to partake in ceilidh.  On to this stage strides a tartan-clad, bewigged figure accompanied by a woman in a long brown dress with a matching plaid stole over it.  We’re in Scotland, then, eh?

Martin O’Connor and Catherine King hold us spellbound as, with the assistance of Josie Duncan, Claire Frances MacNeil and Mairi Morrison, we are presented with interweaving narratives that invite and challenge us to ponder the nature of identity, language, culture, history, communication, myth, truth,  and the fact that it takes a lot ae imagination tae tell a true story…

Martin’s story starts with the ‘discovery’ in 1760 by James Macpherson of the long-lost fragments of Gaelic poetry composed by the third-century blind bard Ossian.  In what he called “the first Outlander effect”, these poems became all the rage in continental Europe, inspiring art and music, feeding into the development of the ‘Romantic’ period, and leading Napoleon to label Ossian his favourite poet.  The English, who by now had taken over Scotland and were doing their best to suppress each and every manifestation of Scottish culture, scornfully dismissed the poems – they must be a forgery, because how could these northern savages ever have produced such amazing works?

Were the works of Ossian real, or a very clever con?  Are they a part of Scotland’s history, or the invention of someone trying to write about what it ought to have been?  Martin was led to look at his own life and the total vacuum where a knowledge of Scotland’s story should have been.  When he was ten, his granda came from the isle of Lewis to live with him and his mum.  Until then, he was unaware that his mum spoke Gaelic, the only  language his granda had.   Martin must ‘get ahead’ and learn only to speak ‘properly’ [ie English] – so he could only talk with his granda via his mum, which limited communication…

The narrative is mainly in Scots, the songs weaving their way around and through this are in Gaelic.  Catherine is signing both, together with the occasional bit of English.  How does it feel to be speaking and understanding the least-used of the three languages in use tonight?  I feel blessed that twenty years’ residence in Scotland has enabled me to [mostly] grasp what’s said in Scots, but my Gaelic is non-existent [and, unlike Netflix, there are no subtitles].  How much am I missing by my lack of understanding – I can try to guess what the songs are about, but I could be wildly wrong – just as I could be if I watched K-drama without the subtitles.  How much are history, culture, and sense of identity bound up with language, how can they be understood from an outsider’s position of ignorance?  How arrogant to assume that something we don’t understand is necessarily of less value than our mother tongue, our learned way of doing things?  How isolating, how demoralising to feel that we are not understood, however hard we try to express ourselves, and that our history and culture are of less importance than that of the dominant power in the land.

It’s a brilliant script.  It’s a superb performance from all five artists.  The choreography is intricate and always an essential part of the drama.  The music is incredible.  The words tumble and spill and go round in circles, laughing, punning, crying, needling, scorning, challenging, revealing and obscuring meaning, showing the complexity of language and all its associations, assumptions and unvoiced undertones. Above all, they underline the importance, the life-enhancing essential nature of SPEAKING and, just as vital, of HEARING AND UNDERSTANDING WHAT IS SAID – not just nodding and smiling in incomprehension.  Communication requires effort on the part of both speaker and listener.

What a world is contained in a journey through a shortbread tin…

National Theatre of Scotland: Through the Shortbread Tin, Scottish Storytelling Centre, Edinburgh, Run ended but Scottish Tour continues. For more information and tickets go to: Through the Shortbread Tin | National Theatre of Scotland

**** (5 stars)

“Deeply Impressive”

Is it really thirty years since Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake rocked the world of classical ballet and brought joy to the hearts of the rainbow community by showing that same-sex love was deep and real and passionate and just as right and as valid as that between heterosexuals?  Goodness me: I wasn’t young even then, and am now thirty years older – and still this ballet has the power to move me deeply as I become completely immersed in its magical, painful, realistic and fantastical world.

A prince is unhappily trapped in a stiflingly conventional household in which everything takes place with mechanical, almost robotic, military-style precision.  There is no room for such messy things as feelings – dear me, no!  The prince’s mother is tightly wrapped in magnificent robes – even her incredibly flowing white satin dressing gown seems stiffly starched and speaks of ironclad self-control [though she is not averse to encouraging the respectful attentions of uniformed lackeys].  The nearest she gets to showing any signs of humanity or affection is stretching out a hand towards – but never touching – her son, even when he is writhing in agonies of despair and loneliness.  He dreams of escape, of wild swans erupting into his bedroom, but wakes to the intricately synchronised routine of allowing himself to be washed and dressed and accompanying his mother to any number of state visits, openings, and appearances…

An encounter with a seemingly brainless blonde bimbo appears to offer him an opportunity to experience human affection – but between them, the Queen and the mysterious Private Secretary [undoubtedly a close relation of Machiavelli] put paid to that.  A disastrous visit to the [hysterically funny ‘old style’] ballet is followed by a most unhappy experience in a nightclub, after which the young prince finds himself on the edge of a lake, seriously contemplating throwing himself into it.

And this is where the magic begins… Swans, swans, and yet more swans appear: virile, masculine, full of energy and power, and the biggest and strongest of them all is mesmerisingly attractive.  A tentative, wordless conversation begins; the strength of feeling between them grows, and culminates in the Prince’s first ever experience of real love.  No wonder he feels on top of the world and spontaneously kisses the old woman who comes to feed bread to the birds in the park!

At a ball at the palace, princesses try to attract the Prince’s attention – he does his duty by them but is clearly not interested.  He’s more concerned about his mother’s behaviour, especially when a startlingly attractive tall dark Stranger appears.  There’s something very familiar about him, and the Prince is heartbroken when his approaches are rejected while the Stranger pays attention to the princesses and even the Queen.  Suddenly there’s a gun in the Prince’s hand: a shot is fired and someone falls dead.  The Prince collapses and is carried out as paparazzi rush to capture shots of the spectacle.

The Prince is incarcerated in ‘hospital’.  Horrifying mechanical attempts at ‘treatment’ and ‘healing’ are attempted, while the Queen is unable even to pat her son’s shoulder sympathetically.  She really just wants him to pull himself together and act as a true royal should…. Back in his bed, the Prince curls into a tiny ball.  Swans emerge all around him.  His own special Swan appears, wounded: the others attack him while the prince reaches out for him in despair – to no avail.  The swan is gone, the Prince is desolate: his horrified mother comes into the room to find him dead.  She can’t see above the bed her son, curled round the Swan’s neck – the lovers united in death.

The superbly synchronised, multi-layered choreography of the first scene always has me wishing I could watch it again and again – so much is going on all at once that it’s impossible to comprehend it all.  The ballet in the following scene is so cringingly awful, it’s a miracle that the performers are able to keep their faces straight as they demonstrate all the ‘qualities’ that give classical ballet so bad a name – vapid arm-waving and posturing; ridiculously passionless and feeble attempts at storytelling; all the worst cliches you can imagine… such a strong contrast to Matthew Bourne’s clear, clean, straight storytelling in which every glance, every tiny movement or gesture speaks volumes.

The costumes in the nightclub and at the ball – the use of black almost throughout with the shocking pink of the Girlfriend’s very brief dress and the striking strong red of the Queen’s ball dress – enhance the impact of these scenes.  The Prince is a very lonely figure, slender in his plain white outfit over which he dons his ‘official’ uniform of a vaguely military [or naval?] nature.  The Stranger is also clad in black, but stands out by his devil-may-care nature, in strong contrast to the repressively formal behaviour of everyone at court. 

And then there are the swans… every time I see this Swan Lake, I marvel at the close attention to detail.  Mute swans don’t ‘speak’ but they do grunt and snort and hiss – and here all these sounds are used to intensify the effect of their body language and behaviour.  They are wild, inhuman, and dangerous – even when the cygnets appear to dance to their iconic tune, they are no sweet and fluffy little creatures but strong, boisterous, and potentially as dangerous as their elders.

The entire cast are to be applauded for their performances, their many costume- and character-changes, the astonishing accuracy of their ensemble pieces, especially in the opening scene and at the night club, and for still being standing at the end of what is an intense and challengingly physical marathon.  There are many outstanding cameos, too numerous to mention. 

Fronting this impressive cast were the principals.  James Lovell’s Private Secretary got everywhere, did everything, and got up to who knows what when no-one was watching.  Katrina Lyndon’s icily formal Queen probably deserved a lot of sympathy as she wrapped herself in a mantle of ice, but was impossible to feel for, given her behaviour towards her son.  Bryony Wood’s Girlfriend was a marvel of comic timing, especially in the Royal Box at the ballet.  It was hard to tell what her true feelings were, but she didn’t deserve the fate she met. 

Rory Macleod’s Swan / Stranger double act was deeply impressive: athletic, strong, unexpectedly shy and gentle at times, and so endearing when he tenderly cradled the Prince in his wings.  But for me the outstanding performance was from Leonardo McCorkindale as the Prince – his vulnerability, the fragility of the mask he dons during his public ‘performances’: feeling things deeply even when constrained by the formalities of his royal role and constantly yearning for the affection he craved but was always denied – until he met his Swan…

Small wonder the performance was greeted by thunderous applause and a standing ovation at the final curtain.  Thirty years on, the magic is still there, and the message comes across loud and clear: love is real, and strong, and powerful, no matter who the two lovers are.  Thank you, Matthew Bourne: here’s to the next thirty years of your Swan Lake.

Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake, Festival Theatre, Edinburgh, runs until Saturday 12^th April for more information and tickets go to: Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake