THEATER
Charlie's Trousers
Live Theatre, Newcastle
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According to a certain Geordie rumour, Newcastle narrowly missed out to Liverpool in its capital of culture bid because Paul McCartney was seen slipping brown paper packets to the judges. And why would the former Beatle do that? Well, his wife comes from Sunderland. This, and many other pieces of scurrilous gossip, find their way into Alan Plater's extremely funny - and even-handed - analysis of Tyneside's reorientation as a "post-industrial, information-based, leisure-oriented society". Kev has found a role for himself guarding the art in a former factory. It's lonely, wiling away the small hours in a room full of high-minded concepts, with nobody to talk to but the burglars. The first of the intruders, Nev, is uncertain why he's been hired to break into a modern art gallery - as far as he's concerned there is nothing worth taking. But he is soon joined by the mastermind of the operation, Bev, an artist who believes she's been the victim of intellectual theft and has come to take back what is rightfully hers. Plater's premise teeters on the absurd - adding the figure of a vicar co-opted to drive the getaway car stretches credibility somewhat - though it rehearses lively arguments about the revitalising impact of art. In Max Roberts's pacy and engaging production, Trevor Fox's sardonic Kev and Joe Caffrey's mutton-headed Nev capture the fine balance of Plater's argument. The supposed benefits of cultural regeneration make an easy target for sneering and cynicism - Plater is at least broad-minded enough to point out some of the pros, as well as suggesting it could all be a gigantic con. -Alfred Hikling. |
Endgame
Albery, London
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A tatty, threadbare curtain rises to the accompaniment of a circus drum-roll. Clearly Matthew Warchus sees Beckett's play as an apocalyptic vaudeville and, given the presence of a virtuosic duo like Michael Gambon and Lee Evans, this makes sense. It also overcomes the faint Endgame-fatigue resulting from the play's third London revival in eight years. Cyril Connolly pointed out that while Waiting For Godot is a fresh assault on a universal problem, Endgame "is the statement of a private one". By that he meant that it not only reflects Beckett's vision of life as a meaningless farce, the fractious dependence of the blind master, Hamm, on his oppressed servant, Clov, may also be a re-enactment of the Joyce-Beckett relationship currently depicted in Calico. But, while Endgame meant a lot to Beckett, I increasingly wonder how much it means to the rest of us, especially if we don't share his view of the unalterable absurdity of existence. My doubts were largely quelled by the heightened theatricality of Warchus's production. Centre-stage sits Gambon's magnificent Hamm, which evokes multiple images: a screaming Bacon Pope, a dying Prospero, a decaying Irish landlord. With a voice oscillating between organ-like thunder and strangled quietness, Gambon brings out Hamm's terminal desperation. When he cries "If I could drag myself down to the sea!", it is like one vainly clutching at salvation. But the dominant impression is of Hamm as a frustrated creator tortured by art's inability to counter life's pointlessness. Gambon's moulting majesty is perfectly offset by the comic cluelessness of Evans's Clov. Scuttling about in his crumpled longjohns, he looks like a scrawny Dickensian potboy as drawn by Cruikshank. Evans also highlights Clov's gift for mislaying ladders and telescopes, as if he is at the endless mercy of material objects. He is the permanent Fool to Gambon's raddled Lear, yet in his refusal to kiss his master reminds us that even the dispossessed have their dignity. With Geoffrey Hutchings's Nagg and Liz Smith's Nell popping up from their dustbins like incarcerated clowns, everything reminds us of Beckett's theatricality. Yet, while we are royally diverted, I found myself for once questioning the universality of Beckett's despairing vision. -Michael Bilington |