theatre review: posh

By every measure, Posh, the new play by award-winning playwright Laura Wade, ought to be a success. Its plot follows a night in the life of the Riot Club, a (just barely) fictional dinner club made up of uber-priviliged students at Oxford Unversity, and whose modus operandi involves renting a private dining room at a pub, gorging themselves on both food and wine, and then, quite literally, thoroughly demolishing the place. The whole thing is masterfully constructed, both in the way the action unfolds and the characters are introduced. Wade, too, has a fabulous ear for dialogue, giving the members of the club sharply realistic speeches, arguments, and conversations. The set is fine, the direction elegant, and the acting - largely from a group of unknowns - is reined and believable. As a critique of the spoiled and uncontrollable upper class, the whole thing succeeds admirably.

But if the show is easy to admire, it's damningly difficult to enjoy. The key to the problem lies about halfway through the show, when one of the members of the group, Alistair Ryle (Leo Bill) delivers an impassioned monologue in which he rails against the poor, the middle class, and basically anyone who has to work for a living. "Don't you see?" he calls to his nine enraptured peers. "They hate us!" There's the rub, and there we are: stuck in a room for three hours with ten people who we would rather not be stuck in a room with at all. That's not to say that protagonists always have to be heroic, likable figures - one of the most powerful works of film in recently memory, There Will Be Blood, was built around Daniel Plainview, a ruthless and frighteningly amoral man. But Plainview - like other antiheroes, or even villains - had quirks, personality traits which pulled us, in spite of ourselves, towards him: he was a fascinating person. None of the main characters in Posh, on the other hand, are anything approaching engaging; only the bit roles - the landlord of the pub and his daughter, and a prostitute who makes a brief appearance - are sympathetic in the least. Nearly all ten members of the Riot Club are nothing less than absolute scumbags. Their humour is occasionally diverting but mostly vulgar and fleeting, and sitting listening to them cavort about the room complaining how the world is conspiring against them - or, in the show's excruciating penultimate scene, watching them devise a plan for self-preservation while a man lies bleeding to death at their feet - is akin to plucking out hairs from your head one by one. It's not to say that it's not true to life, or that it's not effective. It just doesn't compelling theatre make. We wouldn't want to have dinner with these people in real life. Why do so at the theatre?

Posh score: 50

arias for mrs. kirkby

Baroque music can be a difficult beast to tame, especially in this day and age: its lengthy, sometimes obtuse melodies contrast sharply with the simple refrains of modern popular music, and too many baroque performances can often feel listless and unengaging. This, however, was a problem conquered by the incomparable soprano Dame Emma Kirkby last Thursday night in a concert dubbed “Arias For Mrs. Arne,” part of the London Handel Festival. Backed by the London Handel Players, Kirkby delivered deeply passionate renditions of arias by Handel, Arne, and Lampe, which revealed why she is held in such high esteem within classical music circles.

The concert was a well-balanced mixture of instrumental chamber music – mostly in the form of trio-sonatas – and vocal showcases. The seven musicians, performing on period instruments, managed to hold their own admirably well – a diffcult task when performing alongside a singer largely credited with reviving the early music movement over the past three decades. Nonetheless, the chamber music revealed the players to be professional and experienced. Their rendering of Handel’s Overture to Athalia and Arne’s Trio in B Minor in particular were highlights; the musicians delved into the music energetically, their instruments blending richly and comfortably.

But this was a concert advertised as a vocal recital for Kirkby, and, predictably enough, the soprano drove the showwith a voice of pure, pristine beauty. Where other singers place over-emphasis on enormous vibrato, Kirkby delivers the notes simply, with minimal warbling; where other singers attempt to show off consistently, Kirkby’s singing is confident but elegant, approaching the music as one does an old friend: with a sense of warmth and gladness. Nothing was over-the-top or excessive: even the fast pace of Handel’s “War, He Sung” felt natural and customary rather than rushed. And rather than attempting to compete with the musicians, Kirkby allowed herself to be fully supported by the accompaniment, her voice swept along atop the instruments the way a tune rides atop a breeze. The finest example was Thomas Arne’s beautiful “The Morning;” its introduction began with a regal, gradually ascending violin line which certainly sounded enough like someone’s idea of a sunrise rising over the eastern horizon. The musicians’ delicate, almost reverent handling of this stretch was matched fully by Kirkby’s restrained, yet expressive voice: the two parts relied on each other and allowed each other to flourish in a relaxed manner.

Best of all was the concert’s universality. Not only was the music expertly performed – it also appealed to the whole audience, with a selection of music which would be pleasing enough to the Handel afficiando, yet accessible enough to catch the ear of a regular FM radio listener. And universal too was the amount of talent on display, providing further proof as to why Kirkby is so beloved and respected as a singer to the fans and the ignorant alike.

theatre review: enron

At first glance, the topic of Enron is hardly ripe for dramatization. Not only does in it deal in the tricky, confusing world of finance, it also concerns one of the largest and most devastating business scandals in history - one that remains a sore subject among a not insubstantial number of people. Yet, "Enron," written by Lucy Prebble avoids either glorifying or condemning the actions of the company, instead presenting Enron's downfall as a hubris-induced tragedy on the level of Shakespeare.

The play begins when Jeffrey Skillet (Samuel West) is appointed president of Enron by its CEO, Ken Lay (Tim Piggot-Smith). Skillet has big ideas: he has recently designed a plan that will allow the company to declare profit before ever receiving a cent. The plan works fine and Enron's stocks soar, but the company is secretly spiraling into debt. Desperate, Skillet turns to his CFO, Andy Fastow (Tom Goodman-Hill), who devises a scheme that allows Enron to create a shadow company to buy up its debt - and the rest, as they say, is history.

What is perhaps most surprising is how well the story is suited for a narrative. Not only does it follow a traditional rise-and-fall structure, but it also contains elements which seem too good to be true - in one instance, Fastow names his debt-eating creations as raptors after watching Jurassic Park. Its characters, too, seem incredibly real: flawed but confident in their own intelligence. Prebble's script is wry and highly intelligent, taking time to break down the higher mathematics and workings of the business world, yet never pandering or breaking pace. But the best thing about the show is undoubtedly its staging, which, though unsubtle, translates the recklessness of the company and its members into a quite literal sense. Actual news clips and commercials flare on a giant screen behind the actors; a woman leaps onto a desk and waves an American flag through the air while "Welcome To The Jungle" blares from the speakers; stock brokers trade, yell, and fight while drenched in a blanket of light from the stock exchange; and, most effectively, a combination of falling paper and the image of an explosion create a highly realistic portrayal of exploding glass. A wholly original and successful vision.

Enron score: 85

trouble comes knocking

THEATRE REVIEW: An Inspector Calls

England, 1912. Life is good for the Birling family, who have just sat down to dinner to celebrate the engagement of their daughter Sheila (Marianne Oldham) to the wealthy and charming Gerald Croft (Timothy Watson). Unexpectedly, however, their evening is interrupted by the introduction of Police Inspector Goole (Nicholas Woodeson), a mysterious figure clad in overcoat and hat. Goole informs the family that he has just arrived from the infirmary, where lies the body of a girl named Eva Smith who committed suicide by drinking disinfectant. The four members of the family and Croft are initially uninterested, until Goole begins, one by one, to reveal them all in some way responsible for the girl's death.

Written by J.B. Priestly in the middle years of World War II, "An Inspector Calls" remains as sharp and vital today as it did nearly seventy years ago. As a scathing critique of the hypocrisy and detachment of the upper class, it succeeds quite powerfully: although the interior of the house and its inhabitants are decorated in the style of the early 1900s, their behavior and dialogue would hardly be out of place in the modern world. But even more potent than the script's social commentary is its effectiveness as a suspenseful, tightly-would mystery, with a narrative that veers off in a completely unpredictable direction the minute we think we have it pigeonholed. We know from the word "go" that the family is going to self-destruct, and watching it unfold it is utterly fascinating. It's what Priestly does next that gives the script its brilliant edge.

The cast are all quite fine: as Goole, Nicholas Woodeson is magnetically fierce, snarling and delivering his pronouncements like an avenging angel - if, admittedly, a little too fast at times; catching his every word could be a challenge. Marianne Oldham is very believable as Sheila, one of the few members of the family horrified by her actions, and serves as the perfect counterpoint to her father (David Roper), a magistrate more concerned for his reputation than for the girl he fired over asking for a raise. The play's greatest moment arrives, however, when Goole faces off with Mrs. Birling (Sandra Duncan), a mammoth of a woman utterly unrepentant for her part in the crime. Goole strips off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, Mrs. Birling twirls her necklaces and throws out her chest, and the two titans circle each other ferociously, trading barbs and accusations like a verbal boxing match. It's a terrifically tense moment, and the moment that the show truly shifts up into fourth gear.

The production's only faults lie with its stylistic choices. Directed by Stephen Daldry - the Academy Award-nominated director of Billy Elliot, The Hours, and The Reader - the show is home to a number of head-scratching moments that are never truly explained. The story takes place in 1912, yet the show opens with the sound of an air-raid siren, and the front of the stage is demolished, as though hit by a bomb. The Birling house is cartoonishly disproportionate and closed off to the audience for a good portion of the opening scenes; although the reason for this is revealed later on, it's an odd and alienating choice. But most inexplicably is the cast of extras and children only utilized at a few points throughout the story; these characters, too, are never explained, and feel wasted - put on stage, seemingly, to take up space. It's these few frustrating things - the moments of overproduction - which knock down the show from its greatest heights.

But while these are examples of faults, the show on the whole is quite impressive, and quite a worthwhile investment. When the West End is home to tiresome shows inspired by the music of Queen and Michael Jackson, or more interested in special effects than acting, it's a relief to find a show which takes the essential elements of the play seriously. "An Inspector Calls" is a case well worth investigating.

An Inspector Calls score: 79

album review: joanna newsom - have one on me

Out of all the voices that emerged in the new century's indie-explosion, few were as divisive as that of harpist and songwriter Joanna Newsom. For some, her thoroughly original songwriting represented a break from the cookie-cutter pop which had claimed the airwaves as its own. For others, her songs - which often stretched on for ten minutes without a chorus in sight - and vocals - which yelped, swooped, and did pretty much everything except sing - inspired more repulsion than reverence. So the news that Newsom's first album since 2006's Ys would be a triple-disc extravaganza that would last for more than two hours was met with reactions more diverse than any album in years. And, it is fair to say, few albums in as many years have defied expectations so nimbly - for, despite its eye-popping length and girth (out of the eighteen tracks on the album, only three clock in below five minutes), Have One On Me is easily Newsom's most enjoyable and accessible album.

Newsom utilizes the album format to its full extent, allowing each song to demonstrate a different strength. Tracks such as "'81" and "You And Me, Bess" are understated, gorgeous numbers featuring only Newsom's voice and her harp; elsewhere, "Autumn," "Ribbon Bows," and "Kingfisher" all take full advantage of horns, violins, pianos, and percussion, yet in strikingly different manners - moving from quietly haunting to cinematic to medieval-tinged in the space of three songs. Yet, it is Newsom's talent for lyricism that takes the centerpiece of each song; her verbosity, metaphors, and wordplay are all reminiscent of Bob Dylan or Dan Bejar. This is demonstrated nowhere better than on the fabulous "Good Intentions Paving Company," which is filled with one quotable line right after the other, and is topped off with metaphors like comparing emotional frustration to being "in a fistfight with the fog."

But, easily, the most noticeable thing about the album is how restrained Newsom's vocals are: for the first time, she is actually singing, and proves - with the exception of a few nasally slips here and there - that she is in possession of what can honestly be called a beautiful voice. Beautiful, too, is her ability with melody; her songs manage to be enormously catchy while still retaining a sense of elegance and sophistication. "No Provenance" offers the greatest revelation when it comes to these two items, and, in the space of six and a half minutes, almost completely undoes the image that Newsom has worked to create of herself over the past decade - that of a sprightly, elfish creature who could have sprung out of the middle ages. "No Provenance," on the other hand, is nothing more than a tender love song, and as Newsom reaches the simple chorus - "Lay me down safe and warm in your arms" - the longing in her voice seeps through; for the first time, she sounds, well, human.

In spite of all of its accessibility, Have One On Me is still not an album which can be digested easily. Attempting to swallow it all in one gulp is absolute madness; it's much wiser to approach it disc by disc, six songs at a time. And while it's true that the album feels overlong in parts - no two-hour album was ever absolutely flawless - it's difficult to bring the hatchet down on any of these songs, especially as more of them unveil their secrets and beauty only upon careful, repeat listens. It is, ultimately, an album not unlike a tapestry, or the photograph which graces the cover of the record - an overwhelming image which at first leaves only a vague impression, yet discloses more and more detail every time it is examined further. And the devil's, as they say, in the details.

Track picks: "'81," "Good Intentions Paving Company," "You And Me, Bess"

Have One On Me score: 90

love is a battlefield

OPERA REVIEWS: Cosi Fan Tutte & Lucia Di Lammermoor

When it comes down to contrast, little is more striking than the difference between two recent productions of Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte and Donizetti's Lucia Di Lammermoor. The operas themselves couldn't be less alike: Cosi is a lighthearted comedic romp about two soldiers who go into disguise to test their lovers' fidelity, while Lucia tells the tragic - bloodily so - story of a young girl forced into an arranged marriage by her selfish brother. But it was the shows themselves - Covent Garden produced the Mozart, while English National Opera tackled Donizetti - which provided the greatest dissimilarities.

To begin, the set and costumes for Cosi were shockingly dull. In an attempt to reveal the "timelessness" of Mozart's opera, director Jonathan Miller updated the story to the modern world: the set consisted of an almost entirely bare stage, with the exception of a whitewashed wall in the background, a sofa, a pile of pillows on the ground, and a table. The female leads, Dorabella (Nina Surguladze) and Fiordiligi (Sally Matthews), were adorned in trousers and carried cell phones, while their boyfriends, Ferrando (Charles Castronovo) and Guglielmo (Troy Cook) leave dressed in army fatigues and stride back onstage as long-haired, aviator-clad rock stars. Although this preposterous premise offers myriad opportunities for comedy (the idea in itself of these macho men singing tender arias is ridiculous to the point of hilarity), the cast - despite being fantastic singers all, especially Matthews, who soared to stunningly high notes while retaining a graceful sense of fluidity and ease - were frustratingly flat, presumably having nothing to work with. Only the servant, Despina (Helene Schneiderman), offered something resembling acting. In the end, Cosi fell prey to the most common complaint about opera: that it is long, self-indulgent, and caters only to those who know the music. Anyone unfamiliar with Mozart's opera prior to seeing this performance would have been bored to tears.

English National Opera's production of Lucia, on the other hand, offered a sense of what opera should truly be like. Directed by David Alden, the production unfolded on a darkly lit stage, eerie and heavy with foreboding. The sets were admittedly sparse but effective: the famous "mad scene," when Lucia murders her husband and descends into insanity, unfolded on a smaller stage - almost like a children's theatre - while the other characters sat, stoic, in folding chairs around it. And, most importantly, the cast were not only talented singers - Anna Christy as Lucia in particular, whose despairing wails during the aforementioned "mad scene" were distressing but transfixing - but also skilled actors, fitting into their characters smoothly and allowing the story to breathe naturally. There were some incongruities, most noticably an unexplained and uncomfortable sexual tension between Lucia and her brother (Brian Mulligan), but on the whole Lucia shone, even in the darkness.

Cosi Fan Tutte score: 40

Lucia Di Lammermoor score: 80

theatre review: jerusalem

"I've seen a lot of strange things in this wood." Who is Johnny "Rooster" Byron? Is he a genius or a madman, a prophet or a criminal - or all of these? Stories surround him: did he really use to be a daredevil who once leapt over thirteen double-decker buses? Did he really meet a giant off the A14 who claimed to have built Stonehenge? Only one thing is for certain - as the protagonist of Jez Butterworth's brilliant new play Jerusalem, he is an antihero for the ages: a living, breathing tall-tale who begins each day with a horrifying concoction of milk, egg, and vodka, walks with a limp, bears a tattoo of his namesake on his upper arm and has three long scratches underneath, and knows the answer to every Trivial Pursuit question ever written. He lives in a trailer in the forest outside of Swindon; his parties are wild, drunken, drug-fueled spectacles who make him the idol of all those who attend - from his childhood friends to fifteen-year-old girls - and the bane of the neighbors and the Village Council, who have elected to evict him and bulldoze the woods.

Butterworth's script may be raw and vulgar, but it's also sharp, intelligent, and often hilarious, infused with the type of realism and dialogue that is all too lacking in the majority of West End shows. But the play would be nothing without Mark Rylance, who, as Rooster, delivers a revelatory, transcendent performance which transforms the character into an absolute legend: don't be surprised if Rylance's and Rooster's names are inexorably linked from now on. As expected, Rylance fills his character with a larger-than-life presence and dominates the stage whenever he appears: the supporting characters all pale next to him. But the actor strikes the perfect balance, too, infusing Rooster with a delicate and unanticipated tenderness. The final twenty minutes of the play, when Rooster's projected image of confidence finally begins to crack and desperation starts to seep through, are nothing less than absolutely devastating - a pretty striking thought when you consider that this is, in essence, a man who deals drugs to minors. But that is where Rylance truly succeeds: finding, at the heart of Rooster's fabled persona, the things that make him human - flawed and beautiful. It is a performance that is nothing less than a work of art.

Jerusalem score: 96