A small theatre space (and Greenwich Playhouse is truly tiny) has the effect of placing actors under intense scrutiny. Sometimes that enables the audience to understand and clarify the detail, and sometimes it means you can’t see the cherry orchard for the trees. Galleon Theatre’s production of Chekhov’s play at the Greenwich Playhouse falls into the latter category. There are some good performances that explore Chekhov’s characters, and there are moments when the power of the language and imagery are vivid – but some larger flaws in Bruce Jamieson’s production overshadow these positives.

Chekhov’s play is as much about what happens off stage as what we see on stage, almost all the exciting dramatic action is reported, for instance the auction and the ball. This pays off when, for instance, Ranyevskaia (played by Maggie Daniels) movingly describes her child’s death in the river on the estate. However, the wider context of the play, the collapse of the Russian ruling class and an underlying economic and social malaise, is less clearly defined and this production fails to explore its wider significance.

The cherry orchard is itself a symbol of departed innocence and of the looming threat of urbanisation as it is cut down to provide housing. The symbolic elements of the production are successfully contained within the set – cherry blossom petals are strewn like confetti at the start of the play, and dustsheets shroud the set at the end. The romantic piano music, however, threatens to drown the play’s edge along with the actors’ voices.

Amongst some strong performances the love pairings are particularly well played – Robert Paul’s repressed entrepreneurial Lopakhin is an excellent foil to Suzanne Goldberg’s acerbic Varia. So too Nik Drake’s enthused proletariat idealist seems a fitting partner for Clare McMahon’s bouncy, playful and wide-eyed Ania. Their general sense of hope, rightly, contrasts with the pitiful denial and ‘fear of being alone’ that haunts their elders.

This production never successfully gets to grips with the parasitical group of hangers-on created by Chekhov to pick over the corpse of a dying lifestyle. It’s difficult believe with any conviction in the intensity of the subtext that should be bubbling under the surface. There are some curious directorial choices that make this assembly of characters an improbable group – I would have them nowhere near my own imaginary cherry orchard – in particular an oddly corseted Charlotta seemed to drift in and out of the action for no particular purpose. On the whole there is indeed, too much drifting.

I feel a real party pooper criticising a production that marks Galleon Theatre’s 20th anniversary and Chekhov’s 150th, but The Cherry Orchard never achieves the ambitious standards that the company sets for itself.

Due to another journey of chaos from Blackheath to Greenwich on a number 286, I arrived at the Greenwich Playhouse 5 minutes into the start of ‘East’. Whilst sneaking into the back row, I was immediately bombarded with a tirade of every swearword known to English. This was swiftly followed by a graphic depiction of one man beating through the skull of another, before the two become firm friends.

Such is Steven Birkoff’s ‘East’, an affectionate, funny, make-no-bones depiction of life in grimy East London in the fifties. This collection of sketches about twenty something Mike, his family and friends is not for the faint hearted – it’s explicit in every way and has lost none of its shock effect in the 34 years since it was written. I don’t think I’ve heard the ‘c’ word as many times in 27 years as I did in 90 minutes watching this play.

However, with decorum and sensibility ruthlessly cast aside, it’s actually very easy to engage with ‘East’, and with Talking Props’ interpretation of it. It’s relentlessly energetic and fast paced, and the whole thing has a real honesty to it. Perhaps prostitution, unwitting incest and street violence aren’t truths everyone wants to face, but Berkoff’s mission is to force us to imagine in vivid, dirty terms what life was like for the working classes at the time.

All the fresh-faced cast members are making their professional debuts, but you wouldn’t know it: they are totally believable. Charlie Fairless as Mike is particularly strong and has real authenticity, himself an East Londoner. Special mention also goes to Damien Hallett as Mike’s mother, for working the Nora Batty look with such conviction and giving the funniest performance of the play.

But the real charm of this play is in the language. Weaving expletives into Shakespearean styled (and oft quoted) verse doesn’t sound as though it should work in 1950s Stepney, but it does. The spotlight soliloquies and rhythmic speech lift the characters out of grime and poverty and give them intelligence, insight and unfathomable beauty. The faithfulness and commitment with which Talking Props have undertaken ‘East’ show this genius script in its best possible light.

If I had to venture one criticism about this production, it would be about the look of it. The lack of props necessitates the miming of everyday actions such as eating and travelling, which is a little awkward and detracts from the realism. Also, the costumes are a bit hit and miss. Whilst Mike’s slim jim tie over a grubby vest looks bang on, Sylv’s dress looks as though someone just found it in a charity shop last week and thought it would ‘do’, but it isn’t in keeping with the era.
However, these are minor failures and do not prevent this production from being a major success. If you have even the smallest sympathy for Mary Whitehouse’s view of the world, you might be best to stay away. Otherwise I’d strongly recommend taking a deep breath, getting out of your comfort zone and heading East.

*Congratulations to Greenwich Playhouse’s Artistic Director, Alice de Sousa, on being awarded the international ‘Premio de Talento’ from the Portuguese Government in recognition of her 25 year career in the industry.

‘East’ by Steven Berkoff is at the Greenwich Playhouse until 4 October

Following hot on the heels of the Donmar Theatre’s star-studded effort, the much smaller, much younger Candyking Theatre Company have turned their hands to a new translation of this Ibsen favourite.  This 1879 tale of betrayal, revelation and self-discovery features Torvald, an ambitious banker (yes, banker) and Nora, his seemingly doll-like, submissive wife.  When Torvald discovers that Nora once committed fraud, albeit to help him, his reaction changes their lives irrevocably as Nora finds the illusion of her perfect life shattered and decides to leave him.

Kate Dion-Richard as Nora is captivating, oozing stage presence and integrity despite a few slips in accent.  The volte-face between act one’s vain, immature Nora and act two’s heroically honest and dignified Nora is a difficult one to pull off, but Dion-Richard manages to do it with some style and succeeds in evoking both sympathy and respect.  Brett Harris’s Torvald is suitably sleezy and deluded, with Jose Domingos’ calm, melancholic Dr Rank giving a good counterpoint. Domingos stands out as the most seasoned performer with a slickness that isn’t quite there with the others, however all are invested enough in what they’re doing for it to not really matter.

The intimate setting of the Greenwich Playhouse plays into the main metaphor’s hands by making you feel as though you, along with Nora, are trapped in the eponymous prison of superficiality imposed by the controlling social climber Torvald.  The elegant Victorian set, with a two-thirds scale blue Chesterfield sofa and tiny fireplace, highlights the sophistication and yet suffocation that characterise Nora’s life.

It’s easy to forget how unthinkable Nora’s actions would have been in Ibsen’s time as his victory of honesty over delusion today looks more like a happy ending than he probably ever intended.  Clearly Ibsen’s work does not have the same subversive, groundbreaking effect it once did, however Candyking’s faithful portrayal successfully preserves some of the contextual significance of Nora’s choice.  The more enduring skill is that of Ibsen’s playwriting and his use of melodrama, suspense and pace – coupled with some strong performances from Candyking – still make this a compelling piece of theatre.

A Doll’s House by Candyking Theatre Company
Greenwich Playhouse until 13 September
Tue-Sat 7.30pm, Sun 4pm. £12/£10

Something Wicked This Way Comes
Act Now! Theatre Company @ Greenwich Playhouse
8-12 July

Tragedy, monologues and cackling: welcome to Something Wicked This Way Comes. This new play, ‘written’ and directed by David Hunt, cuts and pastes about a dozen of Shakespeare’s best/worst villains into one play, examining what really drives them to evil and who’s in control. Macbeth’s three witches hold everything together, the malevolent puppet masters to the villains who tread their different paths to wickedness.

The plot is wafer thin and actually reminded me of those musicals like Mamma Mia!, where someone thought that the pre-existing music (or in this case characters) was so good that hanging them together by a loose story thread would be a recipe for success. Well, David Hunt’s certainly picked the ‘Dancing Queen’ and ‘Voulez Vouz’ equivalents of Shakespeare’s evil creations for Something Wicked – Lady Macbeth, Iago, Goneril & Regan, Edmund, are all there and all just as heinous as Shakespeare intended. The language retains all its staggering beauty and complexity in transition and Hunt weaves his original lines in admirably seamlessly. The actors’ performances are straight from the Royal Shakespeare Company text book – manic, hysterical and tormented – with special mention going to young Jess Leavins (Witch 2, Regan), who plays her evil a little more subtly and is quite the most charismatic presence.

For Shakespeare fans like me it’s an interesting premise but my companion, who isn’t as intimately familiar with the plays, found it a little inaccessible – it switches between plays very quickly and focuses on self analyzing soliloquies rather than the acts of murder, rape and madness themselves. The plot follows a cyclical structure that is allegorically effective in stressing the circle-of-hell theme, but sacrifices momentum in the process. It’s more of a study than a story and at two-and-a-half hours it’s a very long psychology lesson just to teach us that lust, revenge and megalomania are generally the main drivers for acts of evil, if we didn’t know that already.

Perhaps I am a purist but I do wonder whether Something Wicked rather misses Shakespeare’s point in only exploring one end of the morality scale that so fascinated the Bard. Shakespeare’s plays work by having light and shade as equal partners: there are both good and bad characters (and good and bad within characters), funny moments as well as serious and periods of action to counteract the soliloquising. Something Wicked, in its quest for the deepest depths of human despair, does away with many of these counterpoints and consequently the evil loses some of its power. It’s also utterly exhausting watching such an intricate and unrelenting tirade of wickedness and I think I’ve had my lifetime’s quota of cackling. Much like Abba’s songs do for Mamma Mia!, it’s the Bard’s words that rescue this play, with everything else merely secondary and ultimately rather forgettable.

“The Maids” at Greenwich Playhouse

Jean Genet’s troubling story of two servant sisters with murderous intentions towards their employer is re-designed for the 21st Century in The Maids by fresh-from-drama-school theatre company Nomads of Bazaar.

The action centres on sisters Solange and Claire, maids to the flamboyant Madame, who express their frustration and resentment at their situation by acting out their fantasies about killing their boss. Loosely on France’s famous Papin sisters, who murdered their mistress and her daughter in 1933, The Maids is a 90 minute real-time glimpse into the true misery of inevitable and interminable servitude.

The dialogue is quick, angry and often hysterical, and the play-within-a-play setting certainly keeps you on your toes as it blurs the borders between fantasy, theatre and reality. It’s all well put-together, with the sisters’ clever use of a camcorder to film their role-plays giving The Maids a dimension that I’m sure Genet never intended, but that really adds pace and structure.

Camcorder aside the 21st century setting is perhaps a little awkward, as presumably there aren’t many maids left in Paris in 2009 and I think the stilettos and cordless phones somewhat lessen the shock intended. Don’t get me wrong, semi-incestuous homicidal sisters will still evoke considerable discomfort no matter what their footwear, it’s just that the modern styling makes the premise a little shaky.

The two leads have a difficult job but as Simon Cowell would say, they give it 110%, particularly Emilja Ellen as the dominant sister, whose monologues are a one-woman emotional rollercoaster. Irena Grgona’s hysterical Claire could have used a little more subtlety, but she looks fantastic as the submissive (if equally unstable) younger sibling. But it’s Claire Spence’s preposterous yet credible performance as Madame that steals the show as a fantastic caricature of the rich and pointless. Granted her 15-minute, 1-dimensional role is perhaps a little easier than the others’, but full marks for execution and for managing to glean at least two humorous moments from a very dark script.

The colourful but troubled life of Jean Genet weeps out of every word of this play, and it’s not the thing to go and see if your established theatre comfort zone is a few chuckles and a happy ending. The Maids is all about feeling a uncomfortable, shocked and sad, so in that respect I’m sure Genet, whose raison d’etre was to ‘stick it to the man’ long before stilettos came along, would be very pleased with the Nomads of Bazaar’s efforts.

The Maids by Jean Genet
Greenwich Playhouse until 5 July Tues-Sat 8pm, Sun 4pm
Ticket Price: £12 (£10 conc.)

12 May – 7 Jun
Greenwich Playhouse,
189 Greenwich High Road, SE10 8JA.
£12 (£10), Tue-Sat at 8pm, Sun at 4pm – Booking Info

Imagine a camp Dad’s Army (ok, a more camp Dad’s Army) with heavy influences from Monty Python, Blackadder, and every WW2 film you’ve ever seen: this is Sparrow Heights.

Devised by actor Martin Hearn and his company, Sparrow Heights is an unashamed romp, with enough innuendo to outdo Barbara Windsor and more puns than your Dad.  The story follows four British soldiers, who embark on a highly disorganised mission to rescue the enigmatic General George Geoffrey Bungle from the hands of the Nazis, after they’ve captured him to steal a recipe for chocolate sausage pie.  Told you it was camp.

The ludicrous premise is followed through with maximum farce and a bombardment of toilet humour that is rather painful at first, but once you’re into the rhetoric of Sparrow Heights it begins to feel much more comfortable as the pace gathers towards the close.

Well-credited director Alastair Green asks a lot of his actors, as each takes on about four different roles and the scarcity of props also necessitates a good deal of miming.  The intimacy of this small scale affair also means you can see every bead of sweat and spit that these guys put into it: 10/10 for sheer effort, and for learning 70 minutes of dialogue that could fill 3 hours if spoke at a normal pace.  Adam De Ville leads the way in all respects with a fantastic rugger-bugger precursor in his English General, closely followed by Carole Carpenter who holds her own as the only gal and deserves credit for sheer volume: after this you’ll be looking at Bette Midler in a whole new way.  Chris Courtenay and Martin Hearn round things off as the camp and the stupid respectively, and fulfil their roles adequately, though with a little less commitment than the other two and a bit more sweat.

Amidst the farce, this play is really a critique of the way in which popular culture has devised such polarised stereotypes of WW2 personnel: alcoholic, cowardly Generals, dumb privates and barbaric, deviant Germans. It pokes fun at the film genre it has borrowed, with double crossing spies hidden by ‘impeccable’ foreign accents, slow motion death scenes, and the feeling that it really was all jolly good fun, despite the dastardly danger.  I suspect there’s a serious message in here about our collective tendency to glamourise, to the point of ridicule, horrific events in our history.  But it’s only with hindsight that Sparrow Heights evokes this kind of thinking – surrounded by talk of chocolate sausage pie, it’s difficult to think in such real terms.