Attempts on her Life     The Peacock discusses the National Theatre's revival of Attempts on her Life The revival of Martin Crimp's 'Attempts on her Life' at the National Theatre is fascinating and frustrating in equal quantities. From a production point of view, it is technically impressive and features any number of strong performances. However, from a textual point of view, it is as obtuse as it was when first published. Is Anne/Ann/Anny/Annie/Anya/Anushka victim or aggressor, tortured artist or suicidal madwoman? With no narrative thread to the piece, Crimp has left it deliberately open to interpretation. However, so many possible outcomes are offered, many of them conflicting with one another, that it is almost impossible to draw any conclusions. The overall effect is that of a group of actors coming together to improvise around the story of one woman's life. The ideas are all thrown into the pot, discussed, tried out - if this is a film, it's the director's cut, the high-concept and confusing version. Katie Mitchell has directed a fast-moving, multimedia piece of theatre. The stage is stripped right back to basics; no wings, nothing hidden. A large video screen hangs above the stage and cameras and cables litter the space. Some interesting effects are achieved by the audience being able to watch both the video screen and the actors performing in front of the camera; at one point we hear a description of the central character attempting to drown herself. On the screen we see a close up of her face, struggling to control herself as she walks further into the sea, shadows of rippling water reflecting up onto her, the wind blowing her hair. On stage, we see an actress standing in front of a camera while another actor waves a wind board and shines a blue light onto her, at the same time as frantically signalling to another member of the cast across the stage. This is a high-energy show with huge amounts of things going on. There is always something to watch, wherever you look on stage. The actors are always 'on'; if they aren't speaking or interacting directly with another actor, they are working cameras, playing instruments, singing, dancing. This is a hugely multi-talented and hard-working cast. Make no mistake, this is not an easy show to do. It is all the more frustrating, therefore, that the text doesn't really support them. Considering the central character seems meant to represent Everywoman, the play itself is one for the chattering classes. The opening and closing scenes reinforce this idea, with their multi-layered conversations, none of the characters so interested in listening to each other as in putting forward their own views and ideas on just who Anne is or was. The issues raised in the play never really hit home, because the text deals with them so dispassionately. We are never allowed to engage with the central character; this is a merely a news report, painted with a very broad brush. There is nothing shocking, nothing controversial, nothing for the audience to get excited about in Crimp's text. The power of this piece lies in its cast and production values, which are truly outstanding; it's a crying shame that the base material isn't worthy of them.

19.3.07 15:31 Permalink / 1 Comment / comment

Statesman of the Comisseriat... The Sparrow reviews the New Statesman current affairs magazine. When looking to keep abreast of world affairs I find there is nothing better than settling down with a copy of The Economist.  Unfortunately, I have allowed my subscription to lapse and found myself with no other option but to head to the shops.  Abiding my Sod's law as my life tends too, the shop was out of stock and I was left with a few other current affairs magazines.  Blissful in my ignorance of the merits of any of them I picked up the New Statesman, which, the cover assured me is "Current affairs magazine of the year".   Unfortunatley, what the cover had failed to tell me was that this award was given by the All Russian Union of Soviets.  Had I known the fact that it was little better than an English langauge version of Zvezda, I'd have probably been slightly more subtle in carrying it through the streets.  Without wishing to put too fine a point on it Jnr Senator McCarthy had people hounded out of their jobs for far less.   To say the magazine was skewed to one side of the political spectrum would be like suggesting that Roman Abramovich had a little money.  Reading the magazine is like entering a time warp, to a time ten years ago, when people still believed Labour would be different, when people could say Tony Blair's name without feeling the need to spit three times and when Gordon Brown was not the most boring man in Britain.  Ok, I lied, Gordon Brown was the most boring man in Britain, it's just none of us knew it yet.  In New Statesman land the future is bright, the future is red.  No one mentions cash for honours, war crimes or John Prescott's promiscuity issues.  In New Statesman land the clamour of opportunist sycophants duking it out for who can be deputy leader are viewed as serious politicians engaging in due democratic process. I never did reach the end of the issue, as I have to say, the spectre of Joseph Stalin was weighing so heavy on my shoulders that I could think of nothing else but closing the magazine praying that no one saw me with it and had informed the anti-bolshevik league of my activities. Suffice to say, I'll be sticking to The Economist, in future.

1.3.07 13:57 Permalink / 3 Comments / comment

Beautiful package, shame about the contents The Peacock is disappointed by the sloppy service at Quaglino's. Quaglino's is, and has always been, a spectacle. Walking in through the enormous glass doors, the handles forming a large letter ‘Q’, the entrance lobby always seems deserted. Then one is swept around the corner into the mezzanine bar area, the room opens up, and the full visual feast is revealed. The famous sweeping staircase, the clever ‘skylight’ running the full length of the dining room, lit with artificial daylight and thereby concealing the fact that the restaurant is, in fact, in a basement, the shellfish counter at the far end of the room, piled high with ice, oysters and lobsters. For dedicated star-spotters, it’s not usually necessary to look too hard for minor celebrities – I don’t think I’ve ever been there and not seen at least one member of the cast of Hollyoaks. There are waiters scurrying around all over the place and the ubiquitous Cigarette Girl (presumably to be out of a job shortly, when the smoking ban comes in) floats serenely around the room. Last night she was particularly tightly laced into her corset and was causing all manner of accidents to happen, mainly of the dislocated jaw variety, and not just amongst the males in the restaurant. I don’t think I’ve seen such an impressive frontage outside of the architectural field – the phrase ‘cantilevers and cantaloupes’ was uttered by one particularly smitten member of our party. So that’s the good points of the restaurant. Sadly, it is always let down by various factors. For me, the tables are far too closely packed, especially when there is no dedicated smoking section. The bar service is invariably lackadaisical (although I cannot fault the actual cocktails – I have drunk many an excellent martini there over the years) and, last night, reached a whole new low. There was a private party who, apparently, had sole access to the bar and anyone who wasn’t part of the party was first ignored for 15 minutes and then told brusquely to go and sit down at the draughty end of the bar by the coat-check counter, where they would receive table service. The table service did materialise, but it would have been helpful if this had been made clear from the off. To the casual observer, it appeared that only half the bar area was roped off, and the remainder open, but apparently this was not the case. The bar staff were then unable to find our tab each time a new member of our party arrived, which, as there were 5 of us, was annoying to say the least. Yes, the name was double-barrelled, but looking for the second half of the barrel, rather than the first, on the list would seem, even to a birdbrain like me, to be the height of stupidity. When we reached our table things continued to niggle. Despite the fact that the table was laid for 5, there were only 4 chairs. Then, when we ordered a glass of wine each, only 4 glasses arrived. As the 5th member of the party, I was beginning to feel a little invisible, unusual for a peacock! Happily, with the arrival of the food, things began to run rather more smoothly. I had a delicious chicken liver and bacon salad to start, the livers being beautifully creamy in texture and quite literally melting in the mouth. Other members of the party had sea trout with a mustard and honey sabayon, which they also pronounced to be wonderful. For the main course, the majority of our party went for braised onglet in a shallot jus. Onglet, for the record, would appear to be beef pot-roast. Quaglino’s does have a fondness for using obscure cookery terms, which is generally quite entertaining, and always an education. I like to think, being a greedy so-and-so, that I’m pretty knowledgeable about food, but there is always at least one item on any given Quag’s menu that foxes me. However, I digress. The onglet was reasonable, if a little dry and not as hot as it could have been. I suspect that my dish had been waiting too long to come out, as it arrived along with a dish of mushroom and spinach lasagne, which was apparently too hot to eat at first, and the remainder of the party were very happy with their beef. All was forgiven when it transpired that the onglet was served with mashed potato – something that Quag’s do exceptionally well. I’d happily go there for the mashed potato alone, in fact! For pudding, we plumped for either crème caramel, served with crepes dantelle, or chocolate mousse. After attempting three times to order pudding wine: the first time our request for a menu being ignored/forgotten, the second time the wrong menu being brought, the third time finally getting the right menu; we decided on a Sauternes and an Italian Vin Santo, both of which were excellent and did, thankfully, arrive before we had finished our puddings, always a bonus. The puddings themselves were also very good, so we were feeling happily replete. Unfortunately, just as we thought we were going to get out of the restaurant with nothing else untoward happening, our bill was wrong, to the tune of £56 more than it should have been. Now, if we’d actually drunk those two bottles of Chablis, I wouldn’t have been complaining, but we didn’t get a sniff of them, so I’m not sure how they ended up on our bill! It took 2 attempts to get the bill right, but eventually it happened. The service charge, considering all the mistakes that had been made in the evening, was pretty steep at 12 ½ %, but we’re English, chicken, and had already complained too much, so paid it while grumbling into our beards. Overall, a lovely evening was had – the food and drinks were never less than good and were, in many cases, exceptional. The surroundings were, as ever, wonderful and the company convivial. It’s just a shame that, not for the first time in Quag’s, the service let the experience down.

1.2.07 11:12 Permalink / 4 Comments / comment

The Peacock's birds of a feather Monday, Monday! To get you started this fine morning (hmmm...well, maybe not) we present the first installment of the Peacock's best of the web: The Notorious Bettie (Web) Page is a new blog following one girl’s travels through the minefield that is modern dating. Out of practice and confused by it all, Bettie is looking for her perfect man, who ‘…looks like Colin Firth, is definitely NOT called Colin and shags like a porn star.’ Is she looking in the right places? Will she manage to stay upright in her silly shoes? Most importantly, what is the Matetrix …? Tune in to find out! At the other end of the dating spectrum is Babymother, who has just given birth to her second baby. Her posts are always well written (only to be expected, really, coming from such a distinguished blogging family) and her latest offerings, covering the difficult birth of The Babeling, are no exception. Humorous, interesting, and so much more than just a baby blog, Babymother is definitely worth a read. From the sublime to the ridiculous (so to speak): Mikeachim at Fevered Mutterings is King of the Absurd. His tagline promises that ‘At some point, it’ll all start to make sense…’ – but in fact that would be rather a shame. His posts are witty and off-the-wall; even the humble meme tag is turned into a work of art in his capable hands. There’s a school of thought that says that he should be writing full-time; but then we’d probably lose out on his wonderful blog posts – rock…hard place….anyone…? A writer in a somewhat different vein, Cigarette-Sigh writes Tales From a Town Called Malice. Mainly character-based, his stories are full of rich imagery and heartbreaking situations; and although at first glance the tales all seem to be quite different, the common strand running throughout is love. Whether lost, gained, unwanted, desired or just desperately needed, there’s no escaping its presence. Finally, from dating, babies, prose and fiction to unrequited love, secrets, lies and desperate truths, PostSecret has it all in spades. An ongoing community art project in which people send in homemade postcards depicting their deepest, darkest secrets, it is a must-read every Sunday. Once you’ve started reading, there’s no going back, and it will only be a matter of time before you send in your own card – go on, you know you want to…

15.1.07 09:09 Permalink / 2 Comments / comment

Wendy's in da house Next up, a guest review submitted by regular 20six blogger Floatykatja Postcards from God: The Sister Wendy Musical has finally made its off West End debut! Three years in the making, from one-man show to 20-strong chorus to 5 characters and a piano; Marcus Reeves and Beccy Smith have created an affectionate and, at times, very moving show about one of the most recognisable characters of the art world: Sister Wendy Beckett. Myra Sands, as Sister Wendy, is well cast, but doesn’t seem at home in the role yet. The show generally, in fact, needs to be much slicker; the base production is there, but at the moment it still seems like work in progress. I shall look forward to seeing it again at the end of the run, as once the highs and lows have been established it will be really exciting. The scenes between Wendy and her cousin, Coz (Catherine Millsom), who has cancer, in particular, have the potential to be really moving; and scenes such as Sister Wendy’s Rapture, in which she raps about Stanley Spencer, accompanied by a backing group of velour tracksuit-clad Girlz in Da Hood-style dancers, will be hilarious once the words are solid and delivered with confidence. Juliet Gough, Andrea Miller, Louise Hollamby and Catherine Millsom are worked hard throughout the production, playing at least one named character and three or four different supporting characters each. Some of the most entertaining of these were the characters from the paintings about which Sister Wendy was talking. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus was, in particular, absolutely fantastic – Andrea Miller camped it up for all she was worth as Venus, in a long, blonde, Lady Godiva wig, while the song bubbled along at a cracking pace. Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, in contrast, was moodily lit and emotively sung by Louise Hollamby. ‘No way in. No way out. Nowhere left to hide.’ I loved the set, which is boldly painted in a mock-pop art style and incorporates a number of drawers and windows, which swallow props and convert into living pictures as the show unfolds. It works very well and, although when I walked in to the space I worried that it might be too bright and distracting, in actual fact it serves as a very good foil to the costumes, which are in the main black, white and shades of grey. The closing number seems to sum up everything that is wonderful about both the show and Sister Wendy herself. It’s a simple, country-style song, one of the few sung by Wendy, and I confess it brought a tear to my eye as she sang in a cracked voice about not wanting to be famous, but how she was ‘lit up by the wonder of the beauty in God’s art.’ It was a beautifully understated, touching ending to an enjoyable evening. Postcards from God: The Sister Wendy Musical is playing at the Jermyn Street Theatre until 3 February. To read Michael Billington's Guardian review go here: http://arts.guardian.co.uk/critic/review/0,,1988801,00.html

12.1.07 14:21 Permalink / 4 Comments / comment