Holiday write-up - part two
Sep. 30th, 2008 10:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_elyanDay 3
This day was mainly devoted to the unusual destination choice of Lichfield. I wanted to go there for the simple reason that it was one of the few medieval cathedrals in England I hadn’t visited up to that point.
Stratford, being the slightly peculiar place it is, gave me the following things to chew on:
i) A computer shop called “Logical Computers Limited”. As opposed to what other kind?
ii) A business called Brain and Hammer Limited. Ewww...
From Stratford I took the line back to Birmingham, and felt perfectly at ease watching the Warwickshire countryside slide by – like John Betjeman, I know of few pleasures greater than relaxing on a train passing through the countryside. Of course, this pleasure evaporated when we got into Birmingham, and I had to navigate New Street, but I survived it by walking in, and pretty much straight onto a train to Lichfield City. This went through interminable hinterlands of knackered light-industrial units and colossal flyovers – at one point I saw a children’s Happy Bus sort of thing, painted with Finding Nemo characters, in a scrappy yard somewhere, and it was a visual shock like the red coat in Schindler’s List. Things got a bit leafier out beyond Sutton Coldfield, then took a turn for the alien at Butler’s Lane, when suddenly confronted with what I presume were TV masts, about 15 storeys tall, and arrowed at the sky above the run of suburbia.
The approach into Lichfield, from City station, was not promising – along the windswept Birmingham Road, past TJ Hughes (a knock-down clothes retailer), and through a dismal shopping precinct called the Three Spires Centre. The older part of the town was more pleasing, and I was lost for a while in a proper old rambling bookshop – I bought what promises to be a hilarious read called The Day Khruschev Panicked, a 1961 tome about the Soviet Union’s vile plot to destroy the West using – GASP! – Anti-Matter! Dan Brown, you are way behind the times...
There was of course only one real reason for going to Lichfield, and I entered its shadow just as it started to pelt with rain (the only rain, I might add, that fell on me until I returned to Ely six days later). Being made from darkish stone, and with many spirelets and crenellations, Lichfield is a particularly Goth (as complementary to Gothic) cathedral, especially under lowering skies. Inside, I’m pleased to say, it was a joy – standard Cathedral architectural fare, for the most part, but roomy and pleasing in proportion. The joy of Lichfield, however, is mainly in the artefacts within it, particularly the Lichfield Angel, a recently-unearthed 8th-century carving of an angel, in pieces, but extraordinarily fresh for something of such age (not much ecclesiastical ephemera survives in this country from before the Norman Conquest). There is also the Chad Gospels, an illuminated manuscript contemporary with the Lindisfarne Gospels, though not nearly as well known. Of the people memorialised there, the most interesting are Dr Johnson (a Lichfield man by birth), and the founder of Selwyn College Cambridge (whose tomb is as fantastical as you would expect for someone who spent much of his life as a missionary in New Zealand). My visit coincided with that of a local secondary school, so it wasn’t the quietest time I’ve ever spent in a cathedral, but I am very glad I visited nonetheless.
The rest of the town proved pleasant enough but somewhat dull, and I certainly wouldn’t press a trip to the place on you unless you are interested in cathedrals (but then that is true of a lot of English cathedral cities, including my own). I was amused (in a wincing kind of way) by a statue in the Market Square to a man described as “Editor of Boswell’s Johnson”. Given the American use of the term “Johnson”, that could be quite painful... Still, it’s a pleasant enough market town, and isn’t the suburb of Birmingham that I feared it might by now have become.
I got back into Stratford just in time to catch Children’s Hour – that delightful time of day when the pavements are thronged with young people, all conversing in their charming argot and making the place generally livelier (NB – the preceding sentence may contain Sarcasm). I did a little shopping (though not, frustratingly, in the dying embers of the DVD Shop, which promised “LAST FEW DAYS OF CLOSING-DOWN SALE!”, but was locked), and went back to my B&B to relax before the main evening event – A Midsummer Night’s Dream, back at the Courtyard.
Well, it was absolutely splendid. Not having seen the earlier production of which it was a revamp, I couldn’t say if it was an improvement or not, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. As with Hamlet, the visual setting, while simple, worked beautifully – the lighting was a forest of light-bulbs, which raised and lowered from the flies to change the setting. As is often the case with Dream, the mortals were comprehensively outdone by the fairies, especially a gloriously sexy Titania, and an over-acted but powerful Oberon (I think Oberon is written to be over-acted – the richness of the poetry doesn’t reward the timid). Both Oberon and Titania spent some of their time in mid-air, with their long costumes trailing beneath them, and the effect was stunning. Puck was a porky and bumbling (though also thoroughly knavish) sprite, who made the most of his incompetence, especially in his entrances. And the rest of the fairies formed a kind of Greek Chorus for much of the show, leading the mortals about the place and reacting to what they said, often quite graphically (indeed the whole play was sexually charged, which Dream should be).
Best of the lot, however, were the Mechanicals, who I can say were by far the best I have ever seen. There is little point rehashing all the ways they managed to reduce the audience to a quivering jelly, but I will only comment that I will never be able to hear the line “I kiss the Wall’s hole, and not your lips at all” in the same way again.
On the whole, I think the show deserves all the plaudits I have seen for it, and I enjoyed it at least as much as the much more widely-lauded Hamlet.
Incidentally, and this is probably only of interest to those who came to see Hamlet, the main cases where the same actor appeared in both were:
Horatio also Oberon
Laertes also Demetrius
Rosencrantz also Philostrate
Guildenstern also Lysander
Osric / Player Queen also Flute (obviously)
First Gravedigger also Puck
I made it home from that about half ten, and climbed straight into bed, for the next day was to see the next major change of venue.
Day 4
I was up early as ever, and ready to head off, though this time New Street would only be a transfer onto a longer journey, to Crewe, and thence to Liverpool. Crewe was less depressing than New Street – the sky was occasionally visible, for a start – but was still a pretty grim spectacle, with the sense of ground-in griminess that some stations have. Lime Street was also pretty grimy – it is not one of the great stations of the network, even if it should be – but my excitement at being back in Liverpool transcended that. Billy Connolly once said of Glasgow that, when you get off the train at Glasgow Central, you can feel the city coming up through the soles of your shoes – I find the same thing about Lime Street.
I realise, at this point, that a lot of people will be reading this and going “LIVERPOOL???” – I don’t think there is any point trying to specifically explain my love for the city. All I can do is tell you what I saw, and leave you to make up your own mind.
I got to my hotel through Liverpool’s minimal underground network, and found the place right by the waterfront, on the corner of Chapel Street. I was told I had been given a room on the 11th floor, and when I walked in, was instantly floored by the view. I had a picture window taking up half the wall-space, facing full on to the Liver Building, which happens to be one of my favourite buildings in the world. You can imagine the architect being told they wanted an insurance office, but something a bit different, meditatively sucking on a tab of acid, and coming up with the Gothic fantasia that now adorns the riverfront. To have this iconic building laid out for my viewing pleasure from my window was a tremendous joy.
Soon I set off into the city, to see what I could find, and what I mainly found was Art. As you all know I’m sure, Liverpool is European City of Culture 2008, with all that implies – in addition to this, the Biennial is on at the moment plus its attendant fringe, so the place is literally seething with art of all shapes and sizes.
The first thing I saw was an installation in the banking hall of Martin’s Bank on Water Street, which was a Barclay’s until a couple of years ago, and possibly the grandest banking hall in the UK. The installation I was not hugely fussed about, but the building was spectacular, and I had a chat with the artist, who was my first Proper Scouser of the trip.
From there, a random wander brought me to the gallery run by the Hard Day’s Night Hotel, and an exhibition of the most extraordinary artist I know of anywhere - Willard Wigan. His sculptures, seen through microscopes on the head of a pin or inside the eye of a needle, are beyond belief – until you see them, it’s impossible to believe they aren’t a hoax. My favourite was in fact one of the bigger ones – a complete fantasy landscape, with forest and bridge and standing figure, on the cavernous space of the head of a drawing-pin. The Yellow Submarine, with all four Beatles sticking out, in the eye of a needle, was also quite something. Whether or not you think Wigan’s work is Art, it is breathtaking.
Next stop was Mathew Street, where I found a door open that I had never seen open before, and several flights of stairs down to ... the Cavern. The real, actual, where-it-all-happened Cavern, with the cellar stage recognisable from a hundred photos and grainy films. That was a serious reality wobble, to the extent that I nearly bought some Beatles merchandise in the shop round the corner, but managed to avoid it because they didn’t have what I wanted in my size.
As you may be gathering by now, I couldn’t walk far without finding something fascinating, though the central shopping area remained as charmless as ever (though Liverpool contains plenty of fabulous buildings, the area round Church Street and Whitechapel was redeveloped hideously after the war). Across the way in School Lane, however, I found the Bluecoat Gallery, and yet more of the Biennial, in the shape of an exhibition called Made Up. The main space here was a display of about 200 postcard-sized artworks in a horizontal strip, at chest-height. Some of these were funny, some creepy, and a few profound. My favourite was a picture of a panda with a cross round its neck, and a caption “For The Zoo Breeding Research Programme, I Am Willing To Give Up My Vow Of Celibacy”.
A walk up past Lime Street and St George’s Hall brought me to the Empire Theatre, which turned out to be showing Cabaret. With no plans for the evening, I bought a ticket, and set off again with yet another thing to look forward to. From there up the hill, round the corner, and into another of the UK’s most extraordinary buildings – the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King (or Paddy’s Wigwam, if you must). I absolutely adore the place – it’s another stage on from Coventry Cathedral, and because of the huge quantity of stained glass, the light has a liquid, slightly unearthly quality which you get in few other places. You progress round the great circular space, soaking up the shifting colours and visiting each of the side-chapels, and finding in this brave design, much of delight. I haven’t yet visited the crypt of the original, unbuilt Lutyens cathedral, but will do one day when the new entryway is completed. In the meantime, the main building by Frank Gibberd (also architect, amazingly, of the truly hideous Harlow New Town) is a wonder, which everyone should see at least once.
Overheard in the cathedral – “Do you know the Chinese girl? She came to Chorley because a chap did chillies”. Ah, the poetry of the everyday...
By this point, I was ready for a bit of a break, and there can be no finer place for a gentleman to take his ease than the Philharmonic Dining Rooms, on Hope Street. A former gentleman’s club, this is without doubt the UK’s most beautiful pub, with carved wood, marble, and plasterwork galore. I had a half in the Grande Lounge, and felt elevated by the surroundings – including the famous gentlemen’s lavatory, with its marble fittings and rococo mirror.
After that brief interlude, I was ready for another cathedral, but by the time I got to Liverpool (Anglican) Cathedral, there was a service on, and I knew it was time to get back to the hotel, to relax before the show. I still managed on the way back to find an Emporium of Vintage Stuff on Renshaw Street, a perfectly serviceable curry-house where I refuelled, and the extraordinary Turning the Place Over, by Richard Wilson. This amazing sculpture, perhaps the highlight of the Biennial, is an oval cutting, two storeys high, taken from a derelict building opposite Moorfields station, and then attached to a hydraulic ram, which allows it to rotate on all three axes, before slotting back into its original position. It’s hard to describe just what a strange sensation it is to watch – the world comes completely loose of its moorings for a while, and you float free in the world of new possibilities which it opens up. And if that isn’t a function of Art, then I don’t know what is.
Back at the hotel, I had just about time for a wash and brush up, before heading up Water Street, and back to the cavernous and very grand Empire Theatre for the evening’s entertainment (and my third show in four days). The production was a touring show, featuring Wayne Sleep as the Emcee, and someone called Sam Barks (who had done frightfully well for herself in one of the rash of “find a musicals star” shows on TV) as Sally Bowles. The audience was an interesting cross-section, and clearly for many of them (especially the sizeable younger contingent), it was visited purely as an Urroff Show (that is, they went because it featured Urroff the Telly). Though I have only seen the show once before, I knew that those who came purely because of that, or because they quite enjoyed Joseph last year, were in for a shock. Indeed, when I mentioned to the woman sitting next to me that Cabaret wasn’t necessarily a show that you came out of with your toes tapping and your eyes twinkling, she looked genuinely shocked and said “Well, that’s no good, is it?”
On the whole, it was a good, if hardly exceptional production. Wayne Sleep was fine – oddly enough, I had seen him onstage before, in Arsenic and Old Lace in Cambridge, but he was better in this, a role which offered everything he might want. The newcomer as Sally was passable, but clearly needs a lot more experience – her mid-range voice was good, but she couldn’t hold the quiet notes, and the loud ones tended to suffer from a Cilla Black-style gear-change. As a character, she was likewise believable, but not particularly memorable (but then, up against Liza Minnelli, who was born to play Sally Bowles, that would be difficult). The best acting, in fact, was from the elderly actor playing Herr Schultz, who was genuinely affecting as the Jew betrayed by the changing world order, and seeing his one dream of happiness dashed.
The settings of the show were clever, and the dancing was good, but for all its bare flesh and salaciousness, I didn’t find it nearly as sexy as the previous night’s Dream. Nonetheless, for all the above carping, Cabaret is a bloody good show, and more than capable of carrying an indifferent production to glory. I still don’t think most of the audience bargained for anything like what they got, though, especially the bleakness of the ending.
I navigated my way back past the pubs of Water Street and Chapel Street without anything eating me, and collapsed into bed about 11, after a busy but hugely enjoyable day in the Big, or Biggish, City. The clocks of the Liver Building, lit up a vaguely disquieting orange, were waiting to welcome me back.
This day was mainly devoted to the unusual destination choice of Lichfield. I wanted to go there for the simple reason that it was one of the few medieval cathedrals in England I hadn’t visited up to that point.
Stratford, being the slightly peculiar place it is, gave me the following things to chew on:
i) A computer shop called “Logical Computers Limited”. As opposed to what other kind?
ii) A business called Brain and Hammer Limited. Ewww...
From Stratford I took the line back to Birmingham, and felt perfectly at ease watching the Warwickshire countryside slide by – like John Betjeman, I know of few pleasures greater than relaxing on a train passing through the countryside. Of course, this pleasure evaporated when we got into Birmingham, and I had to navigate New Street, but I survived it by walking in, and pretty much straight onto a train to Lichfield City. This went through interminable hinterlands of knackered light-industrial units and colossal flyovers – at one point I saw a children’s Happy Bus sort of thing, painted with Finding Nemo characters, in a scrappy yard somewhere, and it was a visual shock like the red coat in Schindler’s List. Things got a bit leafier out beyond Sutton Coldfield, then took a turn for the alien at Butler’s Lane, when suddenly confronted with what I presume were TV masts, about 15 storeys tall, and arrowed at the sky above the run of suburbia.
The approach into Lichfield, from City station, was not promising – along the windswept Birmingham Road, past TJ Hughes (a knock-down clothes retailer), and through a dismal shopping precinct called the Three Spires Centre. The older part of the town was more pleasing, and I was lost for a while in a proper old rambling bookshop – I bought what promises to be a hilarious read called The Day Khruschev Panicked, a 1961 tome about the Soviet Union’s vile plot to destroy the West using – GASP! – Anti-Matter! Dan Brown, you are way behind the times...
There was of course only one real reason for going to Lichfield, and I entered its shadow just as it started to pelt with rain (the only rain, I might add, that fell on me until I returned to Ely six days later). Being made from darkish stone, and with many spirelets and crenellations, Lichfield is a particularly Goth (as complementary to Gothic) cathedral, especially under lowering skies. Inside, I’m pleased to say, it was a joy – standard Cathedral architectural fare, for the most part, but roomy and pleasing in proportion. The joy of Lichfield, however, is mainly in the artefacts within it, particularly the Lichfield Angel, a recently-unearthed 8th-century carving of an angel, in pieces, but extraordinarily fresh for something of such age (not much ecclesiastical ephemera survives in this country from before the Norman Conquest). There is also the Chad Gospels, an illuminated manuscript contemporary with the Lindisfarne Gospels, though not nearly as well known. Of the people memorialised there, the most interesting are Dr Johnson (a Lichfield man by birth), and the founder of Selwyn College Cambridge (whose tomb is as fantastical as you would expect for someone who spent much of his life as a missionary in New Zealand). My visit coincided with that of a local secondary school, so it wasn’t the quietest time I’ve ever spent in a cathedral, but I am very glad I visited nonetheless.
The rest of the town proved pleasant enough but somewhat dull, and I certainly wouldn’t press a trip to the place on you unless you are interested in cathedrals (but then that is true of a lot of English cathedral cities, including my own). I was amused (in a wincing kind of way) by a statue in the Market Square to a man described as “Editor of Boswell’s Johnson”. Given the American use of the term “Johnson”, that could be quite painful... Still, it’s a pleasant enough market town, and isn’t the suburb of Birmingham that I feared it might by now have become.
I got back into Stratford just in time to catch Children’s Hour – that delightful time of day when the pavements are thronged with young people, all conversing in their charming argot and making the place generally livelier (NB – the preceding sentence may contain Sarcasm). I did a little shopping (though not, frustratingly, in the dying embers of the DVD Shop, which promised “LAST FEW DAYS OF CLOSING-DOWN SALE!”, but was locked), and went back to my B&B to relax before the main evening event – A Midsummer Night’s Dream, back at the Courtyard.
Well, it was absolutely splendid. Not having seen the earlier production of which it was a revamp, I couldn’t say if it was an improvement or not, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. As with Hamlet, the visual setting, while simple, worked beautifully – the lighting was a forest of light-bulbs, which raised and lowered from the flies to change the setting. As is often the case with Dream, the mortals were comprehensively outdone by the fairies, especially a gloriously sexy Titania, and an over-acted but powerful Oberon (I think Oberon is written to be over-acted – the richness of the poetry doesn’t reward the timid). Both Oberon and Titania spent some of their time in mid-air, with their long costumes trailing beneath them, and the effect was stunning. Puck was a porky and bumbling (though also thoroughly knavish) sprite, who made the most of his incompetence, especially in his entrances. And the rest of the fairies formed a kind of Greek Chorus for much of the show, leading the mortals about the place and reacting to what they said, often quite graphically (indeed the whole play was sexually charged, which Dream should be).
Best of the lot, however, were the Mechanicals, who I can say were by far the best I have ever seen. There is little point rehashing all the ways they managed to reduce the audience to a quivering jelly, but I will only comment that I will never be able to hear the line “I kiss the Wall’s hole, and not your lips at all” in the same way again.
On the whole, I think the show deserves all the plaudits I have seen for it, and I enjoyed it at least as much as the much more widely-lauded Hamlet.
Incidentally, and this is probably only of interest to those who came to see Hamlet, the main cases where the same actor appeared in both were:
Horatio also Oberon
Laertes also Demetrius
Rosencrantz also Philostrate
Guildenstern also Lysander
Osric / Player Queen also Flute (obviously)
First Gravedigger also Puck
I made it home from that about half ten, and climbed straight into bed, for the next day was to see the next major change of venue.
Day 4
I was up early as ever, and ready to head off, though this time New Street would only be a transfer onto a longer journey, to Crewe, and thence to Liverpool. Crewe was less depressing than New Street – the sky was occasionally visible, for a start – but was still a pretty grim spectacle, with the sense of ground-in griminess that some stations have. Lime Street was also pretty grimy – it is not one of the great stations of the network, even if it should be – but my excitement at being back in Liverpool transcended that. Billy Connolly once said of Glasgow that, when you get off the train at Glasgow Central, you can feel the city coming up through the soles of your shoes – I find the same thing about Lime Street.
I realise, at this point, that a lot of people will be reading this and going “LIVERPOOL???” – I don’t think there is any point trying to specifically explain my love for the city. All I can do is tell you what I saw, and leave you to make up your own mind.
I got to my hotel through Liverpool’s minimal underground network, and found the place right by the waterfront, on the corner of Chapel Street. I was told I had been given a room on the 11th floor, and when I walked in, was instantly floored by the view. I had a picture window taking up half the wall-space, facing full on to the Liver Building, which happens to be one of my favourite buildings in the world. You can imagine the architect being told they wanted an insurance office, but something a bit different, meditatively sucking on a tab of acid, and coming up with the Gothic fantasia that now adorns the riverfront. To have this iconic building laid out for my viewing pleasure from my window was a tremendous joy.
Soon I set off into the city, to see what I could find, and what I mainly found was Art. As you all know I’m sure, Liverpool is European City of Culture 2008, with all that implies – in addition to this, the Biennial is on at the moment plus its attendant fringe, so the place is literally seething with art of all shapes and sizes.
The first thing I saw was an installation in the banking hall of Martin’s Bank on Water Street, which was a Barclay’s until a couple of years ago, and possibly the grandest banking hall in the UK. The installation I was not hugely fussed about, but the building was spectacular, and I had a chat with the artist, who was my first Proper Scouser of the trip.
From there, a random wander brought me to the gallery run by the Hard Day’s Night Hotel, and an exhibition of the most extraordinary artist I know of anywhere - Willard Wigan. His sculptures, seen through microscopes on the head of a pin or inside the eye of a needle, are beyond belief – until you see them, it’s impossible to believe they aren’t a hoax. My favourite was in fact one of the bigger ones – a complete fantasy landscape, with forest and bridge and standing figure, on the cavernous space of the head of a drawing-pin. The Yellow Submarine, with all four Beatles sticking out, in the eye of a needle, was also quite something. Whether or not you think Wigan’s work is Art, it is breathtaking.
Next stop was Mathew Street, where I found a door open that I had never seen open before, and several flights of stairs down to ... the Cavern. The real, actual, where-it-all-happened Cavern, with the cellar stage recognisable from a hundred photos and grainy films. That was a serious reality wobble, to the extent that I nearly bought some Beatles merchandise in the shop round the corner, but managed to avoid it because they didn’t have what I wanted in my size.
As you may be gathering by now, I couldn’t walk far without finding something fascinating, though the central shopping area remained as charmless as ever (though Liverpool contains plenty of fabulous buildings, the area round Church Street and Whitechapel was redeveloped hideously after the war). Across the way in School Lane, however, I found the Bluecoat Gallery, and yet more of the Biennial, in the shape of an exhibition called Made Up. The main space here was a display of about 200 postcard-sized artworks in a horizontal strip, at chest-height. Some of these were funny, some creepy, and a few profound. My favourite was a picture of a panda with a cross round its neck, and a caption “For The Zoo Breeding Research Programme, I Am Willing To Give Up My Vow Of Celibacy”.
A walk up past Lime Street and St George’s Hall brought me to the Empire Theatre, which turned out to be showing Cabaret. With no plans for the evening, I bought a ticket, and set off again with yet another thing to look forward to. From there up the hill, round the corner, and into another of the UK’s most extraordinary buildings – the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King (or Paddy’s Wigwam, if you must). I absolutely adore the place – it’s another stage on from Coventry Cathedral, and because of the huge quantity of stained glass, the light has a liquid, slightly unearthly quality which you get in few other places. You progress round the great circular space, soaking up the shifting colours and visiting each of the side-chapels, and finding in this brave design, much of delight. I haven’t yet visited the crypt of the original, unbuilt Lutyens cathedral, but will do one day when the new entryway is completed. In the meantime, the main building by Frank Gibberd (also architect, amazingly, of the truly hideous Harlow New Town) is a wonder, which everyone should see at least once.
Overheard in the cathedral – “Do you know the Chinese girl? She came to Chorley because a chap did chillies”. Ah, the poetry of the everyday...
By this point, I was ready for a bit of a break, and there can be no finer place for a gentleman to take his ease than the Philharmonic Dining Rooms, on Hope Street. A former gentleman’s club, this is without doubt the UK’s most beautiful pub, with carved wood, marble, and plasterwork galore. I had a half in the Grande Lounge, and felt elevated by the surroundings – including the famous gentlemen’s lavatory, with its marble fittings and rococo mirror.
After that brief interlude, I was ready for another cathedral, but by the time I got to Liverpool (Anglican) Cathedral, there was a service on, and I knew it was time to get back to the hotel, to relax before the show. I still managed on the way back to find an Emporium of Vintage Stuff on Renshaw Street, a perfectly serviceable curry-house where I refuelled, and the extraordinary Turning the Place Over, by Richard Wilson. This amazing sculpture, perhaps the highlight of the Biennial, is an oval cutting, two storeys high, taken from a derelict building opposite Moorfields station, and then attached to a hydraulic ram, which allows it to rotate on all three axes, before slotting back into its original position. It’s hard to describe just what a strange sensation it is to watch – the world comes completely loose of its moorings for a while, and you float free in the world of new possibilities which it opens up. And if that isn’t a function of Art, then I don’t know what is.
Back at the hotel, I had just about time for a wash and brush up, before heading up Water Street, and back to the cavernous and very grand Empire Theatre for the evening’s entertainment (and my third show in four days). The production was a touring show, featuring Wayne Sleep as the Emcee, and someone called Sam Barks (who had done frightfully well for herself in one of the rash of “find a musicals star” shows on TV) as Sally Bowles. The audience was an interesting cross-section, and clearly for many of them (especially the sizeable younger contingent), it was visited purely as an Urroff Show (that is, they went because it featured Urroff the Telly). Though I have only seen the show once before, I knew that those who came purely because of that, or because they quite enjoyed Joseph last year, were in for a shock. Indeed, when I mentioned to the woman sitting next to me that Cabaret wasn’t necessarily a show that you came out of with your toes tapping and your eyes twinkling, she looked genuinely shocked and said “Well, that’s no good, is it?”
On the whole, it was a good, if hardly exceptional production. Wayne Sleep was fine – oddly enough, I had seen him onstage before, in Arsenic and Old Lace in Cambridge, but he was better in this, a role which offered everything he might want. The newcomer as Sally was passable, but clearly needs a lot more experience – her mid-range voice was good, but she couldn’t hold the quiet notes, and the loud ones tended to suffer from a Cilla Black-style gear-change. As a character, she was likewise believable, but not particularly memorable (but then, up against Liza Minnelli, who was born to play Sally Bowles, that would be difficult). The best acting, in fact, was from the elderly actor playing Herr Schultz, who was genuinely affecting as the Jew betrayed by the changing world order, and seeing his one dream of happiness dashed.
The settings of the show were clever, and the dancing was good, but for all its bare flesh and salaciousness, I didn’t find it nearly as sexy as the previous night’s Dream. Nonetheless, for all the above carping, Cabaret is a bloody good show, and more than capable of carrying an indifferent production to glory. I still don’t think most of the audience bargained for anything like what they got, though, especially the bleakness of the ending.
I navigated my way back past the pubs of Water Street and Chapel Street without anything eating me, and collapsed into bed about 11, after a busy but hugely enjoyable day in the Big, or Biggish, City. The clocks of the Liver Building, lit up a vaguely disquieting orange, were waiting to welcome me back.
