Tag Archives: Kate Fleetwood

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“101 Dalmatians” at the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre

While adults like lots of shows that are aimed at kids, giving children’s theatre a broad appeal isn’t a necessary condition for praise. This new musical from Douglas Hodge, based on Dodie Smith’s book, deserves plenty of stars but is aimed so firmly at youngsters it doesn’t offer much to anyone over 12.

Even the average teenager could get restless with the frantic energy in Timothy Sheader’s production. With Toby Olié’s strong puppetry and Colin Richmond’s shouty set, the feeling of a cartoon or Saturday morning TV show fills the stage. If you’re as old as I am, you might end up with a headache.

Which is not to say that the show shouldn’t earn your respect.

There are clever lyrics and jaunty, if not particularly memorable, songs. A stronger second half includes good numbers for children in the cast. It just isn’t a soundtrack you would want to listen to at home. Johnny McKnight’s book (from a stage adaptation by Zinnie Harris) is a touch too crammed and could move quicker – but it is fun.

There’s a great villain too, of course, in Cruella De Vil. Updating the furrier’s best friend into a social media influencer is a great idea. Willing to risk “eternal Dalmatian” in hell to get a coat of puppies is a pun that was the highlight of the night for me. Kate Fleetwood takes the role (and a pair of very high-heeled boots) in her stride and gives a performance to be proud of.

In short, there’s little to fault in the production. Cruella’s accomplices make a pair of nicely old-fashioned crooks for George Bukhari and Jonny Weldon. And there are appealing performances from the dog’s “pets”, i.e., their owners, played by Eric Stroud and Karen Fishwick. Singing for the dogs and being literally a part of the puppet means that Danny Collins and Emma Lucia get even more points. The performances are bright and bouncy; even addressing the audience is done with an eye on their age.

There is a reservation it seems fair to raise – the venue itself. The Open Air Theatre has a tradition of work for children but this gorgeous location doesn’t seem particularly well used. Howard Hudson’s lighting design further on in the show gives an idea of what we are missing. And it is late at this time of the year. With a 7:45 start time for a relatively long show, most of the target audience are well past their bedtime by the time they get home.

Until 28 August 2022

www.openairtheatre.com

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“Absolute Hell” at the National Theatre

It’s a brave actress who takes on a role made famous by Judi Dench but as Christine, the alcoholic autophobic landlady of Rodney Ackland’s play, Kate Fleetwood brings her usual consummate skill to the job. Like her club, which remained open throughout the Blitz, Christine is falling apart just as World War II ends and most people are starting life again. Acclaim should be shared with Charles Edwards as Hugh, a too-regular-regular and once promising author who remains sympathetic despite his scrounging and whining. The couple’s love lives and drunken desperation power the play into a dark territory that makes this a fascinating piece.

Charles Edwards and Jonathan Slinger
Charles Edwards and Jonathan Slinger

The members of La Vie En Rose club create the kind of ensemble show the National Theatre excels in, and the size of the cast alone is impressive. Sinéad Matthews does well as the louche Elizabeth, carrying on an affair in front of her long-term partner Siegfried (Danny Webb), while Jonathan Slinger’s gloriously camp film director Maurice Hussey attempts to live up to his name. If Martins Imhangbe doesn’t quite convince as the object of all affections, the fault lies with the writer – the earnest GI’s sincerity has no place amongst all this narcissism and nastiness. Which isn’t to say you won’t enjoy watching the club’s habitués: there’s a strong collection of comic cameos, including Liza Sadovy as an heiress dubbed The Treacle Queen, and Lloyd Hutchinson’s mad artist.

Everyone is escaping, and it’s a theme Ackland is less than subtle with. The play’s first incarnation was in the 1950s and overtones of Existentialism overpower it. Director Joe Hill-Gibbons decides not to restrain the piece and excesses occur, including poor Rachel Dale as local prostitute Fifi forced to walk around the stage all night – surely a little too literal? Lizzie Clachan’s set design does not serve the play well. There’s a lot of coming and going here and using the whole of the Lyttleton stage as well as giving the club three flights of stairs makes it all rather exhausting to watch.

Both play and production make up for problems with the humour on offer. Above all, it’s startlingly original. This cruel look at war-time Britain isn’t the kind of thing we are used to – no wonder it shocked so soon after the events depicted. As a satirist, Ackland is a harsh master. As insult and faux pas fly, characters become increasingly diminished in the audience’s eyes. Is there anyone to root for here? There are certainly no failings that aren’t ruthlessly exposed. The humour is out-and-out biting, vicious and extreme. And, by delivering absolutes, the play becomes heaven rather than hell.

Until 16 June 2018

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

Photos by Johan Persson

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“Ugly Lies The Bone” at the National Theatre

Lindsey Ferrentino’s plays have received plenty of awards and, having worked for the Roundabout Theatre Company and The Public Theatre in New York, she is no stranger to prestigious venues. Still, it must still be an exciting coup to have your UK premiere on the South Bank, and surely her work has much to commend it, but it’s a shame this lacklustre piece doesn’t live up to the honour.

The scenario is powerful, a wounded war veteran returning home. The treatment includes artificial reality – the idea is to shock the system into forgetting horrific burns – so reaching for designer Es Devlin’s number, given her work on The Nether, was a sensible move. Devlin has delivered the goods, with projections on to an impressive set that’s part infinity cove and part model town.

Kate Fleetwood

Ferrentino’s characterisation isn’t bad, either. There’s the strong lead role of Jess for Kate Fleetwood – a flawless performance – whose indomitable spirit is saved from cliché by an edge to her humour that could have been pushed further. The men in her life seem pretty scrappy by comparison, but the roles allow Ralf Little and Kris Marshall to show some good comedy skills. Yet so overpowering is Jess’s part that, along with the character of her sister (another superb performance, from Olivia Darnley), the play feels as if it should focus on them, yet doesn’t quite manage to do so.

There are too many false starts around. The medical advances used to treat Jess are interesting, but explored superficially. Hearing but not seeing the scientist pioneering the treatment (Buffy Davis) is novel but alienating and starts to become dull. The time and location of the play – the end of the space shuttle programme in the midst of war in Afghanistan – could give us more pauses for thought but any claims or insight about either are lost. We fall back on a solid human-interest story that ticks along too slowly. Director Indhu Rubasingham does little to add pace, resulting in a disappointingly pedestrian evening.

Until 6 June 2017

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

Photo by Mark Douet

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“Medea” at the Almeida Theatre

We all know Medea’s biography – a sorceress who kills her kids when her husband leaves her – but it might help also to know more about the writer of the Almeida’s new version, Rachel Cusk. The prize-winning author of controversial novels about motherhood and marital breakdown has created a fiercely modern adaptation – the most radical of the theatre’s acclaimed Greek season.

Euripides’ play is a starting point (an altered conclusion tells us that much), inviting us to examine the topic of women and injustice. Cusk’s Medea is a writer, a magician with words, whose talent provides her chance for revenge. But the odds are against our heroine, as made clear by her former husband Jason (Justin Salinger) and Andy de la Tour as Creon, father of the younger woman she’s been deserted for.

Other women don’t help either. Amanda Boxer plays her mother, full of insulting criticism, while Michele Austin, as Medea’s cleaner, is relentlessly negative. The chorus consists of yummy mummies, obsessed with their husbands’ careers and trivial gossip. It’s close to the bone in Islington, an easy target, and I didn’t find them all that convincing. It can’t be that bad at the school gates, can it?

The arrival of a messenger from the gods is incongruous. Presented as both male and female, it’s an idea not even the excellent Charlotte Randle in the role can make effective, and a stumble in Rupert Goold’s sure-footed direction. But at least the messenger provides a welcome break by speaking in verse. Cusk’s theatrical dialogue is unusual. There are few conversations here: Medea talks to her friend Aegeus (Richard Cant) striking a deal over revenge, but she confronts Jason over the phone, while others just lecture her and the chorus’ conversations are deliberately one sided. The play has people pontificating rather than communicating and, at times, is tiring.

Kate Fleetwood in the title role is really the highlight of the show. Her Medea is truly scary – when she picks up a knife, the air crackles – but she is even better when controlling that tension. Forcefully intelligent, which adds credibility, her revenge will be… different. Best of all is Fleetwood’s ability to convey the physical pain of the character, clutching her stomach and clenching her hands. At its most effective, this is a close-up portrayal of rejection, masterfully conveyed.

Until 14 November 2015

www.almeida.co.uk

Photo by Paul Thompson

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“High Society” at the Old Vic

Here’s a bold claim: Maria Friedman’s production of High Society has more laughs than the much loved film it’s based on. More than an amusing trip down memory lane, the show is laugh out loud funny, making the most of Cole Porter’s hit-crammed score and the humour of Arthur Kopit’s book. Updating the original 1930s setting to match the movie’s 1956 date injects a rock and roll feel, making the piece energised and a whole lot sexier.

Admittedly there’s a somewhat slow start. The sound could be bolder and some characters take time to establish themselves. The initial preamble to the wedding of wealthy socialite Tracy Lord and her arriviste fiancé George Kittredge lacks tension, despite her ex-husband CK Dexter-Haven being around. It feels like we’re being served a good prosecco rather than the champagne that plays such a big part in the show.

But by the time I Love Paris is sung, by Tracy and her feisty young sister Dinah, to bemuse two gate-crashing journalists, we’re onto the real thing and laughing a lot. And after the interval the use of the Old Vic’s current in-the-round format is embraced. When the cast sing What A Swell Party, we really feel part of it – it’s a tremendous scene that makes you glad you’ve been invited. The finale also uses the space cleverly as Tracy announces that the wedding is off to the audience, who at this point double as the congregation.

Of course, we’re all happy Tracy ends up with the right man. Rupert Young makes a suitably charismatic CK, while it’s best not to think too much about the fate of the unfortunate George. Dinah and the rogue reporters, played superbly by Ellie Bamber, Jamie Parker and Annabel Scholey, are on our side to allay complicity in the snobbery.
Amongst such a talented cast it’s all the more remarkable that Kate Fleetwood’s Tracy stands out so much. Her sexy voice and stunning comic skills mean you daren’t take your eyes off her. And she looks fantastic in Tom Pye’s glamorous costume designs. I’m not classy enough myself to know the best brand of champagne, but whatever it is, it should serve as a metaphor for Fleetwood’s performance. And she deserves a jeroboam of the stuff.

Until 22 August 2015

www.oldvictheatre.com

Photo by Johan Persson

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“King Lear” at the National Theatre

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The National Theatre has rolled out the big guns to start 2014 – Simon Russell Beale as King Lear directed by Sam Mendes. It doesn’t matter what the weather is doing, or what your budget is like, make a resolution to see this one.

It’s a grand production in many ways. Star director Mendes was widely rumored for the top job at the National Theatre (it went to Rufus Norris), and is clearly at home here. Behind Anthony Ward’s deceptively simple design, the Olivier auditorium is used for all it’s worth. The sense of space is appropriately magisterial and the endlessly revolving stage reflects the play’s conceit of a wheel of fortune. Lear’s kingdom is a noirish nightmare inhabited by gangsters, militia and Blackshirts.

It isn’t just the superb spectacle that makes this Lear memorable. Simon Russell Beale gives the first unmissable performance of the year. His physical transformation is striking – he seems to shrink into the role in a degeneration that accelerates before your eyes. Always an intelligent performer, Russell Beale’s frequent work with Mendes shows how well he interprets the director’s powerful vision. This Lear is scary, a potent psychopath and giving up his throne is acknowledged as inexplicable. It’s a strategy that makes sense of his rages and fills the stage with fear. In a bold move, Lear kills Adrian Scarborough’s thought-provoking fool (in this production he’s even occasionally funny) in an agony of anger.

Matching him in menace, Lear’s daughters are clearly from the same mould. Fantastic casting is made the most of with Kate Fleetwood’s Goneril and Anna Maxwell-Martin’s Regan stealing many of the scenes they are in. Vampish and vicious, they are full of manoeuvres. Olivia Vinall’s Cordelia is also defiantly active, donning army fatigues as she leads an invading force to rescue her father. This Lear is action packed throughout. The plot fuels the tragedy in a way that emphasises that justice isn’t abstract, or the twisted sport of a divinity, but the work of man. From this, the end is even more tragic than usual, with a near unbearably moving performance by Russell Beale.

Until 25 March 2014

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

Photo by Mark Douet

Written 27 January 2014 for The London Magazine