Tuesday, May 24, 2016

THE HAUNTING OF BLAINE MANOR

Joe O'Byrne (as Grady), and Dan Thackeray (Vincent)
Photo: Shay Rowan



Written & directed by Joe O’Byrne

Hope Mill Theatre, Manchester

Reviewed on 10th April 2016
Future performances 16th to 20th August at The King’s Arms, Salford


Review by Brian Gorman

You know the great gag in the movie ‘Spinal Tap’, where the amps go “up to eleven”? Well, I wish the standard five star system went up to six, because this stunning cracker of a show would get the full set of pointy things from me.
Imagine the great Martin Scorcese suddenly popping up at Cannes with a good old-fashioned twisty-turny, Hitchcockian haunted house comedy-thriller. A renowned director, known primarily for his hard-hitting, near-the knuckle, often controversial, and grittily realistic dramas. Bit of a shock to the system, right? Well, local hero Joe O’Byrne (Greater Manchester’s finest chronicler of the modern day social conscience) is our very own Scorcese; justifiably critically acclaimed for his bruising series of plays and films set on the fictional Paradise Heights housing estate, and he’s done just that.
‘The Haunting Of Blaine Manor’ is a gloriously written rollercoaster of a play, chockful of golden era Hollywood in-jokes, nods to classic movies featuring the likes of Vincent Price, Basil Rathbone, Humphrey Bogart et al. There’s a great Ed Wood vibe (the ‘worst director in Hollywood History’, wonderfully portrayed in Tim Burton’s best movie ‘Ed Wood’), but where Mr Wood was a truly awful writer (hugely optimistic, but ultimately excruitiatingly untalented), Mr Byrne is an absolute master of his dark arts.  
It’s England, 1953, and there’s some rum goings-on up at the creepy old Blaine Manor. Proto X-Files investigator, Dr Roy Earle (superbly played by a laconic, and aptly Bogartian, Peter Slater) arrives to attend a séance, and is keen to debunk anything remotely supernatural. Joining him are a rather colourful bunch of brilliantly realised characters, including the camp, eye-liner worrying, ferret-like medium, ‘Cairo’ (a scenery-chewing, scene-stealing Andrew Yates), and the far more domineering, supremely confident, fellow spirit mitherer Scarabus (Ian Curley, suitably dynamic). The seductive, muck-raking journalist Vivian (a prowling, man-eating Jo Haydock), genial and enigmatic manservant Grady (O’Byrne himself in slick, Kevin Spacey-esque mode), and the obviously dodgy keeper of Blaine Manor, Vincent (Daniel Thackeray, managing to be both subtle and melodramatic at the same time; harking at the man himself, Vincent Price in ‘Witchfinder General’). When the motley ensemble are told the planned séance is cancelled (due to the untimely death of a fellow guest psychic), the game is afoot when bad weather maroons our sinister six on the windswept moors.
Set in a single, elegantly decorated room, with the bare brick walls, high ceiling, and atmospheric backdrop of the suitably spooky, and dilapidated, Victorian Hope Mill, the action is beautifully claustrophobic. Our dirty half dozen are crammed together, and it’s only a matter of time before booze and blood are spilled, secrets come tumbling out, and twist upon twist revealed. I honestly thought I’d guessed where it was all heading, but O’Byrne pulled the metaphorical rug right out from under us with a cracking final scene. I can’t begin to reveal any of the secrets of Blaine Manor, but Joe O’Byrne must have sold (or at least pawned for a few weeks) his very soul to write this. It’s all perfectly paced by O’Byrne’s directing, and when the shocks come, they are never telegraphed, keeping the audience on their toes throughout. Mix in a nerve-jangling soundscape by Justin Wetherill, throbbing menacingly throughout, and helping to shred nerves already barely held together by a thread, and you have a perfect recipe for one hell of an entertaining evening.


The full six out of five stars it is!

Monday, November 23, 2015

ASCENSION



Written & directed by Craig Hepworth
The King’s Arms, Salford
Until 24th November 2015

Review 


Ascension is the latest production from Manchester fringe trailblazers Vertigo Productions, and is not for the faint of heart. Or those averse to full frontal nudity. Or BDSM. Or S & M. Or murder. Or blood. Or sex. Or animal cruelty. Or bottoms. Or…, actually, I think I’d better stop there, as I’m guessing that you’ve got the picture by now. Yes, this one’s got it all, folks. Something to offend everybody. Well, those who delight in being offended, that is. Craig Hepworth has set his new stage play in modern day America, but takes his inspiration from the notorious Leopold and Loeb case of 1924. Described as ‘The crime of the century’, the infamous murder of a teenage boy, by a pair of self-obsessed, rich young things with superiority complexes (they actually considered themselves ‘Supermen’, after overdosing on Nietzche) became an international sensation. Leopold and Loeb considered themselves above the law, and set out to prove how clever they were by meticulously planning and executing the murder of an innocent 14 year old (they failed. Spectacularly). Hepworth’s script takes the basic theme of deluded personalities seeking to impose their will on others, and fashions a quite terrifying tale of two souls descending into madness, and destroying everybody they come into contact with.
The two central performances are flawless. Richard Allen and Ryan McMyler play a gay couple, Richard and Nathan, superglued together in a violent, depraved, and mutually destructive sadomasochistic relationship. Nathan is the dominant partner; portrayed with frightening intensity by the livewire McMyler. His adoring, and supremely subservient lover, Richard (a deceptively controlled Allen) gets the brown end of the stick whilst suffering an endless barrage of slaps, punches, cigarette burns, and rough sexual assaults. From the very beginning, it is Richard who is the stronger man, and Nathan who we see gradually losing his mind. Noir-ish flashbacks detail the characters’ individual backstories – Nathan is a spoilt rich boy, delighting in abusing animals, while Richard is the mild-mannered kid suffering bullying at school. Video excerpts of the men’s’ lives are shot in a beautifully noir style, reminiscent of the nightmare imagery of film-maker David Lynch. The whole story zips by in a pacey, movie-esque style, with no fat to be trimmed. I’m not entirely convinced we needed to have the story set in the US, but maybe that’s just a personal thing (it could have been even more terrifying, particularly for a Salford audience, to have it set in the north of England). Director Hepworth indulges writer Hepworth, and has an ensemble of mask-wearing, supporting characters play out a variety of scene-setting pieces utilising dance, mime, and physical theatre. Almost every character is semi-naked throughout, which gives the play a raw, edgy atmosphere, particularly when the actors lend their bodies for use as tables and chairs by the two leads.

As I said, not for the faint hearted.

Monday, November 02, 2015

HUMPTY'S BONES

Review

Written by Sean Mason
Directed by Peter M George
The Seven Oaks pub, Manchester

Until Wed 4th Nov

Reviewed on 28.10.15





Humpty’s Bones is the latest production from the always intriguing, always entertaining, and always adventurous Sytheplays Ltd. Local legend Sean Mason has adapted Simon Clark’s creepy short story for the stage, and the relatively small upstairs room at the Seven Oaks pub is the perfect venue to frighten the collective pants off any punter venturing there on a misty Autumnal evening. Claustrophobic, wood-panelled, ancient-looking décor, and a truly foreboding atmosphere. Perfect for a Halloween treat. It’s a very Nigel Kneale-esque story of inquisitive folk messing around with ancient and still-bearing-a-grudge supernatural entities. On this occasion, a grave is disturbed in a back garden, and a collection of bones are being examined by a dim-witted amateur archaeologist, Heather Laird (played by an impish Lauron Stirrup). The skeleton’s head is missing, and things just don’t add up. Enter our young heroine, the wonderfully-monikered Eden Page (a delightful Catryn Philbin) to stir things up, annoy the locals, and provide some much-needed distraction for Heather’s cranky, sexually frustrated, and boorish husband Curtis (Andrew Marsden). There’s a League Of Gentlemen aspect to this gruesome little piece, and, at one point, I half expected Pat Brocklehurst’s mad old bat Ada Hezzle to be unmasked as Steve Pemberton in drag. The old hag’s cryptic warnings and crazed mutterings fail to deter our lovely Eden from getting involved with stuff she shouldn’t get involved with, and so events spiral towards an eruption of murder, ghoulish activities, and eventual blood-chilling horror. Marsden’s Curtis is a frightening creation, like a psycho scarecrow lashing out at all and sundry, desperate for the touch of a good woman (or any woman, really), and batshit crazy enough to ignore the werewolf-like creature literally at his front door, preferring instead to focus his narrow-sighted attentions on the less than impressed Eden. Full marks to Greg Hulme’s moody and unsettling music, and Peter M George’s full-bloodied direction and sound design (with Sytheplay’s Daniel Thackeray). Be warned – don’t mess with the dead, ‘cos dem bones is gonna walk around. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones!

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

53574 views!



Amazing! This blog has now had 53, 574 views.
Oscar and I say "Thank you!"

Sunday, July 19, 2015

NORRIS & PARKER: ALL OUR FRIENDS ARE DEAD


Written by Norris and Parker
Directed by Lucia Cox
The King’s Arms, Salford
Rating: 5 stars
Review by Brian Gorman

“Why aren’t you famous, yet?” I asked them in the bar after the show. Katie Norris and Sinead Parker are a truly formidable double act, with shades of French & Saunders, Reeves & Mortimer, and (dare I suggest?) the mighty Cannon & Ball. On a bare stage containing just a couple of chairs, our two lycra-clad heroines performed a series of surreal, dark, deliciously twisted comedy sketches featuring a gallery of perfectly-realised, often grotesque  characters. Opening with the glorious ‘Twat’ song, the stage was set for a marvellous evening of superbly delirious character comedy, delivered by the best double act who aren’t yet famous. Expertly-aimed pot shots eviscerated the evil Tories, overly saccharine West End musicals (the song ‘Meat’ is delivered with lung-busting, tonsil-straining ferocity by Parker – the ‘blonde one’), and hipper-than-thou Mancunian punk poets (yes, there’s more than one). Norris (the ‘brunette one’) plays the slightly tougher, more commanding of the pair, with Parker the more submissive (revealing her Sapphic passion for her on-stage partner at hilariously inappropriate moments). As two rather attractive female performers, clad primarily in figure-hugging leotards, the more side-splitting moments came when the pair went all out to be as unattractive as possible; one prime example being the sight of David Cameron having his nether regions scratched by a fawning Nick Clegg. There was much mickey-taking at the whole ‘female comic’ aspect of the show, with both women often undermining their onstage personas, and making cringe-worthy attempts at chatting up various men in the audience (including one chap on the front row being more than happy to play ball).
Running for just an hour, All Our Friends Are Dead certainly left one wishing for more. There wasn’t a weak moment to be had, with each sketch packed with innumerable fantastic one-liners, and beautifully observed characters. These are two very talented performers, and I cannot recommend them highly enough. See them now, live on stage, before they’re snapped up for the telly, playing arenas, and retiring far too early.

Reviewed 16.07.15


Tags: Sinead Parker, Katie Norris, Lucia Cox, King’s Arms, Salford, All Our Friends Are Dead

Originally published (with bizarre edits) at www.thepublicreviews.com

Friday, July 17, 2015

EAST OF HEYSHAM




Written by Philip Martin
Directed by Michael Whittaker
3MT Theatre, Manchester (until 19th June)
Salford Arts Theatre (24/25th June)

Review by Brian Gorman


A full house is always a very welcome sight for a relatively unknown play. ‘East Of Heysham’ is written by Philip Martin, legendary creator of the 1970s BBC tv series ‘Gangsters’, plus a couple of 80s Doctor Who. Producer Gareth Kavanagh (of Manchester’s renowned Lass Productions, purveyors of many a ‘lost classic’, cult tv/film adaptation, etc.) discovered this little-known script, and has mounted it at the intimate, rather eccentrically decorated 3MT Theatre (think the TARDIS with Salvador Dali as interior designer). This is a gently humorous story of 3 sad, aging, and deeply flawed individuals bonded by their love of 50s icon James Dean (hence the title reference to the 1955 epic ‘East Of Eden’), whose character deficiencies and inner demons are teased out, and simultaneously exorcised by a newcomer to their dwindling ranks. David Slack plays the seventy-something Vince, leader of the pack, and somewhat decrepit lothario, resplendent in his snuggly-fitting, bright red windcheater (echoing Dean’s character in ‘Rebel Without A Cause’), and desperate to keep his idol’s memory alive. Slack carries the part well, and his towering bulk suits Vince’s weathered swagger, whilst hinting at the clay feet and Ozymandian fate. The downtrodden, deluded Walter (a superb performance by Pete Gibson) cowers in Vince’s shadow in a distressing, symbiotic, Clarkson/Hammond Top Gear style, whilst looking as though he will fall apart at any moment due to the stress of trying to coax into life an equally gutless and past-its-sell-by-date 16mm film projector. This pitifully undynamic duo are kept in check by the icy Bel (Wendy McCormack), a hard-nosed businesswoman making a small fortune flogging cheap anti-aging remedies to her unsuspecting customers. McCormack cuts a formidable figure, and deftly portrays a character literally held together by vanity and guilt. The themes of keeping the past alive, defying the ravages of time, and allowing past mistakes to haunt the present are communicated well by Martin’s tight, unfussy script, and Michael Whittaker’s no-nonsense direction. Energetic Roisin McCusker plays the young, enigmatic stranger in town, Sarah, and soon has the hapless Vince going all Jack Duckworth on her. You can guess how that plays out.
‘East Of Heysham’ has a clever mix of light and shade, with the gentle, morphine drip of ‘Last Of The Summer Wine’ mixed with the spice of a J B Priestly morality play. No-one is wholly innocent, everybody has secrets, and all are prisoners of their own making. Beckettian? Perhaps. Pinteresque? A little. At around 90 minutes (plus interval), it certainly never drags or outstays its welcome. For a first night, this was old-fashioned, entertaining stuff, but there’s a lot to work with, and a solid cast that will grow in confidence. There’s certainly life in this Martian Chronicle.


Tags: East Of Heysham, Philip Martin, Lass Productions, David Slack, Pete Gibson, Wendy McCormack, Roisin McCusker, Michael Whittaker, Three Minute Theatre, Manchester, Salford Arts Theatre

Originally published by www.thepublicreviews.com

TOGETHER IN ELECTRIC DREAMS



Written & directed by Daniel Thackeray
Albert’s Chop House, Manchester
Touring

Review by Brian Gorman

As the title suggests, we are in the 1980s, and disco king Giorgio Moroder’s song (with vocals by The Human League’s Phil Oakey) perfectly evokes the spirit of the era. Personal computers have become a reality, and two of the industry’s entrepreneurial giants are meeting to discuss the future. Based on real-life events, Daniel Thackeray’s play (based on an idea by Lass Productions’ Gareth Kavanagh) brings us the eccentric Sir Clive Sinclair (inventor of the first pocket calculator, the first mass-market home computer, and the revolutionary-yet-ultimately-doomed C5 motor vehicle) reeling from a series of body blows to his business. Under financial pressure, Sir Clive arranges to meet his arch rival, Alan Sugar, with a view to selling the sharp-suited ex London barrow boy the Sinclair trademark and computer business. It’s a great premise for a play; two completely contrasting personalities meeting for dinner in a Chinese restaurant, with the future of the home computer market at stake. Thackeray is ideally cast as the gangly, awkward, prim and proper Sinclair, and the sparks really fly when Matthew O’Neill’s bullish, lowbrow, no-nonsense Sugar arrives to pick over the bones of the great man’s empire. With his slick-backed hair, crumpled pinstriped suit, and unshaven appearance, O’Neill plays the oafish, yet sharp-minded future business guru (and knight of the realm) perfectly.
The action is contained at the restaurant table, with a few snippets of hilarious 1980s tv ads on a projection screen. Thackeray’s direction concentrates almost entirely on the two businessmen’s conversation, eschewing any temptation for histrionics or broad theatrics. This works well, as the men engage in a mental battle for supremacy, with Sugar’s clear-sightedness and bulldozer approach gradually wearing down the rather old-fashioned and hopelessly out-of-touch Sinclair. There is a sprinkling of nice comic moments, mainly at the expense of Sugar’s table manners and lack of sophistication in contrast to Sinclair’s gentlemanly demeanour. A delightful Jess Lee’s tiny, bustling waitress serves to further highlight the men’s distinctive characters; Sugar’s laddish, cheeky chappie and Sinclair’s old school charm. There’s much here for computer geeks, with plenty of in jokes about the home computer industry (much of which, I confess, went over my head, but had many of the audience giggling), and the two lead actors make for a great double act.

Reviewed on 14.07.15
At Buxton Fringe Festival until 22nd July


Tags: Together In Electric Dreams, Daniel Thackeray, Matthew O’Neill, Jess Lee, Gareth Kavanagh, Lass Productions, Sytheplays, Clive Sinclair, Alan Sugar, Albert’s Chop House, Manchester

Saturday, November 15, 2014

JOHN & MARK

Matthew Howard-Norman & Lee Joseph
(Photo by Shay Rowan)

A Double Bill with 'Naked Old Man'

Theatre Review

Taurus, Manchester
Written by George Gunby/Murray Schisgal
Directed by Paul Blinkhorn


4.5 Stars (John And Mark)/3.5 Stars (Naked Old Man)

A somewhat curious double bill; one part disturbing reflections on murder and celebrity, and the other a gentle rumination on old age, this was, overall, a beautifully entertaining evening.

Richard Sails
(Photo by Shay Rowan)

First up was ‘Naked Old Man’, by the multi award-winning Murray Schisgal (co-writer of the film ‘Tootsie’), and starring Richard Sails. This autobiographical 45 minute piece had Schisgal ruminating about his 82 years of life, in the company of several deceased friends and ex colleagues. There isn’t a lot of plot, and it was thanks to Sails’ genial characterisation that ‘Naked Old Man’ didn’t fall apart at the seams. It was effectively and efficiently done, but pretty throwaway, and more than a little self indulgent (on the part of the writer). A lot of Hollywood names are dropped, a few gently amusing anecdotes, and a lot of first-hand observations about old age. Sails is perfectly cast (though about 20 years too young), and does his best to make the material work, but there just isn’t enough to get his teeth into. A pleasant, undemanding piece, and something of a light starter for the more filling main course to come.


 Controversial, and apparently too much for Liverpool audiences (earlier performances in the city were sparsely attended, partly thanks to the negative attitude of the local press, and some narrow-minded Beatles fans). Northern Outlet Theatre Company’s latest production, ‘John And Mark’, takes a chilling look into the mind of John Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman, by way of the ghost of Lennon visiting the prison cell of his assassin. This new work by George Gunby was riveting, humorous, dramatic, chilling, and gut-wrenchingly emotional. Playing to a capacity audience at Manchester’s Canal Street bar, Taurus, in a claustrophobic underground theatre space, this hour long piece worked superbly well.
Matthew Howard-Norman as Chapman, portrayed a shuffling mess of a character; a repressed man-child calmly attributing his actions to the will of God, and the seeming hypocrisy of his celebrity victim. The portly, pale-skinned Howard-Norman, clad only in a pair of ill-fitting, baggy, and supremely unattractive underpants, opened the play, and physically summed up the pathetic, self-loathing Chapman in an instant. A short scene, set the night before the killing in December 1980, had Chapman begging for some human contact from a brassy, and impatient New York prostitute (Tracy Gabbitas), and being coldly rejected. Fast forward a few years, and Chapman is now living out his days in a maximum security prison, still protesting his moral innocence and remaining irritatingly uncooperative with psychiatrists and doctors. Enter John Lennon, in the wiry, virile form of actor Lee Joseph; sloping nonchalantly into view with the signature swagger and arrogant devil-may-care attitude of the scouse icon himself. Joseph embodied the man perfectly, and the scenes between Lennon and Chapman were riveting. We learned that Chapman had all the makings of a good man, that he did a lot of charity work with Vietnamese refugees, and had firm religious convictions. His obsession with J D Salinger’s novel, ‘The Catcher In The Rye’, led to him viewing the wealthy and successful Lennon as a fake, and the former Beatle as a disgusting hypocrite for preaching about peace, love, and the dismissal of material wealth whilst living the life of a millionaire celebrity. Whether Chapman had a point is up for debate, and this stage version of Lennon certainly hit back against the accusations with a compelling argument (namely, that he was only an ordinary man trying to make a difference, and that he’d have been a fool just to simply give his money away). The remarkable Tracy Gabbitas appeared again as Lennon’s Aunt Mimi, in a supremely moving scene suggesting what might have been if John had returned home to Liverpool.
The central question, of exactly why did Chapman shoot Lennon, can never be answered; the problem is with the question. For the pathetically deluded Chapman it was absolutely the right thing to do, and it was destined to happen, but for the rest of us it was an outrage for which the pain will never end.
Director Paul Blinkhorn kept a tight reign on the material, and never fell into the trap of simple black & white ethics. Chapman can be viewed as a sad, fundamentally flawed human being, who might have taken a different path in life but for a loveless childhood, and an abusive father. He could be seen as a victim, but the target of his anger and delusion just happened to be a beloved messianic figure to millions, and Chapman’s demonisation must continue, it seems. Thanks to this provocative and disturbing production, the other side of the coin spins into view. For a change.

Reviewed on 13.11.14


Tags: John And Mark, George Gunby, Lee Joseph, Tracy Gabbitas, Matthew Howard-Norman, Naked Old Man, Richard Sails, Paul Blinkhorn, Northern Outlet Theatre Company, Taurus, Manchester

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

OTHELLO - Back of the net!!!!

The fabulous Lass Productions are about to launch their new show. Here's what they have to say about it...




The award winning team behind this brand new staging of Shakespeare’s OTHELLO, set in Venezia FC have launched a KICKSTARTER fund and there are a host of opportunities to get involved in the next week.

KICKSTARTER allows people to pledge money to help support staging the play and there are some great rewards on offer to donors - front row seats, custom designed badges, mugs and T Shirts from the renowned retro designer behind VWORP VWORP, COLIN BROCKHURST, and even special Venezia FC Panini stickers featuring the cast of OTHELLO!

The Kickstarter page can be found at https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/507765479/othello-shakespeare-tragedy-in-a-football-club-wor



More information is available at www.lassproductions.co.uk or follow us on @21stcenturylass.
  

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Stars In My Eyes...

Brian Gorman and Caroline Munro on a date (in his dreams!)

When I review for others, I am usually asked to assign a star rating. I am now wondering whether I should devise my own system just for this blog.
I have decided. I will. Here it is ('BeeGees' is short for my name, Brian Gorman):

5 BeeGees: Me, Kathleen Turner, Kristen Scott Thomas, Patrick McGoohan, John Barry, Caroline Munro, and Christopher Walken in a bar on New Years Eve.

4 BeeGees: Excellent, but just something minor pulls it down.

3 BeeGees: Very good, but lacking something.

2 BeeGees: Good, but should be better.

1 BeeGee: I'll see you in the bar!

Be My Baby



Theatre Review

The King’s Arms Theatre, Salford

Part of The Greater Manchester Fringe Festival

Writer: Amanda Whittington
Director: Lucia Cox


A stifling hot evening in a jam-packed dark room is never a good thing. Unless you’re kept entertained, enthralled, and enlightened by a first rate company, that is. Under the quite wonderful high ceiling of The King’s Arms Theatre, which lent a Cathedral-like atmosphere to proceedings, the newly-formed Asphalt Roses theatre company made their auspicious debut. Manchester-based actor/producers Hannah Blakeley and Leni Murphy were quite rightly fed up with the dearth of female roles available in the industry, and decided to form their own all-female company to provide more opportunities for women in the North West. Amanda Whittington’s ‘Be My Baby’ provides ample opportunity for actors to shine, with half a dozen female characters. The story, set in 1964, involves four pregnant young women virtually imprisoned in an austere mother and baby home, under the watchful eye of a barely sympathetic matron. In a society unwilling to accept any behaviour outside of ‘traditional family values’, the unmarried mothers-to-be are faced with a life of shame and scarce employment prospects unless they give up their children for adoption. What could have been a scathing indictment of a backward-thinking society, a kind of female ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’, is unfortunately on this occasion, more of a gentle tale of woe. Whittington’s script avoids any truly harrowing scenes (apart from the mental disintegration of Bethan Caddick’s Norma), and all the unfortunate girls actually seem to have a pretty good time. A fine ensemble cast led by Hannah Blakeley as the awkward teen-age Mary, do absolute wonders with the material, but everything seems a little too sugar-coated. Dressed in uniform white slips, the girls resemble angelic creatures; healthy, glowing, and with little to suggest any real stress about their situation. Lucia Cox’s direction is tight when it comes to the well-choreographed musical interludes (the girls often break out into the songs of the day, and there is one superb scene with Leni Murphy’s hard-as-nails Queenie morphing into a sultry nightclub temptress), but is a little too gentle with the material. There was a dream-like atmosphere, but little sense of actual despair. Morag Peacock is suitably restrained as Matron, but I really wanted more of Nurse Ratched. Her steely demeanour weakens for an unguarded moment when it is revealed she lost her husband of one year at Dunkirk. Victoria Tunnah is delightful as the impish and ill-educated Delores, while Laura Campbell as Mrs Adams is a frightening battleaxe of a woman. Set in the round with an old, iron-framed bed at its heart, there was a suitably claustrophobic feel about the evening. Overall, a tremendous start for this new company, with a wonderful cast, and some fine surreal moments (are the girls actually angels in limbo?), but what loses this production the full five stars is a lack of true grit.

Reviewed on 10th July

Originally published at www.thepublicreviews.com 


Tags: Be My Baby, Amanda Whittington, Lucia Cox, The King’s Arms Theatre, Salford, Hannah Blakeley, Bethan Caddick, Laura Campbell, Leni Murphy, Morag Peacock, Victoria Tunnah, Asphalt Roses

PORKY THE POET IN ZEITGEIST LIMBO


Photo: Shay Rowan

Theatre Review

The King’s Arms Theatre, Salford

Part of The Greater Manchester Fringe Festival


A familiar face on television (and team captain of BBC’s ‘Never Mind The Buzzcocks’), Phill Jupitus performed some of his early (and most recent) poetry in the guise of his alter-ego ‘Porky The Poet’. Saying that, there was no discernible difference between the Phill Jupitus we know, and the poet standing with a comically malfunctioning iPad before us tonight. In the Spartan, unpretentious space of the upstairs theatre at Salford’s popular King’s Arms pub, this was a pretty laid-back evening with plenty of smiles and a few loud guffaws. Nothing too outrageous or near-the-knuckle (save for the odd one or two cheeky, expletive-sprinkled tales). After a slightly nervy start, Jupitus relaxed into an hour long set involving rifling through reams of stationery, to regale us with short poems mainly involving going to music gigs as a young man in the 70s and 80s (his cherry being well and truly popped by the legendary Debbie Harry and Blondie). A variety of friends and fans in the audience led to some gentle banter, and a lovely moment of improvisation when a mobile phone went off. Questioning the red-faced punter about his choice of ringtone, Jupitus and his audience were delighted to hear that it was a little-known 80s band by the name of ‘Desperate Moment’. Instant Karma, one might say.
Jupitus’ ‘roly poly funnyman’ (as he described himself at one point) persona worked its charm as the evening wore on, and there was a definite warm glow in the room. Talking about his childhood, and the fact that he never knew his biological father (an Irish barman, who ran home to Cork on discovering Jupitus’ mother was pregnant), Phill gave us a short but brutally honest poem about his feelings for the man. It was on a visit to Cork that he came across the funniest newspaper headline he’d ever seen: ‘Cork Man Drowns’ (and yes, he did have to explain it). There was also a great anger at our current Government and the assumed entitlement of the ruling classes. A tale about the notorious Hollywood film star Tallulah Bankhead regularly popping to Eton to enjoy sexual encounters with the head boys was pretty eye-opening. As was her fate; spied on by M.I.5., and eventually deported. Jupitus had much to say about the state of the arts in Britain today, and illustrated his points with reference to the Red ladder Theatre Company in Leeds having its whole grant cut, while Opera North were awarded millions. The evening was a charity event in aid of a local school, and Jupitus gave a big thumbs up to The King’s Arms, and its owner Paul Heaton’s (of The Beautiful South fame) work to keep the free fringe alive and well.
All in all, quite a pleasant, undemanding evening, that felt more like a friendly session with an old mate than an actual gig. And that’s not a bad thing at all.

Reviewed on 9th July

Originally published at www.thepublicreviews.com



Tags: Phill Jupitus, Kings Arms, Salford, Porky The Poet

JAY & SILENT BOB’S SUPER GROOVY CARTOON MOVIE TOUR



Theatre Review

The Apollo, Manchester
3rd July


Film-maker Kevin Smith (Clerks, Dogma, Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back), famed for his foul-mouthed, hilarious, and Star Wars obsessed movies played to the converted in a sell-out show at Manchester’s Apollo Theatre. Joined on stage by his ‘best buddy’ and regular film co-star Jason Mewes, the hyperactive pair introduced their latest big screen effort, ‘Jay & Silent Bob’s Big Cartoon Movie’, a 90 minute, somewhat crudely animated film featuring such memorable characters as ‘Dick Head’, a savage super villain caricature of Arnold Schwarzenegger (whose ridiculously muscular physique is complemented by a huge purple head regularly ejaculating over everthing in sight!), and ‘The Dickler’, a self-abusing parody of The Riddler from the Batman comics. It was all good dirty fun, with a non-stop delivery of schoolboy innuendo, and some sharp-witted tongue-in-cheek swipes at the comics industry. A raucous audience lapped up every second of this 3 hour show, which also included a live podcast, and a question & answer session that regularly involved over-excitable fans climbing on stage for impromptu photographs with their heroes. Smith was a laid back, genial, and humble host, doling out pearls of wisdom about making it in the movie business, and delivered a genuinely moving story about a recent visit to the new Star Wars set at Pinewood Studios, and his sobbing uncontrollably in the cockpit of a life-sized Millennium Falcon. This is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, and is grateful for every moment of a career where he can indulge his every childhood obsession. In contrast to their big screen counterparts (Smith plays the almost mute ‘Silent Bob’, with Mewes as the obscenity-spewing motormouth ‘Jay’), Smith dominated proceedings with a breathless delivery, while Mewes gurned and played the silent clown. The main theme of the night was Mewes’ life-long battle against drug addiction (from which he has now been clean for 4 years), and Smith’s utter devotion to his friend. The pair have a genuine love for each other, which shines through; a love that clearly doesn’t stop them from mercilessly ridiculing one other. Smith is regularly referred to as a ‘fat fuck’, for instance.
The grand finale was a surreal game involving Mewes miming a variety of outrageous sexual acts with volunteers from the audience. Indescribable, disturbing, hilarious, grotesque, yet delivered with a charming innocence by the man-child Mewes.
Not for the faint-hearted, but a wonderful evening for devoted fans.
This was the final night of the 4 date tour.

Originally published at www.thepublicreviews.com (minus a few naughty words!)


Tags: Kevin Smith, Jason Mewes, Jay & Silent Bob, Super Groovy Cartoon Movie

Someone Who'll Watch Over Me

Richard Patterson & Alistair Gillies. Photo by Shay Rowan.

Theatre Review

Written by Frank McGuinness
Directed by Colin Connor

Tuesday 8th July
Joshua Brooks, Manchester
Part of Greater Manchester Fringe Festival

Three characters on a single set; this had better be good! And it was. Three totally committed actors play out Frank McGuinness’s modern classic in a completely appropriate setting; the basement of Joshua Brooks pub. Bare brick walls, harsh lighting, claustrophobic black flats, etc. This is a play that stands or falls on its actors. The well-known real-life tale of an Irishman, an American, and an Englishman held captive in 1980s Beirut. Based on a true story, but never falling into the trap of playing for easy emotional responses. What must it be like to be held in a dark cell, with no outside contact, no hope, no home comforts? Cynical Irishman Edward (Richard Patterson) is the lynchpin; all caustic humour, snide wisecracks, and homeboy charm. In the opening scenes we find him exchanging life-affirming witticisms with Adam (Alastair Gillies), a solidly-built, optimistic, bible/koran reading American. Gillies certainly looked the part with an enormous life-of-its-own beard (real, by the way), caveman hair, and wretched fingernails. Gillies tore at the heartstrings with many a fine moment; longing for freedom, praying for redemption, and stoically accepting his fate. This was a fine double act with Patterson’s skinny adversary; all trembling bravado, finely-tuned angst, and cunning mindgames. The acoustics certainly helped, as noises from the bar above helped to reinforce the atmosphere of a world tantalisingly just out of reach of our heroes. The addition of a third character; an uptight Englishman called Michael (Karl Seth) throws Edward and Adam’s relationship into sharp relief, and the stage is now set for an intriguing insight into human behaviour. Survival is the aim. Survival of the spirit. Who will crack? Who will make this shabby little cell their universe? Each character has his moment; each demonstrates his strengths and weaknesses. Seth’s Michael grows in stature with every moment; constantly challenged by Patterson’s niggling Edward. Superb scenes involving re-enactments of Virginia Wade’s 1977 Wimbledon triumph, various imaginary drinking sessions, and quiet moments of personal tragedy are expertly communicated. Grubby, dirty, with every dignity stripped away; who will triumph? But this is not the question. Writer Frank McGuinness isn’t interested in the easy answers. Whether they survive physically simply does not matter. We all die. We can all be humiliated and crushed by cowards, but we can all choose the manner in which we face adversity. This is a play that, in less expert hands, could easily wallow in sickly heartstrings-plucking emotion, but director Colin Connor has a firm hand, and the audience never has an easy time of it. These are real people, not stereotypes.
Three bloody good actors, one cracking play, and one expert director.

Originally published at www.thepublicreviews.com


Tags: Colin Connor, Richard Patterson, Karl Seth, Alastair Gillies, Frank McGuinness, Joshua Brooks

Thursday, March 13, 2014

ONE SHOT: review

‘ONE SHOT’
Written & illustrated by Joe O’Byrne

 Through a glass darkly.


Review by Brian Gorman

Bolton-based playwright, actor, and film-maker Joe O’Byrne is something of a local hero on the Manchester arts scene. His series of plays based on the fictional housing estate Paradise Heights (an amalgam of O’Byrne’s hometown Bolton and his beloved Salford & Manchester) has garnered much acclaim, and been favourably compared with Jimmy McGovern’s tv series ‘The Street’, as well as the gritty urban works of Ken Loach, Martin Scorcese, and Shane Meadows. Now, as a big graphic novel fan, O’Byrne has released his next Paradise Heights instalment in the form of this mini episode, featuring arguably his most popular character, the hard man anti-hero Frank Morgan.

King of clubs.

 I’ve seen several of Joe’s stage plays, and been mightily impressed at how he can deliver a solid theatrical right hook with scenes of truly imaginative violence, yet often within the very same scene rip your heart open with breath-taking honesty of emotion. His characters are often broken, yet possessed of indomitable spirit. Frank Morgan encapsulates this perfectly; he’s Eastwood and Ray Winstone rolled into one. He can break every finger you have, yet look you in the eyes and shatter your heart with a few softly spoken words. Frank knows all. His greatest flaw is he knows himself too well.



‘One Shot’ opens with a cracking poem that perfectly illustrates the world of Paradise Heights. No-one can be trusted (not even the identity of the narrator, in this instance), and anything can happen if you let your guard down for even a second. O’Byrne crafts his words well. There’s the hard-boiled style of Mickey Spillane and Frank Miller, yet each sentence is shot through with a raw emotion and fearless intensity. The words flow from the page like gravel-infused honey, and you never know what’s going to happen next.

"Touchable".

 ‘One Shot’ gives us a glimpse into the mind, heart, and tattered soul of a man with absolutely nothing to lose. This is a nightmare world, but a wholly recognisable one (which makes it even more disturbing), but with shafts of celestial light illuminating microscopic spots of hope, and the faint possibility of redemption.



O’Byrne’s illustrations are simplistic, and perfectly evoke Frank Morgan’s sinful and gut-wrenching inner and outer space. There are lots of silhouetted figures in bare, claustrophobic spaces. Precious little light breaks through the gloom, but it is O’Byrne’s words that are his greatest strength. The pages could contain simple matchstick figures, and the raw, unfettered, animal cry of Frank Morgan’s words would paint a multi-million dollar epic in your mind’s eye.


This is dark stuff indeed. Perfectly Frank.

'One Shot' is available soon. 

More about Joe O'Byrne: http://www.talesfromparadiseheights.com/welcome.html

Sunday, March 09, 2014

JAMES BOND IN THE MOVIES: A Personal Journey (Part 2)






Thunderball (1965) threw in everything but the kitchen sink, and was the first Bond movie to be co-produced by the infamous Kevin McClory. Back in the late 50s, Ian Fleming had written a script with McClory and Jack Whittingham for a pilot episode of a proposed tv series to be called ‘James Bond Of The Secret Service’. The series never materialised, and Fleming went on to adapt the script into a novel, renaming it ‘Thunderball’. McClory and Whittingham were a little upset when Fleming refused to acknowledge their contribution, but they eventually received recognition when credited on the new film. McClory demanded to be onboard as co-producer, alongside EON’s Albert ‘Cubby’ Broccoli and Harry Saltzman, and was allowed the rights to produce his own film version after EON’s rights elapsed in ten years time. In hindsight, this can be seen as rather short-sighted by EON, but nobody ever expected the Bond movies to last more than a decade. A great pre-title sequence saw Bond duking it out with a SPECTRE agent at a funeral. The agent, dressed as the dead man’s widow battles furiously with Connery, throwing tables, chairs, and a plant pot at him before being strangled with a poker. The sight of Bond punching what appeared to be a woman in the face was a great shock, and the fight sequence borders on parody as agent 007 trades punches with a man in a frock. The brutal nature of the fight stifles any potential sniggering at stuntman Bob Simmons (who had also doubled as Bond in the opening gunbarrels) wearing a black skirt, heavy make-up, and high heels. 

007 and a man in a dress.

Unfortunately we had another drippy leading lady in the shapely form of model Claudine Auger, but us schoolboys were amply compensated once again by the sultry Martine Beswick returning in a different guise as a fellow M.I.6 agent; in a bikini. We were doubly delighted by the kinky bad girl Fiona Volpe (played by Luciana Paluzzi) who nibbled at Connery’s ears in their bedroom scenes, and tried to kill him several times (once whilst riding a motorbike and dressed all in leather). Adolfo Celi as Largo was a suitably sadistic, eye-patch wearing bad guy – yet another employee of SPECTRE, and we got another glimpse of ‘Number One’ (face in shadow, seen stroking his white cat once again). 

Rik Van Nutter as 'Felix Leiter' gives Bond a hand.

Claudine Auger as 'Domino' with Adolfo Celi as 'Largo'.

Gadgets galore!

A long underwater battle had Bond flying through the water wearing a huge jet pack, and the action was aided enormously by John Barry’s atmospheric score. Tom Jones belted out the theme song, and was even reported to have fainted during recording, whilst screaming out the final lengthy note. Bond was massive now, and this movie was the biggest yet. In the shadow of Goldfinger, the film was an even bigger box office success but there was a noticeable dip in quality. The pace was a little sluggish at times, and Connery was beginning to look a little tired. In real life, Connery was growing bored with the role, and despised the intrusions on his private life by an insatiable world press. He was also getting pretty fed up with the larger than life stories, and the increasing reliance on gadgetry and gimmicks to get Bond out of trouble. Thunderball, like its predecessors, was a pretty faithful adaptation of the source novel, but everything was about to change on the next EON film.

The sound of Bond: Music maestro John Barry.


I bloody loved the Bond films! I taped them all on to audio cassette, and would be outraged if any of the family so much as coughed or even breathed too loudly while recording was in progress. At nights, I’d lay in bed listening to them through a single earphone, and remembering the images I’d seen on tv. Only this time, I imagined them in full colour – particularly Ursula’s blonde hair, Martine’s olive-skinned thighs, and Luciana’s luscious red lipstick. What were these movies doing to me? I was only twelve! Apart from the lovely ladies, exotic locations (I’d only ever left Wigan twice; to visit Southport and Rhyl), fantastic villains, and marvellous fist fights, the thing I was starting to love most about the films was the music. John Barry’s music. Monty Norman’s score for ‘Dr No’ was the weakest of the series, and that man was bloody lucky to have the hugely talented Mr Barry totally rip apart and rebuild his James Bond theme into something beautiful, ageless, and totally awe-inspiring. FRWL, Goldfinger, and Thunderball had superb theme songs, atmospheric melodies, and nerve-jangling action cues. Apart from the sheer energy, there was always an underlying melancholy that contrasted perfectly with the epic sweep of the individual scores. Fleming’s Bond, despite his expensive suits, exotic excursions, rich food, and devastatingly attractive women, was actually a pretty sad individual at heart. His job had him putting his life on the line regularly, killing people in cold blood, and enduring hideous torture (In ‘Casino Royale’, the debut novel, Bond has his meat and two veg pummelled by a sadistic Benzedrine-sniffing dwarf). In the novels, Fleming had Bond regularly musing on the shallowness of his existence, and the pursuit of instant gratification between his life-threatening missions. Barry seemed to totally understand this, and his music gave Bond an inner life that was rarely alluded to in the script (until, of course, Daniel Craig’s tenure). 

The young Ian Fleming. 

Fleming reads the US edition of his debut novel.

Fleming meets Connery on the set of 'From Russia With Love' (Fleming cameos in the film).

Rival film companies had begun to jump on the ‘Bondwagon’, and the sixties saw a huge increase in spy movies, most of which failed miserably to replicate the Bond formula. James Coburn’s ‘Derek Flint’ was a hit, but was an obvious parody of Bond. Flint was virtually superhuman, and ultimately cartoonish. Tom Adams’ Charles Vine in ‘Licensed To Kill’ tried to be 007 on a micro budget, and wasn’t a bad try. But Connery was head and shoulders above them all. Sean Connery’s Bond, EON’s production values, Fleming’s original stories, and John Barry’s music were a winning formula not easily copied.

James Coburn flashes the gnashers as Derek Flint.

Tom Adams as 'Charles Vine' in 'Licensed To Kill'. 


Vine in action!

Bond was massive in Japan, which led to EON’s choice of the next film to be Fleming’s melancholic and death-obsessed novel ‘You Only Live Twice’. 


A sombre story finds 007 seeking vengeance for the death of his wife in the previous novel (On Her Majesty’s Secret Service), and tracking down his nemesis Ernst Stavro Blofeld – previously referred to only as ‘Number One’- to Japan. Fleming wanted to kill Bond off  by this point, and the novel ends with Bond presumed killed in action, and an obituary published in The Times. Much of the novel could not be used in the film script for various reasons (the most obvious being the fact that Bond is a widow at the start), and so a completely new story was concocted by none other than Roald Dahl. Yes, ROALD DAHL. The author of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, Matilda, The Witches, The BFG. Yes, THAT Roald Dahl. There was also another new director onboard in the shape of Lewis Gilbert, and a reluctant Connery back for a fifth time as Bond, and now completely and utterly pissed off with playing second fiddle to increasingly preposterous plots and, more importantly, long shooting schedules and endless publicity jaunts. 

Connery getting fed up with Bond.

A typical Japanese fisherman!

Filming in Japan would be the final straw for Connery, with Japanese photographers even reportedly following him into toilets. No surprise that the actor looks surly throughout, appears to be carrying a few extra pounds, and is mightily unconvincing when disguised as a Japanese fisherman. Thankfully, John Barry gave us another memorable theme song performed by Nancy Sinatra, who got the gig thanks to her recent hit ‘These boots were made for walking’. YOLT had a weak story which had 007 faking his own death in order to work more easily undercover in Japan (this is a ludicrous plot device, as when we first see him, post death, 007 is walking casually around the neon-lit streets of Tokyo, and attending public events such as a sumo wrestling match). We finally see ‘Number One’s face when he is revealed to be the aforementioned Blofeld, but it’s a little disappointing to see him played by the distinctly unthreatening Donald Pleasence (more usually cast as weasly, pathetic characters such as the short-sighted P.O.W. in ‘The Great Escape’). 

This is NOT 'Dr Evil'!

It was the end (for now) of Sean Connery as 007, but ‘James Bond will return in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’. Yep, the novel they SHOULD have filmed before YOLT. Thanks to the bright idea of exploiting the Japanese market, EON had made a rare miscalculation resulting in a missed opportunity of dovetailing OHMSS and YOLT, and instead had managed to give us the first lacklustre Bond film, and annoy their star actor into quitting. Was this the end for Bond? Did EON assume they’d be able to lure Connery back for OHMSS? It was 1967. The Summer Of Love. Was Bond now out of step with the times?

Who will fill Connery's shoes?

Some time around 1977 I sat down to watch ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service’ (1969), the first non-Connery Bond movie. All I knew about this one was that it starred “That George Lazenby bloke. Bloody idiot!” Well, that was what my Dad used to say about it. Apparently they’d replaced the irreplaceable Connery with a young Australian model who’d been ridiculed for years as the guy who failed as Bond. Yikes! Had EON done it again? Misjudged their audience and carried on the same crazy mistakes they’d made on YOLT? This was going to be interesting.
The trailers on tv looked great. Diana Rigg, best known as the sexy-as-hell Mrs Peel in another of my favourite tv series, The Avengers was playing Countess Teresa, the girl who marries Bond. Then there was Telly Savalas as Blofeld, who certainly looked far more threatening than Donald Pleasence. Plus the fantastic theme music (the first Bond movie without an opening title song), and the awesome looking ski chase sequences. 

"Merry Christmas, 007".

It was a shock to see Lazenby in action as 007, but I’d already seen lots of photos of him as Bond and he looked a pretty good substitute for Connery. Well, I sat down to watch OHMSS (in black and white, as usual), and was absolutely thrilled by the pre-titles scene. Here we had Bond driving his Aston Martin along a narrow road in the middle of the night, when he’s suddenly overtaken at speed by an attractive young woman in a sportscar. We see Bond’s hands on the wheel, his face in shadow, and the fact that he’s wearing a trilby. He’s wearing a hat while driving? Weird! Some superb fast-paced editing accompanies Bond as he rescues the girl from an attempted suicide by drowning, then battles a couple of thugs in a fabulously choreographed fight sequence , with an ace orchestral track by the ever-present and increasingly brilliant John Barry. 

Peter Hunt directs George Lazenby.

Bond wears a kilt.

This was fantastic! Then we came to the first shot of Mr Lazenby, and his first line to a groggy Diana Rigg; “Good morning, my name’s Bond. James Bond”. Well, this was different. Lazenby had a bright and breezy attitude, totally lacking Connery’s ruthless persona. Oh, dear. But he was good in a fight, and was obviously keen to be seen doing his own stunts. When Diana then leaves him alone on the beach, we have the first and only instance of the actor playing Bond breaking the ‘fourth wall’ as Lazenby looks out at us with a cheeky grin and utters the immortal words “This never happened to the other fella”. What? I’m sure I must have spluttered out my Horlicks at that moment. What did he just say? Even my dad laughed, and he only ever laughed at Benny Hill. The Bond movies were continuing to evolve, and OHMSS was the best yet, in my 13 year old opinion. I loved the whole atmosphere of the film, and with the only downbeat ending in a Bond movie (up until ‘Casino Royale’ in 2006, once again), it was certainly unique. Peter Hunt had been the brilliant editor on all the previous Bonds, and here he was promoted to full directing duties, and boy did he make a cracking job of it. Tightly choreographed fight scenes, stunning Alpine chase sequences, and a superb battle between Bond and Blofeld flying at (literally) breakneck speed down a treacherous bob sleigh run. 

'Blofeld' (Telly Savalas) meets Bond, but fails to recognise him from their previous film encounter!

True love at last.

This one had it all, and has remained my all-time favourite 007 movie. It also happened to be the longest Bond film, but such was the frantic pace, that I hardly noticed the time. And as for Lazenby? Well, I didn’t mind him at all; in fact it made the film all the more realistic to have someone playing Bond who wasn’t the all conquering Connery. Because I’d never seen Lazenby before (or much since), I found it quite involving to watch an unknown play Bond. I was appalled to discover, several years later, that it had been a relative failure at the box office (compared to the previous five films), and that Peter Hunt never got to direct another. So that was it for the 1960s. We’d had six Bond movies culminating in Bond sobbing at the untimely death of his new bride on their wedding day. 



A bleak ending to a fabulous decade of movies that redefined the action genre, gave us an immortal screen hero, and created one Scottish superstar. But OHMSS was to see the end of the (semi) serious Bond thriller. It was now the 1970s, and the world was in need of a few laughs.


“James Bond will return...”