The Coffee House Players present ‘Prime’

The Coffee House Players are an amateur theatre group based in Exeter. ‘Prime’ is the third production of theirs that I’ve seen, and it is far and away the most professional. The play, by turns comic and creepy, is based heavily on Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s film Delicatessen. In fact the resemblance is so strong that I was subconsciously expecting the actors to speak in French rather than English.

The plot is simple but weird. We are plunged into a post-apocalyptic city where everyone is starving except the family of Auger, the butcher who, somewhat suspiciously, always has a plentiful supply of meat for his sausages. No explanation is given as to why the world is in such a state, but none is really needed: it simply a plot device. Accompanied by his partner in crime, the buxom prostitute Madame Offelle, Auger rules over his daughter Sanguine and a collection of other misfits with an iron fist.

However, the feeling that all is not as it seems has spread and a band of terrorists under the command of the mysterious Baroness are out on a quest to destroy the butcher once and for all. It’s a suicide mission, but the fear of death is tempered by the promise of Utopia, a promise that the well-meaning but intellectually-challenged bunch have fallen for hook, line and sinker.

The butchery and terrorist elements of the play complement each other well; without the light comic relief of the latter the whole piece would risk getting rather heavy. Indeed, the parts were even written by different playwrights, namely Jules Gill and Rosen Trevithick, but this isn’t in any way detrimental. My one criticism would be that the first half at times feels like a collection of scenes rather than a coherent whole. However, any perception of disjointedness dissipates as the momentum mounts in the second half, building towards a satisfying, bloody conclusion.

The acting ranges from fine to excellent. Especially good was Matt Roberts, who plays the butcher himself, and seems born for the role. His expressive face is full of menace, and he wields a knife with disconcerting ease. Also worth mentioning are Dan Thomas as the old man Mr Sustan, who initially appears to be completely sane (an illusion that is brought crashing down to hilarious effect), and Laura Garnier as Aristotle, who is definitely mad but delightfully and believably so.

The performance takes place in the cellar bar of the City Gate Hotel. This has both advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, the atmosphere is perfect: a dark and dingy subterranean cavern with old stone walls, a solid wooden bar and copious pillars and arches provides plenty of character, and allows the scene to be set with little extra decoration. On the negative side, it is rather small, and so only fifteen audience members fit in each night. This is a shame, as the play deserves a wider audience. If the group revive it, it will be well worth seeking out.

The Coffee House Players

Felix Dennis at the Exeter Phoenix

Yesterday I went to see a poet. This was a rather odd thing for me to do as poetry isn't usually my thing. Or rather, the kind of poetry I got forced to study in English classes at school isn't my thing. I truly thought that the vast majority of poems in the GCSE syllabus were dire.

There was one occasion when we were all bundled into a coach and driven to London in order to listen to some poets read their work. One by one, they took to the stage to regurgitate their poems, robot-like, with monotonous voices and no detectable enthusiasm. The teenage audience fidgeted and yawned. But then Benjamin Zephaniah entered the room, and everyone was transfixed. It wasn't just because he was a colourfully-dressed Rastafarian with long dreadlocks tumbling down his back, although that certainly helped get people's attention. It was the poetry: it rhymed, it was funny, it had a beat, and most importantly, it was performed.

In my mind, performance is an essential part of poetry. Verse intended only to be read silently from the page whilst sat alone in the corner of an empty room often seems to end up dry, boring and pretentious. The aim is no longer to put together a bunch of words that sound good and mean something, oh no. Instead, those writing such poems seem to compete with each other to see who can produce the most inaccessible, obscure, unpopular work. If ordinary people actually enjoy reading the stuff, it is somehow seen as having less value. But what is the point of writing words that never get read?

Despite the fact that he is one of the country’s richest men, I had never heard of Felix Dennis until a flyer fell out of my copy of the New Statesman. And I must also confess that I probably would have remained blissfully ignorant and said flyer would have gone straight into the recycling bin if it hadn't been for the sentence 'Did I mention the free wine?' emblazoned across the top.

I'm a student. Go figure.

My interest thus piqued, I looked Dennis up on youTube and found a video of him performing his poem 'I love the French ... the bastards'. It was hilarious, it had rhythm, and it rhymed, and so I duly booked tickets. They were pretty cheap, and hey, there was going to be free wine, so I thought it wouldn't really matter much if the poetry wasn't that great.

So, yesterday evening I arrived at the Phoenix having just staggered off a train from Birmingham, where I had spent the day trying to understand quantum dynamics calculations (this is a distressingly difficult thing to do). I was exhausted, and my brain was fragged, and so a nice glass of red was exactly I needed. We staggered up to the bar, expecting cheap plonk, only to be confronted by a whole array of bottles containing wine that looked really rather nice. We had a sip: crikey! This was good wine.

We spent the best part of an hour lounging around, contentedly drinking, before being called into the auditorium, which was packed full of people of a certain age and a certain demographic (as usual, a demographic to which I do not belong). Once everyone was in, the lights went down and a deep booming voice resonated out from somewhere backstage. Moments later, the owner of said voice strode out onto the stage, accompanied by a microphone and, of course, a glass of white.

Felix Dennis is an interesting-looking chap. He has the scruffy nonchalance of a man who could afford to dress much better but chooses not to. His hair and beard are grey masses of unruly frizz, his eyes are alert but slightly sozzled; he is short of stature but wide of girth. He wears a baggy shirt and trousers, just about kept under control by a tan-coloured waistcoat, and seems perfectly at home upon the stage.

The evening began with the obligatory thank yous and plugs for The Week’s wine club and travel service. But these were quickly over and we entered the meat of the proceedings: the poems. Read in a voice whose timbre ranges from the everyday to the husky and dramatic, these were in equal parts amusing and melancholy. Many were accompanied by animations projected onto the back screen. These, produced by a mixture of collaborators and fans, were on the whole well-made and apt, but most of the time I found my eyes drawn to Dennis himself.

Dennis clearly holds similar opinions to my own on modern poetry, and takes aim at the concept of 'free verse' at several points during the evening. Although he occasionally points out that a poem follows a particular style, it is clear that the technicalities are irrelevant. What matters is that his poems sound good, and that they have meanings that the audience doesn't have to go hunting for. They are enjoyable, accessible, but still provoke thought. Each one was met with enthusiastic applause.

The first half lasted for around fifty minutes, followed by an interval in which there was ample time to top up our glasses. The second half was of a similar length to the first, but was kicked off by Alyson Hallett, a local poet who read a handful of short works. She was fine, but lacked Dennis’ vigour, and I found I actually preferred her ‘pre-poem chat’ to the poems themselves. This addition to the programme was however a nice idea, and as the tour continues it will hopefully give a few under-appreciated poets the chance to reach a wider audience.

When Dennis returned the atmosphere took on a less light-hearted tinge, as he recited poems ruminating on age, death and regret. It wasn't all doom and gloom however, with plenty of laughs squeezed in before his rock star-esque double-encore finale. Then it was back out to the bar for more wine and book signings. We came away with two of his collections, his latest 'Tales from the Woods' and 'Nursery Rhymes for Modern Times': one to make us think, one to make us laugh. Dennis signed both, and to his credit seemed to be genuinely engaging with each person who queued up to speak to him. He didn't however seem overly taken with my suggestion that he should take the role of Poet Laureate; a shame because if he did I think poetry would become much more popular.

Go see him!

Felix Dennis

La Bête at the Comedy Theatre, London

Molière, the real one.

Written in 1991 by David Hirson, La Bête is set in 17th-century France and apparently aims to be a light take-off of plays by Molière. It is a comedy with a serious undercurrent, namely the age-old debate of quality versus commerciality in the arts. Now, I know virtually nothing about Molière (my only contact with his plays has been an abridged version of one that I saw whilst doing A-level French), and so can't comment on how it compares with the more esteemed playwright's work, but this didn't detract from the experience. In fact, my relative ignorance may have even enhanced my enjoyment of the play, as it was by far at its weakest when trying to have a 'message' or 'deeper meaning'.

The play opens to the scene of a dinner party, the guests of which are members of an acting troupe retained by a Princess who sees herself as a patron of the arts. However, all is not well and the troupe’s leader Elomire (can you see what Hirson did there??) soon stomps off to sulk in his library, where he proceeds to moan to his loyal friend. The cause of his disgruntlement is soon revealed: the Princess has declared that a new playwright and actor, Valere, must join the troupe. This Valere is not, however, a purveyor of the kind of 'high art' that Elomire likes to produce, rather he is little more than a street clown.

The audience doesn't have to spend long wondering if Valere can really be as bad as all that; within scant minutes he bursts onto the scene in all his dishevelled, tramp-like glory. We quickly become sympathetic to Elomire’s point of view as Valere embarks upon a drunken monologue that, astonishingly, lasts a full half-hour. During this time the clown doesn't just talk, he also relieves himself and hides away in a box. Elomire just stands there, his expression becoming increasingly pained.

Thirty minutes seems like an awfully long time for one actor to be speaking, especially when you combine this with the fact that the entire play is written in rhyming couplets. Remarkably, it works, and it works extremely well. This is mostly due to the skill of Mark Rylance, the actor playing Valere, who is superb throughout. With his raucous delivery the script becomes laugh-out-loud funny. David Hyde Pierce is also excellent as Elomire, even if all he has to do a lot of the time is look annoyed.

Any play written and performed by Valere is almost guaranteed to be awful, hence we are left wondering why the Princess would wish to employ him. The reason becomes clear when she first enters the scene: she is really rather silly herself. The original script called for a prince, but in this version the part has been rewritten as female in order to accommodate Joanna Lumley. Here, Lumley is rather out-acted by her co-stars, but she is nonetheless perfectly adequate. It would be hard for her to be otherwise; in a role as a ditzy aristocrat she is essentially playing herself.

The action unfolds on a truly sumptuous set. Crammed bookshelves take up three walls, rising ever upwards, concealing hidden doors that lead to, amongst other places, the toilet. A lot of effort has also been put into the costumes, most notably the wigs, and, I suspect, Valere’s teeth! I was sat as usual in the upper circle, in a seat with a slightly restricted view, but this wasn't much of an issue - such a stage setup will look good from any angle.

The play's message is one that we have heard many times before, and the whole thing is hardly a work of genius. Without such high quality acting it would undoubtedly struggle. However, in its current form at the Comedy Theatre La Bête makes for a thoroughly entertaining evening out and therefore is to be recommended.

‘Waiting for Godot’ at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket

Samuel Beckett's 1953 play 'Waiting for Godot' was one of the West End’s hot tickets last year; its pairing of Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart proving so popular that every seat for every performance was sold. Luckily for the likes of me it has been revived for an additional eleven weeks this year, still with McKellen as Estragon (or Gogo) but now with Roger Rees as Vladimir (or Didi). Tickets now seem to be rather less in demand, which worked out beautifully as I was able to procure Royal Circle tickets for the princely sum of £20 each. Used as I am to sitting in the Upper Circle or the Balcony, I found this whole experience rather novel: going to see a play and not being several stories above the action? Being able to stretch my legs out? Sitting in a seat with a padded back? What luxury! I'd better not get used to it, or things could get expensive.

Anyway, to the play. It's an odd one, this. I can understand why many people don't like it, seeing as the entire plot can be described as 'two old tramps wait for a man called Godot to turn up'. That isn't a summary, by the way, it's all that happens. Most tales can be said to have a beginning, a middle and an end; 'Waiting for Godot' cannot. We simply watch Gogo and Didi over two days, two days that are essentially identical. Then it stops. The audience doesn't need to see any more; if there were to be a third day it would simply be the same as the first two, and so there is no point in carrying on.

Put like this, it all sounds terribly dull, but somehow, and I'm not exactly sure why, it isn't. It definitely helps that the two tramps are quite entertaining characters who keep a veneer of comedy to hide the tragedy of their lives. They are rather like a musical double-act that has fallen on hard times, an impression reinforced by the ruined-theatre setting (the script originally called for a country road) and the little dances and hat-switching routines that they perform. Neither managed to completely conceal their deep-seated despair, however. For Gogo this manifests as grumpiness, resignation and thoughts of suicide. Didi, on the other hand, expresses his discontent in animated monologues and restlessness.

The pair mostly seem to pass the time with brief, intense conversations and by trading insults. Each day this interaction is interrupted by the arrival of the rich, larger than life Pozzo and his slave Lucky. Pozzo, who is played with great gusto by Matthew Kelly, has a rather strange relationship with Ronald Pickup’s dutifully obedient Lucky. The two are linked by a rope that runs around the latter’s neck, and although Pozzo is clearly the dominant one it would seem that neither could do without the other, much as is the case for Gogo and Didi. Pickup has a wonderfully crumpled old face and an impressive head of long, white hair that is probably a wig but that I wish was his own. Most of the time he is left to stand, eyes to the ground, as the action (such as it is) carries on about him. He is not without his moment of glory, however. This comes when he is asked to dance, and then to think, at which point he lets out an incredible, barely-comprehensible monologue that is really rather exhausting to listen to.

There are many themes that could be said to run through 'Waiting for Godot', from the religious to the political, from the existential to the absurd. Many trees worth of paper has been consumed in its analysis, a process that I find rather mystifying especially given that even Beckett didn't seem too clear on what it was about. For me, it was a great evening out at the theatre seeing an interesting, impeccably-acted play in which not a lot happened. That's all it was, and in my mind that's all it needs to be. I would thoroughly recommend it.

Waiting for Godot

'An Inspector Calls' at Wyndham's Theatre

'An Inspector Calls' is an extremely famous play, long a staple of school English Literature syllabuses. However, for my GCSE course I was lumbered with other things, and so although I could name JB Priestley as the play’s author with barely a second thought, I knew nothing about its plot. Yes, there is a rather large hint in the title that an Inspector may be involved, and it's a good bet that he will get up to some inspectoring, but beyond that I had not a clue. I wasn't about to spoil it all by looking up what happens on Wikipedia, and so booking tickets became therefore a slightly risky business. Would it all end up a bit Agatha Christie-esque? (I saw 'The 39 Steps' a couple of years ago, and although mildly entertaining I wouldn't rush out to see anything similar.) As it turned out, I couldn't get cheap tickets for much else and so the decision was made for me. Luckily, 'An Inspector Calls' is hardly your standard murder mystery fare; in fact it's really rather good.

The first thing to say about this revival of Stephen Daldry’s 1992 production is that it looks amazing. The atmosphere is wonderfully gloomy due to the liberal use of smoke, restrained use of lighting and the presence of drably-clothed street urchins. Not only that, but it rains! Yes, water really does come tumbling down, right there on the stage, so that the actors’ clothes get wet and mucky. Marvellous.

In stark contrast to this doom-laden greyness on the outside are the bright reds and golds adorning the rich family's house that occupies the bulk of the right-hand side of the stage. This house is quite a contraption; the walls swing open to reveal a gaudy dining room, a set of railings is magically transformed into a usable stairway. Its best trick is revealed about two thirds of the way in, and I won't give away the surprise, but suffice to say they must have got through rather a lot of crockery during the course of this run.

With a set like this the actors have to try pretty hard not to be upstaged by it, and fortunately by and large they succeed. The actor playing the Inspector was sometimes inaudible from our lofty position in the balcony, but otherwise his calm approach punctuated by flashes of rage worked well. The by turns haughty and hysterical Mrs Sybil Birling had a commanding presence, dominating even that of her fat and booming husband Arthur (a former Lord Mayor of Brumley, don't you know).

'An Inspector Calls' has an interesting parallel with the last play I saw at Wyndham's Theatre, 'Madame de Sade', in that the central character in each never appears on stage. In the latter play it is the Marquis de Sade who, despite being imprisoned far away, is the subject of all conversations; in the former it is a young working-class woman, Eva Smith, who cannot possibly appear as she killed herself earlier that day (or did she?). It is this piece of information that the inspector arrives at the Birling residence to divulge. Initially it appears to them to be irrelevant, but as he proceeds with his questioning the family members learn one by one that they are implicated in the sorry affair.

It is easy to see why this play is so popular with examination boards. In fact at times it feels as though the central themes of responsibility and common humanity are being shoved down the audience members’ throats. However, even if Priestley's socialist message is painfully obvious it is still very interesting to see the family members’ contrasting reactions to their implied guilt, and it makes us wonder how we ourselves would react in such a situation. Less obvious is the nature of the inspector himself. Is there something supernatural about him? Personally I would like to think not, but it is certainly an interesting question, and I have yet to come up with a workable alternative. But anyway, things get rather boring if we know all the answers, don't they?

An Inspector Calls

Picture is of Sir Charles Wyndham, the founder of Wyndham's Theatre.

The Cherry Orchard at the Palmer Hall, Fairford

Anton Chekhov's 1904 tragicomedy ‘The Cherry Orchard’ is a brave choice for an amateur dramatics group, and is certainly a far cry from the pantomimes that are usually the closest thing the small Cotswold town of Fairford gets to proper theatre. The play has a substantial cast, with many complex themes, and although some of its subtleties are lost in the mix, overall the Meysey Players have put together a very good production.

The Cherry Orchard of the title is situated on the estate of an aristocratic Russian family that is struggling to adapt to the changing times. The emancipation of the serfs had occurred some forty years beforehand, allowing former peasants to rise up and become successful businessman and at the same time reducing the power of the landed gentry. As such, nobody is quite sure where they stand in relation to both one another and the world in general. Servants come and go seemingly as they please, the aristocrats continue with the extravagance to which they have been accustomed despite the fact they can no longer afford it, and members of the emerging middle class take advantage wherever they can.

The nobles who live on the estate, led by Mrs Lyuba Ranevskaya who is ostensibly the head of the family despite her complete inability to make decisions, are at the beginning of the play so much in debt that their home will have to be sold. This is such a distressing situation that they do their utmost to avoid thinking about it, dismissing the plan of local businessman Lopakhin to sell some of it off as summer cottages, a plan that would indeed result in the destruction of the orchard but would at least allow them to keep their ancestral home. The servants, although concerned that they will lose their positions if the estate is lost, are wrapped up in pointless love affairs and it is only Ranevskaya’s adopted daughter Varya who makes any attempt to economise and thus improve matters.

Most of the comedy is in the form of farce, with a clumsy clerk and poor-mannered nobleman providing the bulk of the laughs. The overall feeling of the play however leans more towards tragedy; themes of unrequited love and loss abound, and the only characters who are satisfied by the finale are Lopakhin and the highly objectionable manservant Yasha.

The production was rather slick for the first night of a complex play performed by a group of amateurs, with only one slight slip up on lines noticeable throughout the whole evening. Some of the acting was perhaps a little over the top, but mostly the characters were very well realised. Special mention should go out to the actors playing the roles of Firs, the aged servant whose decline was symbolic of that of the Russian aristocracy, Lopakhin and Gayev, Ranevskaya’s slightly loopy billiard-obsessed brother. All of these had real stage presence and could easily put some professional actors to shame. The costumes and set were also impressive, especially as they had so much to fit onto such a small stage.

The play is running every night until this Saturday, 28th November, at the Palmer Hall in the middle of Fairford, and there are plenty of seats left. Tickets are only £10/£12 and can be bought on the door. The action starts at 7:30. This really is a good event for the town, and I highly recommend anyone in the area to go and see it.

The Meysey Players

Miss Julie at the Rose Theatre, Kingston

'Miss Julie', playing until 28 November at the Rose Theatre in Kingston upon Thames, is an 1888 drama by Swedish playwright August Strindberg. It is a relatively short play, running here without an interval, but manages to pack a considerable emotional punch into its 90 intense minutes.

The bulk of the stage is taken up by a large 19th century kitchen, complete with working stove and water pump. On either side of this are bedrooms, and behind it lies a slightly creepy, ethereal wood, with long thin trees reaching up to the rafters. The play opens with a lone servant cooking onions - certainly the first time I have ever seen actual cooking taking place on stage. These onions turn out to be for the dinner of Jean, a smartly-dressed valet and the man betrothed to Kristin, the cook. The pair work in the stately home of a great Count, a man who is never seen but of whose presence we are very much aware. Despite their engagement, the pair seem somewhat prickly towards each other, perhaps reflecting their different desires in life. Kristin is devoutly religious with a strong sense of what is proper, and is content with her position of servitude. In contrast, Jean is a fiery, well-educated man tortured by the senseless inequality of his position who dreams of being his own master.

They start gossiping about Miss Julie, the Count’s daughter who has recently broken off her engagement, an event about which she seems to feel a sense of humiliation. To escape these unpleasant thoughts she has taken to frolicking with the servants, raucously dancing at their Midsummer's ball and generally behaving in a way inappropriate to one in her position. She bursts into the kitchen and begins to flirt outrageously with Jean despite Kristin's presence. Kristin, exhausted from her hard day's work, soon falls asleep, provoking Miss Julie to be even more blatant in her attempted seduction. Jean is initially reticent, but eventually succumbs to his lust, with the end result being that he pulls Miss Julie off into his bedroom and they have sex.

This is the pivotal event in the play, and the bulk of it is spent with the two protagonists arguing over its consequences. Miss Julie feels she has fallen and can no longer occupy her lofty position as a Count’s daughter; in contrast Jean feels this could be his chance to rise up and follow his dreams. However, both characters are confused and they constantly change their minds as to what is the most appropriate course of action.

Miss Julie herself is a mass of contradictions; she has been fed starkly opposing views and values by her mother and father and as such has no idea who she really is and what she actually believes. Her indiscretion is the last straw that causes this inner turmoil to break out and she rants and raves as it threatens to tear apart. Jean is the more grounded of the two, coming up with genuine plans and suggestions in amongst Julie's hysteria. Whenever the Count is mentioned however, this steely façade crumbles and he becomes the humble, pathetic servant once more. They are doomed and both know it.

I saw the play this past Saturday, at the matinee performance. The Rose is a fantastic, modern theatre not yet two years old, which has an expansive stage and has been designed so that every seat provides a terrific view. Unfortunately, barely 10% of the 900 seats were filled. This is a crying shame, as 'Miss Julie' is well worth seeing, and certainly a better use of time than shopping, which is what the majority of visitors to Kingston that day seemed to be absorbed in.

The acting is excellent. I felt a little sorry for Lucy Briers, the actress playing Kristin, as she had to spend most of the play pretending to be asleep, but when she did get to do something she did it well. Rachel Pickup captures the wildness and instability of Miss Julie but gives her enough depth that she seems human, allowing the audience to feel sympathy for a character who could easily be made abhorrent. Daniel Betts is also good as Jean, changing in a more controlled fashion between calm realism, passion and cruelty.

My only complaints would be that it is not completely clear why the initially level-headed Jean would risk all for a moment of passion with his feared employer's daughter, and that the ending is rather sudden. Otherwise though, it was a play that I am very glad I went to see, even if the experience was not exactly enjoyable. I was left feeling emotionally pummelled, and that, for a cast of just three in a near-empty theatre, is no mean feat.

Rose Theatre

Inherit the Wind at the Old Vic

Showing at London's Old Vic until 20th December, Inherit the Wind is a 1955 play by Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee based on the famous Scopes monkey trial of 1925. The play's revival is timely given both the bicentenary of Charles Darwin's birth and the rising tide of Christian fundamentalism in places such as the USA; indeed one wonders what kind of reception it would receive in that country at present. However, the main aim of the authors was not to specifically espouse evolution but rather to champion the rights of people to think for themselves, a pertinent issue in the fifties due to the scaremongering of McCarthyism.

In the first half of the play the scene is set: we are in a small town in Tennessee, populated by inherently good-natured but easily led Christians who are stirred up with a mixture of excitement and revulsion. They are thrilled that the famous politician Matthew Harrison Brady is coming to town and greet him with cheers and a picnic, but the reason for his visit - the fact that a local teacher, Bertram Cates, has given lessons on evolution, and is to be prosecuted by the state - has them fuming. They are even more riled to discover that Cates is to be defended by the famous agnostic lawyer Henry Drummond, thought by some to be the devil himself. The bulk of the action takes place in the courtroom, where these two legal titans battle it out; one using his conviction that every word in the Bible is literally true, the other by appealing to common sense and rational thought.

The play has a large cast of 41 (and one monkey) which is used to great effect to create the early 1900s small town atmosphere. One scene, in which an eager audience hums the tune to ‘Amazing Grace’ whilst the preacher bays his message of damnation and hellfire, is particularly chilling. Best though, is the acting of the two leads. David Troughton is utterly convincing as Brady, a man desperate to return to the political spotlight who is well-meaning but blinkered by his narrow religious viewpoints. In stark contrast is an almost unrecognisable Kevin Spacey, whose sharp comic timing and stage presence are ideal for the quick-witted Drummond. The play's ending is perhaps a little forced, with one event in particular seeming unnecessary, but everything up until that point more than makes up for it. In short, ‘Inherit the Wind’ is both entertaining and thought-provoking, and so is well worth going to see.

The Old Vic

Scopes Monkey Trial

Culture? In Swindon?!

On Saturday I went to see the Old Town Theatre Company's (OTTC) production of ‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists’ at the Swindon Arts Centre. The play, written by Stephen Lowe and based upon the novel by Robert Tressell, charts the progress of a group of painters and decorators, and that of their employers, over a brief period of time in Edwardian England. This may not sound the most promising of themes, but within a few minutes I was gripped. It begins with the workers chatting as they get on with their job, and it soon becomes clear that there is a socialist in their midst, the opinionated and highly skilled Frank Owen (there is a particularly inspired scene in which Owen explains how capitalism works using no other props than knives and slices of bread). Pitted against him we have the foremen and the owners, who are bleeding their workers dry and in the process becoming filthy rich, having convinced themselves that they are worthy of such excessive remuneration because they ‘work with their minds’ whereas the workers ‘work with their hands'. The struggle for survival in which the workers are embroiled is wonderfully evoked, and we empathise fully with their dilemma: do they fight to try and change the system, and risk losing their livelihoods, or do they shut up and bear it, reminding themselves that they are fortunate to have a job at all?

The acting was uniformly excellent; the only quibble I could think of being that the accents were wont to lapse from thick Yorkshire back into Swindonian. This was an amateur production, but if I hadn't known this I wouldn't have guessed it. And being amateur, it was incredibly cheap at just £7.50 for a full price ticket - a bargain by any estimation. The set and props were basic, but this was what was needed, the play after all being about a group living in abject poverty. In short, it was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and I would strongly urge anyone in the Swindon area to go along to the OTTC’s next production.

The OTTC website
Swindon Arts Centre