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Posts Tagged ‘Al Weaver’

When I first heard about Jamie Lloyd’s Pinter at the Pinter season – 20 of his one-act plays in seven groupings over six months – I thought it was laudable, brave and ambitious, but I’m not a Pinter fan (though Lloyd has recently lured me to a few revivals with fresh interpretations and exciting casting). I decided that it was all or nothing, and at West End prices, nothing won, but a spare evening and a great ticket deal lured me to this fourth, a pairing of plays 33 years apart, one I saw the first outing of and one I’ve never seen, and they couldn’t be more different.

In Moonlight, Andy is dying, lying in his bed with his wife Bel by his side. He reminices about events and people in his life. We also meet his estranged sons, though they don’t meet him, and two friends and a young girl also make an appearance. Lindsay Turner’s production has a dreamlike quality, but with scenes which are imagined or elsewhere played within the bedroom somewhat bewildering. I saw It at the Almeida in 1993 with a stellar cast that included Ian Holm, Anna Massey, Douglas Hodge & Michael Sheen and it seemed a very different play which this time round I didn’t find very interesting or satisfying.

Night School was a TV play and I’m not sure it’s been staged before. After the dullness of Moonlight, it seemed like a little comic gem and much more Pinteresque, or perhaps even Ortonesque. Wally returns from prison to find his family have let his room to a young teacher. He fails to get landlord Solto to loan him money to get back on his feet but he does persuade him to find out more about the new lodger, who turns out to have another occupation altogether. Brid Brennan (Bel in Moonlight) and Janine Dee are a terrific double-act as the aunts, Robert Glenister (Andy in the first play) is great as East End rogue Solto and Al Weaver (son Jake in Moonlight) excellent as Wally.

Very much an evening of two halves, only one of which I really liked.

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It’s rare something is revived after just five years. I’m glad this has been though as I somehow missed the premiere of Alexi Kaye Campbell’d debut play at its first outing at the Royal Court. Though I suspect it’s not intentional, given recent events in Russia, it turns out to be rather timely.

It’s a very good first play, and he has yet to better it. The stories of two gay relationships, many years apart, are interwoven, contrasting the old days ‘in the closet’ and more enlightened modern times. In one, Philip is having an affair with Oliver, the writer for whom his wife Sylvia is illustrating. Philip’s emotions are a complex bag of guilt, denial and anger. Of course, she knows really. This is set alongside the very modern open relationship of another Philip & Oliver, challenged by Oliver’s promiscuous addiction to sex, with another Sylvia who is Oliver’s friend and confidante.

It has a great deal of psychological and emotional depth and brings an historical perspective to both individual and society attitudes. The switches between periods are smoothly and speedily realised on the same set and the three actors are brilliant at changing to reflect the respective time. This is all helped by an uncluttered design by Soutra Gilmour with just a handful of props in front of a giant mirror wall.

The three central performances are all stunning. Al Weaver is superb as both shy, withdrawn Oliver and ‘out there’ open Oliver. Harry Hadden-Paton is just as effective at the slightly easier transition from repressed Philip to modern Philip, affronted by Oliver’s inability to be faithful. Hayley Atwell is wonderful as both the sad wife and effervescent best friend. Matthew Horn provides three good cameo’s though I thought the first, a ‘rent boy’ dressed as a Nazi, was a bit too much of a caricature amidst all these high quality performances.

Just so that we don’t get too complacent about our new enlightenment, at the second curtain call the cast come on with ‘To Russia, with love’ placards. With this third offering, Jamie Lloyd edges ahead of Michael Grandage in their respective West End seasons. How lucky are we to be able to compare.

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