Romeo and Juliet : Shakespeare At The Tobacco Factory

Here's a review I wrote for the local rag of Shakespeare At The Tobacco Factory's recent production of 'Romeo and Juliet'.

Photo collage by Craig Fuller and Farrows Creative

Romeo and Juliet: Shakespeare At The Tobacco Factory

A broken ankle meant that we deferred our tickets for 'Romeo and Juliet' at the Tobacco Factory to the final night, by which time I hoped to be fit enough to venture as far as south Bristol.  Much of our city south of the Avon is as alien to me, a North Bristolian, as Birmingham, but if nothing else, Shakespeare's most famous tragedy teaches us that we should abandon our prejudices and leave our comfort zones, and this I did.

'Romeo and Juliet' can seem over-familiar at times, forcing directors to come up with ways of making their vision fresh.  The most recent production I'd seen prior to this was Bristol Old Vic's 'Juliet and Her Romeo' in 2010, starring Siân Philips and Michael Byrne as the eponymous lovers, with Verona transmuted into a nursing home.  Shakespeare At The Tobacco Factory's offering, set, nominally at least, in Paris, 1968, couldn't have been more different in tempo and atmosphere.

From the start of this production, the audience is plunged into frenetic action, symbolised by a playground roundabout centre stage, which sees service as a meeting place, the barricades, the literal social whirl of the party at the Capulets' house, the lovers' bed, and a bier.  Each scene gallops past, the fight scenes so explosive that the actors playing Mercutio and Tybalt gasp for breath after their supposed demise in a quite uncorpselike fashion.

For me the pivotal scene is the one in which Romeo meets Juliet at the party where she is supposed to fall for Paris, her parents' preferred suitor.  You have to believe in the star-crossed couple's onslaught of passion for the rest of the play to work.  This scene is done superbly well in Baz Luhrmann's 1996 film, a similarly exuberant and modern take on the play, as the lovers gaze at each other through an aquarium and the rest of the world seems to fall away.  In this production, under Polina Kalinina's direction, there's barely a break and nothing to convince us that Juliet is any more important to Romeo than Rosalind, the love she supersedes, that deep, life-or-death connection lost, along with much of the dialogue, in a whirlwind of action.

Richard III: Shakespeare at the Tobacco Factory

Photo by Dominic Maxwell

Even though we made our traditionally early arrival at the Tobacco Factory to see Richard III, we were astonished to find the queue to get into the theatre winding right out of the bar and down the stairs to the box office, with the result that instead of getting a seat at the front with an almost-part-of-the-cast view, my son and I found ourselves in the back row, craning to see around one of the pillars. 

‘Just because they found him under a car park!’ another regular said to me, wearily.

And when he comes onto the stage to deliver his opening soliloquy, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, (played by John Mackay) does indeed resemble a skeleton.  Tall and bony, with cropped white hair and a white face blackened about the eyes, he starts the play as he ends it – no flawed, flesh-and-blood hero brought down by overweening ambition, but the personification of depravity.   Mackay’s Richard is the archetypal psychopath who, devoid of empathy and conscience, murders as much to divert himself from what he sees as the pointlessness of existence as to achieve the power he craves, and often, horrifyingly, the audience finds itself laughing along with him. 

In a play that is dominated by its villain, the rest of the cast put in sterling performances.  I was especially moved by Nicki Goldie’s portrayal of the Duchess of York, the only character who truly knows Richard for what he is, having given birth to him.  But it is Richard who charms, entertains, disgusts and mesmerises, often all at the same time, right up to the end when he lies dead on Bosworth Field, his long limbs curled up in a way that is fittingly reminiscent of a dead spider.  

On the long trek back to the car, I found myself wondering whether Richard III might have availed himself of the nearby Aldi car park, were he still living, or would he have feared returning to find that his horse - assuming one had been procured for him - hobbled? I doubt we shall ever know the truth.  

Coming Over All Poetickal

I've had lots of cultural nay poetickal excitement lately, including seeing a wonderfully tragicomic production of Chekhov's 'The Cherry Orchard' at the Tobacco Factory; a lecture at Bristol University by veteran poet Al Alvarez (quite extraordinary to hear him talking of being handed some 'light verse' by Sylvia Plath only to be confronted with 'Daddy' and 'Lady Lazarus') plus readings by Tom Raworth, Edward Lucie-Smith and John Fuller; and a trip to Words and Ears in the Cellar Bar of the Swan at Bradford-on-Avon, where I shall be the featured guest on June 21st, reading poems on the theme of 'Solstice'.   

Last Saturday it was the long-awaited Bloodaxe Day, organised by the indefatigable Sue Boyle as part of the Bath Poetry Café.  In the morning we had an interesting and informative lecture by Neil Astley, founder of Bloodaxe Books and editor of that fine trilogy of poetry anthologies, 'Staying Alive', 'Being Alive' and 'Being Human', on how to get our poetry published.  After lunch with my lovely friend Helen - and a quick pop into Mr B's Emporium of Reading Delights where the nice man at the till readily relieved me of one of my packs containing my poetry collection, 'Communion' - I had a lovely afternoon reading with my peers, again in the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution.  I have to say that the quality of the poetry on offer in the Café just gets higher and higher.  In the evening we were treated to a reading by Neil Astley and Sara-Jane Arbury of poems selected from 'Being Human'.  I drove back to Bristol crackling with energy and inspiration.

It was over to Bath again today with my friend and fellow-poet, Pameli Benham, to visit the artists Malcolm Ashman and Ben Hughes in Bath Artists Studios in Comfortable Place.  (Can't help wondering about the etymology of that pleasingly named backwater!) Our excursion was our entry into a project called Portraitswest, in which the artists will draw and exhibit portraits of local poets and the poets will respond with words, culminating (for now) in an evening of art and poetry in Bath in November.  I had a great time fossicking around Malcolm and Ben's studios, asking them about their work and taking a few quick photos, and trying to sit very still and look intelligent and not too fat while they drew me.  Have lots of ideas already about what to write and I'm really looking forward to getting stuck into it.  To add the icing to my delicious cake of a day, staff in Bath's other equally delightful independent bookshop, Toppings, also took a copy of Communion to put on sale, and when I popped into Durdham Down Bookshop in Bristol to pick up my World Book Night books and press a pack on them, I was told - quite casually - that there was no need because they already had it in stock!

And things look set to get even better.  The spring forerunner of the Bristol Poetry Festival is on, and I have tickets to see Paul Durcan, Ian Duhig, Carol Rumens, Sasha Dugdale and the marvellous Pameli Benham over the next couple of weeks, not to mention a special Olympic-themed Acoustic Night Bristol on World Book Night at which I'll be giving away my free copies of Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day'.  Such a stunning book! (And no, I shan't be reading poems about my burning desire to participate in Synchronised Swimming or even my ex-husband being for the high jump - rather, I shall be erring on the side of Greek gods and the Oracle and so on.)

I also have a free workshop with the wonderful Polly Moyer to look forward to, the reading of my poem, 'Kin', at the launch of Geraldine Taylor and Dru Marland's latest collaboration, 'The Secret Blackbird', and - well, just loads more lovely stuff.

Having become, in his words, 'caught up in my hair', the lovely Malcolm Ashman was planning on finishing his drawing of me this afternoon.  Here's how it looks so far:

King Lear at the Tobacco Factory

One of the first signs of spring in these parts is the return of Shakespeare at the Tobacco Factory, doing (in this first production at least) what it says on the tin.  This year they are kicking off with King Lear, with John Shrapnel in the role of the ageing king whose narcissistic folly unleashes a tragedy of savage proportions.

It's had mixed reviews, the main criticism being Andrew Hilton's direction, but I found it mesmerising, owing in no small part to its intimate setting which serves to bring the audience right into the action.  There were stellar performances from SATTF regulars and some new faces, though I would single out Trevor Cooper's moving portrayal of the blinded Gloucester for special mention.  My only quibble was the change in style of costume in Act IV, from traditional Jacobean to World War I type uniforms, which didn't seem to add anything to the production and which I found distracting.

Having seen SATTF's interpretation of 'Uncle Vanya' (confusingly by Chekhov and at the Bristol Old Vic!) a couple of years ago, I'm really looking forward to their production of 'The Cherry Orchard' (one of my set texts at university) in April, as well as the new leaves and blackthorn blossom and daffodils which are surely about to burgeon now Hilton and his team are back. 

'Th' hast spoken right, 'tis true.
The wheel is come full circle'  

Kings, Collies, Clevedon, the Wordsworths and World Book Night

I wish every week was like this last one.

Wednesday night I ventured to Bedminster to see Richard II at the Tobacco Factory – an excellent production, as always, with an outstanding performance by John Heffernan as the deluded and decadent king whose eventual self-knowledge is all the more moving for his former folly. One day I would love to see each play in the tetraology one after the other – Richard II, Henry IV Parts I (one of my O-level set texts) and II, which contains the funniest scene I’ve ever seen in the theatre, and Henry V, which has so much resonance for my uneducated war-veteran father that I would hold him up as an example to anyone who thinks Shakespeare irrelevant.  The Bristol Old Vic put on the two Henry IVs back-to-back some years ago and that was hugely enjoyable, but the whole sweep of story would be even better.

Thursday it was Can Openers at the Central Library, the guest poet this time Ros Martin. As usual there was an eclectic mix of poems.  Piece of the day for me was Dru Marland’s, about her border collie, Bessie.  It’s no mean feat to write an unsentimental poem about a pet; this one is touching but hilarious also. 

On Friday, having despatched both my poetry manuscript and the contract for my novel to Ronnie and Dawn at Indigo Dreams, and had a look at Dru’s progress re the artwork for the latter, it was off to Clevedon in her Morris Traveller - the perfect ramshackle vehicle for such a genteel watering-hole.

First, we visited the Sheela-na-gig at St Andrew’s, Clevedon, who was looking simultaneously acrobatic and self-possessed: 

Then, as the church was locked, we followed Poets’ Walk around the headland to Clevedon Pill (the poets in question being Coleridge, and Tennyson whose friend Arthur Henry Hallam, for whom he wrote In Memoriam, is buried in the church).  It was a sunny spring-like day and the views over the mud to Worlebury Hill were magnificent.  Dru’s a great person to jaunt with because she knows stuff.  I’ve always envied people who can identify birds at 1000 paces and recognise their songs. Now, thanks for Dru, I can pick out the the yaffling of green woodpeckers and the lovely bubbling call of the curlew. 

Back at St Andrew’s the organist was practicing, so we sneaked through the door.  Unfortunately he’d almost finished and told us so, whereupon my brain immediately went AWOL and I didn't see anywhere near as much as I'd have liked, but apparently the church is open more often in the summer.  I only wish I’d listened to exactly when.   

Then on to Seeley’s Bookshop as Dru had some books to drop off.  What an amazing emporium!  It clearly hasn’t changed at all since the 1970s, inside or out.  The fittings, the flooring, even the stock is dated – when did you last see an old-style Dymo machine on sale?  

 Back to Bristol feeling as if I’d travelled 16 miles down the coast but decades back in time.  Before taking my leave of Dru, we stopped off in Shirehampton to see what she describes as  ‘the Co-op where the Wordsworths stayed’.  And it’s true, look!

Alack, another black hole in my Heducashun!

In Durdham Down Bookshop, whither I popped to pick up my copies of ‘The World’s Wife’ for World Book Night, I got talking to the owner, Kathryn, and she offered me a literary evening for my poetry collection when it’s published.  Pinch me someone, quick.

Finally it was off to Chepstow yesterday in the company of my old friend, Liz, for a poetry reading in the Drill Hall by Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke – a very pleasing bit of synchronicity considering I was giving away 48 copies of the above mentioned collection.  Both Gillian and Carol Ann were very obliging in person, though I did cringe a little when the latter asked me how I’d settled on ‘The World’s Wife’ as my first choice of book for World Book Night.  George Washington-esque to the last, I blurted that actually, ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’ had been my first choice, on account of having autistic offspring and being keen to do what I can to raise awareness of the condition.  To her credit, our Laureate laughed heartily at this, and I was able to add, swiftly, that on the whole, I much preferred poetry to prose and it had been in no way disappointing to be able to scatter her poems far and wide. So hopefully I won't get sent to the Tower.

And I came away with eight signed tomes to intersperse with the others, so that some lucky recipients will get an unexpected bonus.  Though it’s going to be hard to part with this one: