Following the recent discussion of “celebrity casting” at the Finborough Theatre, I’ve been having troubled thoughts about the nature of the West End. Thanks to a small and, in some cases, brilliantly incisive audience, the discussion turned into a heated debate - not so much on the merits or otherwise of casting celebrities in plays, but of why the concept was employed, by whom, for what reasons and to what effect.
What was most immediately apparent was just the sheer size of the gulf between the thinking of West End theatres and the subsidised sector. More interesting was hearing the raisons d’etre of West End theatre put so frankly and bluntly. Paraphrased only slightly the basic argument ran: “We are in the business of making £45-per-ticket events for people who have got that sort of money.” In these days of outreach programmes, subsidised ticket costs and price reductions for the under-26/unwaged, it is quite a culture shock to hear someone effectively say 'if you can’t afford a [very expensive] ticket, that’s your problem'.
This point was quickly followed by the frank admission that, since this was their policy, they were in the business of trying to make theatre, or rather “events” - this was the word that kept cropping up - that would specifically appeal to this moneyed demographic.
I should record that the Old Vic has an ongoing commitment to subsidised tickets for under-25s, and £5 tickets for members of the Old Vic’s immediate geographical community. The excellent work done by the theatre’s youth programme since its inception, and the help this gives to young emerging artists should also be noted. But these very elements make the Old Vic wholly distinct from the other West End theatres.
The West End proper is essentially like private education: if you’ve got the money, you can go. There might be a few sops by way of bursaries or scholarships to squeeze in a few of “the deserving poor” but basically, it is only an option for the wealthy. The irony with this comparison is that it suggests a universe where British state-education is some of the best in the world. Compare the National to any West End venue you care to name: it’s hardly like comparing a bog-standard comp with Eton, is it? And the West End knows it. If you ask any commercial producer about the subsidised sector - stand well back; their irritation is explosive, their contempt blistering. Subsidies are viewed as cheating spinelessness, the compromises forced by the arts council’s politics as an untenable, bureaucratic burden.
And yet, in spite of the Arts Council’s admittedly often ridiculous box-ticking, British subsidised theatre continually artistically outstrips commercial theatre. When Matt Wolf in the Observer a few weeks ago wailed “where, oh where, is the new play?”, he only managed to broadcast his narrow West End-centric agenda (Lyn Gardner quite rightly tears him a new one here). Already this month (in London alone, and off the top of my head) the New Play could be found in the Hampstead, the Bush, the Royal Court, the Gate, Theatre 503, the Oval House and the Lyric Hammersmith.
Yes, the West End appears to be abandoning new plays at precisely the moment that new plays are enjoying their strongest bloom since the mid-nineties. And it seems harder and harder not to blame a narrow-minded, corrosively cynical management structure which appears to be utterly risk adverse. That said, when there is no funding safety net and the consequences of failure run to potential millions of personal loss, risk-aversion seems like an infinitely sensible option.
The main problem here is the cost of tickets. Putting on a new play and asking audiences to punt £10-£15 of their own money seems like a fair enough deal. It’s the price of a bottle of wine in a pub - and for much of the audience, often a straight swap. But somehow the West End has found itself in a situation where it cannot stage plays cheaply. It needs to sell large numbers of tickets which cost a minimum wage-earner’s daily pay packet (before tax) in order to break even. Putting on an untried new play and charging £45 a head is a big ask.
Worse is the fact that by and large West End theatres don’t seem to have much faith in their audience. There is more than a hint of condescension, of corrosive cynicism, and of scorched earth policy theatre-making. The whole beast is stuck in a cycle of attrition: bad production begets poor takings begets increased conservatism begets bad production, and so on. The situation seems to be such that soon the only projects generated for the West End by the West End will be Shaw, Wilde and Shakespeare acted by former-Big Brother housemates, -EastEnders and a handful of the more frequently televised theatrical knights and dames. Of course there will still be TV-backed audition musicals, American transfers, and a smattering of great work with commercial potential from subsidised theatres.
The oddest thing about the West End is - despite its apparent “event-y-ness” and the so-called glamorous atmosphere - no one actually has any affection for the buildings. Rightly so. They are, in the main, pretty dreadful. Give me the Olivier or the Barbican over anything on Shaftsbury Avenue any day. And this is another of the problems. One of the comments beneath Lyn’s piece about new work argues that it is sad that new writers are not given access to big stages. Quite right. It would be. That is why many theatres frequently bend over backwards to facilitate young writers’ access to such spaces, even if only for rehearsed readings and workshops. No one, on the other hand, is saying that it’s a shame that new/young writers aren’t writing more plays for deadly pros. arch spaces. Sure, it is a skill, and plays like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf make an enduring case for that model, but in general, don’t most people prefer different sorts of auditoria? Does every West End theatre have to be kept in this configuration? The Trafalgar Studios - in spite of its ridiculous pricing policy which refuses to let companies visiting Studio 2 charge less than £22 for full-price tickets - seems to point the way forward.
But of course, refurbs don’t come cheap, and so there needs must be countless more series of Lloyd-Webber grooming “unknowns” for musical theatre stardom before anyone can afford one. Unless, that is, either the government or a consortium with a serious amount of money step in to save the day. As it stands, the West End seems increasingly part of an entirely different universe, and one which has precious little to do with theatre.
_____________________________________________________________
Having said that, I’m terrifically excited to be going to see Patrick Stewart in Macbeth in the West End tomorrow night, in Rupert Goold's production that every initial review from the Chichester run assured us was an absolutely seminal production. So maybe I'm wrong about the West End after all.
Meanwhile, Michael Coveney in his latest WhatsonStage blog proves that the subsidised sector can be every bit as star-struck with his name-dropping-tastic report from the opening night of Life After Scandal. For the record, I beat Mr Coveney's star-spotting hands down last night, since by some strange stroke of fate I spent the whole bus journey back from the Hampstead sat next to a rather bemused looking Jonathan Pryce. I find it oddly comforting to know he still gets buses.
Showing posts with label Finborough. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Finborough. Show all posts
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Monday, 24 September 2007
Lit candles and everything
Sorry it’s been a while. The computers at work have been on the fritz all week with the result that shifts have been rather longer than they’re meant to be, leaving me a bit on the tired side. And since (the utterly, utterly lovely) Natasha Tripney described Postcards as “passionate, humorous and intelligent” in her Guardian blog, I’ve been feeling a bit like I’ve got something to live up to - which is hard to do when news-soaked and sleep-deprived.
Also, what with the Northern Rock farrago taking up every last inch of newsprint and with the blogsophere mostly split between further dissections of A Disappointing Number and the rolling discussion about blogging versus reviewing - both of which I’ve already had a say about - it seemed like as good a time as any to be overtired and under-productive.
WLTM
That said, I did come across what is possibly my favourite ever personals ad in TheLondonPaper on Thursday. No, I’m not looking. But, as literary forms go, the personal ad is hugely underrated - little haiku-like mini-windows onto rolling vistas of desire and despair and all in 160 characters (unless it’s the LRB personals, which are in an altogether different league). What more could a bus journey need? Certainly I’d rather read a page of personal ads than yet another account of a hapless pop moppette having a few too many in one nasty nitespot or other. The ad reads as follows:
“Exotic Asian princess, late 30s, fashionable, vivacious, kind, seeks tall, slim, dark hair/eyes, single, quiet, Catholic man, 38-45, for...”
For a Graham Greene novel, surely?
Actually, what she’s after is “friendship” - if any of you dear readers do happen to fulfil her stringent requirements and want such a chum, her number is 0904 245 0200 with the voicebox 08569. Just don’t come complaining when it turns out that she has been working for the communists all along, and became a nun once she realised that she had fallen in love with you - the man she had been sent to betray.
Nanny State Gone Mad!
Elsewhere in the papers this week, aside from the endless soul-searching over the “first run on an English bank in 148 years,” the police seemed to be getting a good kicking. Mostly over the rather depressing tale of how two community special constable types were instructed by their superiors not to dive into a lake to save two drowning boys because they had not had the necessary training. Having scented blood and established a theme, however, the press do like to expand a one-off into a trend. So it wasn’t especially surprising to see a story about Greater Manchester Police being banned from using bicycles surface in a few papers this morning being paraded as a further example of health and safety regulations Gone Mad ( - a prize of some conkers to the first person to spot a “conkers banned in school” story this year, btw).
That said, the last we heard from the police was their clamour for more firepower. It’s come to something when anyone thinks that a bike is more dangerous than a gun.
Celebrity Love Lost
While we’re here, I should also put in a quick plug for the discussion that I’m producing and appearing in at the Finborough Theatre tonight. It is on the subject of “celebrity casting” in theatre. It starts at half seven. If you happen to read this in time, do come along if you’re not busy. No doubt a more detailed post on the subject will appear tomorrow.
Readin’
Aside from some lovely new stuff from the usual suspects in the blogosphere (names listed to your right), a couple of arts pieces did catch my attention over the weekend:
In a recent Financial Times, Clement Crisp’s review of Tango Fire is worth a read if you’re interested in critical writing. I hardly ever remember to read dance reviews properly - partially because the prose style of the ones I’m more usually exposed to isn’t really my bag - but this struck me as fascinating. Obviously I’ve no idea how likely he is to be right, or even whether its accurate - but it's great to read engagement with a largely separate artform being conducted in a different idiom. It makes me keen to read up on the debates that surround dance criticism, and see if they compare, or if there are lessons to be learned.
Also on the subject of critical pursuits, Mark Kermode’s piece for the Observer about his battle to overcome his film-centric ignorance of television is something to which I intend to return when I have time to read it properly - interesting to note, in passing, that he refers to the recent Nick Hytner/theatre critics rumpus. Obviously even those without a vested interest were taking notes.
And finally, anyone with a taste for the sublime and ridiculous should immediately read this remarkable interview with 17-year-old actor Nicholas Hoult off of Skins talking with great enthusiasm and frankness about his obsession with Nando’s:
"I do romantic meals with my girlfriend. Lit candles and everything. But I take her to Nando's too. She knows that I'm obsessed with it, and she's pretty understanding about going there for dinner."
Also, what with the Northern Rock farrago taking up every last inch of newsprint and with the blogsophere mostly split between further dissections of A Disappointing Number and the rolling discussion about blogging versus reviewing - both of which I’ve already had a say about - it seemed like as good a time as any to be overtired and under-productive.
WLTM
That said, I did come across what is possibly my favourite ever personals ad in TheLondonPaper on Thursday. No, I’m not looking. But, as literary forms go, the personal ad is hugely underrated - little haiku-like mini-windows onto rolling vistas of desire and despair and all in 160 characters (unless it’s the LRB personals, which are in an altogether different league). What more could a bus journey need? Certainly I’d rather read a page of personal ads than yet another account of a hapless pop moppette having a few too many in one nasty nitespot or other. The ad reads as follows:
“Exotic Asian princess, late 30s, fashionable, vivacious, kind, seeks tall, slim, dark hair/eyes, single, quiet, Catholic man, 38-45, for...”
For a Graham Greene novel, surely?
Actually, what she’s after is “friendship” - if any of you dear readers do happen to fulfil her stringent requirements and want such a chum, her number is 0904 245 0200 with the voicebox 08569. Just don’t come complaining when it turns out that she has been working for the communists all along, and became a nun once she realised that she had fallen in love with you - the man she had been sent to betray.
Nanny State Gone Mad!
Elsewhere in the papers this week, aside from the endless soul-searching over the “first run on an English bank in 148 years,” the police seemed to be getting a good kicking. Mostly over the rather depressing tale of how two community special constable types were instructed by their superiors not to dive into a lake to save two drowning boys because they had not had the necessary training. Having scented blood and established a theme, however, the press do like to expand a one-off into a trend. So it wasn’t especially surprising to see a story about Greater Manchester Police being banned from using bicycles surface in a few papers this morning being paraded as a further example of health and safety regulations Gone Mad ( - a prize of some conkers to the first person to spot a “conkers banned in school” story this year, btw).
That said, the last we heard from the police was their clamour for more firepower. It’s come to something when anyone thinks that a bike is more dangerous than a gun.
Celebrity Love Lost
While we’re here, I should also put in a quick plug for the discussion that I’m producing and appearing in at the Finborough Theatre tonight. It is on the subject of “celebrity casting” in theatre. It starts at half seven. If you happen to read this in time, do come along if you’re not busy. No doubt a more detailed post on the subject will appear tomorrow.
Readin’
Aside from some lovely new stuff from the usual suspects in the blogosphere (names listed to your right), a couple of arts pieces did catch my attention over the weekend:
In a recent Financial Times, Clement Crisp’s review of Tango Fire is worth a read if you’re interested in critical writing. I hardly ever remember to read dance reviews properly - partially because the prose style of the ones I’m more usually exposed to isn’t really my bag - but this struck me as fascinating. Obviously I’ve no idea how likely he is to be right, or even whether its accurate - but it's great to read engagement with a largely separate artform being conducted in a different idiom. It makes me keen to read up on the debates that surround dance criticism, and see if they compare, or if there are lessons to be learned.
Also on the subject of critical pursuits, Mark Kermode’s piece for the Observer about his battle to overcome his film-centric ignorance of television is something to which I intend to return when I have time to read it properly - interesting to note, in passing, that he refers to the recent Nick Hytner/theatre critics rumpus. Obviously even those without a vested interest were taking notes.
And finally, anyone with a taste for the sublime and ridiculous should immediately read this remarkable interview with 17-year-old actor Nicholas Hoult off of Skins talking with great enthusiasm and frankness about his obsession with Nando’s:
"I do romantic meals with my girlfriend. Lit candles and everything. But I take her to Nando's too. She knows that I'm obsessed with it, and she's pretty understanding about going there for dinner."
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Everybody loves a talk show
Just to compromise my journalistic integrity further, I’ve just been made producer of the Finborough Theatre’s excellent FinboroughForum strand of discussions. Expect more on related subjects in weeks to come. And fewer reviews of plays running at that particular theatre.
Strangely, it seems that chatshow time has kicked right off in theatres across town. More centrally, the Soho Theatre has just unveiled its own first series of discussions and interviews under its new Director of Talks, Observer literary editor Stephanie Merritt.
The initial outlook was not promising. On the 16th October we get the opportunity to see “Kerry Katona talk to the Guardian’s Hadley Freeman about her new book and celebrity culture”. Leaving aside the obvious nepotism involved in the choice of interviewer, one idly wonders how much Kerry Kantona actually knows about celebrity culture. Yes, she’s been in it (I was confronted with a picture of her sunbathing topless on holiday only the other day in the News of the World) and written a spill-my-guts autobiography, but does all that exposure mean she’ll have any insight whatsoever? It is almost tempting to find out.
A fortnight later on 30th we are offered “Rude Girls” in which “blogger Zoe Margolis (Girl with a One Track Mind) talks to former Erotic Review editor Rowan Pelling about sex and feminism.” - Former Erotic Review editor and Observer columnist, cynics might note. Again, despite the neatly zeitgeist-grabbing tone, is this really any more than tabloid dross served up with a garnish of middlebrow gloss? Wouldn’t it have been rather more interesting to have the blogger and Pelling on the panel, perhaps supplemented by Lucy Prebble - the excellent young playwright behind the forthcoming adaptation of the Belle de Jour blog for television - being interviewed by someone with much less natural sympathy for their project (Ann Widdecombe or Clare Short spring to mind)? As an aside, you’ll note that the TV adaptation has changed the title to The Secret Diary of a Call Girl. The reason? Apparently ITV didn’t think its audience would understand the French, let alone the allusion.
As it turns out, the overall programme is considerably better than that. Some of the events further along the schedule look at genuinely interesting questions, alongside a selection of neatly chosen literary and artistic interviews. Clearly Merritt is going to offer a real range and depth of field. From a quick perusal of the debates on offer, Playing With Fire (although, boo to David Edgar's crappy play and using it as a title) asks: “Why do writers and artists deliberately cause offence, even when it wins them death threats?” with a panel that promises Nicholas Hytner and Stewart Lee along with a panel of eminent playwrights and writers to discuss the issues. Which sounds like an excellent event.
In “African? Caribbean? What’s the big fuss?” Tiata Fahodzi’s Artistic Director Femi Elufowoju, jr leads a panel including Roy Williams and Bola Agbaje to discuss “the arguably delicate historical relationship which exists between African and Caribbean descendants living in Britain today”. Given that the subject has been the spur to exciting plays by both, and is an area of discussion which terrifies white media pundits, this should be invaluable.
Elsewhere, Paines Plough’s conversational short new play strand, Later, has resumed at the Trafalgar Studios. The next three are on Monday 17 September, Monday 8 October and Monday 15 October. The first is curated by Leo Butler, the current (excellent and lovely) tutor on the Royal Court’s Young Writer’s Programme, and boasts a line-up that hand-picks some of its star pupils featuring new work from Polly Stenham and Alexandra Wood along with Elinor Cook, Elise Hearst and Ben Ockrent. The following two dates promise Murder at Gobbler's Wood - a collaboration between Robin French, Dennis Kelly and Enda Walsh - along with work from Paines Plough’s Future Perfect 2008.
While from last night Hampstead theatre’s Daring Pairings runs until the end of the week with, again, a selection of collaborations between a wide range of writers, which again have an exciting and innovative look to them. I’m going tonight and tomorrow night on unprecedented Blog-press tickets and will report back tomorrow.
Finally, on the subject of chat shows, I was on last week's Culture Clash on 18 Doughty Street talking about the whole of the Edinburgh experience and the current Andrew Marr series on Radio 4 in case you missed (ha!) it.
Strangely, it seems that chatshow time has kicked right off in theatres across town. More centrally, the Soho Theatre has just unveiled its own first series of discussions and interviews under its new Director of Talks, Observer literary editor Stephanie Merritt.
The initial outlook was not promising. On the 16th October we get the opportunity to see “Kerry Katona talk to the Guardian’s Hadley Freeman about her new book and celebrity culture”. Leaving aside the obvious nepotism involved in the choice of interviewer, one idly wonders how much Kerry Kantona actually knows about celebrity culture. Yes, she’s been in it (I was confronted with a picture of her sunbathing topless on holiday only the other day in the News of the World) and written a spill-my-guts autobiography, but does all that exposure mean she’ll have any insight whatsoever? It is almost tempting to find out.
A fortnight later on 30th we are offered “Rude Girls” in which “blogger Zoe Margolis (Girl with a One Track Mind) talks to former Erotic Review editor Rowan Pelling about sex and feminism.” - Former Erotic Review editor and Observer columnist, cynics might note. Again, despite the neatly zeitgeist-grabbing tone, is this really any more than tabloid dross served up with a garnish of middlebrow gloss? Wouldn’t it have been rather more interesting to have the blogger and Pelling on the panel, perhaps supplemented by Lucy Prebble - the excellent young playwright behind the forthcoming adaptation of the Belle de Jour blog for television - being interviewed by someone with much less natural sympathy for their project (Ann Widdecombe or Clare Short spring to mind)? As an aside, you’ll note that the TV adaptation has changed the title to The Secret Diary of a Call Girl. The reason? Apparently ITV didn’t think its audience would understand the French, let alone the allusion.
As it turns out, the overall programme is considerably better than that. Some of the events further along the schedule look at genuinely interesting questions, alongside a selection of neatly chosen literary and artistic interviews. Clearly Merritt is going to offer a real range and depth of field. From a quick perusal of the debates on offer, Playing With Fire (although, boo to David Edgar's crappy play and using it as a title) asks: “Why do writers and artists deliberately cause offence, even when it wins them death threats?” with a panel that promises Nicholas Hytner and Stewart Lee along with a panel of eminent playwrights and writers to discuss the issues. Which sounds like an excellent event.
In “African? Caribbean? What’s the big fuss?” Tiata Fahodzi’s Artistic Director Femi Elufowoju, jr leads a panel including Roy Williams and Bola Agbaje to discuss “the arguably delicate historical relationship which exists between African and Caribbean descendants living in Britain today”. Given that the subject has been the spur to exciting plays by both, and is an area of discussion which terrifies white media pundits, this should be invaluable.
Elsewhere, Paines Plough’s conversational short new play strand, Later, has resumed at the Trafalgar Studios. The next three are on Monday 17 September, Monday 8 October and Monday 15 October. The first is curated by Leo Butler, the current (excellent and lovely) tutor on the Royal Court’s Young Writer’s Programme, and boasts a line-up that hand-picks some of its star pupils featuring new work from Polly Stenham and Alexandra Wood along with Elinor Cook, Elise Hearst and Ben Ockrent. The following two dates promise Murder at Gobbler's Wood - a collaboration between Robin French, Dennis Kelly and Enda Walsh - along with work from Paines Plough’s Future Perfect 2008.
While from last night Hampstead theatre’s Daring Pairings runs until the end of the week with, again, a selection of collaborations between a wide range of writers, which again have an exciting and innovative look to them. I’m going tonight and tomorrow night on unprecedented Blog-press tickets and will report back tomorrow.
Finally, on the subject of chat shows, I was on last week's Culture Clash on 18 Doughty Street talking about the whole of the Edinburgh experience and the current Andrew Marr series on Radio 4 in case you missed (ha!) it.
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