The Wild Bride and Meg’s Kneehigh Bingo
I went to see The Wild Bride last night and it was, as expected, absolutely wonderful. I know I’m supposed to really look deep into a work and (*yawn*) search for its heart and soul and everything, but chuck some glitter about and sing me some blues and you’ll have my knickers off in a flash.
The Wild Bride is classic Kneehigh, with its pretty lights and sleazy onstage music and macabre fairy tale narrative. While I adored it for all the same reasons I adored The Red Shoes and The Umbrellas Of Cherbourg, I can’t help wonder if the impact of their visual tricks is fading. Last night I found myself thinking “aaah, it’s the body paint thing” and remembering fondly how I felt when I saw them use that technique in The Red Shoes, when it took me by surprise. There were a couple of rows of teenage boys in front of me in the Lyric yesterday, on a school trip, and they were completely bowled over by everything. Wolf-whistling and cheering for every sexual thrust, and yelling to each other about making a return visit as soon as it was over.
They say junkies spend years of addiction attempting to recreate the buzz of that first hit. I think the Kneehigh formula will always delight me, but I don’t know that they will match that first viewing of The Red Shoes again.
If you, like me, are looking for ways to rekindle the passion and heady romance of your first encounter with Kneehigh, why not join me in a game of Meg’s Kneehigh Bingo… First one to yell ‘house’ wins a shaved head.
What I think about arts journalism #177,693
The Observer has printed its Autumn Arts Calendar today, including the usual categories of art, dance, pop, classical, etc etc. In some ways I’ve found it useful, because I tend to dip in and out of films and exhibitions and stuff if the topic/content particularly interests me, and would never purport to have my finger on the pulse. I’m quite looking forward to the Postmodernism exhibition opening at the V&A because I like art to be witty, and it was today’s Observer that let me know it was happening. While I’m sure there is an art buff somewhere decrying today’s paper for its obvious choices and no-brainer populism, I appreciate the heads up.
The theatre picks though? HONESTLY. It’s nothing but obvious choices and no-brainer populism! The theatre on offer in this country is far more varied and exciting than this stuff-featuring-people-you-know-off-the-telly. They’ve even managed to make Decade, the new immersive Headlong show about 9/11 which will be designed by Miriam Buether (she of boxing rings and snaking bar tops), sound like a staid think-piece. They’ve included Jerusalem, OF COURSE, which is a perfect show that everyone needs to see, if only so we can let Mark Rylance get on with the rest of his life already. There’s the new thing by John Tiffany for NTS, which will probably be excellent, but every single other thing is written by Mike Leigh or directed by Richard Eyre or inspired by Chekhov or starring Anna Chancellor or Joanna Lumley or Michael Sheen or “reunites” Clarke Peters and Dominic West from The Wire. All of them (even Decade really, as it’s a National Theatre production) are in big, static, traditional theatre spaces, and all bar Decade are going to require their audiences to sit still and shut up in neat little rows.
When I go to visit my parents I have a regular rant at them for buying The Times because RUPERT MURDOCH DIE DIE DIE, then sneakily have a flick through and start up a new rant about how boring and irrelevant its theatre coverage is. At this point I rave about The Guardian embracing new forms of theatre and new forms of arts coverage, with its own blogs and Noises Off overviews and willingness to adapt. The Observer, its sister paper, has fallen on hard times in recent years and has adapted to them, with fewer sections. In many ways their ‘New Review’ is great, as I like to find articles on science and computers and great mathematicians alongside the critics, but are these really the HIGHLIGHTS of the new season? REALLY?
If you’re interested, here are some of the shows I’m most looking forward to this autumn:
Going Dark, by Sound&Fury: These are the guys who did Kursk, which was set in a submarine and the entire audience had to squeeze into a space that had been recreated AMAZINGLY, with perfect sound design. This time their show is about astronomy, and uses lighting and immersive sound to “wonder at the cosmos and reveal how one man’s vision becomes illuminated by darkness.” SQUEEEEE MOTHER-FUCKING SQUEEEEEEEEEEEE
The Wild Bride by Kneehigh: This opened in Kneehigh’s Asylum tent in Cornwall but I’m going to see it at the Lyric Hammersmith. It sounds like Kneehigh’s usual mix of music and visuals but The Stage review also says it has PAIN and CHAOS and HORROR and THE DEVIL. All very good things in theatre world.
Entitled by Quarantine: This is touring I think, after a brief stint in Edinburgh this month. Quarantine only ever work with real people, rather than professional performers, but instead of being reality show bollocks, they tend to be really revealing portrayals. Their installation at Fierce fest involved audiences singing along with servicemen and women to some karaoke favourites, which was fun but ultimately bittersweet. Entitled is apparently about theatre techies. Can’t wait to see what they do.
Umbrella Project by Hannah Nicklin: Hannah is my mate so I’ve been lucky to hear about the Umbrella Project from the horse’s mouth. Its outing in York is still an R&D experiment, but Hannah works with audio to connect people and places, so I’m expecting this to be touching in a similar way to Quarantine’s work; showing us a different side to our surroundings.
Hatch: Fresh, by all sorts of people: This is a free evening of performance art and theatre and exciting, unusual artistic experiences created by people like Action Hero, the Other Way Works, and Dan Bye. And it is happening in Leicester, which is ALMOST UNHEARD OF.
Matilda at the Cambridge Theatre in London: Transferred from the RSC, and I wasn’t organised enough to go first time round. I am expecting great things. Full-on levitation and shit. I reckon I’ve paid enough to have pencils hovering in front of every face in the entire auditorium.
Remember when we all talked about the Brits at school the next day? Ginger Spice’s dress and Chumbawumba and all that…
Turns out I don’t give a shit any more, although I’m chuffed Laura Marling won Best Female and I seem to have adopted Tinie Tempah as my own personal life mascot so I guess I’m happy for him too. And Take That, aaawwww…
I didn’t watch tonight though. I just checked up on twitter every now and again and remembered what a bunch of toss the Critics Choice bollocks is.
So, yeah, I didn’t come here to talk about the Brits but I had a wee pensive moment when I remembered being 14. Anyway, to more pressing matters. I saw Umbrellas of Cherbourg by Kneehigh last night. I love Kneehigh because they understand how to make things look magical. Hannah says there’s too much emphasis on pretty and not enough on narrative, but the pretty is extra-extra pretty so I don’t really give a fuck.
To be honest though, I don’t know how much I should say about the show last night. Press night is Thursday, so we went to a half-price preview. There’s been a lot of stuff in the press about previews recently because some critics consider it bad form to review and some don’t. Of course, I not a critic, I’m one of those pesky blogger types who can throw caution and convention to the wind. So, I’m making a judgement call and telling you this: UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG CONTAINS THE BEST DANCE ROUTINE I’VE EVER SEEN AND YES THAT INCLUDES LADY GAGA.
It’s not extravagant, it’s not athletic. It’s not even particularly in time. It’s lazy, louche and can be performed - nay, must be performed - with fag in mouth and wine (bottle, obvs) in hand. It includes what I have come to term ‘Gaga monster fingers’ and a cool neck bit and a leggy-knee bit, and I SIMPLY MUST LEARN THIS DANCE.
I’ve done that thing again where I’ve cleaned my teeth and then poured a glass of red wine, so, despite being entirely frazzled after my first week back in lectures, I’m going to stay up long enough to drink my wine without Colgate fumes making me screw my face up in a Stockport grimace.
I’m also quite pleased with myself for inadvertently honing some rather impressive DiCaprio-style Inception skills in the last few days, so that’s worth sharing. Kneehigh’s version of The Red Shoes has been playing at work this week, and I’ve been super-pumped about it ever since it went on sale. I came within an inch of seeing their version of Brief Encounter last year, and had heard so many amazing things about the, like, totally dark visuals man… that I’ve been walking around with this enormous theatre boner for months. Then, on Tuesday night I had a fucking IMMENSE dream where I was watching The Red Shoes in a theatre where the seats were made of rubber and I was in the front row of the circle but had to keep bouncing up and down to ping the seats low enough so I could see, and everyone else in the row was screaming because they thought they were going to either fall off of be catapulted into the flies and strangled or burnt or electrocuted on the lights or something. And then the seats de-rubberified and I was invited on stage to be in this magic trick with a drag queen in a glittery red coat, except the drag queen was actually Alan Rickman, and when he said I had to wait outside to make the magic work I had a massive paddy. “This is my one fucking chance to see Alan fucking Rickman on stage and I have to fucking WAIT OUTSIDE?!!!” and words to that effect.
In the morning I’d kinda assumed that the drag Alan Rickman had stemmed from this other show we have on at work at the moment, with a drag artist called Ceri Dupree playing the devil (hence the sequins), BUT (and get this) when I was watching The Red Shoes (the real Red Shoes, not the dream version anymore) there was a drag compère/narrator AND a bit where he introduced a ‘volunteer’ to do a levitation act. I was like “OH MY GOD I TOTALLY DREAMT THIS.”
But the best bit of all? I told my mate Pam about it, and then last night she dreamt about Alan Rickman, except this time he wasn’t in sequins; he’d shaved his head like the Kneehigh company. I totally incepted her with my inception.
Next up: give Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall visions of naked mushroom foraging with my nubile young form.
Oh yeah, and The Red Shoes was awesome, although not quite enough spurting blood for my tastes.
