Too Many Cooks - Travelling Light

The two 4 year olds that I took to see Too Many Cooks provided the perfect succinct review: "they didn't do much cooking, and the stories were all a bit sad." I foresee great careers as theatre critics for both of them, since there, in a sentence, is the essence of Too Many Cooks. Set in a grimy palace kitchen, it is essentially a dramatisation of various folk tales. With its bleak design and dark-shaded stories, the whole piece is quite grim (or should that be Grimm?). The look and style comes are firmly in the contemporary vein of children's and physical theatre that might be described as 'continental': there is a strong sense of Mittel-Europa throughout. And as a performance of animated storytelling, Too Many Cooks is delight. The stories may be bleak, but they are imaginatively and engagingly presented. In fact, the production is very reminiscent of Beasts and Beauties, which was presented recently (primarily for adults) in the main house at the Old Vic.
Yet unlike Beasts and Beauties, which was comfortable being a procession of unconnected stories, Too Many Cooks is seriously hampered by the apparent need to create a backdrop for the tales. As my apprentice reviewers were quick to point out, the cooking aspect of Too Many Cooks is sorely and confusingly neglected. There is really no overarching story, merely some poorly fleshed-out interludes about a prince who is coming but never turns up and weird episodes with severed toes dropping from the ceiling and mice and pumpkins in cupboards which may be part of an ongoing a Cinderella reference -although even most adults would miss that one. Finally, the prince has apparently departed again, the cooks can go back to sleep, and it's not just the younger members of the audience who are left wondering "what was that all about?". The only conclusion one can reach is that the main dish served in this kitchen seems to be curate's eggs.

Twelfth Night - Bristol Old Vic

David Farr really is working hard to live up to his oft-quoted label as "one of Britain's most interesting and engaging directors of Shakespeare for a modern audience" (The Independent). Watching this production of Twelfth Night, I gradually noticed a pattern to the phrases that popped into my head: "Will & Grace", "Green Wing", "Cold Feet". Slowly the concept reveals itself: Farr has decided to deliver Shakespearean comedy in a contemporary comic style, and encouraged his actors to adopt the heightened pitch of delivery which characterises successful TV comedy in the early 21st century. Hence Rakie Ayola's Olivia is a woman wobbling - physically at times - on the edge of a love-fuelled nervous breakdown, whilst Mark Lockyer's Malvolio is a vulpine cartoon character. All good knockabout fun, even if it sacrifices depth of character for comic impact. Do you want good gags, or do you want rounded believable characters? Farr has obviously decided that modern audiences want the former rather than the latter, and delivers Shakespeare's comedy as a full-blast twenty-something sitcom, a finely executed concept which is matched by a finally executed set. Admittedly, it's not entirely clear why everything is taking place in what appears to be a derelict country house hotel (unless this is, of course, a subtle reference to the originator of this modern TV comedy style, Fawlty Towers). Or why there is so much water splashing and pooling on stage. Or why Olivia spends the first few scenes sitting slumped on top of a teetering stack of chairs. But they are nonetheless nice 'designer theatre' touches for a demanding audience of young professionals who are culturally aware but not looking for a seriously taxing night out. It is the All Bar One of Shakespearean production.
Yet there is one question that continues to nag long after the house lights have come up. The primary criterion in casting the minor role of Sebastian should always be that he resembles the actress who is cast in the far meatier and more important part of his twin Viola, so that they can be confused (with hilarious consequences, obviously). Now whilst Joseph Kennedy is charming in the role, there is no risk of him being confused with Nikki Amuka Bird. All I can wonder is why, when Farr managed successfully to create two sets of lookalike twins in his last production of The Comedy of Errors, he was unable to find a black actor who could have filled the role of Sebastian without leaving the audience with such an insurmountable hurdle to suspending their disbelief?

Killer Joe - Bristol Old Vic Studio

Why does it happen every time? Whenever I give a glowing recommendation for a play I have not yet seen, it always turns out to be a disappointment. So there I am, cringing with embarrassment as the friend I have lured along with promises of some knock-out, edgy, contemporary theatre tries to put a brave face on his disappointment. Sorry Neil.
What's wrong with Killer Joe? The glib answer would be 'everything'. The production takes what is already a fairly underwhelming script - which Sam Shepherd might have written on a bad day when he was trying to be David Lynch, which recounts a thin tale of dirty deeds amongst Texas lowlifes - and resolutely trashes it. Tracy Letts' piece may not be earthshaking (the cult classic status is probably derived more from the various graphic sexual acts portrayed on stage than the merit of the writing) but it doesn't deserve a staging which comprises a parade of shaky performances with shakier accents.

When there is so much wrong with a production, there is only one place where the buck should stop: the director. Which is a shame, since Toby Farrow is an astoundingly talented playwright. But confronted with another man's play, he has failed dismally as a director right from the start. It is always invidious to play fantasy casting, but when you have the excellent Stuart Crossman actually on the stage, and remember the stunning portrayal of a semi-domesticated psychopath which he gave in Farrow's own play Kangaroo Valley, you wonder why he wasn’t given the chance to apply his powerful presence to the equally challenging and twisted role of Killer Joe, instead of being effectively sidelined as Redneck #1 in the mono-dimensional role of Ansel.
But Farrow's directorial slip-ups unfortunately extend way beyond miscasting. A director's job is to channel the actors' creativity, and part of that it to tell them when their interpretation of a line or even a whole character is quite simply wrong. And it is here that Farrow lets both himself and the actors down, by allowing the cast to deliver an array of performances which make the Beverley Hillbillies look like the epitome of understated naturalism. The result is a tangled mess which has the same sense of undirected and unshaped chaos as last year's Old Vic production of Sam Shepherd's True West.
I'm sure it must possible to stage a convincing and engaging slice of Americana in Bristol. But Killer Joe, like True West, certainly ain't it.