Art, drama, poets, rebels & reprobates: a busy week...

A big week for art in Frome, as Black Swan hosted their Arts Open event with a launch night crammed by celebrity judges of the ilk of Mariella Frostrup and sponsors like Hauser & Wirth and Babington. Naturally, with big names handing out big cash prizes, the private view was too rammed to really see any of the art but there were plenty of smiling faces and I do know that first prize, plus a mentoring award, went to Katherine Fry for her video of a woman sucking a table leg.

Also pictured: the installation which judge Seamus Nicolson feels represents contemporary confusion, and Bea Haines' Nest, picked by Rachael & Gary of PostScript for the 3D prize. I'll go back for a proper look at Words at the Black Swan workshop.

Straight on then to Merlin Theatre for Lemn Sissay giving a dramatic reading of his one-man play Something Dark.  Until earlier this year Lemn was mostly known as a performance poet struggling with a difficult past, but in May he took the extraordinary step of revealing that past not only to the world but to himself, on stage at the Royal Court, shifting his persona from entertainer to something more profound and precious. Lemn ~ his name, he discovered aged 32,  means 'Why'  ~ has experienced many shifts in his life. Fostered as 'Norman', shunted through care homes, crossing the world to find his family and meeting serial rejection, he now works actively with the Forgiveness Project. He sees his search for identity as both unique and universal. From his days as Chalky ~ 'I was nobody, so I became everybody's nobody' ~ to his ultimate acceptance of isolation from his real kin ~ 'Now I have a fully dysfunctional family just like everyone else!' Lemn Sissay finds connection with all of humanity, and a purpose for his own work.

     I am the bull in the china shop

     & with all my strength & will

     As a storm smashed the teacups

     I stood still.

 “It’s about opening up all the dark places that have been closed,” Lemn says “That’s what we’re doing here. We’re digging up the bodies.” Gladys Paulus, whose Hinterland exhibition recently caused such a sensation at Black Swan Arts, would understand that scouring of the past for healing.

From art and life to stage dramas ~ three of them, making for a busy homecoming. Bristol first. Waiting for Godot is so well-known as 'the play where nothing happens’ that any director must feel challenged about what special thing to bring to a new production. Director Mark Rosenblatt at Tobacco Factory brings various bits of things, like pantomime-style audience interaction and bits of slapstick. Estragon (a strong performance from David Fielder) brought a bit of Northern Irish anguish and Colin Connor’s Vladimir brought a bit of gurning comedy, John Stahl’s Pozzo was a bit Wildean and Chris Bianchi while memorably impressive as Lucky also looked a bit like Marley’s ghost; the set was a bit evocative of an unpopular Turner Prize, the costumes were a bit like a post-festival clothes-swap, and the music was... just a bit baffling. It would be good to say that the whole made something fantastic of these disparate parts, but I didn’t feel it did, and the reduced audience for the second act suggested others felt the same. Despite this being a play where nothing happens, there is actually a lot already in it, much of it mysterious and lyrical, exploring themes in the way dreams do. Friendship and freedom, loss and longing, power and personal choice, remembering and forgetting, the search for meaning and guidelines… all in a random repetitious way with no answers. Just like life, you could say. Previously, after tTF productions I'd head for my friend Bob’s place nearby to talk over a nightcap of other things like his passion for the Scottish highlands, but now he's gone to live full-time in a wee bothy or whatever it is highlanders dwell in, so I plodded back to desolate Templemeads to catch the midnight train to Frome reflecting that weird and hopeless as Beckett's script may be, its poetic intensity works best without diversions and, even with fine actors, his staging instructions need to be observed. Also feeling very grateful for the oasis of Wetherspoons. (Production now touring)

Then to Salisbury Playhouse for a play where lots happens, most of it criminal and all absurdly funny: The Ladykillers, produced in conjunction with New Wolsey Theatre Ipswich & Queen's Theatre Hornchurch has been adapted from the 1955 film by Graham (Father Ted) Lineham. There was an endearing innocence about those Ealing comedies, their Laurel-and-Hardy-level violence and humour, simplistic plots and signalled denouements. Anyone who remembered this one from 1955 would delight in the nostalgia, and anyone who didn’t would surely be delighted by the silliness and gags both spoken and visual, the criminal gang's surreal ‘concert’ which bookmarked the interval, and absurdly satisfying final outcome. The complex set was amazing and deserves a permanent place in a museum or at least a branch-line of its own. On a circular stage, a virtually-life-sized station-house rotated to alternately reveal its exterior, sometimes adorned by fleeing criminals, and its 2-storey interior where the cunning-planning and most of the action took place. Mrs Wilberforce (Ann Penfold) was a delightful antithesis to Miss Marple and the five crooks created their OTT character-types superbly, with each gruesome death impressively slick (special credit to bannister-breaking Sam Lupton's Harry and Damian Williams as One-Round, slow-witted even when knifed.) Director Peter Rowe led the production team: Foxton, as well as creating the set, designed the costumes supporting the 1950s look, and presumably also the clever illuminated model of the crime scene. Multiple murder really shouldn’t be so... delightful, once again, is the word. On till 18 November.

Criminals' comic capers on stage are ok when bags of cash are  involved, but terrorism is serious, and so is Daniel Khelmann's play Christmas Eve at Bath's Ustinov Studio Theatre.

Directed by Laurence Boswell in a translation by Christopher Hampton and with an awesomely strong cast, this tense two-hander creates in real-time the hour of interrogation room faced by academic Judith (Niamh Cusack) from a man unknown to her, whose tactics vary from psychological manipulation to browbeating challenge. It's not without dark humour too, mainly from Patrick Baladi who plays Thomas a bit like Gene Hunt from Life on Mars with just a touch of David Brent. It's a great performance, bringing believable complexity to his character even in the least plausible sequences, when  the play seems to be trying too hard to be enigmatic.    Personally I found the discussion of ideology and the dynamics of protest fascinating, though some reviewers might not, and felt the weakness in the script was its unconvincing twists and turns. But definitely recommended, as an entertaining and thought-provoking hour ~ it's on till November 18. I'm now committed to further  research Frantz Fanon, who as well as supporting redistribution of wealth 'no matter how devastating the consequences' wrote Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it.  Which sounds like something Lemn Sissay would understand... and also segues nicely to my final review:

The week's not yet over but this post is already brimming with rebellious struggles and you probably have more to do than sit around reading blogs so I'll end with Thursday night at the Wheatsheaves (the pub with four names, aka also The Wheatsheaf, Frome's new Venue and 23A Bath Street): a rabble-rousing evening of post-punk songs and protest poetry organised by Momentum Frome.
After a stonking set of gloriously dissatisfied & disappointed songs from Beef Unit (FB 'band interest': our dystopian present), the headline act to a packed room was Attila the Stockbroker: (FB 'genre': Surrealist performance poetry, energetic acoustic songs, punk rock with medieval tinges! )
Attila talks a lot about politics and the need for social change, but he talks also about his life, growing up in Southwick (one of the 5 'most normal' towns in the country) with a stepfather he resented ~ though he's written a moving poem about reconciling with this 'decent gentle man' ~ about experiencing bladder cancer, nursing his mother, saving his football club, and how it feels to be still actively performing political protest poetry in a post-grime world... His book, ARGUMENTS YARD, which I was delighted to win in the raffle, is 'a cultural activist's eyewitness journey through the great political battles and movements of recent times.' And he's a terrific performer, with unfaltering focus on timeless class struggle, from medieval punk-folk ballads played on thrash mandolin to fresh-today rants and raves ("He's not the Messiah or a naughty boy, he's the man Murdoch wants to destroy - that's how we know he's the real McCoy, the man they call JC..."). And above all, he says, his message is a simple one: "You don't need to be a celebrity to have a wonderful life earning your living doing what you love." He does however add, "You just have to have a way with words, the self-confidence and organizational ability of Napoleon and a skin thicker than the armour of a Chieftain tank." But that's performance poets for you...

russet moon, golden sun

A Prism for the Sun was the theme for Frome's autumn Poetry Cafe as Rose Flint's new collection has that title,  happily appropriate too in this week's Indian summer. Rose's poems celebrate the natural world, its remorseless power as well as consoling beauty, 'piercingly alive': osprey, swifts, hounds, hares, sparrow hawk shadow and scythe / setting each moment of wild light flying in glory.  Our other superb guest was Mark de'Lisser from Bath, sharing personal spiritual insights ~ two very different poetic voices which worked extraordinarily well together. It was an extraordinary night throughout, full in every way, with fifteen open-mic poets and some amazing readings and performances, endless variety and a fantastic atmosphere. This was a prism indeed, with lucent love poems like Rosie Jackson's First Breakfast and Helen Frame's reflections on our shimmering unknowable future, tender thoughts of family, glimpses of local life, reflections inspired by art, and great evocation of Morpeth by Kevin Ross. As well as readings we had performances of spicy comedy from Muriel Lavender, a strong debut from Liam Parker, and witty bitterness from Hannah Teasdale... so much to entertain, charm, and delight, with too many special moments to list all. Many thanks to everyone who crammed into the Garden Cafe to read, perform, or listen.

Samuel Beckett was notoriously specific about directions for  performance of his plays and his estate has maintained that scrupulous monitoring, which is probably why Waiting For Godot nearly always works superbly ~ as it did in the LCT production at Frome's Merlin Theatre last week.
There are various esoteric interpretations of this play and one obvious one: existentialist despair at the incomprehensibility of life, expressed with a deep and dreary rage that would blend neatly into Dismaland.  Godot isn't God, if you were wondering, Beckett took the name from the French slang for boot and said he wished he hadn't when he realised all theorising thus caused. He isn't Pozzo either, and the two men are not identified as tramps although usually played that way, sometimes in Laurel-and-Hardyish comic style. Director Michael Cabot never ignores the pathos to play just for laughs, which paradoxically makes it funnier as well as more moving: Richard Heap as Estragon and Peter Cadden as Vladimir are both excellent, bickering and hugging with neither rancour nor comfort enduring for more than a moment. Michael Keane is a diminutive but brilliant Lucky, the slave of Pozzo, and his 'thinking' speech ~ a long nonsensical monologue ~ brought spontaneous applause from the audience when he was finally wrestled into silence.

Beckett identified the set laconically (A country road, a tree) and said the action needs 'a very closed box', even suggesting 'a faint shadow of bars on stage floor'. Designer Bek Palmer has added instead a continual series of bubbles rising through dense liquid ~ I quote this from the programme notes as I took it for a mangrove swamp with driftwood lilypads, imposing constraints on movement which for me didn't work. (Bek however also designed their unforgettably amazing set for Betrayal two years ago, which shows something about creative risk-taking not pleasing all the people all the time...) Anyway that didn't significantly detract from a fine production with a strong cast and a some memorable highlights. And in the week the media sizzled with piggery-pokery it was especially entertaining to hear Pozzo rant  Up pig… as though I were short of slaves!   There's more political analogy too: I’ve given them bones, I’ve explained the twilight to them – but is it enough?

A dubious segueway to end this post via the pig mask (which nobody accepted) offered  by Captain Cactus and the Screaming Harlots at the Grain Bar Roots Session ~ a stupendous double set by a brilliant band. The harlots rendition of Fat Bottom Girls was simply superb ~ it's not on Youtube, but this one is. Enjoy!

Frome Festival: phew, it'll be a scorcher...

Frome Festival opened officially on Saturday with Frome Street Bandits parading through the town and a welcome speech by our Mayor, the youngest and possibly tallest in the country, who dressed for the occasion as Lady Penelope's chauffeur. Our town's has always had a punk ethic, my friend Gordon Graft says. This was at the Festival Feast, a massive street party in the market square with stalls of international food and local ale, and dancing to amazing Zora and the Tatsmiths.  Events had started before then, though, with Critters rocking the Cornerhouse and two fantastic opening parties ~ Loop de Loop, the only gallery in a converted public toilet in the world, and Silk Mill where there's an intriguing film/installation (Otter) as well as tapas and open studios. There's art all over the place, including the Archangel and the Garden House which both have great exhibitions, but as with all good festivals, far more than any one person can possibly cover...

Theatrical highlights for the week as featured in Somerset Standard, include Frome Scriptwriters' site-specific performance in the tunnels under the town, now sold out!
And Cornwall's Miracle Theatre brought their open-air summer touring show Waiting for Godot to Merlin ECOS amphitheatre on Sunday evening to the absolute delight of the crowds settled on the grassy steps for a midsummer theatrical picnic. Director Bill Scott says his approach was simply to choose the right actors and read the script with an open mind, and the result is simply brilliant: simultaneously funny & tragic, physical & emotive, combining superb timing with that profound sense of timelessness that makes this play the masterpiece it is. Steve Jacobs & Angus Brown were utterly brilliant as the tramps, and Ben Dyson's anarchic energy brought a manic sorrow to bullying Pozzo while Ciaran Clarke's youthfulness gave the enigmatic Lucky a strangely profound edge. And while the Miracle playfulness with cleverly rehearsed physicality was here, what made this production so excellent was its sense of immediacy, as if every word we heard was being spoken for the first time at that moment. Unforgettable.

ECOS amphitheatre was also in the spotlight ~ literally ~ for the 21st birthday celebrations of this extraordinary circle of monoliths from twelve countries, a European Community Of Stones conceived as a symbol of peace and created by visionaries and volunteers ~ a tribute to 'bravery and madness' and to Frome's unique mix of imagination and bloody-mindedness.  All this and much more was said in a long look back at the history of ECOS and the 'Famous Five' who steered Barry Cooper's idea into actuality, ending with a sublime performance of Imagine by Martin Dimery followed by champagne and birthday cake as the Street Bandits played.
And if you're wondering how Troupers got on when they took A Day in the Death of Joe Egg to Derry for the British Amateur Dramatic One Act Play finals ~ they won!!!

 Our Words At the Frome Festival programme kicked off at Rook Lane on Sunday with Writers & Publishers day at Rook Lane Arts, with talks & events in the elegant chapel hall and one-to-ones with agents under smart little marquees in the garden. Michele Roberts, as senior judge of the Short Story Competition organised annually by Alison Clink, confessed "The greatest reliable pleasure of my life is reading" in her short inspirational address before presenting the winners' cheques. This year's innovation was mini competitions on the day for Flash Fiction and Haiku, both inspiring excellent entries and creating an entertaining lunchtime interlude with cash prizes for two lucky writers: Hannah Teasdale from Bath was voted fiction winner by a trio of judges (thanks Kate Maryon, David Lassman, and Alex Wilson) and poet Claire Crowther selected Emily Gerrard's entry as 'perfect haiku'.    
                                  Frome to Templemeads.
                                  Wild roses pink the hedgerows
                                   ~ a kind of calling.
So now we're on page 10 of your brochures, with sunshine promised as the festival rolls on...

So here I am in California, after 10 hours and 4 movies, none with a shot as good as the icecaps of Greenland. Mo collects me from San Francisco airport and we take the coast road past long pale sands where surfing waves are dramatically eroding the cliffs away, down to Half Moon Bay.
Mo and Anja live here in a blueygrey painted timber house, the Pacific on one side and hills & creeks on the other, canyons in the distance and hummingbirds in the back garden. In short, Wow...
Within an hour of arriving we’re all in Café Gibraltar where I’m mesmerised by the way the waiter chants the specials with particular attention to dressings. I pick the tomato salad with pumpernickel, Peruvian pine nuts and open-sesame seeds, drizzled with light squalls. (I may have misrecalled some of those ingredients, but the waiter applauded my choice & didn’t call the whole thing off even though I pronounced tomato the UK way.) Ah, and there was Californian wine too, I seem to recall...
Next day is mostly orientation & walking by the rocks of Pescadero, with an evening performance of Waiting For Godot at the theatre in Half Moon Bay. Mo plays Pozzo. “One day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you?” It’s an amazing play for many reasons, one of them being that every part seems to have the best lines. The director has decided that this timeless allegory of alienation exactly defines the plight of New Orleans after hurricane Katrina, and his set reflects this. It’s interesting, and of course all interpretations have validity, but for me there’s extraordinary power in Beckett’s evocation of the road to anywhere, and that existentialist question what are we waiting for? is compromised rather than enhanced by a realistic answer: for rescue from specific urban tragedy. That aside, a great production, with some powerful performances, notably Estragon and Pozzo.

A quieter day seemed called for after the cast party: more coastal walking along the bluffs and a little downtown mooching -oo-er that’s me on the poster in the bookshop! I'm hoping my airbag burns will be less livid by the time I perform. We're off to Morro Bay for a couple of days first...