Another Friday evening well spent at the Hampstead Theatre Downstairs.
Here is a link to the Hampstead resource.
This was a strange play in many ways; a drama about a pretty unpleasant, or at least dysfunctional, couple, who lost a child and desperately want to replace her…possibly with a clone.
There was weirdness and creepiness about it, plus some good lines and drama. It was very well performed and helped cement our view that the Hampstead Downstairs is a seriously happening thing.
We were in need of distraction at that time and this was a light, yet thoughtful piece, in which the audience gets to participate in a game show…or is it the financial system?
We’re really keen on Simon Stephens work and had high hopes for this play – high hopes that were indeed met.
The play is basically about Simon Stephen’s home town – Stockport.
This was a revival of one of Simon Stephen’s early works – we didn’t realise that when we booked it, bit never mind.
Years later, when Janie and I went to Southport, I had terrible trouble convincing Janie that they are very different places in the North-West with vaguely similar names.
Unfamiliar names in the cast but all did a cracking job. Superb design too. Marianne Elliott is such a good director.
We missed it when it was first performed downstairs; not sure why as the subject matter will have appealed. Perhaps it coincided with one of our holidays and/or a heavily booked period.
Anyway, the Hampstead knew a hit when it saw one and transferred the piece upstairs (and subsequently beyond).
Again an upper-middle class drawing room drama – even less promising than the second.
We were at a preview. There was Polly, socialising with her friends and relations, who were there to make sure that the preview was well received by the audience…
…it all seemed aa shame and a waste of talent to us. Perhaps Polly was honing her skills for a TV writing career that will be far more lucrative than the stage…and perhaps to that end she is succeeding.
Indifference summed it up for us too. It was entertaining, there were good lines and vignettes in it. If this had been a young writer’s first play we would have oozed about a promising writer. But this piece was a waste of Polly Stenham’s talent and the talent on show with cast and crew too.
I have a copy of the play if anyone wants to seek enlightenment from reading that, let me know. I challenge you.
Tucked into my copy of the play is a short script for something else – I think it is a sample from one of Simon David’s pieces – quite impenetrable without context – clearly it was that sort of night.
Naturally this was a good excuse to encourage people to dress up for dinner…
…as if the Z/Yen crowd in those days needed much excuse to dress up.
The Cinnamon Club, in the old Westminster Library, was an excellent venue. We had the whole of the upstairs mezzanine for our dinner.
I wrote a song that year specifically for the event. Rather a good one, though I say so myself, despite (or perhaps because of) the Christmas cracker joke in the first verse.
