A strange play, this. Here is a link to its Wikipedia entry. Writing about it 25 yrars later, it seems in some ways more relevant now than it did then, as evidenced by the several revivals of it in recent years.
And there was Janie and I thinking that we’d spent an evening seeing an interesting play by Caryl Churchill performed exceptionally well. What simple souls we were/are.
This is the third and final part of my 25th anniversary Ogblog trilogy on “how Janie and I got it together”. In case you missed the first two parts and are interested in reading them, here are links to the first two episodes:
So, the ossobuco supper gave me the perfect opportunity to phone Janie to thank her for her hospitality and ask her out.
As luck would have it, I was sitting on a pair of hot tickets, The Street Of Crocodiles at the Cottesloe Theatre. It was my habit back then to book up quite a few such productions a long way in advance, with Bobbie Scully in mind for first dips, but with an unwritten agreement with Bobbie that she couldn’t commit that far in advance and that I might need to find someone else to join me…
…anyway, I had these tickets for 29 August and they seemed an ideal way to reciprocate.
Janie seemed keen on the idea, so the date was set.
I also offered to cook Janie a pre-theatre meal, after first checking that she liked Chinese food.
I can’t remember exactly which dishes I went for, but I’ll guess I plugged for bankable favourites that were reasonably easy to prepare and which needed relatively little clearing up afterwards:
cha chieng lettuce wrap – probably using veal mince or a mix of veal and pork mince;
chicken and cashew nuts with yellow bean sauce;
I thought the second main dish was steak slices with onions, mushrooms and black bean sauce, but Janie reckons the second dish was prawns with ginger and spring onions and now I think she is right;
pak choi with oyster sauce;
steamed basmati rice.
No TripAdvisor review for the meal, but on reminding Janie about it just now, she has described it as “amazing”, so there you go.
But far more amazing than my meal was The Street Of Crocodiles. It really was a stunningly good show.
The play is based on the stories of Bruno Schulz, which (from what we can gather) were weird enough when written, but when given the Complicite treatment, they become a sensory overload of words, music and movement.
Janie had driven to my place and insisted on also driving to the National Theatre – the latter habit being one she rarely deviates from 25 years later.
The evening seemed to have gone splendidly well. Janie was very complimentary about my cooking and seemed very taken with the show.
When we got back to my place, I asked Janie if she wanted to come back upstairs to my flat.
She said no.
I asked her if she was absolutely sure.
Janie said that she was absolutely sure and drove off.
So that was that – although on this occasion I sensed that “no” meant “not this time” and that there would be plenty of other times.
I went to see this play with Bobbie Scully. I remember it very well; both of us were very taken with it. It did prove to be a big hit, transferring and being produced again many times.
This original production really was a cracker. I think it pretty much made Jane Horrocks’s name; I don’t think she was all that well known before – perhaps she was known on the TV. Pete Postlethwaite and Alison Steadman were terrific.
I’m not sure what we did for food, but we tended to go to The Archduke or possibly RSJs after the show in those days.
No on-line reviews from those days, so you’ll just have to take my word for it – it was a cracking show. I rated the evening very good in my log, that’s for sure. Several reviews on-line for subsequent versions refer to the 1992 production – click here for the search term that brings those up.
Better yet, below is Michael Billigton’s Guardian review:
I think they got their timing wrong having press night on 17 December… a rare Cottesloe opening that missed out on Michael Billington or indeed anyone from the Guardian. But in my view it was the critics who missed out on a very good production.
I don’t really remember much about this one, which suggests it was not so memorable an evening at the theatre.
Bobbie might remember it better, but I doubt it.
Excellent cast of National Theatre usual suspects. Ron Cook, Marion Bailey, Sally Rogers, Paul Moriarty, Peter Wight, Gillian Barge, Karl Johnson and many others. William Gaskill directed. The Theatricalia entry for this one can be found here.
Michael Coveney absolutely loved it in The Observer:
I do recall Bobbie telling me about her imaginary friend, some time before this production. But as far as I know that didn’t all go horribly wrong for her. I certainly don’t remember this production generating additional revelations from Bobbie.
That was my verdict in my log and that is my recollection of this production, which I saw with Bobbie.
I also saw the Donmar production in 2003 with Janie. I preferred the 1991 version. Perhaps it was the version or perhaps I had outgrown the play a bit by 2003. Both were excellent productions. I shall write up the Donmar production in the fullness of time.
Meanwhile, in 1991, Alan Cumming played the lead and won the Best Comedy performance Olivier award that year for his trouble. Cumming was involved in the adaptation for the version performed, along with Tim Supple who directed it..
That visit to the theatre was part of a highly active weekend, by the looks of it.
I test drove a Honda in the morning before the play – this was presumably to ascertain whether it would make sense for me to take the souped-up automatic Honda Civic (which subsequently became known as “Red Noddy”) from the Binder Hamlyn car pool, in exchange for my less impressive Renault stick-shift. The answer was yes.
On the Sunday I had lunch with Jilly Black (location lost in the mists of time) and went to Pam & Michael’s place in the evening – possibly for bridge or possibly just supper.
It was my “get out of jail” weekend. Michael Durtnall (my chiropractor) had insisted that I “lock down” for a month to enable my back to start healing – otherwise he wouldn’t treat me. More on that elsewhere, but basically this weekend was the end of my confinement and boy did I make the most of it with Bridge on Friday, this theatre visit on Saturday and a wedding on the Sunday.
I am very keen on David Edgar so we (me & Bobbie) will have long before booked to see this just after press night. I was very pleased to have negotiated my way out of lockdown to see this.
All I wrote in my log is:
Very good. Neil Kinnock and his entourage were there the night we went.
At the time Neil Kinnock was leader of the opposition. I don’t know whether he and/or his entourage took notes during this paly, but it was a political drama to be sure.
It is set in an unspecified former communist country that resembles the former Czechoslovakia.
Excellent cast; Karl Johnson, Stratford Johns and Katrin Cartlidge standing out in my mind.
My log says “little recollection” for this one, so I guess it didn’t make a big impression. Bobbie was with me.
Pirandello is one of those playwrights whose work I want to like more than actually do like. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I tend to enjoy reading his plays, because the ideas are fascinating, but many of them are difficult to produce in an entertaining way – at least to the eyes of the modern audience.
Man, Beast And Virtue is an early Pirandello, written in 1919 (100 years ago as I write in 2019), about two years before his breakthrough play, Six Characters In Search Of An Author.
…but for sure I got back to London in time to see this preview at the Cottesloe.
Bobbie might say, “more’s the pity”, as my log notes that Bobbie absolutely hated it. I merely found it long and hard to follow. That’s how I remember it and that is exactly what I wrote in my log.
Super cast – Tilda Swinton is always very watchable but does often do weird stuff. Also Aidan Gillen, latterly very well known indeed. David Bamber was in it too – thirty years on I tend to watch his son, Ethan, bowling for Middlesex instead.
The play is described as a dramatic poem in the English language text and/but it was basically a family drama.
I wrote the above piece on 14 February 2019, basically because it had been on my mind after writing up Music At Oxford a few days earlier. By strange coincidence, Bobbie Scully turned up at the Gresham Society Dinner that evening, as Iain Sutherland’s guest.
I mentioned the coincidence. Bobbie started to quiver with indignation:
I’d forgotten the name of that darned thing, but it was surely the very worst thing I have ever seen at the theatre…I think we walked out at half time…
…she said. Actually I don’t think we did walk out at half time. I’m sure I would have recorded that fact in my log whereas instead I recorded that the play was long and impenetrable.
I think we stuck it out tho the bitter end…
…I said. I also volunteered to dig deeper into the programme to see if there were in fact two halves.
Yes, there were two halves and they added up to a whopping three hours of hurt for Bobbie.
I’m not sure why we did stick it out. Perhaps I was still wet enough behind the ears to imagine t hat such a piece might yield in the second half all the answers it withheld in the first. I know not to do that now. Perhaps I was so tired and hungover from the joys of Oxford the night before I was reluctant to move on yet.
More likely, we had booked a late night eatery and jointly thought we might as well see the thing through rather than kick our heels somewhere.
Anyway, the whole experience clearly had a profound effect on Bobbie who was shaking with the trauma of recalling that evening and remembered it so well she even said…
…I seem to recall it was only on for a short run…
…which indeed it was.
Nearly 30 years on, Bobbie might wish to read the short essay from the programme too. The least I can do, upload the material, after all I put poor Bobbie through with regard to this play/production.
Postscript Two: Bobbie Chimes In With A Recovered Memory
An e-mail from Bobbie 24 hours after our encounter at the Gresham Society:
I was casting my mind back to that dreadful so-called play (it wasn’t, it was a string of tedious monologues) and had a recollection of being there after the interval in a (suddenly) half empty theatre. So I reckon that, although we did not leave at half time, about half the audience did.
And, indeed, I think that is why we stayed. We came out at the interval, intending to leave, but had pre-booked interval drinks to consume. As we did so, we watched more than half the audience exit the building. I think we went back out of sympathy/solidarity/courtesy towards the cast.
Does this ring any bells with you? Did we really watch the second half because we felt sorry for the actors? Personally, I can think of no other reason …
My response to Bobbie’s considered recollection was as follows:
Yes, we were young and foolish back then. We might well have stayed on for compassionate reasons. There’d be no such snowflake nonsense from this quarter these days. I do recall the second half seeming to drag to an even greater extent than the first half. I also remember an incredible sense of relief when the ordeal ended.
Postscript Three: Here’s a professional view…I don’t think Nicholas de Jongh in the Guardian exactly liked it either:
Billington On The Skriker Sat, Jan 29, 1994 – 24 · The Guardian (London, Greater London, England) · Newspapers.com
