Titter Ye Not...?

Review
Up Pompeii
Royalty Theatre


The Royalty Theatre have chosen a corker for their season finale. And I have to admit I had mixed feelings about going along to it - here is another well-loved classic from TV and film adapted for the stage with all the potential to ruin some youthful memories. If you've seen my reviews of other classics such as "Dad's Army" and "Allo Allo", you'll know I viewed them with similar trepidation... Could any production of Up Pompeii do justice to it without succumbing to a half-cocked (ahem!) Frankie Howerd impersonation? I had more or less decided that I'd give it a miss, until a friend recommended it as a "must see". So I dragged my sister along and I'm glad I did!

I'm sure you all know the plot - Vesuvius is about to errupt, while a Roman senator, Ludicrus Sextus (Peter Kelly), and his family get up to all sorts of things they shouldn't, under the watchful eye of the head slave Lurcio. It is brim full of innuendo, double entendres and straight up smut!

There is a distinct pantomine atmosphere to it with a lot of audience engagement - characters cajole the audience to laugh at jokes, (or not!) depending on how good or bad they are. And some of them are awful!

There are a lot of laughs, and even with a fairly small audience, the actors build the momentum and keep the mood high.

David Farn plays Lurcio with quite a bit of ham, but, thankfully no half-cocked (or not that we saw!) Frankie impersonation. He made it his own character which was all to the good. Irene Lathan is suitably manic as Senna the Soothsayer, and I especially like Henry Cockburn (surely this was no coincidental casting choice??) as the unfortunate and iffeminate Nauseus, and Michael Luke as the very gruff  Capt Treacherus, adding just the right amount of machismo to the proceedings!

My only criticisms would be that The Royalty has a very small stage and there was a lot of scenery on there and, at times, a lot of actors which made it all a bit crowded. The final scene with its excellent special effects and sounds could be an absolute killer (pun fully intended!) as the volcano erupts but it just lacked a little bit of crispness in the execution which left the audience slightly unsure if it was time to applaud or not...which is a shame as it was definitely worthy of a longer show of the audience's appreciation.

Full of laughs, it is well worth the £8 entry. It runs until Sat 28th June. Definitely not one to miss! Thanks to Kathy for persuading me to go along!

For more reviews of theatre in the North East have a look at www.spikemikeisbreakingaleg.blogspot.co.uk

A bit of fun, a poem and some astonishment

What do you do after a long week of setting up rooms, moving furniture, cajoling people to come along to meet an author, fretting in case no-one does come (sometimes they almost didn't), or your author doesn't turn up, or, god forbid, too many people turn up?

Obviously, you go to a poetry gig...one where you are in the audience, able to relax and enjoy it, because all the fretting and furniture moving has been done by someone else this time.

That's not quite true. I dragged my husband along, assuring him it would be fun because John Hegley is a nationally renowned poet. He's been on telly and everything. But the Other Half doesn't really do culture. He does sport. So there was an small element of fret. He hasn't really ever recovered from the last bit of culture I dragged him to at Washington Arts Centre

But, to John Hegley. Excellent. Funny. A natural showman. Not slick exactly, words sometimes got tangled and "photographed feet" came out as "potatoed feet"...but as he said, he covered that well. We barely noticed it (no really, it was all part of the act, wasn't it?).

The audience were cajoled (not by me this time) to participate, with singing, and French translation and guillemot arm actions.
And, during the interval with a poetry competition. Just a bit of fun with a copy of the book as the prize, and using something from the evening as a prompt...so maybe potatoes, or dogs, or feet, but also maybe linked to the place.

The room was pretty much full of local poets and writers. There were at least five at the table front of stage.

So for a bit of fun there'd be no shame in joining in and at least being able to say I'd entered into the spirit of the thing?
And as my group at the library know, I only ever manage three lines so a haiku it would have to be.  I shrank from scribing my paltry 18 (I couldn't quite get it to 17) syllables in the corner of the A4 sheets available. I wrote my 3 lines carefully, legibly in my bestest writing on a leaf from the very small notepad in my bag. Two inches by three. A white rectangle holding my tentative words.

I added it to the growing pile on the table. Laughingly admitting to having added the icon of a pair of specs in the top corner in the event of a tie break being needed. Not a chance in hell it would be needed but I liked to show solidarity with Mr Hegley as a fellow specs wearer.

And so it was done. And I felt slightly foolish and not a little unworthy to be placing my words among those of such talented people. I sat back, drank my drink and enjoyed the start of the second half. A couple of the poems were read out; dogs and potatoes featured. The rest were despatched with the judges (two guest poets Silvia Forest and Rowan McCabe, and Eileen, of who's precise role I am uncertain  other than as an impromptu translator of french potato poetry and purveyor of limerick competitions) to be judged and short-listed.
John assured us that even though not all would make it to the short-list or be read out that night, he would take them all and read them after the show. And if they did not make the short-list it was not because they were no good, it was simply that they were not good enough.

When the judges were called back, the pile of short-listed poems was handed to John. Several sheets of A4 and a small white rectangle - about 2 inches by 3.
I swear my heart stopped. Had these three people deemed my three lines good enough?
Then my natural cynicism kicked in and I thought "No way! That's not my piece of paper". Someone else had obviously used their own notepad too...

The three short-listed poems were read out. I heard two of them. I heard the funny dog poem. I heard the laughter. And then Rowan stepped forward and read:

Penshaw Monument
stands guard above the pitheads.
No miners end their shifts.

And I heard an intake of breath, and an "ah!" and an "oh!" and someone said something but I didn't really hear what because the blood was pounding in my ears and my heart was thumping in my chest and I was not actually breathing. And my husband was laughing at the expression on my face.

Three lines apparently can make an impression, even in a room full of proper poets.  They (I) created a "powerful image".

So much so that I now have a signed copy of New and Selected Potatoes by John Hegley that says to me that my poem was good enough.