Sound of Music – Sutton Arts theatre- Sutton Coldfield

Posted on June 20, 2025 by garylongden

****

This is not a conventional review. Everyone knows the story, most have seen the film. There is an acting cast of upwards of  forty including rotation and a band of several. Director Emily Armstrong has had to morph into Ridley Scott to deal with this enormous cast and crew. I couldn’t possibly name check everyone.

Does she succeed? Yes she does.

As with Annie, Oliver, and the King and I, a large cast of children helps enormously with ticket sales, tonight  the House  was sold out. Yet although a commercial banker, artistically it is a bit of a minefield. The film has mountains and numerous locations, an amateur production does not. But what is present is a catalogue of some of the  best and most loved songs in musical theatre. Armstrong ensures she wrings  every ounce of magic from them. The stage set team opt for a surreal impressionist backdrop.

More challenging is the central theme of the rise of the Far Right, a phenomena emerging in the Uk with reform , and in Europe. The message that acquiescence is not the answer is not dodged. Swastikas fly ominously

Pivotal to the show’s success is the casting of Amy Davies as Maria who channels her inner Julie Andrews to the maximum, but in a 2025 way. Fey, demure, frustrated, unfulfilled, lustful;  all of those emotions are  neatly deployed.

Opposite her  Paul Westood  is a pleasing Captain Von Trapp, initially stiff, then lovelorn.

Star of the supporting cast is Liz Berriman as the Mother Abbess. The first half, on the warmest evening of the year, was a remarkable 95 minutes. Using the railway, it is possible to climb Mount Snowdon in half that time and the Germans would surely have made Paris, Stalingrad  and Warsaw in that time too. Yet just as the heat and time were starting to overwhelm, Liz steps up and gloriously exhorts us to “Climb Every Mountain” and we made it to the interval! And everything is alright.

My other favourite supporting cast actor was, Nick Snowdon  as Quisling Max Detweiler who almost evoked the biggest  laugh of the night when a slip of the tongue meant that he announced that Von Trapp was joining the Royal rather than German navy! The much shorter, 50 minute second half whizzed by. I can be a miserable curmudgeon, but even I had a tear in my eye when the children sang ” So long
Farewell Aufwiedersehn Goodnight”

All in all a hugely enjoyable evening with the band miraculously playing from the cafeteria through lack of space yet still sounding great. The Von Trapps will continue to avoid the Nazis until Saturday  28th June.

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Kiss me Quickstep- Derby Theatre

Posted on June 10, 2025 by garylongden

***

A criticism that could never be levelled at Derby Theatre is that it is predictable and boring. Next year we have the Classic Macbeth,  tonight we had Kiss me Quickstep a contemporaneous tilt at dramatizing the modern media interest in ballroom dancing.

Even better it is in the hands of prolific local playwright and literary polymath Nottingham’s  Amanda Whittington. Her plays tend to focus on a female perspective and there is  plenty  for her to have a go at here with sequins galore, fabulous frocks, fixed smiles, fake tan and the backstage bitching of competitive ballroom dancing.  The wardrobe department  will rarely have been busier.

Three couples take centre stage in a production  sharply directed by Theresa Heskin which has the razzle dazzle to the fore.

The cast feature Russian  Luka Kralj, who has come from Russia to compete in the championships, and his partner Nancy Knight, in training since she was three,  aided and abetted by her rich dad, Mick,  who is determined to bankroll her dreams.

 Jodie and Justin Atherton overcome a car breakdown to stagger in. Lee Hart and Samantha Shaw,  sashay and swagger  as favourites for the title.

There is little to fault the acting in Theresa Heskins’s production. Hannah Edwards is engaging as Nancy, especially when she sticks to her principles. There is tension towards the end when she clashes with her win-at-all-costs dad, played with vigour and credibility by Jack Lord. Isaac Stanmore gives an impressive portrayal of Luka whose focus on perfection is matched by his persuasive  Russian accent.

Abigail Moore and Matt Crosby are arresting as Jodie and Justin, the couple whose motives for taking part in the competition change more times than Jodie swaps her costume. They are probably the finest dancers too, admirably strutting their stuff in both the ballroom and Latin sections.

Amy Barnes is captivating as Samantha, the envied dancer who has appeared twice on the cover of Dancing Times but who swigs vodka as she struggles to find her real self. Ed White shines as Lee who feels his drive and ambition are far more important than Samantha’s self-doubt. As he says, “competitive dancing is not about confidence. It’s the illusion of confidence. And you can create that.”

When members of a community ensemble from the Academy for Theatre Arts take to the floor, there are 11 couples displaying their talents at one time. The dance routines are little short of extraordinary. There’s a winsome waltz, a tingling tango, a sizzling samba and a pulsating paso doble.

The dance routines are dazzling, the script stitches it all together, no-one puts a foot wrong.

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‘ Guitar ‘  by Earl Slick- an autobiography book review

Posted on June 6, 2025 by garylongden

Not only is Earl Slick my favourite Bowie guitarist, he is also one of my favourite all time guitarists. So my expectations of this book were high. Fortunately, I was not disappointed.

licks credits read like excerpts from a compendium of contemporary music. from John Lennon to the New York Dolls – but it was his association with David that defined him he  was barely out of his teens when David Bowie hired him to play guitar on the ground-breaking 1974 Diamond Dogs tour.  a relationship that would endure through thick and thin for the next forty years playing on Young Americans, Station to Station and the 2013 comeback, The Next Day, Slick played on the tour that followed Bowie’s  hit Let’s Dance album and was at his side for the epic Glastonbury show in 2000.

Other collaborations read like a roll call of rock ‘n’ roll royalty including Mick Jagger, The Cure, George Harrison, Ringo Starr, Joe Cocker, Buddy Guy, Ian Hunter, David Coverdale and Eric Clapton. And in the ‘80s he became an MTV star in his own right with the success of Phantom, Rocker and Slick. Through it all he lived the rock ‘n’ roll life to the hilt, until it nearly killed him.

The wise decision to use musician and journalist Jeff Slate to write the book with him pays dividends. It is lucid, chronological and insightful  professionally musically   and personally. It does not rely upon salacious gossip, the raw truth is powerful, and interesting enough.

My favourite woman of mystery Coco not only organised auditions, but also sometimes ran them.  Slick overdubbed  Ronson’s lead guitar on the Ziggy Stardust motion picture album on  “Width of a circle” due to technical issues on the original recording. ( check out the versions on “David Live” and  “The motion picture album”.Drug use was so endemic amongst the touring party that Slick was “snowballing” taking cocaine and heroin. He cannot remember  the “Across the universe” session he was so out of it ( most of us are keen to forget it too). He was amongst the mutineers for the recording of the David Live Album when they arrived to find recording equipment and vans- but no payment proposals for the album. Despite several contractual/ financial spats his admiration for, and desire to play with, David never diminished. I could not help but reflect that Ronson could have learned much from Slick in his business dealings.

A fine book and  must for all Bowie fans. Slik closes by saying that his epitaph was written on the liner notes to Station to Station :

Guitar- Earl Slick

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Burial site for George Heath- the Moorlands poet

Posted on May 31, 2025 by garylongden

St Michaels Church Horton, Staffs

As a past Staffordshire Poet laureate I have always been fascinated by George Heath, the gifted poet who died aged only 25 years old of “Consumption” or what we call Tuberculosis a major killer up until the early 20th century.

Originally, nobody knew what caused the various forms of tuberculosis, so called from tubercle bacillus (usually the offending microbes are specifically Mycobacterium tuberculosis).

The word “tuberculosis” was coined by Johann Lukas Schönle in 1839, from the Latin “tuberculum,” meaning “small, swelling bump or pimple.” However, it wouldn’t be until 1882 when Dr. Robert Koch discovered the tubercle bacillus, for which he won a Nobel Prize in 1905, that the name “tuberculosis” began being exclusively used to refer to the disease formerly popularly known as consumption.

The microbes that cause the disease have been around for at least 15,000-20,000 years with known human deaths being caused by the bacteria dating back at least as far as 5,000 years ago, so the current name is an extremely recent moniker relative to how long the disease has been around.

The much older name originally came from the ancient Greeks who called the disease something meaning “consumption,” “phthisis,” specifically referring to pulmonary tuberculosis, with the earliest references to this being in 460 BC.

The “father of Western medicine,” Hippocrates, estimated that phthisis was the most widespread disease of his age. He further told his students that they shouldn’t attempt to treat patients in the last stages of phthisis, as they were sure to die and it would ruin his protégés’ reputation as healers if they made a practice of attempting to heal such individuals.

The disease seemed to consume the individual, with their weight drastically dropping as the disease progressed.

St Michaels Church Horton is beautifully located even if the building itself is routine. A Parish church built in C15 with C17 alterations and largely internal circa 1864 restoration by Sugden. Coursed sandstone; red tile roof to nave
and chancel, with verge parapets.

The Victorians loved their Church cemetries. This one is atypical.

Serena Trowbridge ( Reader in Victorian Literature, Birmingham City University) writes:

” Victorians ritualised death. Black mourning clothes were worn for set periods of time after bereavement, the length of time depending on the relationship. After this, grey or purple would then be worn. Jewellery was made of the hair of the deceased and photographs were taken of the corpse with their family. Curtains in the house were drawn after a death, and the bell and door-knocker muffled.

The Victorian attitude to death was epitomised by the public mourning of Prince Albert in 1861. Queen Victoria’s consolation, beside the Bible, was the reading of Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s In Memoriam (1849), a long poem which explores the undulating patterns of grief. Victoria’s response to the poem exemplifies the Victorian approach to death, in which the dead are mourned and memorialised rather than seen as lost forever. This Christian approach is also reflected in the graveyards of the period.

From 1832 or 1841, cemeteries were constructed around London to cope with the growing problem of the burial of the dead. Cremation was rare and seen as unacceptable, and existing graveyards were overflowing, with coffins often stacked up.

Perhaps the most famous of these London cemeteries is Highgate, opened in 1839. It became the resting place for many famous figures, including the author George Eliot, the poet Christina Rossetti, and members of Dickens’ family.

Another cemetery, at Brookwood in Surrey, was opened in 1854 after the cholera epidemic of 1848-9 overwhelmed the system. It was served by the London Necropolis Railway, which ran trains from Waterloo carrying mourners and coffins. The Necropolis Railway emphasised the class-bound nature of death and mourning, with carriages and waiting rooms (which doubled as funeral parlours) divided into first, second and third class.

Sacred space

Graveyards offered a sacred space for bereaved families to reflect on their losses. This encounter between the living and the dead provides one of the most famous scenes in Victorian literature, when young orphan Pip visits the graves of his family in the opening pages of Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations (1861).

Pip explains how his images of his family were formed by their tombstones:

The shape of the letters on my father’s, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, ‘Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,’ I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly.

The site of the burial of the dead also proves a turning point for Pip’s future. He is surprised by the appearance of “a fearful man”, Magwitch, who demands Pip’s help. The child’s terrified acquiescence alters the course of his life in ways he does not yet fully understand.

This tendency to situate significant encounters among the dead is widespread in Victorian fiction. In The Woman in White (1860) by Wilkie Collins, a key encounter between the hero and the elusive woman in white takes place in a graveyard:

Under the wan wild evening light, that woman and I were met together again, a grave between us, the dead about us, the lonesome hills closing us round on every side.

As the hero-narrator points out, “the lifelong interests which might hang suspended on the next chance words” make him anxious and add drama to an already tense scene.

As spaces charged with emotion, then, in which one may reflect on one’s own future as well as past, graveyards provide a fruitful literary backdrop. Thomas Hardy uses this concept regularly, notably in Tess of the D’Urbervilles (1891), in which the tombs of the heroine’s supposed ancestors provide uncomfortable settings for several encounters with her past and present, leading to her ultimate downfall.

Death and resurrection

Death was not an end for the majority of Victorians, but the beginning of a new future. As Tennyson wrote in his poem “Crossing the Bar”:

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the Bar.

The conviction in resurrection and ascension to Heaven which sustained the mourners was accompanied by a growing interest in séances and spiritualism as a way to remain in contact with the dead, and of course the graveyard consequently featured in many ghost stories.

Truth is even stranger, however. In 1869, the body of Elizabeth Siddal, painter and poet, was exhumed by firelight in Highgate Cemetery, to recover the manuscripts of poems tossed in with her body by her grieving husband, the Pre-Raphelite artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti. it was said that her body was perfectly preserved, and that her red hair had continued growing and filled the coffin.

The worm-eaten manuscripts are now in the British Library, and it has been suggested that Siddal’s exhumation inspired Bram Stoker in his portrayal of Lucy Westenra in Dracula (1897).

Graveyards are a place where different human concerns meet: sadness, loss, history, tragedy, and uncertainty for the future. Yet these fictional graveyard encounters contain seeds of hope, in which the characters move from loss to a brighter future.

“George Heath was born in the village of Gratton in the Staffordshire Moorlands in 1844.

Educated at the village school, he worked on his father’s farm, then was apprenticed to a builder.

While working on the church in the neighbouring village of Horton, he caught a chill which developed into consumption and he died five years later at the age of 25.

…He was also a poet. During his brief lifetime he achieved little more than local fame as ‘the Moorland Poet’…

He was also a poet. During his brief lifetime he achieved little more than local fame as ‘the Moorland Poet’ and ‘the Invalid Poet’.

He published two slim volumes of verse but after his death his friends produced an edition of his poems and also arranged for a memorial stone to be erected over his grave in Horton churchyard.

Death and the frustration of unfulfilled ambition are the two major themes of his poetry, and the epitaph on his gravestone (quoted above) reveals his own belief that his work would be forgotten. Hopefully he will be proved wrong.”

-Robert Buchanan.

http://www.robertbuchanan.co.uk/georgeheath/index.html – A great website full of information about George Heath and his poems.

George Heath (1844 – 1869)

George Heath’s Poem about Rudyard:

RUDYARD.

SUNSET MUSINGS.

Glorious Rudyard; gorgeous picture,
How I love to gaze on thee,
Ever fraught wtth sunny memories,
Ever beautiful to me!

Whether blushing Spring enwrap thee
In its robe of virgin pride,
Whether golden Summer steep thee
In its mellow gushing tide;

Whether drooping Autumn flood thee
With its dreamy chastened light,
Whether chilling Winter drape thee
In its vest of spotless white;

Whether storms sweep grandly o’er thee,
Light or gloom their charms impart,
Ever grand, sublime, majestic,
Ever beautiful thou art.

And I love to roam in twilight,
From the busy haunts of toil,
From Oppression’s galling fetters,
From Deception’s soulless smile,

Here to sit and gaze upon thee,
As I gaze upon thee now,
With the balmy zephyr playing
On my hot and aching brow.

How sublimely grand the picture
Stretching out before my gaze;
Deluged with the glowing splendour
Of the sun’s declining rays,

Lies the lake in tranquil beauty,
Like a model mimic sea,
Like a brightly polished mirror,
In a frame of ebony;

Like a flood of molten silver,
Froth of gold and sapphire dipped,
Flashing back the efflorescence
Of the summer’s blazing light.

And away, far up the valley,
Rising from the sunlit tide,
Towering hills in stately grandeur,
Bound the view on either side,

Turning, twisting, undulating,
Sinking low or peaking high,
Throwing up a jaggy outline,
Quaintly cut against the sky.

Bulging mounds and blocks of granite
Rise in beauty all around,
Lichen grown, and moss enamelled,
Ivy wreathed, and bilberry crowned.

Rugged cliffs of mouldering sandstone
Break abruptly here and there,
Like a patch of coarsest fustian
On a robe of beauty rare;

In whose fossil-bedded strata,
Like an ancient crypt unsealed,
Lies the bloom of bygone ages,
To the curious eye revealed,

Seeming placed to point this moral
To the thoughtless and the gay,
All that’s fair must fade and perish,
All that’s beautiful, decay.

And above and all around me
Stalwart trees bedeck the scene,
Tendril-twined and ivy-mantled,
All enrobed in richest sheen;

Like a mighty host of giants,
Armed and ready for the fight,
With the lightning’s gleaming falchion,
And the tempest’s awful might;

And the sun in haze of beauty,
Sinks in solemn peace to rest,
’Neath the bright and mystic curtain
Of the crimson-glowing west.

Fleecy mists of gorgeous splendour,
Clouds of shapes and forms untold,
Sail like argosies of tinsel,
O’er a sea of burnished gold;

Softly breaking up and parting,
Gently gliding to and fro,
Mirrored in the glassy bosom
Of the peaceful lake below.

And the mason’s busy hammer,
And the mower’s tinkling scythe,
And the whistle of the teamster,
And the song of milk-maid blithe—

All are hushed, and peaceful Silence
O’er the scene its mantle throws;
Not one sight or sound discordant
Breaks the spell of sweet repose.

And the stilly, dreamy motion
Of the vapours gliding o’er,
And the plashing of the wavelets
As they break upon the shore,

And the calm and saintly murmur
Of the tall and stately trees,
As they chant their thrilling vespers
To the music of the breeze—

All combine to soothe my spirit,
Panting, yearning, sad, and sore;
Waft my thoughts from present sorrows,
To the happy days of yore:

When I met my noble Mary
Oft amid this shady bower,
When the flush of day was fading
In the mystic twilight hour;

When together oft we wandered
Through the flower-enamelled glade,
Sat in silent contemplation
In the cool and leafy shade;

Watched the unsuspecting rabbit
Frisking through the bushy grove,
Heard the rooks in noisy confab
In the giant trees above;

Went in search of curious flowerets,
Climbed the rocks for fern and heath,
And together, for her forehead,
Twined a rainbow-coloured wreath;

Watched the mighty locomotive
Rushing grandly on its way,
And the snow-white wreath of vapour
Softly break and die away;

Sought for shells amid the shingle
On the lakelet’s rugged side,
Watched the ever busy swallow
O’er its shining surface glide;

Launched our skiff upon its bosom,
When the wind was calm and still,
Gazed enraptured on the picture,
And of beauty quaffed our fill.

Then when passion or ambition
Filled my soul with wild unrest,
Or, when sorrow or affliction
Quelled the demon in my breast,

Standing grandly there before me,
With her cool hand on my brow,
Gazing fondly, sadly on me—
Ah! I seem to see her now—

She would breathe the balm of kindness
O’er my sufferings and my wrongs,
Read me thoughts of grand old authors,
Sing me sweetly soothing songs;

Speak in strangely thrilling accents
Of that land beyond the sky,
Where “the weary, heavy laden”
Find eternal rest and joy—

Till my brooding soul, enraptured,
Soared on Fancy’s glowing wings
Far beyond this realm of turmoil,
Up to brighter, nobler things.

But those days of halcyon glory
Like a vision passed away,
Like a fitful gleam of sunshine
On a dreary winter’s day;

Leaving nought behind to cheer me
Through this world of storm and blight,
But the sweetly soothing memory
Of their evanescent light;

For the summer waned and deepened,
Softer grew the twilight’s hush,
Meeker grew the morning’s dawning,
More subdued the noontide flush;

And disease, like deadly night-shade,
O’er my Mary cast its blight,
Paler grew her cheeks of beauty,
Grew her eyes more large and bright.

Whiter grew her brow of marble,
Softer grew her hand of snow,
Fainter came her voice’s music,
Feeble fell her steps and slow.

Then we wandered here but seldom,
For it only seemed to cast
O’er our lives a deeper shadow—
We were dreaming of the past—

And the tender, chastened aspect
Of its beauty, seemed to say,
“All that’s fair, alas! must wither,
All that’s beautiful decay.”

But we never spoke of parting,
Though we knew that we must part,
Either strove to hide that knowledge,
From the other’s bleeding heart.

But the Summer passed, and Autumn,
Meek-eyed Autumn, came again,
With its wreath of faded flowerets,
And its wealth of golden grain.

’Twas the solemn hour of midnight,
And the moon shone clear and bright,
Silvering o’er the silent landscape,
With its weird mysterious light,

When I stood among her kindred,
Gazing on her features fair,
Stroking back the silken tresses
Of her wavy ebon hair.

And she looked so like an angel,
In her mute and dreamless sleep—
All the past came flooding o’er me,
And I turned away to weep.

Came her voice serene and saint-like,
“Do not leave me yet awhile;“
Then I looked, her eyes were brilliant,
And her features wore a smile

As she gazed around upon us,
Pointing with her snow-white hand,
Through the vista of the future,
To that brighter, better land.

Softly whispering “Loved ones meet me,
On that far celestial shore,
Where the noble faithful-hearted
Meet again to part no more.”

Then her hand dropped down beside her,
O’er her features passed a change,
Pallid grew her lips and rigid,
Glassy grew her eyes and strange.

And I knew, though almost frantic,
As the dear white hand I pressed,
That the worn and weary spirit,
Had at last gone home to rest.

Time passed on, and sunny summer
Came again to deck our bowers,
With its robe of gold and emerald,
And its wreath of ferns and flowers.

All around was love and beauty,
All seemed happy as of yore,
But the bliss of vanished moments
Came to cheer my heart no more.

And a weary, weeping wanderer,
O’er this wilderness I roam,
Till the summons come—“’Tis finished!
Leave thy toil and hasten home.”

George Heath – The Moorland Poet
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Me and Mr Jones – Suzi Ronson ( book review)

Posted on May 24, 2025 by garylongden

I have previously mentioned a new book by veteran British music PR Alan Edwards   ( I was there) which sheds light on his life with some of the biggest names in music, including David Bowie, the Spice Girls and Amy Winehouse.

I invariably find that books not exclusively about David can be amongst the most informative. I was impressed by how David stood shoulder to shoulder alongside the best artists he had worked with .I also had no idea how knowledgeable David was about the Press in general and his skill in getting what he wanted. Curiously Coco gets a free pass. Not a bad word said. I highly recommend it.

This time around it was the turn of Suzi Ronson and her book “Me and Mr Jones”. Although I review professionally I bought the book with my own money!

I approached Suzi’ Ronson’s “Me and Mr Jones” with some trepidation. There were obvious elephant traps galore but overall I was pleasantly surprised.

Firstly, it is sharp and well written, I suspect a testament to the editing team at Faber. The reality is that she only knew David for a brief period of time, firstly as part of his broader social set with Angie, and then intimately on tour with him for Ziggy.

I was not that interested in, or bothered about her unremarkable, atypical home life or nascent career as a hairdresser. I did enjoy her tales of the louche, bohemian, dissolute lifestyle at Hadon Hall. Her admission that she had slept with David felt designed to give her story credibility, and she was at pains to point out that it was ok with Angie.  So she “had” the lead guitarist and singer with the band…, she has to work hard to steer this away from being a groupie’s  tale. And yet her good fortune is told humbly. One good haircut creates Ziggy for David and the band, and soon she is their stylist and hold of the backstage to onstage torch from which she swears to keep confidences untold. And yet there is a pretty unedifying  explicit tale of David rapaciously devouring a young man whom she had been instructed to lure out of the crowd in the back seat of his limo n she presents his time with rhe LA “Baby squad” as a matter of record.

Curiously, underpinning all of this is Tony Defries’ managerial brilliance, and any idea that David was living a life of penury patently untrue.

Obviously she has the inside track on the firing of the Spiders via an overheard conversation.

Once Mick is fired, there is no more “Me and Mr Jones” but several interesting lines of exploration are squandered. The Hunter/ Ronson nexus  is defined by how much she liked Ian and his wife, the premature abandonment of the project blamed on the management deal that Mick had signed with Defries. The musical background is pretty much ignored- perhaps she didn’t know?

She is stronger on the background  to Mick and Dylan’s  Rolling Thunder tour, however her gripe that she was not invited on the first part of the tour seems churlish. The musical and ephemeral anecdotes are strong, engaging ,and well told and worth the purchase in their own right including a great story about the two tour bus caravan  and Bobs’ Winnebago in  which he inadvertently left his dog tied to a tree a hundred miles back and had to send a biker to recover the dog.

Shockingly she reveals that Mick ended up owing Mainman money for the Rolling thunder tour he spent so much on drink, drugs gambling and assorted expenses. Is this DeFries at his worst? Or were Mick and Suzi, both grown ups, hopeless at managing their financial affairs?

Overall a good read, well written. The book ends abruptly with a cursory mention of Mick’s passing which disappointed me, Bowie fans are Ronson fans. No mention of Lisa Ronson  ( recently of Holy Holy Fame) either and she is such a talent. Loved hearing her sing “Lady Stardust”, and friends I believe with Morgan Visconti. Mick’s farewell on the big stage at the Freddie Mercury tribute when he played , majestically , with Bowie and Hunter on “Dudes” is not mentioned. It appears that post the Spiders schism, she hasn’t heard from David at all. But the book is billed to be about her and David- so it meets its objectives.

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Just Between Ourselves – Derby Theatre

Posted on May 10, 2025 by garylongden

Just between ourselves

***

A London Classic theatre production.  LCT have performed for twenty five years, this is their 49th Uk tour and their third Ayckbourn play .  “Just Between Ourselves”  was premiered  in 1976, almost a half century ago and hasn’t been toured professionally for fifteen years.  One of 91 Aykbourn plays, it certainly deserves a dusting down and re-evaluation.

It features  5 birthdays, 2 unhappy marriages and 1 possessive mother as two couples marriages come under the spotlight and the specific glare of   a possessive, domineering mother/mother-in-law, Marjorie.

Connie Walker  as Marjorie dominates ; not only the characters, but the play itself. Her son comments that Scorpios ( Marjorie’s star sign )are secretive, scheming and devious.- a neat character summary as the tale teeters between  tragedy and comedy ,  comedy realised with acute, astute observations on the human condition which are painfully accurate. Tom Richardson (Dennis) is trying to sell a wrecked mini  to Joseph Clowser (Neil) whose wife  Helen Phillips (Pam) is indifferent to all around. Holly Smith ( Vera) is a bigger wreck than the mini. Physically the set by Liz Wright looks a little chaotic yet with lovely touches including  swirly orange and brown garden chairs and a  floral tea set, It could only be  the 1970s. The costuming is gloriously spot on . Voluminous  flapping flares, sensible  plaid skirts and stripey jumpers  abound.

Director Michael Cabot skilfully draws the omnipresent  underlying tensions and hostility to the surface allowing each actor to turn their character inside out. It is 1976, Dennis tinkers in his garage, and over a course of twelve months as he attends to a mechanical breakdown he is oblivious  to wife  his Vera’s impending emotional breakdown. Marjorie hovers in the background, making tea and finding fault while hypochondriac  friend  Neil has planned a birthday surprise for his wife,  Pam, who is less than enthusiastic.

The first half, featuring the men feels ungainly, however when the women enter the fray in act two , the pace accelerates. Gender roles and dynamics have moved on in the past fifty years ,so the liberation the women seek feel a little discordant. The bumbling macho male tropes seem similarly dated, the psychiatric problems awkward, with the misogyny and bullying uneasy laughs. Nonetheless Dennis is enjoyably frenetic in a way that basil Fawlty fans would appreciate and  Helen Phillips as Pam give an alluring pleasing performance.

Poignant, potent, wry and funny this is a worthy revival and runs until   sat 17th May before continuing on nationwide tour.

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Gladiator 11- film review

Posted on May 5, 2025 by garylongden
Gladiator II

Gladiator II 2024

★★★★ Watched 05 May 2025

I am a big sword and sandals fan and loved the first film. This sequel turned out to be both impressive and a disappointment at the same time


It is a lazy reheating of the first film, copying, but not improving upon the original. If you’ve seen the first one, you’ll quickly realize that you’re watching something you’ve already seen. And once something becomes a repetition of something great, it’s almost impossible to recapture that same level of greatness. Mescal, Washington, and the rest of the cast do their best, but this movie relies heavily on nostalgia.Denzel Washington’s portrayal is noteworthy, but his American accent felt somewhat out of place within the context of the film. It occasionally detracted from the immersion, making it harder to connect with his character fully.

For the most part, it repeats the structure of the original story and follows all the clichés typical of sword-and-sandal films: the plot, the betrayal, the arena fights-you name it. The irony is that people who haven’t seen the first one will probably enjoy this movie far more than those who remember the original.


The opening sea battle scene is terrific, the denouement at the close is not.

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Boys From the Blackstuff – Derby Theatre

Posted on April 11, 2025 by garylongden

*****

This drama as a television series made an enormous impact upon me as a young man in my early 20’s. In my memory it stands out as one of the finest social dramas I have ever seen. Originally written in the late 1970’s, but first televised in 1982, it came to encapsulate the despair of the early Thatcher Era. Alan Bleasdale’s original five episodes were just that, episodic and didn’t have a central narrative. James  Graham has taken on the daunting task of adapting it for stage and reimagining it for an audience forty years on.

He has created a visceral tour de force as powerful as anything I have seen at Derby Theatre in the last decade eclipsing even “Brassed off”

The totemic figure of the drama is Yosser Hughes, originally played by the late Bernard Hill on television, now on stage by  Barry Sloane

How do you adapt one of the all time great British TV series of the ‘80s for the ‘20s stage? ‘Very respectfully’, is the answer offered by James Graham’s version.

A reporter once asked Bleasdale, “Is it a problem that you have never written anything as good as “Boys from the Blackstuff”?

His response: “Who Has?”

James Graham is an excellent choice as adaptor. His script is faithful, respectful,  humorous, but kinetic and muscular too.  His success with the  Gareth Southgate drama ‘Dear England’,  demonstrated his own credentials at writing popular drama. Rehashing the iconic  original series  into something coherent and familiar is no easy task

Dramatically the play pivots around the shredded masculinity  and mental breakdown of Hughes. As our male Liverpudlian labourers endeavour to make a few bob on the sly to keep their head above water during a recession which has drowned their hopes and prospects. Hughes’ deranged and desperate catch phrases of  :“Gissa job and  “I can do that” still resonate today in an era when automation and artificial intelligence look set to rob a new generation of the dignity of labour. Barry Sloane as Hughes is magnificent who delivers an exhausting portrayal of a man on, then  over, the edge.

However Hughes now faces a nemesis in  Moss (Jamie Peacock), a young DHSS officer determined to make a name for himself. Chancellor Rachel Reeves will love him.

 Kate Wasserberg’s production is authentic and minimalist with a  glowering stark, industrial-style set from Amy Jane Cook.

What  Wasserberg does incredibly well is to trust the characters. With spellbinding realism, Hughes is the tragic  character  whom Shakespeare would have been pleased to insert into one of his Tragedies. When  Nathan McMullen’s Chrissie, is offered a job which he rejects  for ethical reasons – his obstinate refusal to accept it in the face of his desperate wife’s fury and tears is deeply unsettling in a memorable dramatic highlight eclipse only by the slow motion balletic depiction of the Police raid on Hughes’ house. Mathew Bourne would be impressed.

On the one hand ‘Boys from the Blackstuff’ is a period piece with the workforce facing 1970/s 80s mass unemployment and deindustrialisation. But its relevance is reinvented for 2025  as  the Chinese look to wipe out the Scunthorpe steel works and  Derby’s Rolls Royce awaits the shattering effects of Trump’s tariffs on sales and jobs.   Runs at Derby until sat19th April then continues on nationwide tour. Cancel whatever else you have on and come and see this production.

https://www.kenwright.com/productions/boys-from-the-blackstuff-2025-tour/
https://www.kenwright.com/productions/boys-from-the-blackstuff-2025-tour/

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Spitfire Girls- Derby Theatre

Posted on April 10, 2025 by garylongden

*****

This is a story with which I was already familiar. I always thought it would make a good drama and  Tilted Wig and MAST productions  have done it proud

It features two female lead roles, itself a rarity, two sisters Dotty and Bett played by Laura Mathews and Katherine Senior opening in  in the “Spitfire” pub in 1959. Betty starts to reminisce.

They had applied to be pilots with the ATA  ( air transport Auxilliary) whose role it was to deliver ( fly) new aircraft to their new home airfields. Simply qualified as pilots, the young women were then tasked with flying whatever they were given, could be a Spitfire, Hurricane, Lysnader, Mosquito , or Lancaster without navigational aids or radios, simply using the lie of the land.

Sarah Beaton’s  simple set enables them to recreate their flying exploits in convincing style. Although it was a serious, responsible role,  of course girls just wanna have fun and there is plenty of that too alongside sibling rivalry, and love, bright red lipstick and very stylish flying jackets. Wardrobe should keep an eye on those!

Director Sean Aydon adeptly enters the drama through the big lens of the well known story of the second world war before zooming in on the micro story of Betty and Dotty. Katherine Senior’s script skilfully presents gender equality as fact, not hectoring politics. Eamon O Dwyers sound is atmospheric, nostalgic, but never intrusive or overly  sentimental. It is also subtly on point. An atmospheric musical interlude borrows from Brian Eno’s “Music for Aiports !Dot evocatively  sings an excerpt from “The Trolley Song”, made famous by  forces favourite Judy Garland in “Meet by in St Louis” in 1944.

The relationship between Dotty and Betty is neatly developed, yet it also explores the sheer joy and exhilaration of the freedom of flying. Stephen Moynihan succeeds in keeping a small cast  visually fluid around the stage. Incredibly Peter Small’s lighting is searchlight free!

The social history of the time is remarkable. Around a million British men died in World War 1.  So for World War Two only twenty years later, physical manpower was reduced, an entire  tranche of men who would have been experienced, skilled  workers, managers and husbands did not exist , and there was work which needed to be done. Betty and Dot’s father laments the absence of help on the farm precipitated by their absence flying.

 I well remember in the 1960s seeing my Aunty Joan’s fingers stained yellow from cordite while   working in an ammunition factory. How they coped with being shunted out of work to allow the men to return and work I do not know.

Bett and her sister, Dot  join the ATA at the same time, much to the ire of their father. We follow their exploits in love and war, all remembered by the pair many years later, on the eve of 1960 in the Spitfire pub in which the play opens. Zany Dot embodies the can- do British bulldog , devil -may -care, spirit,

While all five players are excellent, the two sisters are  the key characters.. Dot shines the brightest. Dot is a fun, can-do girl who can handle anything almost to the point of recklessness. She draws everyone into her world, including her older, more serious sister.

 Jack Hulland plays Frank, the amiable  pub drunk,  pestering  Bett to serve him another drink. Samuel Tracey plays Jimmy, who captures the romantic interest of both women who is a lightning rod for the seismic shift in gender mores. Kirsty Cox plays  a kleptomaniac who would wreak havoc at a Primark today.

The show is  a tight 2 hours 10 minutes including interval , inevitably the second half , after  the women are trained, is pacier than the first. Senior as Dot is sensational. She has written the script, she sings, she dances, she captivates and gets to wear the sassy red dress Spitfire Girls soars until Saturday 12th April at Derby then leaves for a nationwide tour.

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Poems 2025

Posted on April 9, 2025 by garylongden

Vindicated

Quite quite still, not a sound

No bother, no trouble

Laying cold on the ground

The body angular, inert unfound

Soft wind blows  slowly past the rubble

Quite quite still, not a sound

A transgression taxed pound  for pound

Paid  for on the nail, not in the round

Laying cold on the ground

Pride vanquished. Hubris downed

Crowd gathered, awkward huddle

Quite quite still not a sound

Justice had at last been crowned

Amidst that fraught unequal struggle

laying cold on the ground

 Vindication has been found

Not deferred but at the double;

Quite quite still not a sound

Laying cold on the ground

 Gurindam- MalAY

Do not invade Greenland that is unwise

Always talk, persuade don’t prise

The same is true of the Panama canal

Never treat a treaty as trite, or even banal

And as for Canada. It realy is quite big

A maple tree far larger than a fig

Whisper don’t trumpet for words linger longer

The message clearer, brighter and stronger

Poetry isnt

    poetry isn’t painting

            poetry isn’t music …

            nor is poetry psychotherapy

          Nor religion

            yet each might learn

            from each other            

            but not become the other

Dangerous Poems

A list poem of trump’s banned words

Trumps banned word List

abortion           ideology

accessible      immigrants

accessibility   implicit bias

activism           implicit biases

activists           inclusion

advocacy         inclusive

advocate          inclusive leadership

advocates       inclusiveness

affirming care inclusivity

all-inclusive    Increase diversity

allyship             increase the diversity

anti-racism     indigenous community/ people

antiracist         inequalities

assigned at birth         inequality

assigned female at birth        inequitable

assigned male at birth            inequities

at risk  injustice

autism institutional

barrier intersectional

barriers             intersectionality

belong intersex

bias      issues concerning pending legislation

biased key groups

Biased toward              key people

biases key populations

Biases towards            Latinx

biologically female    LGBT

biologically male        LGBTQ

bipoc   male dominated

Black   marginalize

black and latinx           marginalized

breastfeed + people  marijuana

breastfeed + person  measles

Cancer Moonshot      men who have sex with men

chestfeed + people    mental health

chestfeed + person    minorities

clean energy  minority

climate crisis minority serving institution

climate science          most risk

commercial sex worker          msm

community     multicultural

community diversity Mx

community equity      MSI

confirmation bias       Native American

continuum      NCI budget

Covid-19          non-binary

cultural competence nonbinary

cultural differences   obesity

cultural heritage         opioids

Cultural relevance     oppression

cultural sensitivity     oppressive

culturally appropriate             orientation

culturally responsive peanut allergies

definition         people + uterus

DEI       people-centered care

DEIA     person-centered

DEIAB  person-centered care

DEIJ      polarization

dietary guidelines/ultraprocessed foods     political

disabilities      pollution

disability          pregnant people

disabled           pregnant person

discriminated pregnant persons

discrimination             prejudice

discriminatory             privilege

discussion of federal policies            privileges

disparity           promote

diverse              promote diversity

diverse backgrounds promoting diversity

diverse communities              pronoun

diverse community    pronouns

diverse group prostitute

diverse groups             race

diversified       race and ethnicity

diversify           racial

diversifying     racial diversity

diversity           racial identity

diversity and inclusion            racial inequality

diversity/equity efforts            racial justice

EEJ        racially

EJ          racism

entitlement     science-based

equality            segregation

equitable         self-assessed

equitableness              sense of belonging

equity  sex

elderly sexual preferences

enhance the diversity             sexuality

enhancing diversity   social justice

environmental justice             socio cultural

environmental quality             sociocultural

equal opportunity       socio economic

equality            socioeconomic status

equitable         special populations

equitableness              stem cell or fetal tissue research

equity  stereotype

ethnicity           stereotypes

evidence-based          systemic

excluded          they/them

exclusion         topics of federal investigations

expression      topics that have received recent attention from Congress

female topics that have received widespread or critical media attention

females            trans

feminism         transgender

fetus    transexual

fluoride             trauma

fostering inclusivity   traumatic

GBV     tribal

gay       unconscious bias

gender under appreciated

gender based underprivileged

gender based violence           under represented

gender diversity          underrepresentation

gender identity            underrepresented

gender ideology           underserved

gender-affirming care             under served

genders            understudied

Gulf of Mexico              undervalued

H5N1/bird flu vaccines

hate     victim

hate speech   victims

health disparity           vulnerable

health equity  vulnerable populations

hispanic           woman

hispanic minority        women

historically      women and underrepresented

identity       

     Southampton

The  brass band played

Streamers cascaded

Klaxons blared

We lined the rails overlooking the quay

New York far off,

Distant

Rule Britannia,

 A life on the ocean wave

The British grenadiers ,and ,as we cast off

God save the queen

White gloved stewards fussed

The horn blasted  farewell from the funnels

As we headed for a new life

And Cowes slipped sliding  away

Our bows submerged under grey  green tumult

Until Brooklyn bridge framed a horizon broken by giant buildings scratching at the skies

And Liberty beckoned

Boing

Zeberdee liked to spring in

Mais, Pourquoi tout le monde parle-t-il français ? he asked

Parce que nous sommes en France. Brian replied

Dylan was away, on tour

He was always on tour

He looked at Dougal whose hair needed brushing

He remined him of Boris Johnson, but much grumpier

Florence smiled like Rachel Reeves smiles when she days she isn’t going to put up taxes

Brian held  a piece of  paper

Keir Starmer had asked him to put together  a plan to stop boat people

Brian hadn’t thought about it.

 His home was on his back ,  

Why doesn’t everyone do that he thought?

Ermintrude thought that we should be kinder to everyone

Florence agreed

Zeberdee bounced up high again

It was then that he noticed it

Someone had painted a red cross on the Magic Roundabout

Florence looked at it from a ladder

“Some people are so silly” she said

Everyone nodded their heads’

Apart from Dylan

– because he wasn’t there

Fashion

For ev’ry season

Different colours, shapes,  styles

Omnipresent change

Bars

Thirst quenching relief

Manmade spring helps you forget

Until the next time

Poems Charlie

Drifting through next doors open bedroom window

Summer 1972

Wafting on an indifferent breeze

The sound of another world

Transported

I knocked on their door

“David Bowie

Moonage daydream- the rise and fall of Ziggy stardust and the spiders from mars

Had landed

I still have the album

Fjords brochure

Towering cliffs

Ebbing tide

Part of something much larger

Helpless, overwhelmed

I think I will like it here

Advice to a novice poet

Do not conform

Do not listen

Do not polish words

Until they glisten

Make them count

Make them shine

Make sure they are your words

And not mine.

Morecambe 1

Wind lashed

The bay unfolds

bright Light palette Splashed by God

Eric watches jauntily, his coat

Wrapped tight

Morecambe 2

Vista

of mud and sea

reaching out far beyond

Erics’ jacket wrapped round tightly

Protects

Ode to the Ambiguous Ten

I run a race, then run a meeting,

I run out of patience—no retreating.

 I set the stage with props and flair,

Set my mind, fetch your twin set after your hair.

I put a hat upon your head,

 Put the kettle on, or put your fears to bed.

 I go for gold, then go bananas,

 Go with the flow, its all quite harmless.

I take a hint, I take the wheel, I take offence,

 then take a meal. I stand my ground, or stand corrected,

 watch from the stands while comfortably seated

I get a gift, or get the sack, I get the picture, then get back on track.

 I turn the tide, I turn a frown- at a comic turn

 Turn the tables,  then  turn around.

I fall in love, then fall from grace, fall asleep, or fall  flat on my face.

 I break a vow, then break for lunch,

Or brake my speeding on just a hunch

Ten words, ten follies—English, you   beguile

whispered in riddles same words, different style

Sea Swimming

( after Jan)

You said  id feel amazing

You said id feel refreshed

Bt its been twelve hours now

I still cant feel my toes

Ive only just caught my breath

Im eating all the biscuits

Im drinking all the tea

Ive added a shot of brandy

Anything to make me feel

Like the time

Before the sea

I jumped in feet first, no messing

I committed heart, body and soul

But you nevertold me

That to feel so good

Myrmidons

You have to get this cold

The flaneur

What if?

Farewell

Waving goodbye he left his head on the park bench

Strode purposefully into the lake

He had a choice of what to carry

Obsidian black

Pink parasol ( with lace frill)

Dumbo print with flappy ears

Not all umbrellas are the  same

Would it be sunny?

Would it rain?

would they float?

Would he float?

Who knows?

The Park

Out in the park two children are digging

Two girls,Their long hair wind tossed, and free

Close by, a bulldozer, scores the earth

Its driver bare chested, his arms have naval tattoos

Spades competing with a large yellow bucket

Both searching for their prize

Above, vultures circle in mazy motion

Waiting to swoop for their prey

On whomsoever succeeds

First

Umbrella

Sleek, firm, erect

Flares at the end

Sometime useless

But handy when it is wet

Growing when it needs to

As fingers grip the shaft

Then put away

Until the next time

Left Out

I was left out

In a polished antique stand

On the porch

Just in case

Of too much sun

Or too much rain

Or too much snow

I was left out

British Weather

It had stopped, canopy collapsed

Drippy drops all that remained

Of the onslaught

fabric clip fastened

Dry once more

It began

Canopy opened

Dousing drops draining

Fabric clip unclasped

Against the onslaught

It had stopped, canopy collapsed

Drippy drops all that remained

Of the onslaught

fabric clip fastened

Dry once more

Paper

Waxed and lacquered

Ladies’ accessory

Until Jonas Hanway changed that

For men

Jonas Hanway

China

Invented them

Persian women loved them

But Hanway placed everyone in

The shade

The sea.

turns its dark pages

Time

Helen Mort

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‘Time is inferred from place.’

Canada, late October

Helen Mort

Oct 30

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I am in Banff, Alberta, reading Leanne Betasamosake Simpson’s ‘Theory of Water’. Travel has made a mockery of the clock. I wake up at 1am and 2am and look out of the window for snow and then I pick up the book again. I read:

“I don’t think I understand a clear division between time and space; rather I understand time as a function of the networks created by space. The passage of time within Nishnnaabeg thought is not linear, and it comes from non-living systems that make up the land. Time is inferred from place.”

Does time come from the light over Sacred Buffalo mountain? It feels inevitable when I run there at sunrise: the arrival of our sense of day itself. Apricot sun, eager. A fox loping off under tree cover.

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We don’t know what to do with the nights, sometimes. They are ungainly cardigans our mothers always told us we would grow into.

The mountains don’t fear the dark. Huge densities. Huge objects of certain desire. I know they’re there, even with the blind pulled down.

Time is inferred from place. A room is a small, built space. A geographical stanza. So many hours under sheets and blankets, stirring and waiting for the acceptable moment to be awake, as if anyone was in charge. As if anyone cares what we do.

Leanne Betasamosake Simpson:

“I’m thinking about this in Denendeh in June, where the sun is seemingly always out, high in the sky. Darkness comes for a few hours after midnight, more muted daylight than actual darkness. This contrasts with the dark of December and January, when the sun only appears for a few hours each day.”

Muted daylight – yes. A turning of the dimmer switch. Why can’t I shake off metaphors that centre the human, make hapless gods of us all?

I am thinking of the volume control on my parents’ record player in our living room in Chesterfield, the great wheel of it, the power it represented. In my memory, the days were twice as long and I was very close to the grey-and-purple patterned carpet. Infant time. Time in the eye of a child. I never dared to touch the volume dial.

“Cyclical time comes from land. Linear time is a European construct that overlays cyclical time – a mechanism to organise the world in a homogenous way to facilitate, of course, capitalism.”

Does time pass slower back in Sheffield? Moorland time. Heather time. Post-industrial time. When you climb out of the city and look down, are you out of time itself? Does an aeroplane climb above it? Does a whale dive below?

Betasamosake Simpson:

“Time is a mapping of cycles. A mapping of liminal space. I think of a child in the time before colonisation, in the darkness of December, measuring light on the snow with a stick and sinew…”

There will come a point – maybe this week, maybe next – when the first snows will arrive in Banff in earnest, bringing greater silence. Flurried hours, all walks made indefinite. I’m waiting for it, as I am always greedily waiting for something. I’ll walk down to the bridge above town and see the same man I always see on a bench there, white beard and patched up coat, fisherman’s beanie, not quite sitting but not quite lying down either. He’ll ask me if I saw what happened in the sky last night and I’ll say no and he’ll whistle, low, under his breath and shake his head.

Time in the gaps between elk antlers (don’t get too close!)

Time needled by the tips of trees.

Time bullied along by the beautiful surge of the Bow river.

Tanka#1

Now that you have gone

The ground no longer shows my

Imprint underfoot

Too much for the earth to bear

 It lies frozen forever

A First day back at school

It was Harry’s  first day back

At his new school

How did it go?

I asked

“Fine”

 came the reply

A bored sigh accompanying this  concise verbosity

He said fine in the insouciant,

 disinterested manner

Of a Foreign Secretary

 Being given  an Middle east

And for once, I experienced an emotion I rarely feel

Jealousy.

I want a  stiff shirt that will soften with dozens of washes

I want to believe that nothing matters because today is just another day

I want a new locker, new loos, new smells

I don’t want to know where everything is

I want to have to look for it.

I want  squeaky new shoes, and bright white  new trainers ( Nike Airs obviously)

I want to throw out the old, the worn out, scuffed and scruffy, the too tights ,  into a charity bag

( for someone else to take to the shop)

I want a new haircut that doesn’t reveal more grey

I want a new desk with a different view

I want new friends

With my enemies moved out somewhere else

I don’t want my next new friends to be in a care home

Or whist drive

Or poetry club, or pub ( heaven forbid)

I want a new pencil case that I can stick stickers on

 I want a new sports bag with equipment for

Sports I haven’t even tried yet

I want new people to tell about my summer holidays

Not post about it on facebook to people who don’t care how I fare,

I want to put behind me all the stupid things I did and said before

I want to be better, and different

And I want that chance every year

I want to learn new subjects

Russian,compter programming and economics

Well maybe not economics, anyone can make a mess of that, cant they Liz?

And I want fresh new, unused exercise books, and a new pen

And a pack of coloured pencils

And a new Coat peg that I can write my name on

Not, Gary, I’m bored with that, Sparky perhaps, maybe it will catch on?

I want butterflies in my tummy

And less tummy

It simply isn’t fair that when you are young you get a fresh start every year

Then when you are an adult get stuck with the same timetable

I want a new timetable, while I am still able

But without the homework

L’horloge Parlante va disparaitre  le 1er Julliet vingt vingt deux

France is not a place to feel rushed

There is always time

For a glass of fine wine.

For a baguette

For moules mariniere

A fine sancerre

A place where time runs amock

No need for a hovering speaking clock

But no more that mechanical spoken chant

C’est l’heure de la fin pour l’horloge parlante

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