***** JOHN at the National Theatre is a poignant study into the highs and lows of a human condition. DV8 have created both a wonderful celebration of physical theatre and a stark social commentary.

The rotating stage draws one into the turmoil of John's existence; a world of family violence, crime and drugs from which there can seemingly be no escape.  The glimpses we are given of John's father rapping both his sister and then the babysitter are enough to make one gasp in desperation. John's narration bombards the senses and the tenebrism of the production pulls one into a dark world that too many children experience daily. When the mother dies she is covered with newspaper, symbolic of a worthless and ephemeral life it seems. At one stage John says to the audience that he wishes for a 'normal life like you in the middle classes'...we all laugh nervously.

But there is also great humour in the production and the early themes of drugs and violence are swapped for obesity and sexuality. John does the laundry and lists the women he has had; hangers descend on string to fill the stage as a reminder of the transient nature of many human relationships.

The physicality of the production exemplifies what can be achieved with minimal props, a strong narrative and lashings of talent, which dance-trained Hannes Langolf has in spades. At one stage his movements simply defy gravity in an exemplary display of an actor's control of his own physical condition.

Yet despite what we have seen of John's life, the is hope. Exercise becomes a drug to combat obesity and the Open University is another means by which John can show his worth. There is a dark side to the time he spends in gay saunas but there is also humour in the dancing to 50s music, mentions of glory holes, STDs and the non-verbal conventions of sauna sex. Ultimately it is the journey by which John discovers his true sexuality and self. 

When the gay narative turned to discussing toilet habits and shitting, two members of the audience left in discust. A middle class dirty protest perhaps...but also bloody rude I thought. I doubt John would like their normal lives.

The Crucible...A thoroughly modern play

*****  There is something wonderful about using chairs to help frame a narrative; be it by Pina Bausch, Cheek by Jowl (Andromache. 2009) or by Ai Weiwei (currently at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park)... or indeed in South African director Yaël Farber's strikingly powerful production of The Crucible at the Old Vic.

Initially, when all of the actors briefly assemble on the chair-filled stage, we are reminded that this is going to be a big production in a small space. Yet the space works perfectly. It is a wonderfully intimate setting and, as Tituba whispers her magic through the smoke, we the audience instantly feel part of the congregation of Salem. 

There is little space, or need, for an elaborate set and the costumes and lighting complement this with a monochromtic warmth; these are bleak times and yet the human spirit still manages to shine as a beacon of resistance. Again there is a simplicity to the staging but also an incredible rhythm to the dramatics. The spectacle of Abigail jumping onto Proctor, before being thrown off again, would not have looked out of place at Rambert, and the chorus of possessed young girls are choreographed to perfection (a quality that is sadly lacking in Medea at the National Theatre). And then there is Richard Hammarton’s beautifully restrained soundscape which, at key moments, still manages to rattle our souls with deep bass driven electronics.

Richard Armitage's John Proctor exhibits both a fury and a frail humanity that leads one to question contemporary politics and society. The blinkered authoritarianism set against the good and the downtrodden are as relevant today as ever. Make no mistake, this is a thoroughly modern play despite its appearance. But Armitage aside, there are stand-out performances all round. Samantha Colley's Abigail Williams makes one shiver, Danforth and Hale are wonderful, Rebecca and Francis Nurse are magnificent, and Mary Warren after failing to faint on demand, ramps up a performance that ends with a her raging in a symbolic but simple green dress. O...it has come to this we think.

In the end Proctor's suggestion that his wife has 'an everlasting funeral marching around her heart' is turned on its head when she says, 'I can not judge you John', and their love is forever reconciled. When we hear of the boulders arranged to crush Francis Nurse because he refused to answer to his accusers I think of a man standing in front of a tank in Tienanmen Square. And just as the man refuses to move, Francis refuses to to be judged. The only thing Francis wishes from this mockery of justice is 'More weight'...yes this is certainly a modern play.

And finally, just as chairs came and went from the stage, helping to frame the narrative, they also framed our reception...in unison we all left our seats to stand and acknowledge something rather special and timeless.

Medea at the NT. If only they had...

***1/2 This was one of those productions where one thinks, 'if only they had...'. The concept of a twentieth century chain smoking Medea was good, Tom Scutt's split-level set was potentially very good (although the lighting failed to do it justice), but Carrie Cracknell's direction and Ben Power's text simply left too much out.

Medea might be 'wrenched in two' but her character shouldn't be; at one point she transforms into this incongruous figure and one is left thinking, 'who's this, has dropped out of character?' - one has to blame the direction again. Jason also lacked emotion and Creon seemed but a walk-on part. On the whole Helen McCrory's performance did however, hold the production together. Other things wrangle too; Creusa's poisoning (and Creon's too) was all but ignored and the final spectacle of Medea being 'borne away in a chariot' was dropped. Yes, many directors do this, but not to replace it with an alternative ending of substance was criminal.

A final thought must be made regarding the chorus. When they started their 'jerky' dance like possessed maenads one thought 'wow'...only to quickly realise that they failed to move in time with the music (let alone each other) and also couldn't dance. Bringing in Australian choreographer Lucy Guerin seems yet another aspect of this production not to have worked. If only they had...

So good to be back in Firenze

After a last chance to experience the delights of the Grande Canal it was time to hop on the train and return to Florence. Ilria Borletti from the Italian Department of Culture is suggesting selling tickets to enter Venice in an attempt to keep the tourists and day-trippers away. How sad is that?

Yet, after a five year absence, seeing Florence was like returning to a old friend who beckoned one initially to the Piazza della Repubblica and then down to the scaffold-clad Ufizzi. 

I think Venezia is a place to paint, whereas Firenze is where one goes to see paintings (and, of course, those wonderful sculptures of the quattro and cinquecento). Secretly, I also can't wait to get my teeth into another bestecca alla Fiorentina.

A quart into a pint pot

Yesterday the Accademia proved in many ways to be the jewel in the Venetian crown of museums. It can't rightly be compared with the Uffizi as a world class gallery but nevertheless there are splendid and varied examples of works by Bellini, Piombo, Georgio, Vechello, Tinteretto and especially Veronese. I was especially drawn to Tiepolo; one forgets the quality and the painterly technique.

Today however was a case of trying to fit too much in before a trip south to Florence. The Ca' Rezzonico is well worth seeing; not too over-powering in its content and some great seventeenth and eighteenth century works by the likes of Vecchia, Pellegrini and Ricci on the top floor. O yes....and certainly worth visiting for wonderful Venetian scenes by Guardi and Canaletto.

The Palazzo Ducale was incredible in its opulence (especially the ceilings), but is a case of Venetian bureaucracy gone mad. The council chamber, the chamber of the great council (some Tintorettos to die for here), the hall of the full council, the antechamber to the council, the senate chamber, the chamber of the council of tens and on and on and on...by the end one thinks take me to the armoury, run me through with a blade, and let me die in the prison below. Joking aside it is an interesting concept that laws are made, trials conducted, justice dispensed and incarcerations all happen in the same building.

And finally the Museo Correr has some great Flemish works in addition to the Venetian. But at this stage I would have preferred to be on the ground below, scoffing at the delights of Florain's caffe whilst bathing my weary feet in the partially flooded Piazza San Marco.

Skulking around Dorsoduro

Yesterday was mostly spent on a pleasant meander around Dorsoduro and thus there was an early chance to work from the Accademia Bridge looking towards Santa Maria della Salute. I also produced a few studies of San Marco from Punta della Dogana before returning to the piazza itself.

The Peggy Guggenheim

The narrow alleyway which leads to the small but rather beautiful entrance of the Peggy Guggenheim Museum is typically Venetian. The wonderful courtyard garden where she is buried, the restaurant, building and artwork seems less a celebration of Modern Art, rather a show of affluence and excess. How is it, one is left to ponder, that some possess so much wealth; too much wealth; unimaginable wealth?

Besides the main galleries there was a special exhibition of mostly Surrealist work from the private collection of another rich faceless Swiss couple. Dali, Magritte, Ernst, Tanguy and even Arcimboldo and Bruegel were enough to delight...but again it seemed more a show of greed rather than connoisseurship.

The main collection to be fair, has it all. A marvellous range of Pollocks, Futurists, Cubists, more Surrealists...you name it and she's bought it. Scattered throughout the gallery are pictures of Peggy in her bedroom with art, Peggy in her dining room with art, Peggy in her...well we get the message and we are I suppose expected to be grateful. Yet considering the cost of entrance, the catalogue and restaurant (I think they picked a figure for each and then thought, it's Venice so lets double it), one is left thinking, 'for some, excess is simply the norm'.

National Theatre of Wales: Mametz

****1/2 Lost in Monmouthshire, a perfect antidote to the daily grind and certainly worth a 300 mile round journey. We join Cook's Battlefield Tours to remember the First Battle of the Somme and the 4000 38th Welsh souls that perished. Soldiers running through the long grass, zinc trenches and cattle sheds transformed. Songs, explosions and poetry linking today with those who fell a century ago. They are men and women just like us. The production is both individually human and epic too. When the order is given to go 'over the top' one is disappointed that there are but a handful of soldiers...but then, masterfully, the fourth wall is destroyed and we the 240 members of the audience join the throng. Pushing through the field towards Mametz Wood the sergeant screams at us to 'Hold the line'. Hearts beat ever faster and hairs stand on end. This is something special. We gather in a clearing and are reminded of death and loss. Powerful stuff and promenade at its best. I found myself being very critical, but this is often the case when confronted with powerful ideas and striking visuals; great ideas inspire and feed the imagination and now I long to stay in the woods.

Henry IV Pt. 2

**1/2 Part II has never been one of my favourite plays and on this occasion the starkness of both plot and set proved too much. There is to my mind, too much comedy in this history too far; the runt of the tetralogy methinks. Sher was again a worthy Falstaff of which Elizabeth would certainly have approved. Shallow is well performed but Silence is just plain irritating. The motley crew of conscripts do however amuse but Pistol is too wild and extreme a figure; alone he is striking, but in this production he is simply incongruous.

Henry IV Pt. 1

**** When Bollingbrook first takes the stage, mourning the death of Richard, David Tennant appears again as Richard II on the balcony...or we think it's Tennant and gasp with excitement. There are times when the play doesn't quite hit the mark (Hal's Machiavellian monologue for example) but otherwise it was a joy to watch. Hotspur is wonderfully petulant and the puppet of Worcester and his father but it is Sher of course who steals the show, revelling in Falstaff's comedy. Can't wait for Pt.2 now.

Abstraction at the Albert Dock

At the Tate in Liverpool Mondrian and Nasreen Mohamedi share the top floor gallery which, on the face of things, seems an odd pairing, yet in reality works well. Whilst everyone knows (and perhaps even appreciates) Piet's ordered grids of black and primary coloured neo-plasticism, it is the early deconstructions such as the Church Facade No.6 of 1915 and The Tree A of 1913 that I prefer. The latter also has a wonderful sense of Cezanne.

Mohamedi's work is however new to me. Early works are reminiscent of monochromatic Ivon Hitchens paintings, later developing into a complex form of Op Art which rivals even Riley. Again an odd combination one might think but Mohamedi's evolution as an artist seems wholly logical. There is even a reconstruction of Mondrian's studio to see but sadly, this didn't make me immediately wish to paint.

The 'DLA Piper Series: Constellations' exhibition which is also showing, assembles a typical selection of 'is that really art?' work. Stacks of magazines, colourful trollies, a pile of old towels, women being tattooed, and best of all John Smith's video from 1976, The Girl Chewing Gum. Containing elements of Pete and Dud and slightly Monty Pythonesque, I really like this piece, but probably for the wrong reasons.

Sunny Manchester?

Just my luck...what was a glorious sunny Sunday outside the Central Lending Library disappears as soon as my watercolour touches the paper.

Another day in Yorkshire

A visit to the Cartwright Hall in Bradford revealed some hidden gems. Built when rich industrialists processed a social conscience (wanting to ensure their place in heaven no doubt) the hall is named after Dr. Edmund Cartwright who invented the power loom. There's a great collection of contemporary prints, including Hockney's The Rake's Progress, a Rossetti stained glass window, a (disappointing) Clausen and even a Vasari. It was however the two early Hockneys that caught my attention.

After Cartwright Hall it seemed foolish not to visit Salts Mill (only 10 minutes by car). They'd even opened up the roof space for the annual Leeds Photographic Society exhibition. The pictures weren't up to much but the space and light in the roof were incredible. O yes...you also can't beat the steak and chunky chips in the restaurant.

Ursula Von Rydingsvard at the YSP

The Ursula Von Rydingsvard exhibition is a mixed bag of wonderful monolithic outcrops (which in reality are constructed using 2x4" and 4x4" cedar wood beams - the type we could all get from B&Q) and less successful oddments including some terrible large spoons and plates. Well worth the visit if only for the a handful of works and the, now compulsory, gallery video showing her at work.

Princess Street, Knutsford

oil on board (10 x 16")

Bank Holiday and the three Henrys

Spent a rather pleasant Monday at Tate Britain and ended up drawing in one of the Henry Moore rooms, after the most marvellous of light lunches in the members room. I thoroughly recommend the quiche lorraine and salad; simply but absolutely delicious (and if you're not a member simply ignore the stairs and head for the lift; this way one can easily sneak past the membership desk...everyone seems to do it...I thinks it's a deliberate Tate ploy to sell more cakes).

I also especially like what has been done to the Duveen Galleries. Are Phyllida Barlow's creations, entitled 'dock', good art? Probably not but they do make one smile...whilst simultaneous hoping that they might collapse.

Ceramics and Pie

A morning at the V&A continually interrupted by impromptu performance of Shakespeare; Ophelia, for example, waded through the quandrangle pond and Romeo and Juliet did their bit at the balcony in the Paul and Jill Ruddock Gallery. Then, after another of those shockingly good pies was consumed for lunch, I sought the quiet sanctuary of the ceramics galleries.

Another view from a bridge

My four scraps of paper are rather less successful than last nights spectacle at the Young Vic, but I battle on and publish failures as well as successes.

A View From a Bridge

****

A stark yet powerful portrayal of what Sophocles might have produced if reincarnated to live in 1950s America. Strong performances from all and a lovely symmetry between beginning and end. Almost perfect but for the British American accents and a too puny a lad cast as Marco...no way could he empty a ship alone.

Crosby beach

A pleasant day meandering amongst the Anthony Gormley casts; my determination to produce half a dozen studies bettered by the wind and then by the rain. If you are ever in the vicinity I recommend Katie's Cafe for breakfast. If feeling brave one might even attempt the 'Big Dave' (half a pound of sausages, ten rashes of bacon, a dozen eggs, ten pieces of toast and a bucket of tea...well you get the picture).

Dante Alighieri

For all of those who've been listening to R4's adaptation of The Divine Comedy with John Hurt, I recommend a quiet moment in front of Henry Holiday's depiction of Dante, as he looks longingly at Beatrice passing by. Part of the wonderful permanent collection at the Walker.

Matisse at the Tate Modern

****
Give a man in wheelchair a pair of dressmaking scissors and some large sheets of brightly painted paper and, just over half a century later, the Tate can hold a retrospective. Simultaneously child-like  and sophisticated these cut-outs undoubtably act as a precursor  for much of twentieth century abstract art.

The Silver Tassie

***1/2 One can see why Yates criticised The Silver Tassie for it's lack of a central character and lacklustre narrative, but it's not that bad. Our hero Harry Heegan is more the whinging footballer than war hero, but there is a wonderful tension between him and his girl Jessie. Mrs Foran, who see her husband's return to the front as her renewed freedom, also adds to the sense of a gender divide. Although the music hall-like comedy duo of Simon and Sylvester carry the first act, it is the pyrotechnic of the second (take ear plugs) that stay in one's shell shocked head long after the play has ended. Soldier sing 'why are we here' to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, ridiculing the pomposity of the officer class. During the party back in Blighty, both Heegan's breakdown and heartless female sexuality are reinforced. In the final scene woman dance with puppet soliders, collapsing and limp.