bitchesball2.txt - Title: The Bitches Ball - Penny Dreadful/SCAMP venue :: Assembly, Hill Street see links :: http://www.pennydreadfultheatre.com category :: theatre Review 2 :: by Ed Stack 5 gold bats Knowing me and drafted in as I was, to review shows only a few days before the close of the festival, I must admit that I did not expect to be reviewing a five star show. But the Bitches Ball ticked every five star box more than once. The Bitches Ball tracks moments in the life of esteemed poetess, actress and early feminist, Mary Robinson, a woman of controversy and contradiction. Having been concubine to Prince George (King George IV) her life is stuff of drama already and she is a character who demands a nuanced treatment. She is also very relevant to feminist and alternative poetry readers today worldwide. So already we had five stars for ambition. We begin at her suffering at the end of her life, once she has contracted an infection after miscarriage rendering her paralysed from the waist down. She sits wrapped in rags, reaching for a bucket painstakingly. This is good acting, the expression on her face genuinely bleak, well balanced so it does not tip to melodramatic at this most crucial moment of the play. This genuineness is emphasised throughout the play by her remaining 'herself' in appearance, to the point of having no wig, in juxtaposition to all the other characters who change roles and costume several times and are almost always in wigs, focussing her as central character of interest. Such is a mark of thoughtfulness in conception of a biopic. Once she has the bucket she slides it under her chair and a hint of mischievousness immediately breaks the dark suffering atmosphere as she acts the facial expressions of urination in time with the play- back of a recorded piss. With a kind of balance, restraint and suggestion, this device succeeds in causing a few muffled and guilty giggles from the audience. Here is where the ensuing tussle between comedy and tragedy is signposted, and from here on both proliferate in more and more exuberant ways. She pulls out a vial of some drug to kill the pain; the comedy and tragedy are mixed, and we are cast into the world of her hallucinatory memory, which will provide the context and to some extent justification for all the historical manipulations inevitable in any successful hour long biopic. The use of this device disarms the usual criticism of biopics into a boon for even the most conservative of cynics, as it encourages us to see the play as always only as an allegory of memory in all its patchiness. The hallucinogenic licence provided, allows unfettered creative inspiration for numerous off-the-wall and hyperbolic character- isations, anachronistic costume choices, and exaggerated accents. All which combine to give a real sense of unity of vision in the theatre company, by medium of the highly proficient and committed cast. Through parallels with today that the plays formal manipulations suggest, e.g., Georgian wigged journalists sporting 1950s horn rimmed spectacles along with their quills. The portrayal of hypocritical forces of authority in society. Juxtaposing scandal sheets and the contemporary tabloid press, both as obsessed with lurid headlines. The production happily played along with the notion that the memory of the person at the centre of a story is surely the only final and sovereign authority on events. When memory is by nature patchy, it gives rise to the guiltless opportunity for speculation and representation based on something other than facts - but perhaps arguably more to the point, so do the vestiges of personality left behind by a person's work. This approach was exemplified, in one instance, by the ladies finishing school scene's succinct critique of 'poshness.' This really filled me with a sense of meaning and affirmation, despite being deemed spurious and faux by the play's caricature. The set is constantly moving which gives a real sense of passing time, as the actors themselves, sometimes deliberately visible, move the set around, shroud it in velvet or rags and even change costume in full view. In defiance of the stage’s size they make it something greater than itself, be it a room, a bed, a theatre or a horse drawn carriage. Even the transmission of letters and tokens is used to transcend the limitations of space. How Malvern the servant flicks the letter behind a gauze and it instantaneously appears in Mary Robinson's hand at the other side of the stage was sleight of a director's wand that had to be seen to be believed. The humour, energy and pace that characterised the performance meant that when this device didn't seem to go so smoothly the next time, you were genuinely unsure whether is was a mistake or scripted. The change of Tom Robinson's fake money then being picked up in the next scene and all being littered with unpaid bills as another example of someone's creative dexterity was nothing short of genius in its simplicity. However none of this ingenuity in sets, costumes and props would have excused poor performances. Indeed, because of the integration of costumes, scene-changes and acting, there was no room for amateurs, and amateurs were there none. The colourfulness and versatility of all the other actors at times seemed to eclipse that of Mary Robinson. Despite the absolute command she held at the beginning, they took a turn at centre stage, while we were encouraged to experience Mary's initial 'outsiderishness' in the London milieu alongside her. An experience as equally foreign to us in time, as to her, in provincial distance. But it was clear from the moments where the frenetic action stopped (e.g. when the whirlwind of her rise and fall culminates in a picture of a miscarriage, the moment she is paralysed...) that she was the woman for the job of anchoring the play. With an ability to transform a wanton or frivolous atmosphere with a single expression, so as to focus us on the tragic element of Mary's life. A proper depiction of all of this is lynchpin to The Bitch's Ball's considerable emotional impact. Credit is also due to a shrewd script structure. To single out does not sit well with Penny Dreadful's thoroughly cooperative enterprise. While Malvern, Tom Robinson and Prince George were all stellar, the team ethic was so palpable and successful and so all of the cast and crew deserve to be named with praise. No creative stone was left unturned, and the sound was cutting edge. Mixing whispers with echoes of previous dialogue the sound people were not averse to entering into quotations of contemporary electronic clicks and beats to emphasize the urgency and relevance to today of the person and the play. It did not stop here as there were several hilarious set pieces sung on stage which structurally galvanised the anarchic moments of the play, and tempered the pace appropriately, whilst being thoroughly entertaining and larger than life at the same time. The cartoonesque slapstick, costumes and period make-up also made a serious point – in this case, about the superficial nature of Georgian aristocracy. The result of their efforts is that the relevance of the figure of Mary Robinson as a dramatic focus today is emphasised. All faithful to Penny Dreadful's motto, which is to bring into significance characters otherwise left behind by king-and-queen revering history textbooks. The dramatic significance was dependant on more than enough historical events to suggest sound sources for the feelings recognisable in her poetry, when it came through the sound system trippily and wistfully at the end. This indicated an integrity that sets Bitches Ball apart from other young and lesser fringe productions that have too quickly slung the name of an historical figure into a script, in the name of cheap, instant theatrical art or sales. To end it all, a black-out with Mary Robinson's face in a picture frame, quite still, stern, just like her portrait. This was a good motif for the end - but then she winks in defiance. It is confirmed that this was a production of consummate confidence, class and entertainment, three things which all too rarely go hand in hand. By Ed Stack