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Worcester House House Play 2009

A Time for Dancing

At first, I was unsure what to expect. The frenzied atmosphere on stage did not bode well, everything being put into place mere minutes before the play was due to start. I was also uncertain about the quality of the play that would be performed in front of my eyes. The audience, however, did not seem to share my reservations and took to their seats with energy. I was surrounded by judges, precariously placed next to the light of the desk, and I settled down to watch.

I was surprised. Pleasantly so. For my initial observations, my initial ideas, seemed to drift away in the darkness of the crowded Redgrave; I was watching something that had been genuinely planned, well thought out, with variety and vision. I was surprised by the depth that the actors alluded to. I continued my scepticism until the time that one of the main characters was diagnosed with cancer. At that point, I became willingly enthralled and indeed, I have many positive things to state about the production.

To begin with Ashley and Tlamelo in the main roles were well-rehearsed, so to speak, and produced a good quality of emotion and depth. They seemed doomed to have to deal with subject matter that was intrinsically a mixture of the morbid and the positive; the interesting juxtaposition of a murderous black cancer and the light, ethereal world of the dancer. I felt that all the actresses had a full degree of characterisation, even the most minor, and this showed through in the darker moments.

Speaking of darkness, the lighting in this production was eclectic. It had certain good moments, but it often seemed rushed and confused. Sound was good, and so was prop management, besides the fact that some of the clothing had no right to be in a hospital bedroom.

But such concerns – lighting, and the design of the programmes, which were simplistic but well presented – are not crucial to the enjoyment of any piece. Character and interaction is. And it is here that Worcester surprised me most. The characters all worked through the dialogue with a typical elegance and grace. What springs to my mind is the character of Sarah Clarke (not to be confused with the Head of English), who spat venomous words in defence of her daughter. Indeed, apart from the looks, it would not have been inappropriate to imagine the character as some kind of mother bear, protecting her young.

Despite this positive outlook, I have some criticisms. Notably, although both of the leading ladies were good at supplying emotional depth, the character of Ashley Clymo suffered a distinct difficulty in one particular form: At no point did her sadness, her gravity, manage to move me. I sat through what was clearly meant to be a heartfelt plea, and felt nothing. While the anger and frustration she felt at her fate, including the memorable line "I have no tits!" in a great yell, continually supplied an edge of brilliance, her sadness fell short of the mark. Tlamelo Setshwaelo, in direct contrast, repeatedly tried anger and frustration, but it simply did not touch my mentality in the same way. I was not displeased with her acting, and indeed it was excellent, but I found her spirit to be more of a comedic than a tragic one, and this was reflected in her actions; her character was most believable not when tearfully upset, but when dealing with the difficulties of normal life, and as such, worthy of a different kind of praise. Similarly, although I cannot obviously criticise their voices, the male actors were not so well played as the parts specifically of women; though minor, it continued to dance across the immersive qualities of the play like a malevolent imp. My last major criticism is perhaps appropriately with the last scene of the play; while the actors surpassed themselves in this scene, leading to genuine feelings of dismay and anguish from nearby audience members and indeed, myself, the ending note of a heartbeat stopping was far too loud, far too prominent, and frankly, unnecessary. A subtler method would have been far, far better.

And yet, for my negative proclivities, and perhaps, a harsher than normal outlook on any play, I genuinely enjoyed it. For all of my criticisms, I would happily watch this play again, by the same people, because it had a quality which is all too much lacked these days, by many productions and by many people. It was not a “feel-good show”. It was not an antiquated tragedy. It was a skilfully adapted piece. While the comedy seemed almost inappropriate, given the grave subject matter, I was once again reminded by Mr. Morris of a true fact of life: Comedy can spring up in the midst of tragedy, laughter even in the most heartfelt sorrow. For this reason, I must congratulate the Worcester girls on, if not accurate to every degree, then a stylistically excellent and reliably knowledgeable piece of work. It is even more impressive when considering that it was produced by Natalie Condie with minimal intervention by other members of her house. True credit must be awarded for that.

While I am not really permitted to give some kind of score, I would rate this and suggest that anyone should see their house play next year. I have great expectations.

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