[caption id="LoveattheSavoyTheatre&RonnieScotts_img1" align="aligncenter" width="231"]
THE LAST MUSICAL I SAW AT THE SAVOY Theatre was Carousel, which has to be the saddest comedy of all time. What I saw there recently is hardly Rogers and Hammerstein (tune-wise, at least), but at least the tears I shed this time were of laughter.
If I’m honest, I hadn’t really expected to enjoy Legally Blonde that much. It received almost unanimous five-star reviews, even from the sniffier broadsheets, but the whole pink-ness of it had left me a bit scared. And I’d heard there are cutesy miniature dogs in it. Several of them. With bows. Still, it’s been running a year or so now, and ticket deals at the friendlier end of the price spectrum mean it’s not quite the arm and a leg it used to cost (lastminute.com is always worth keeping an eye on) so we thought we’d give it a try.
Arrangements got a bit messy as Tony decided at the last minute to join a charity cycle ride to Oxford without checking his diary first, which meant a frantic train-ride-back-to-London-with-bike afterwards instead of the customary congratulatory champagne (I did manage to squeeze in a quick glass for him at Christopher’s, so all was well in that respect), but I honestly thought he’d fall asleep in the aisle. That he was wide awake from the first “Ohmigod you guys!” and giggled all the way through to the end is quite an achievement.
I have to be candid here. The story is slimmer than the actors and by the end there isn’t a cliché, racial/sexual stereotype or tired plot device left unmolested. There’s not a hummable tune in it (I found myself wondering how the actors themselves managed to memorize them) and it’s about as subtle as the Farrelly brothers. But oh, is it funny. The lyrics are honed droplets of comic perfection, the timing exquisite, the actors know exactly what kind of a show they’re creating and they revel in it. I had a quick look round from time to time and the men were laughing as much as the girls. Everybody, bar none, left with a big grin on their face. If you’re looking for a feel-good West End musical, you could do far worse than this.
[caption id="LoveattheSavoyTheatre&RonnieScotts_img2" align="aligncenter" width="619"]
SARAH LEE
FROM THE RIDICULOUS TO THE SUBLIME, an opera-critic friend of mine called me up at the last moment with a spare ticket to see The Marriage of Figaro, down the road at the Coliseum. It was half-past four and the show started at seven. She “supposed I’d not be able to make it.” Ha! I don’t get to go to the opera very often and I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. I love that people still dress for it, if not exactly in white tie and tiara, at least with clearly-made effort, and the recently-restored Coliseum is a treat in itself. There wasn’t a ticket for Tony, but since he loves opera about as much as he loves ballet (i.e. not at all), he was happy to meet up at Browns for a quick bite beforehand and leave us to it.
I like Browns. It’s not going to set many pulses racing, but it’s a good, reliable place to meet friends in the West End and has good food at prices that aren’t going to require a second mortgage. It’s part of a decent chain (I often frequent their Canary Wharf branch), but this particular establishment is on St. Martin’s Lane. It used to be Westminster County Courts, in an age when public buildings prided themselves on beauty, and the tasteful conversion to a bar/restaurant retains the mahogany, marble, mosaics, mirrors and sweeping staircases. The odd potted palm and a tinkling piano add to the feel of sumptuousness.
Browns is used to people being pressed for time (they have a list of West End theaters, their shows, curtain-times and minutes’ walk from the place) so if you inform them you’re seeing a certain show, they’ll help you keep an eye on your time. I’ve never known it to require pre-booking either, which is useful for last-minute arrangements. The food is broadly pan-European/British, with a nice seasonal aspect, often keeping a basic set of dishes and subtly altering them to what’s available at the time. Fish cakes, hazelnut salad and steak, mushroom & Guinness pie went down very nicely, but we probably should have met a little earlier to have had enough time to properly enjoy them.
At least the Coliseum is only two minutes away from the restaurant. The Marriage of Figaro is one of the great operas of the world and just hearing those famous opening strains fills the soul as well as the ears. It’s directed by British actress Fiona Shaw, whose Richard II was sublime, but who’s better known by film-fan oafs like me as Aunt Petunia in the Harry Potter movies, and the production has all the movement one might expect from someone with an acting background. I mean that literally.
The stage revolves almost constantly which, although dizzying to start with, works rather well as a metaphor for Mozart’s maze of sexual intrigue. Its warren of blank rooms and different levels, filled with chorus members dressed as servants, is perfect as a world where lovers can never be totally alone in a house full of prying eyes. One of London’s two great companies, the English National Opera always pulls out all the vocal stops, and I was totally immersed.
[caption id="LoveattheSavoyTheatre&RonnieScotts_img3" align="aligncenter" width="619"]
ELLIE KURTZ
THIS MONTH’S CONTACTS
Legally Blonde
www.legallyblondethemusical.co.uk
Browns
www.browns-restaurants.co.uk/home
English National Opera
www.eno.org/home.php
Woburn Walk, Bloomsbury
Ronnie Scotts
www.ronniescotts.co.uk
I HAD A MEETING AT THE MYSTERIOUS
Swedenborg House in Bloomsbury, but I had a little time to spare so took myself for a walk first. I love Bloomsbury, because it doesn’t matter how often I go there, a) I always find something new and b) I always seem to get lost. This occasion was no different. Crossing to avoid some roadworks, I spied a little lane full of Georgian shops, decided to investigate and got lost yet again. Woburn Walk, built in 1822 by Thomas Cubitt (who also built the East Front of Buckingham Palace) is a delightful little pedestrian street, complete with original York stone pavement and uninterrupted bow-fronted shops which must have once housed ladies’ millinery stores, gentlemen’s umbrella supplies and timepieces for the discerning ship’s captain. Apparently, shops with bow-windows were the latest big idea in Georgian times as the glazing bars were, for the first time, put on the outside, with the putty inside, meaning it was harder for would-be criminals to remove the glass and steal something.
Cubitt kept a permanent staff of top craftsmen and workshops, moving them around to wherever his latest project was, so his buildings were much more uniform and of better quality than most speculative builders at the time. Nowadays, with a couple of splendid exceptions, this grand row is a collection of slightly-seedy looking restaurants, takeaways, newsagents and convenience stores, but it’s slowly going up in the world again as property prices spiral. The white stucco walls, wrought iron balconies and bow windows give the city’s best-preserved Georgian mall a charm that’s proved irresistible to filmmakers, but, I confess, was a mystery to me until I stumbled upon it. If you make a trip there, don’t miss the plaque over the window of number 5, celebrating poet W.B. Yeats’s residence between 1895 and 1919.
[caption id="LoveattheSavoyTheatre&RonnieScotts_img4" align="aligncenter" width="1024"]
COURTESY OF RONNIE SCOTT’S
FINALLY, A TRIP BACK TO AN OLD stomping ground. Back in the 90s Ronnie Scott’s Club in Frith Street had groovy deals that meant musicians could get very cheap tickets for the late-night set, and it was a good place to go and meet up after gigs. Nowadays, the place has new management, has been spruced up and although the lineups are still of the very best quality, I could probably afford to go to the opera more often than I can afford Ronnie’s. Every so often, though, there’s something so delicious on that you just can’t miss it. Gary Baldwin is one of Britain’s top Hammond organ players, and when he told me that he had been invited to play at Ronnie’s with two other well-known Hammond artists, Ed Bentley and Ross Stanley, I couldn’t resist. Nor could other people; the club was sold out—on a Monday.
They’ve done up the place well. The bar’s moved from the side to the back (a good thing), but apart from that they’ve not changed the essence of the place, just made it a little less grubby. The low, orange lighting, the red lamps and plush seating are all still there, the scary mâitre d’ may be a different guy, but still isn’t to be crossed, and the great pillar by the stage that makes it a nightmare to see anything if you’re sitting stage right still holds up the joint all by itself.
What with that pillar and a giant row of Hammond B3 organs across the front, it was quite hard to see the players, but it wasn’t hard to hear them. The sound is one thing they have improved. Each Hammondist played a solo set, which, although good to listen to, was only the preview. Everyone there was really waiting for the last, mind-blowing set, when all three B3s played together in one wild Jimmy McGriff/Jimmy Smith/Billy Preston/Shirley Scott riot. The evening was called “Celebrating the Hammond Groovemasters.” Yeah. They managed that…
Next month, I’m heading out west for a mechanical musical instruments museum, snooping around William Waldorf Astor’s London residence and eating Mexican street food whilst staring at the new Olympic park.
Comments