Review: The Girl Who Fell, Baby Reindeer, A Day in the Death of Joe Egg

It’s been a busy week for theatre, so there are a lot of reviews coming your way. It started with Ages of the Moon on Thursday evening, which I’ve already had the chance to review. Luckily, it got better from there. On Saturday, I had a theatrical double-header, taking in not one, but two plays – a matinee performance of The Girl Who Fell at Trafalgar Studios and Baby Reindeer at Bush Theatre.

I’ve seen exactly two plays at Trafalgar Studios prior to this, and both were amazing beyond belief – Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs in 2017 and Arinzé Kene’s Misty in 2018. They were so good, in fact, that I’ve been on a search for the “next great thing” ever since. And, well, neither play I saw on Saturday disappointed.

The premise of The Girl Who Fell didn’t sound particularly enticing – “is Snapchat to blame for a teenage girl’s suicide?” – but the reality was that the show explored themes of guilt, responsibility, and forgiveness that went far beyond the superficial. Impeccably acted, incredibly compelling, I was hooked from the first scene to the last. My only criticism would be the slightly cheesy ending, though, admittedly, I don’t see much of an alternative. It could’ve taken a much darker turn, but the conclusion was sufficiently convincing.

Baby Reindeer was a one-man show by comedian Richard Gadd. He shared his harrowing experiences of being stalked, but added nuance by sharing his inner turmoil – especially in light of a prior sexual assault and coming to terms with his sexuality. It was often difficult to watch, because it wasn’t clear whether you’re meant to laugh, cry, or empathise – which was the point, more or less. People are multidimensional characters; life isn’t black and white. This comes across brilliantly, which is most likely why the play has received the critical reception it has.

I was so impressed with the two performances on Saturday that I basically decided that I’d hacked the system and that all I had to do was keep showing up to the same theatres, so I obviously bought tickets to the other play running at Trafalgar Studios (and Bush Theatre, but that’s in December) – A Day in the Death of Joe Egg. I didn’t know much about the work, but the idea is that a couple takes care of their severely disabled daughter, their marriage is tested, etc.

Our seats were almost on the stage itself, so it was a bit…close. We saw a lot of spit flying out of the lead actor’s mouth. Incidentally, I found out that he is the son of Professor McGonagall – er, Dame Maggie Smith, that is. We also caught Hugh Dennis in the audience, who was there to see his partner as the female lead. He agreed to a photo, but did slightly shame us by pointing out that it’s not his play. Point is, the play had a very strong cast. Speaking of which, it was the first time that this play, which was written in 1967, featured a disabled actor playing the role of the disabled daughter. We were lucky enough to catch a QnA with the actress, Stormie Toolis, after the show.

Stormie had very interesting thoughts on the visibility of disabled characters, pointing out that we shouldn’t cast disabled actors only when their disability is part of the plot – rather, true representation can only be achieved when we cast disabled actors in standard parts, such as the cashier or barista or office worker. She also spoke at length about something I was thinking about when watching the play – the mental challenge of playing such a passive role. I was also a little surprised that her name didn’t make it to the credits, which I guess highlights that this is an ongoing issue.

Anyhow, it’s possibly the first time that I’ve reviewed pieces that are still running: The Girl Who Fell, admittedly, ends today, but Baby Reindeer is running until November 9, and A Day in the Death of Joe Egg until November 30.

Review: Ages of the Moon

Last night, a friend and I attended a performance of Ages of the Moon by Sam Shepard at The Vaults in Waterloo. Though this could’ve possibly waited until next week, I figured it makes more sense to post it now as the show is finishing its run in three days.

I booked tickets as a spur-of-the-moment decision without much prior research, but I was later rewarded with the knowledge that one of my most favourite actors (Stephen Rea, whom I’ve seen in several Edna Walsh plays and, most recently, in the incredibly traumatic Cyprus Avenue) had previously performed the role of Ames.

Now, the description promised “[reflection] on love and life over a bottle of whiskey” as “old rivalries flare” and a “forty-year friendship is put to the test at the barrel of a gun”. Intriguing, isn’t it? Unfortunately, the most enjoyable part of the performance was the atmosphere. The Vaults is a fantastic venue, nestled beneath Waterloo Station. The exposed brickwork and fairylights complement (or are complemented by) trains rumbling overhead, creating an intimate setting.

The actual performance was disappointing. I kept looking for an additional layer in the story, or some nuance – I thought perhaps that something had happened between the two characters, Ames and Byron, that had led to a strained relationship. I even had suspicions of a possible homoerotic interlude, given how prominently they asserted their heterosexuality.

As it turned out, nothing had happened. This was meant to be a reunion between two old friends, who’d known each other for decades, but the actors (Christopher Fairbank, whose acting credits include The Fifth Element and Guardians of the Galaxy, and Joseph Marcell of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air fame) had no chemistry whatsoever. There was a brief moment of emotion when Byron talked about his wife, but in the grand scheme of things, even that moment didn’t feel particularly convincing.

In summary, though Ages of the Moon was intended as a poignant rumination on love, life, desolation, friendship, etc., I didn’t feel as though the two actors did this piece justice. The highlights of my evening were time spent with my friend, for whom this was the first taste of London theatre, and the halloumi we enjoyed afterwards. The play? Not so much.

Museums, miscellaneous, music

Oops, I did it again. I skipped another week. There’s been a lot happening – work, books, concerts, adventures, the usual. I’ve visited a new museum in London, took in two Science Museums exhibitions, started reading Sapiens, played a lot of table tennis, cooked traditional Latvian dishes, attended a Japanese funk concert, the list goes on and on.

Coincidently, the topics of this post have neatly divided themselves into chronological order: museums, miscellaneous, music.

Beginning with museums, I’ve been to two over the past fourteen days: The Wallace Collection and the Science Museum. The former is currently exhibiting An Enquiring Mind: Manolo Blahnik until 27 October, showcasing designer pieces throughout the many rooms of the manor house. In my personal view, the paintings, sculptures, and furniture far surpass the attraction of Manolo Blahnik shoes, so though the idea was for the layout of the rooms to complement the shoes, they seemed rather unremarkable in comparison and I barely noticed them.

The other museum visit was to the Science Museum. I saw two of the free exhibitions: Science Photographer of the Year and The Art of Innovation. The photographs were beautiful, but I felt quite disconnected from them. An exception was probably a photograph of fog in the mountains of China, which a photographer friend explained required immense skill. The second exhibition sought to bring together art and science, so alongside scientific artefacts paintings by Constable and Turner were on display. There was also a very enthusiastic museum employee to explain how amazing Stephanie Kwolek, the inventor of Kevlar, was.

The miscellaneous category is mostly dedicated to food, because there’s not much to say about table tennis or about Sapiens, to which I’ll dedicate a separate post once I’ve finished reading. This past weekend, I decided to educate my boyfriend on the subject of traditional Latvian cuisine. I chose two of my favourite foods of all time: potato pancakes and chilled beet soup. I managed to mess up both. The potato pancakes weren’t cooked enough (which was easily rectified), and the chilled beet soup was made on sour cream rather than buttermilk. The previous weekend, however, we made kumpir – baked potatoes with mozzarella, pesto, spinach, and cottage cheese, which was a great success. While I’m developing my culinary skills, it’s a bit hit or miss, so next time I’m due a hit.

Last, but not least: music! Completely spontaneously, I booked tickets to Osaka Monaurail for the Tuesday just gone. I had no idea what to expect, because when you think funk, you don’t typically think Japan, but this was fantastic! We were swirling away on the dancefloor – to the annoyance of the people standing beside us, most likely. Still, the atmosphere was relaxed, the lead singer was incredibly charismatic, and the music impeccable. Apparently, they come every year, so I’m sure we’ll be back.

In the coming days, I’m planning to attend two theatre performances and a classical music recital, so there will be lots to report next week!

Books, trails, and theatre – oh my!

The past two weeks have flown by in a haze. Much of that haze was theatre, sport, and countless hours spent with friends, so no complaints from me, but it’s an explanation as to why I didn’t post last week. In all fairness, there wasn’t much happening last week – I was consumed by work, work, work. This week, however, is the complete opposite.

I’ve done a 23km run through the hills of Cesis. I’ve made new friends. I’ve finished One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’ve been denied the chance to participate in the London Marathon yet again. I’ve attended a performance of Preludes at the Southwark Playhouse. I booked tickets to Verona. The list goes on and on.

Yesterday, I came up with a new word. Well, possibly. Perhaps someone’s used it before, but the word is “amango” to denote something amazing. Like mangoes. There are these dried mangoes I buy and they’re amango mangoes. The story goes that I bought a pack yesterday and noticed a homeless man looking at them in what I perceived to be yearning, so I figured I should get him some as well, but he was seemingly very confused by my donation of amango mangoes.

So, in order: let’s begin with Cesis. If you recall my post about breaking the routine, I participated in another run from the same series. Quite poetic, really, because if that first run was the opener for the 2019 season, this run was the closer. I was meant to be running with the same friend as previously, but somehow I missed him twice: initially, I was too slow, because I was running with a colleague of mine and stopping to take pictures – when I sped up, I was too fast, so I ended up running with his friend instead.

Though it was a frosty zero degrees, the woods were awash in autumnal colours – reds, yellows, bright oranges – and lit by the golden sun. It was such a stereotypically Latvian event, too. They were even offering slices of meat and brown bread at pitstops, but alas, my newfound vegetarianism prevented me from indulging.

Staying on the topic of running, I was quite disappointed to miss out on the London Marathon, but with a record 457,861 entries, I suppose there wasn’t much of a chance. Still, I donated my entry fee and was therefore sent a winter running top, which at least partially makes up for it. Maybe next time?

Neither Preludes, which focusses on Sergei Rachmaninoff’s depression and eventual recovery through hypnotherapy, nor One Hundred Years of Solitude featured much running, so I’m not sure how to deftly make the transition. There’s also not much in common between the two, which makes my decision to bring them up in the same paragraph rather confusing. Still, both were enjoyable in their own ways.

In Preludes, I enjoyed Chaliapin’s performance of “Loop” (suggested by Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, op. 43 and Piano Concerto no. 3 in D minor, op. 30) the most, though I didn’t really understand what this scene was intended to convey. Still, no reason not to include some operatic death metal, right?

Credit: Southwark Playhouse

Following the same logic, my favourite part of One Hundred Years of Solitude were the stylistic elements. It’s hard to pinpoint what exactly I enjoyed about the novel if we take the plot apart, but I guess that’s part of its appeal. Macondo is essentially a timeless oasis lost within the confines of history, but still anchored to cultural and thematic elements.

I’ve now drifted away in my imagination. Today’s a good day.