Something For The Weekend

it just gets more Wicked...

I’ve seen it three times now. THREE! Some might say that’s slightly obsessive, but not since I wore my Joseph soundtrack cassette tape out when I was ten has a show got me so excited.  I remember dancing my way round the house singing ‘I close my eyes, draw back the cuuuuuurtaaaaaain’ over and over again. In fact, I wound my dad up so much that he booked us tickets to the show and drove two hundred miles to see Jason Donovan don that coat of many colours. Naturally I spent much of the performance with the binoculars stuck to my face, trying to peek beneath his loincloth.

I listened to the Wicked soundtrack before I saw the show too – someone here gave me it.  I stared at the green and black case with a dubious eye. “It’s amazing,” he said. “But it’ll never be Joseph,” I replied.  Joseph’s songs form the soundtrack of my childhood.  I’ll listen to them every now and then for a flashback to a time when the theatre was something I worshipped from afar but never really had much to do with.  Surely no show would ever reach out and grab me like that one did.  Surely nothing else would ever take the lead.

I think I was somewhere between St James’ Park and Embankment when Idina Menzel’s vocals burst into my eardrums on the tube, and I knew I’d been changed. For good.  Defying Gravity had so much power, and dare I say it, a message that just grabbed me, right there on my grubby chair. Was Joseph being knocked off the top spot???

Anyway, like all devout musical worshippers, after the three-hundredth playing I got quite attached to Idina’s voice. By the time it came for me to see the show for the first time, I felt like a fan, sitting in front of a true celebrity. And I wasn’t alone.  Wicked has got a massive following – over a quarter of a million ticket sales so far tells us something.  People have flown in from all over the world to hear those witchy warblings, and travelled many brick roads for an update on the world that lies over the rainbow.  Of course, I knew most of the words by the time I saw it, and although slightly drunk on both wine and anticipation I can honestly say it was the best show I’d seen all year. And I’ve seen a lot of shows!  Sorry Jason Donovan, not even the teeniest tiny loincloth can save you now. I’ve crossed over to Oz.

Unfortunately however, we couldn’t have Idina Menzel forever.  It was weird to think that having captured the hearts of so many in her award-winning role, she would soon be leaving and the show would no longer match the soundtrack now firmly at the top of my iPod’s playlist.  It would never be the same again.  I mean, could anyone else play the part of Elphaba with quite so much style? Could anyone else have that voice, that chemistry with Fiyero? Could anyone else pull off that note at the end of Defying Gravity – the one that gives you goosebumps in a theatrical moment that has the entire audience on the edge of their seats?  Well, quite simply, the answer is yes. Thank Goodness for Kerry Ellis, who stepped into the role on January 1st and is now firmly at home in that pointed hat.

Kerry’s voice is just as good at Idina’s, and while she had exceptionally big shoes to fill, she delivers a performance to make us fans proud.  We were all rooting for her when she rose to the roof in Defying Gravity and went for that high note, but it turns out we had nothing to fear. Having played lead roles in Les Miserables, We Will Rock You and Miss Saigon, there was no one more qualified than Kerry to take over.  Our beloved Elphaba was in good hands.  It was always a little odd that our heroine was American anyway.  We overlooked it because Idina was amazing and hey, anything can happen in Oz. But having a British lead take over somehow makes it all fit into place - brings it home, if you will.  We can do it just as good as Broadway. 

The chemistry with Fiyero is just as strong and Helen Dallimore gets funnier every time I see this show.  Madame Morrible is just as horrible and as always, Dr Dillamond is anything but ‘baaaaad’.

When you see theatre of this calibre, showcasing this much talent, and actors putting as much passion into the show as the fans obviously do night after night, it really makes you appreciate live art in a world where manufactured pop and talentless idiots reign supreme. Why stay in with Celebrity Big Brother when you can experience such awesome entertainment elsewhere, that doesn’t involve people arguing over breakfast cereal and falling out over a fat man snoring? 

Thinking about it, my brand new fave will never really beat Joseph.  After all that was the show that made me fall in love with the theatre all those years ago. But I can tell you something honestly.  Wicked is the one that will keep me going back.

Becky Wicks

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Pan's Labyrinth

It's been a while since I saw a film at the cinema that really blew my socks off, but on Wednesday I went to see Guillermo Del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth and my socks are now coyly hanging from the emergency exit sign in the Islington Vue. It's "a gothic fairytale set against the postwar repression of Franco's spain". To synopsise the plot very briefly: Ofelia, our 11-year-old heroine and her heavily pregnant mother are taken to a remote outpost under military rule, captained by her new stepfather. While battle between the heroic insurgents and the barbaric military unfolds, Ofelia discovers an ancient labyrinth in the woods and the promise of transportation to a magical world.

It's a story of intense brutality, fragile beauty, honour and heroism. The film is pretty much entirely shot in half-light with menacing shadows and a brownish palate. The set and special effects are also completely fantastic - incredibly detailed and other-worldly. Put it all together and you've got a film that grips you so tight you can barely breathe. Beautiful.

If you want to find out more, check out the film's official website (and see how many awards it's already won!) or just take my word for it and buy tickets to see Pan's Labyrinth at a Vue cinema.

Sara Sha'ath

how to escape reality TV...

Because we don't particularly like watching Jade Goody's juvenile mother prance about in her track suit, pouting her fake lips and flapping her arms about like a marooned kipper, we thought we'd plan something to get us out of the house this weekend. If you fancy joining us, chances are you'll find us at one of these places...

Because we love ickle furry animals, we were thinking of heading to Hackney City Farm, which for the past 20 years has been opening its doors (or, gates?) to adults and kids alike, all looking to stroke something fuzzy. They've got a pig called Jade, doncha know? How fitting. Watch the lovely sheep pooh their way across the greenery, or indulge in some craft activities, such as pottery, stone sculpture, music and movement or textile printing.  We're not exactly sure how much music and movement relates to farm life - perhaps they play the harp in the cowshed until they relieve themselves out of sheer relaxation? Only one way to find out.

Of course, some farmyard frolics will put you in tremendous steed for a stint at Broadway Market, where you can pick up some nice cold slabs of the animals you've just encountered. Helpfully, this bustling Saturday spot serves up stall after stall of splendiferous treats, and most of the meat on offer is kindly labelled with a picture of the animal, its family and habitat, so you know what you're eating. Or who. Did little muddy Jade look like she'd be good with some apple sauce?

We were also rather intrugued by the David Hockney Portraits exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. He really is a very "arty man". Anyone with a message such as this - 'What an artist is trying to do for people is bring them closer to something, because of course art is about sharing: you wouldn't be an artist unless you wanted to share an experience, a thought.' needs to be encouraged. So buy your ticket and give him some love. Heck, share it with your friends. We need more sharing in the world.

Do you know anything cool going on this weekend? Will you cook us dinner if we come over? Share some love with us in the comments below....

I predict a diet...

To me, the idea of watching what I eat has always meant counting how many chocolate slabs I can stuff in my face whilst the flatmate’s eyes are diverted to Celebrity Big Brother. I’ve never really been too good at dieting. I’ve always been one of those people who opens the fridge and fondles the celery selection with intent, before shoving it aside to reach for the cheese. 

But I’m not as young as I used to be and faced with the inevitable donning of a bikini much earlier than anticipated, on a February trip to New Zealand, the prospect of baring all has set the flames of fear alight. It suddenly dawned on me, as another friend bought his 6 month ticket to the gym, that whilst I’ve always scoffed at the idea of dieting, I haven’t stopped scoffing the food.  I’m not exactly fat, but all of a sudden, somewhere between week one and month seven of being in my mid twenties, I have noticed the following parts of my body begin to change:

ARMS: I still have two. Both used to be toned and of twig like appeal. I used to be able to shake the salt and pepper pots over my plate in a restaurant with gleeful abandon, without worrying I would knock the person next to me out with a bingo wing to rival Big Bird's. The other day I positively puked when I saw a photo of myself with my arm pressed to my side.  Forget about the manic grin on my drunken face - the focal point was quite clearly my enormous forearm. It almost spanned the entire width of my computer screen when I uploaded it. Uuurgh. Needless to say it was trashed immediately. I even emptied my trash in case it reappeared to haunt me.

LEGS: Again, still have two, for which I suppose I should be grateful. These used to be smooth and lean. I used to wear tights and hotpants and think nothing of prancing round my flat at Uni in skimpy shorts, with or without my boyfriend watching. I never liked my knees growing up, but at the compliments of many, I grew rather fond of the knobbly twosome and the day I discovered razors, my spindly pins were on permanent display. These days I find myself sitting cross legged in the presence of company, for fear that in spite of any charming banter exiting my mouth, they'll feel nothing but contempt for the superfluous spillage of what used to be a skinny pair of thighs, pouring over and off the seat I'm sitting on. They wobble when I walk and the idea of wearing pants in front of a man, let alone hot-pants, fills me with so much dread that at times I'm tempted to set my alarm for 6am, just so I can cover myself up for his awakening.

TUMMY: This used to be so flat it was practically concave. I was proud of my skeletal structure and the only thing about me that wobbled in my college days was my bottom lip when I got over-emotional at the nineteenth viewing of Titanic. At the mercy of a five year beer-infused diet plan, carefully structured around a daily sausage muffin schedule, I am now left with a rather podgy middle half that doesn't really show standing up, but folds neatly over my trousers when I sit down. This results in me feeling like I should sit up straighter and breathe in when anyone talks to me. Which consequently results in me looking like a constipated soldier.

BUM: Used to be a good one. Used to get compliments all the time and also used to flaunt it in the tightest trousers known to man. Like the thighs it never used to wobble, but now it seems to sag a little and I pretty much have to sew myself into my size eight knickers. In fact, a couple of months ago, while in bed with a boy, I was utterly horrified to feel him lifting my bum. I'm not exactly sure to this day what he was hoping to achieve - any amusement factor blew right out the window and in swept a tidal wave of total mortification, once I realised that perhaps, actually, he was wondering exactly what this incredible mass of surplus flesh was doing below my relatively well-proportioned upper half. I'm not quite sure either, where he was lifting it to. Perhaps he was hoping to rid the bed of it altogether. Or perhaps he was secretly weighing it in order to relate the sheer size of it to his mates later. It's practically its own continent these days.

To the average human eye it might look like I'm still a thin person, but bit by bit I can feel it all slipping away. Literally. Still, the idea of exercise repels me more than the thought of boiling down some vegetables and sucking Satan’s cabbage patch up through a straw. My flatmate joined the gym the other week and she’s filled with the joys of their complimentary towels and intense weight training program. Yuck. She even gets up early on Sunday mornings and just as I'm rising from my pit with a stinking hangover, fag ends in my hair, last night's Brick Lane bagel round my face and one sock missing, she's jogging energetically off to Fitness First in her Adidas get-up, clutching her membership water bottle. Disgusting. 

No. I might not look like I used to look, but my philosophy of living each day as if it’s my last never did involve any physical, or tastebud torture.

I’m sure there are some lovely long, sweat-free jumpers I can wear on holiday instead.

By Becky Wicks

If you feel like saying 'ditch the diet', why not go out for a slap up meal? There are some great offers on now that all those wimps are cutting calories. All the more for us to scoff:

Abannach - 50% off selected food and drinks

Thai on the River - 50% off food bill

Imli - 50% off special tasting menu

See more half price restaurant deals here

The History Boys

What’s it about?
The history boys is a wonderfully English tragic comedy – or comic tragedy depending on the way you look at it. It’s set in a 1980s boys' grammar school where a class full of bright, inquisitive Oxbridge-hopefuls are swatting up for the entrance exams. Steering them along the way, or rather tugging them in all directions, are their three tutors: Mrs Lintott, the thorough and traditional core of their history education, Hector, their whimsically extra-curricular General Studies tutor and Irwin, the extremely young “ringer” brought in to try to boost the boys to Oxbridge entrance in the last few weeks of term. The contrast in teaching philosophies between the three causes tension both in the staffroom and the classroom.  Add to this the fraught sexual-tensions of a mid-pubescent boys' school and you’ve got a fertile field for philosophical, emotional and highly-comic havoc.

What’s it like?
It’s incredibly sweet at times and some of the play’s most outstanding moments come from the hilarious role-play between the boys as they impersonate 1920s film icons and banter with their tutors. They are half enthusiastic puppies, half quick-witted intellectuals and the combination is charming (if a little utopian).

The play also captures the feel of the 1980s very convincingly, with everything from the comic Grange Hill style short film sequences shown during scene changes, to the politics in discussion. Bennett dates his play with a tongue in cheek use of that very “’80s” tokenism (in this small class there is a gay, Jewish student, a Christian, a fat student, a “stupid” working class one, a black student and a Muslim - and the latter two rarely speak) and also the kind of clumsily glib feminist attitudes which were rife in media of the era. To top it off, he resurrects a spirit of gallant resignation in the attitudes of the boys towards their loveable but sexually predatory older tutor. It’s hard to imagine a time when people weren’t vigorously demonised for such behaviour – you can’t help but feel that Bennett is raising questions about our current social climate in the way he handles these attitudes.

It’s not all about the classroom politics though – there is a tangled triangle, or square, of forbidden love.  It’s a messy profusion of socially-unaccepted lust with the potential for a dark melodrama, but it’s actually treated with a light comic touch. You’ll find yourself giggling, half-sharing Irwin’s discomfort as Dakin ruthlessly propositions him and chuckling along with the cheesy music-video-style film sequence where Posner longingly watches Dakin frolic with the other boys.

Who’s in it?
Ben Barnes plays Dakin, the object of so many characters’ desire (and I’d hazard that of the majority of the audience). He’s tall, handsome, youthful and makes the smart, self-assured confidence of his character seem innate. Among the other boys, all of whom turn out endearing and convincing performances, Thomas Morrison (who plays the Christian, Scripps) stands out – it’s hard to put your finger on exactly why, but he has a very engaging stage presence. Isla Blair plays the exasperated, marginalised Mrs Lintott, Orlando wells brings an interesting combination of vulnerability and showmanship to the character of Irwin, and Stephen Moore plays the lovable eccentric, Hector.

What should I look out for?
Get your GCSE French at the ready for the farcical “brothel scene”.

Who’d enjoy it?
If you’re looking for something a little more thought provoking than the glut of musicals in Theatreland, but you’d like a healthy serving of light-hearted entertainment thrown into the mix, this is the play for you.

by Sara Sha'ath

Buy tickets for The History Boys