City Of Angels...

Last night Stuart and I went to see Josie Rourke's fantastic production of the musical City of Angels at the Donmar Warehouse in London's glitzy West End.

City of Angels, in homage to 1940s noir, is a bitter comedy about the treacherous LA movie industry. It is clever, gloriously stylish and very, very funny.

Two narratives work in complex concert. In the “real” colour world, clacking away on a typewriter, a hack called Stine (Hadley Fraser) is adapting his detective novel City of Angels for the big-screen, at the meddling behest of cigar-chomping producer Buddy Fidler. In the black and white “reel” world, his characters – notably his gumshoe alter-ego, Stone (Tam Mutu) and his sidekick, Oolie (Rebecca Trehearn) – are embroiled in a mystery involving a rich, decaying man with an iron lung, his grasping younger wife and the pair’s missing beautiful femme fatale daughter/step-daughter.

Aside from the parts of Stone and Stine, everyone in the cast plays dual roles that comment on and reflect each other.

It has lines in it of which Raymond Chandler would have been proud, “Only the floor kept her legs from going on forever.” As you can guess its tongue is firmly in its cheek.

This musical comedy first came to London's West End in March 1993 for eight months, winning an Olivier Award in 1994. The revival deserves to repeat the feat.

It's the sold out production it deserves to be - here's hoping it transfers.

The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable...

Last night Stu and I went to Punkdrunk's The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable in the imagined Temple Studios in London's not so glitzy Paddington.

Billed as a promenade experience we walked around a vast cavernous ex-Post Office sorting office dressed as a number of film sets. In the back lot were the dressing rooms, the props rooms the make-up, costumes and the wigs. On set were the desert, an ice lake, various interiors and the forest. No really.

We were silent and wearing masks as the actors danced around us playing out stories of love, betrayal and death.

It was a truly immersive experience with loud environmental noise, dimmed rooms and secret passageways. All great fun. It was at times exciting, at times boring. You needed to seek out where the action was taking place - which itself could be a bit of a challenge. You'd walk into a room just as some episode was finishing. Or the other masked patrons would be crowding around something so you, standing at the back, couldn't see.

Still, the attention to detail was sublime. Every shop, every hotel room, every scarecrow's funeral, every changing room was meticulously dressed.

It was a sort of Secret Cinema but without the film. It was our first Punchdrunk performance and I don't think it'll be our last.

Macbeth...

Last night Stu and I went to see James McAvoy play Macbeth at the Trafalgar Studios in the London's glitzy West End.

This particular version of 'the Scottish play' was resolutely Scottish with accents as thick as Nessie's rump. Not that that was in any way a bad thing but when coupled along with the rather dated post-apocalyptic grunge look of the set it came across more low-life Glasgow estate than Highland Royal Estate. Jamie Lloyd’s production has Scotland as a place of broken windows, filthy people and foul toilets. Feel free to add your own joke at this point but I think I can perhaps rise above such cheap insults here.

James McAvoy's Macbeth is buffed, handsome, and charismatic. A Hollywood actor with twinkly eyes to match. But sadly all the slickly choreographed sword fighting, bearlike roaring, excessive spitting and needless vomiting in the world couldn't convince me he was the brave Scottish warrior of old. Braveheart he was not.

Macbeth's slow descent into madness following his bloody regicide is often a gripping part of the play to witness. Sadly in the hands of Mr McAvoy it was handled with the care of flicking on a light switch. One moment he was nervous, shy and loyal. The next he was screaming down the house, chewing up the scenery and spitting out anything he could put in his mouth.

Lady Macbeth was not much better. Why, she barely seemed to be sorry for what she has done. Her suicide almost came as a surprise.

Other cast members faired better (the Porter, Malcom's son and Macduff's wife being particularly good examples) but the excessive use of Kensington Gore and the flashing overhead lights to signal menace gave the whole production the feel of a well funded college production.

Cast, crew, audience, Bard - we all deserved better.

Post review Update: OK, it wasn't terrible - it's just been done so much better recently. Older incarnation of Charles Xavier Patrick Stewart's recent version being an outstanding example. Well, on the up side there are a few cute supporting cast members to keep an eye on. Sadly lots of X Men fans were in the house - some taking photos and videos during the performance! Shameful.

LA to Laguna Beach...

We drove around LA yesterday morning; Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood sign, Hollywood Boulevard, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, Santa Monica Boulevard, Beverley Hills and then Santa Monica itself.

After that we drove south out through Orange County and on to our next destination, the beautiful Laguna Beach.

We were booked into the Laguna Beach Hotel - as recommended by Bryn: whose wedding we would be attending on the Saturday.

Bryn came to meet us at our hotel - right on the beach - along with her great mate Cora. We quaffed cocktails, chatted, laughed and drank some more. Last time we four were together we all but got thrown out of a hotel in New York!

Then we headed for some great food, some more laughter and a mosey about this very arty town.

Saying our goodbyes at the beach Stu and I headed back for an early night. It'd been a long day and the sea air was making us sleepy - well, that and the gin-based cocktails!