REVIEW: In Celebration
- Posted on July 19, 2007 10:07 AM
- 0 comments
In Celebration
Duke of York Theatre, July 16th.
Review by Rhiannon Howe
Quite possibly it is some sort of enduring Seasonal Affective Disorder pervading the British mood at the moment, but there seems to be little current enthusiasm for any live performance that does not, by its nature, seek to lift the mood with bright colours and reality TV guest stars. In Celebration turns out to be, ironically, something of a relief.
David Storey’s 1964 play laments so much that was and still is wrong about the world that it is hard not to come out feeling rather glum. Or just glad that you don’t live in 1960’s Yorkshire. As three brothers come home to celebrate their parents’ wedding anniversary, family secrets and long-held resentments begin to emerge and take their toll on the happy event.
Tim Healy, as the father of the family, delivers a glorious nose-dive from comedic optimist to an old man, more afraid of impeding retirement and obsoleteness than of his own mortality. Perhaps it comes from being descended from pit-bound Welsh miners, but listening to a quiet monologue of his fears over the end of the mining industry and knowing Margaret Thatcher is just a decade away sent shivers down my spine.
Paul Hilton’s Andrew is the opposite. The eldest of the three brothers, he sweeps in like a spoilt child and proceeds to goad his siblings into sharing his pain and his fury, culminating in a thirty minute glorified temper tantrum that is little more than a cry for his mother’s attention, albeit forty years too late. Far from being irritating, though, his rapid approach toward climactic breakdown is a very deliberate and perfectly executed tragedy.
Can Orlando Bloom act? After nine or so years I have decided yes, he can. For some reason I’ve always had a fondness for the boy (and it’s not just because I’m 25 and female with good eyesight) and I went in hoping he would do well. I was surprised to not be disappointed. Steven, the youngest, falls apart in a very delicate manner. While others argue and shout around him, he disintegrates almost wordlessly, calmly going from the most beloved and accomplished son into a six-foot child who is afraid of the dark.
On a less glorious note, the stage direction lacks inspiration, and Lynda Baron’s accent spends as much time in Belfast as in Yorkshire, but it’s an enduring, thought-provoking piece with a strong supporting cast. The comic relief is frequent and welcome, coming as each character descends further into self-pity and recrimination.
Surprisingly, the play has dated less than one might expect. Class treachery and misguided parenting are as much of a problem as ever and the dashes of innuendo are as understandable as they ever were. The utter, glaring lack of any resolution as the curtain falls is superbly and appropriately fitting. Ultimately, nobody’s life is quite what they want. Nobody is satisfied and, most poignantly, nobody is in complete control of their lives. Nothing is perfect.
Except Orlando Bloom’s skin. Orlando Bloom’s skin is perfect.
Have you seen Mr Bloom in action? Did you rate or hate the play? Tell all in our comments section. Messages for the main man are most welcome.
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