One Man, Two Guvnors Review

                        

One Man, Two Guvnors is a modern play written by Richard Bean, which has been adapted from the 1859 Italian Renaissance farce commonly known as The Servant of Two Masters. Bean has set the play in early 1963, between the end of the Chatterley ban and the Beatles first LP.  It is on the cusp of the swinging 60s and the play is interjected with smut, musical interludes, charismatic thugs and bawdy humour. British comedy has always found a place in its heart for slapstick and, like its Italian forefather, One Man, Two Guvnors masters physical comedy with ease. Throw in some crafty witticisms and flamboyant characters and this has all the makings of a modern classic.   

The plot, like most renaissance farces, is hard to decipher, but follows the traditional structure of a classic case of mistaken identity, in which a plucky jester-type figure attempts to use the confusion to his advantage. James Corden plays Francis Henshall, an ousted skiffle player with an insatiable appetite who ends up working for two ‘guvnors’. One is Rachel Crabbe (Jemima Rooper), who has disguised herself as her recently murdered gangland twin brother Rosco, and the other is Stanley Stubbers, (Oliver Chris) a smooth talking, arrogant toff who murdered Rosco and is also Rachel’s secret lover. They are oblivious to the fact that Henshall is working for them both and hilarity ensues as he desperately tries to keep them apart as the lies and confusion mount up. Henshall’s motive is to put food in his belly, later followed by the lust for a woman and it is refreshing to see a modern play keep the farcical tradition intact.

Whilst I have never been a massive fan of James Corden’s celebrity persona, I have always admired his theatrical talent since his critically acclaimed role in The History Boys. In One Man, Two Guvnors, Corden commandeers the stage with ease and flourishes in a role that could seem hammy and one dimensional. His delivery is impeccable and the energy he brings to Francis Henshall’s optimistic ne’er-do-well makes the character endearingly genial. In one scene Corden displays some impressive slapstick comedy in which the two sides of Henshall’s conscience fight each other. Watching Corden repeatedly slap himself with force and roll around on the floor banging into dustbins takes some endurance and dedication. It is extremely funny and a nostalgic reminder of the bygone age of the vaudeville. Corden also has excellent reflexes when it comes to audience participation as some lucky people on the front row found out. Such is the talent of his acting that the audience automatically assumed that he was engaging in spontaneous improvisation and not, in fact, intricately woven dialect to throw off the plays timing. 

             

This is undoubtedly the James Corden show. However, there are two supporting actors who deserve much praise. Daniel Rigby plays Alan Dangle, an aspiring thespian whose mannerisms are influenced by the old style school of acting. Rigby is wonderful in this satirical role as the flamboyant Alan who has histrionic fits and comically puts great emphasis on ridiculous dialogue. One of my favourite parts of the play is when Rigby delivers the immortal line ‘Love is fluff, very fluffy fluff’ with sincerity and a dead pan face.  It is also amusing to see Rigby use dramatic extensions of his arms for everything his character Alan deems to be profound.

Another magnificent performance is by Oliver Chris, who plays toff Stanley Stubbers to great effect. Stanley is a testament to public school boy arrogance.  Stanley swaggers around the stage in a manner which should be abhorrent but it is down to Chris’s fantastic acting that the character is ultimately loveable. Chris allows us to revel in his gleeful school boy charm and then tut when his snooty vernacular rears its head. He is portraying a character we all know so well so there is added pressure not to fall for the obvious stereotypes, such as the gregarious snot drinking jugs of Pimms at the Local Hunt Ball. Placing Stanley in Brighton, away from his London idyll makes him slightly vulnerable, yet he always delivers the goods with some top toff lingo. His constant yup yup yup’s and exclamation of ‘Britain, what a CUNTry’ was a hilarious addition.

One Man, Two Guvnors is refreshingly traditional in its structure. Bean has done Goldoni proud because it really has embodied the heart and soul of a farce. It has been expertly adapted for a modern audience. Its humour is whip smart and its rubbery physical comedy gives it a unique edge. I think, most importantly, this play is brave. One Man, Two Guvnors is uplifting and unashamedly so, something which seems to be lacking in so much modern theatre. In the doom and gloom of credit crunch Britain, it lacks the cynicism of our age … or just covers it up very well.

John Lewis- The Devil in Disguise

                         

I have a bone to pick. A big one. You may think I will be reflecting on the Euro crisis, Greece in turmoil, Libya, Syria, student protests, James Murdoch, phone tapping, or any other crucial news story to hit Britain this past month. After all, these factors are shaping a New Britain. A Britain existing entirely of euro sceptics, media cynics and curmudgeonly worriers. Well, important they may be, but I apologise. Something far less important has pissed me off. Are you ready? Drum roll….. John Lewis. Bloody John Lewis. And what are they guilty of? Corporate sentimentality in the first degree. I mean really, their adverts are vomit-inducing. This violent reaction may seem unfairly misanthropic and I probably now appear to be a heartless bastard. Well I am a bastard but I’m certainly not heartless. Lots of things make me cry. Here’s a list. Old men alone in pubs (we’ve covered this one before), animals being tortured/killed in films, animals being ridiculed in films, animals winning their freedom in films, animals being picked on by their peers, animals proving their worth to their peers, Piers Morgan, ‘The Elephant Man’, ‘The Great Escape’ (why do all the Brits die and all the Americans survive?), the outcast child playing alone in the playground, the outcast teenager sitting alone for lunch, Ludovico Einaudi, ‘Watership Down’, boiled eggs and the acting prowess of Nicholas Cage. See, I have feelings. I’m not a drone, hell bent on sucking the joy out of life. I am a drone hell bent on bringing down John Lewis’ reign of sugary sweetness. Good grief, when I saw their first advert, you know the ‘she’s only a woman to me’ one, I was certain it was about cancer. Definitely a cancer advert. Or a Tena lady advert….. But more likely to be cancer, it was that sentimental! I really thought it was gearing up for a climatic ending, I was preparing myself. My bottom lip was wobbling; I had a twitch in the left eye, a glisten of a tear in the other. Oh God she’s going to die. It makes perfect sense. Except it didn’t make perfect sense. It was about John Lewis. You know that huge billionaire shopping chain. Exploitative drivel, I was expecting a death! No advert that sentimental should be about a department store! It should be about cancer, or Africa, or donkey charities.  Though that advert enraged me, more insanity was to follow. Next was the overly simpering Christmas advert of 2010. An advert that will forever be engraved in my memory for being cruel to animals. Yeah everybody is having a hunky-dory Christmas inside, with the warm log fire burning, presents galore, grandpa asleep in the armchair after pigging out on sprouts, you know the usual. But where is the dog? Oh he’s only outside alone in Siberian winter conditions.  Seriously I’m surprised I didn’t see icicles clinging onto to his shaggy coat. But wait, a small child has recognised the dog’s plight. He’s coming out to bring him back in to the house. Hooray! Oh no, no he’s going to taunt the animal by hanging a stupid stocking up in the medieval looking kennel, and then leave with a sarcastic wave.  And then John Lewis has the temerity to leave you with the ironic tag of ‘For those who care about showing they care.’  Pah!  

                    

 That’s not very Christian. But then Christmas isn’t very Christian either these days.  Warped Christmas spirit has overtaken the real importance. Spread a little good will, just as long as it comes with a 30 return day back guarantee.  So really, advertising is just feeding on the beast within.  Corporate Christmas has been kicking around for a while, but nothing has caused more of a stir than the new John Lewis 2011 Christmas advert. I have been told by numerous people how moving it is, and that it will definitely reduce me to tears. I finally saw it. Wow. First of all, I think this is dangerous. Parents all over Britain will be comparing their own brats to the John Lewis angel incarnate wishing to god that little Wayne will morph into a loving, unselfish child of unbelievable proportions. The prognosis of this ever happening? Not good. Particularly if you have called your kid Wayne. Seriously, children like that do not exist. For one thing, a child that young would not have the foresight or the ability to go out and buy a present by himself. Take it from me. My parents bought my presents for them till I was about sixteen! So we can really look at the advert as child cruelty. Both parents are clearly oblivious that their child has been wandering around John Lewis alone looking for the perfect gift. Or, even worse, he has been surfing the net for some deals. Who knows what he might have found! He may now have an addiction to ebay. Terrible parenting. Also I am 100 percent certain that if John Lewis had picked a fugly, British cynicism would have kicked in and we would have ridiculed this advert. But no, give the public a mop top with Bambi eyes and everyone melts. Seriously people get with it! It is not being heartless. It is seeing it for the smug, knowing, commercial tug at the heart strings that it is. Don’t give in, that’s what they want! God I’d rather have the Frosties ‘they’re going to taste gggggreat’ kid back! Obnoxious, self satisfied, he’s the perfect parallel for advertising agencies.

Also he is worth crying about. I’m sure after that advert he has become a social pariah and now is the outcast teenager eating alone at lunch. Now that advert can be added to my crying list. Sob.Anyway I’ve got to go. It’s breakfast time. They’re going to taste great, they’re going to taste great. I can hear the sound of Frosties hitting me plate! Seriously, that is the line! Who the bloody hell eats Frosties off a plate! So stupid and yet completely and utterly preferable to John Lewis’s adverts. At least it wallows in it’s own corporate cynicism. John Lewis is the evil enforcer of fake sentiment. John Lewis’s child is the devil incarnate. And on that note I am off to sip a victory cup of Starbucks coffee. Golly I hate corporate consumerism.

The Gospel according to Attenborough

                                                 

            I was extremely miffed to hear that the Americans get their own ‘dude’ to do the voiceover for BBC nature docs. How dare they! Who can beat Attenborough? Well either Attenborough but right now I’m specifically talking about David. Although Dickie is fabulous in 'Miracle on 34^th Street.' I actually thought he was the Big Cheese himself. It was a real beard after all, that kid pulled it remember? Anyway, I digress. Some people believe in God, I believe in Attenborough, Dickie and Dave. Anyway back to David. David Attenborough is alone worth the BBC licence fee. That and BBC4 which is spectacular. BBC3 is a cultural wasteland and must be thwarted! Seriously, they have a new programme entitled ‘Hot Like Us’, a reality TV programme where ‘beautiful’ couples battle for the crown of most self indulgent parasite. A show made without any passion and craftsmanship. It is pond scum. And exhale. Fortunately Frozen Planet has graced the small screen making me gaga over nature once more. Just not Lady Gaga. She probably saw Frozen Planet Americano, narrated by Ryan Seacrest and thought she would use walrus flesh for shoulder pads for her new 80s inspired meat collection. Back to Frozen Planet.  I am a self confessed wildlife freak. Seriously, I bloody love nature. I think this might be even better than Blue Planet and how can you top a panoramic view of a Blue Whale? You top trump it with sneaky criminal penguins stealing pebbles. People are easily amused. Hats off to the BBC cameramen who captured this wonderful footage. It’s so human in its pettiness, like a dispute between curmudgeonly neighbours over hedge heights. Fabulous.

           

           

            The cinematography is stunning, the narration spot on but I have to say I have an issue. I am a big baby. I cry at anything. It is a serious handicap in my life. I can’t enter a pub without scanning for the horizon for a sad story. An old man alone with a pint. As my friends point out, he probably popped out for half an hour to get away from his nagging wife. But no I create my own back story and it’s always destitute. It frequently involves Meals on Wheels. Therefore I find Frozen Planet incredibly distressing. Those cruel orcas toying with that seal on the ice sheet. The look in its eyes when it was game over as they pulled it to its demise. Horrific. Seriously, it gave me nightmares. I know it’s the circle of life, and I am being shallow because quite frankly it is only the cute animals I am interested in but I hate it. However I will get over this aversion because this series is magnificent. I mean for one thing chivalry is not dead in the animal world. The elephant seals fight for their female every hour for three months! We’d be lucky with a gift voucher from Boots……..

Scarlet Blushes

                             

Oh my, I forgot to share my horrendous London experience a few days ago. I was walking to a job interview. I finally had a job interview! Of course nothing anywhere near related to what I want to do. Working on a party boat in London. Oh God that’s all I needed. Being reminded of my failure as I serve financial fascists and wanker bankers bottles of vintage wine. Ignore the verbal diarrhoea, I’m just jealous I’m not a hot shot business woman like Jordan.  So I was walking over London Bridge day-dreaming about pesto, thinking it’s really been a long time since I’ve used pesto, but also worrying about whether I can afford pesto and chastising my mother in my head for always buying green pesto. The red one goes so much better with fish. Then feeling horribly middle class, I was distracted by some builders wolf whistling in my direction. I was surprised. I know I’m not an oozing mutant found excavated from a murky swamp but neither am I usually whistling material. Hmmm maybe it was the heels. I cannot walk in heels, and I was wearing heels today, probably for the first time in a year. I was fully betraying my tomboy nature by wearing tight smart black trousers and a tight top that whispers ‘I’ll make allowances to further my career’.  I’m only joking, as if! I wore a jumper. Not my dad’s jumper. Anyhoo I waddled off in my heels a bit further on. I seemed to be getting lots of looks from men. It was like a reversed ‘Lynx’ advert. Everywhere men were staring at me, smirking, whistling. I began to like the attention. I strutted as best I could down the road giving men flickering eyelashes and coy smiles. Suddenly, just as I passed a greengrocer, a woman ran up to me obviously distressed. ‘Those men were laughing at you’ she shrilled. I said nothing but was secretly thinking, you shrew! Just because I am the flavour of the month and you’re not! I tried to brush her aside. She pointed at my crotch and said ‘Look.’   Lo and behold a hole the size of a meteoric crater had ripped its way through my trousers. It was the wrong day for scarlet pants. Turning a similar shade I mumbled my thanks and wandered off, doing a shuffle that made me look even more suspect, like I had an unsightly itch to attend to. Unfortunately there was no time before my interview to address my trouser malfunction. I waited on the pier until it was time for me to go on the boat for my interview. Across the pier a few men saw me and wolf whistled. Dear God, I thought, will this nightmare ever end! What if I ended up working with these men? I’d be forever known as the ‘Scarlet Harlot’ or a less lustrous alternative.

Turns out I got the job. I really, really don’t want to know why.

Terrorists on Hemlines

                          



So a week on and I have nought, zero, nil, zilch in the way of getting a job. I literally have £20 to my name. (Now £19.20 because I’ve just succumbed to a Gregg’s sausage roll.) It’s OK, I’m filling up my days - and not just with pastries. Yesterday I visited my local shopping centre, scowling on the periphery at all the consumerists who could afford clothes, DVDs, CDs (yes I’m old school), wondering whether I’ll ever be in a position to make the transition from charity shops to TK Maxx. Top Shop is the Holy Grail and way out of reach. You see, apart from providing dynamite groove gear, I hate to say that charity shops selling clothes leave me feeling slightly icky. Some of the items are so dusty and musty (exquisite rhyming) that it looks as though they were all donated by Miss Faversham. (Marvel at ‘obscure’ literary reference).  Although there are gems. I remember once stumbling across a patchwork skirt covered in Che Guevara and Fidel Castro’s faces, spewing out revolutionary rhetoric across the hemline. This was when I was fourteen and thought it cool to like borderline terrorists. I wore it almost every weekend with relish, twirling around, making the ‘terrorists’ dance. Communism was looking very appealing to me. Unfortunately like Communism, the skirt had had its moment to shine and then quickly led way for further progression. Namely red hair and flared jeans. In my fantastical world of teenage revelry it was the 1970s, all right! Anyway, thus began the end to my love affair with charity shop clothes. Although there was a darling green waistcoat in Barnardo’s the other day…….OK, enough with the futile digression. The point is I have no money, no job and, due to lack of fresh oxygen, I am starting to acquire a pasty pallor worthy of Twilight. I’m not going to merit that unfortunate series by referring to the character my pasty pallor is worthy of. The whole thing is merely Twilight to me. Stupid, corporate, crooked smile, inappropriately toned torso on a pubescent boy, Twilight. Girl who has no taste in men, Twilight. Girl who chooses between necrophilia and bestiality, Twilight.  You get the picture.