WE go to the theatre for many reasons, but one of them is to see fine acting. In a diverse month, I caught a number of performances that reminded me of what a famous theatre critic, C. E. Montague, once said were the key elements of great acting: ‘A plastic physical medium, a finished technical cunning and a passion of joy in the thought of the character acted.’
Although he is still too young to be called a great actor, I found all those qualities in the performance of Paapa Essiedu in Caryl Churchill’s A Number at the Old Vic. Mr Essiedu—already an admired Hamlet for the RSC— plays three sons, two of whom have been cloned from the first, of a guilt-ridden father. As the abused original son, Mr Essiedu is clenched, menacing and coiled like a dangerous snake. As the second son, a physical replica, but temperamental opposite, he is dishevelled, kindly and fearful. Finally, as one of countless clones, he adopts an American accent and exudes a relaxed sunniness. What is exciting is to see Mr Essiedu, with the aid of swift costume-changes, capturing three wildly different personae who all stem from the same genetic base.
The play itself, first seen 20 years ago with Michael Gambon and Daniel Craig and much revived since, raises any number of issues in a little over an hour. It clearly asks whether we are formed by nature or nurture and what the source is of that mysterious thing called ‘personality’. But it is also about parents and children and, more specifically, fathers and sons. Lennie James may be less spectacular than Mr Essiedu, but he skilfully captures the father’s culpability and contradictions. As he tells his second son: ‘I did some bad things. I deserve to suffer. I did some better things. I’d like recognition.’
Denne historien er fra February 16, 2022-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra February 16, 2022-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
