A Review. Sorta.
I intend to do a full report for you guys about my course as several people have asked but here's a little something to keep you interested for now. As part of my course we perform at the end of each module what is called the Living Room Theatre as the final assessment of our solo shows. It's exactly what it says on the box really. A few people come to see us perform in the living room/dining room area of the school (it's really just a small 3 bedroom, terraced house). They leave us some feedback, occasionally donate some money and scarfe all the nice vol au vents before we get there after our performances. One nice lady who attended the recent shadow puppetry event has written up a piece for some local magazine-type parish newsletter thingy and our supervisor forwarded a copy on to us. I thought you might like to read it:
The light dashed ahead of me, on the Dales road. I was destined for Grassington, a little known knot of limestone cottages and walls clinging to the banks of the Wharfe river, in Yorkshire. Hikers hike there. Bikers bike- those who visit tea shops have tea. But I was doing none of these-I was bound for Bridge End, a stone ribbon of twelve or so cottages above the river. My purpose was to watch a puppet show- a shadow puppet show. The venue was Bridge End, a tiny terrace cottage built in classic two up two down mode.
The theatre performance was due to start at 2pm- and was described as 'Living Room Theatre' in my emailed invitation. The Living Room Theatre in Grassington is part of a phenomenon which is sweeping the UK. The concept is a brilliant example of Small is Beautiful. A complete professional performance with a cast of three or four play to an audience of... four. In my case the performance was the end point of a month long course for Puppeteers- for here, in the wilds of Yorkshire you will find the London School of Puppetry. Yes, I said London. Caroline, the School's director- and course director of the current course in Grassington- explained to us that it makes sense to teach the students in Yorkshire- where it is so much quieter, cheaper and easier.
As I knocked timidly on the glass back door, I noticed plum coloured curtains shrouding the kitchen window. Promising. I must have come to the right place. I was ushered in, apologising for my early arrival. Not to worry, there was already the other quarter of the audience in the front room. A local professional actor, he was helping with the performance and also wanted to enter the magical world of puppets. We sipped apple juice and crunched on nachos as the cast next door got ready for the show. The final member of the audience arrived and we compared parking experiences- Grassington is a maze of yellow lined streets and finding a free space in August is not easy- so we both plumped for the pay and display operated by the National Parks. I had opted for the two hours and over option - which was just as well, in retrospect.
Caroline explained to us that we would be asked to write some feed back on the four student shows we were about to see. As course director she was the final member of the audience so our company was complete.
The summer school can take up to four students at one time- living in the village locally or in the cottage. They take turns to cook and all aspects of puppetry are taught, culminating in a performance. Audience interaction is a part of the technique they are taught- and the course which was just ending had centre on shadow puppetry. The theme of the shows was memories- but each student had interpreted that in his or her own unique way. The format was we would watch one show then come back to the front room to write our reviews- then watch the second one until we had seen all four. Food in the form of homemade cakes, samosas and pizzas was on offer, next to a red enamel pot of tea.
I felt as if I had arrived in seventh heaven- food for both mind and body was in plentiful supply here.
A student popped her head round the door to say the first performance was ready to begin. We were told the title- The Genie and the Fisherman- but no more than that. I felt a stab of nervousness- or was it adrenalin- as we solemnly filed through the tiny hall to the theatre. Four red chairs stood in a slight semi circle in front of a plus stage curtain. I asked, jokingly, if I could sit on the back row- always my preferred place to sit in any theatre or cinema and was shown to my seat by a solicitous usher. No detail was missing in this perfect microcosm of a performance space. The lights were suitably dimmed as one of the students announced the title of the piece and the name of the student. Each student had made all the puppets and scenery for their show and also written the dialogue or sound patterns which accompanied it.
We settled expectantly in our seat as the curtains swished open. Spontaneous clapping broke out as we gasped at the beautiful silk screened structure in the centre. To my unaccustomed eye it was like a cross between Indian Willow pattern and Jan Pienkowski illustrations. A silhouette of a ship wavered across the silk. I had to adjust my eyes and expectations as my brain tried to make sense of the visual effects. A boatman with a realistic anchor sat on the right hand side, fishing in the sea. He spotted an unexpected object in the ocean area. I had noticed the bottle's outline and for an awful moment I thought maybe it wasn't supposed to be there. But the bottle was a central part of the plot. As it was fished out silhouette fashion, a large scary shadow genie was unleashed. I admired her scarlet finger nails on the end of her fingers as she told the fisherman of her disastrous love affairs. All three men in her life had promised to return or at least ring her but none of them ever did. The genie had vowed to kill the fourth man she met in her life- ie the unfortunate fisherman. Quick wittedly he did a sex change ( voice led) which distracted the genie. The fisherman also suggested that the lack of mobile phone reception deep down in the ocean might be the cause of the non contact by her lovers.
The genie submerged, already composing a letter of complaint to her mobile phone operator. By now I was hooked- literally - and enthusiastically joining in the plot.I like the modern twist to the plot - the mobile phone references - as this gave it some immediacy- and the audience laughed - all four of us. The show ended to rousing applause as the curtains closed and we trooped through to the front room to capture our thoughts. Radiant light from the early afternoon sun streamed in the windows and I felt a rare moment of quiet content as my pen flew over the paper. Maybe ecstasy was manufactured in this magic cottage. My only worry was my lack of knowledge about puppet shows. What did I know about puppetry and who was I to comment- but I could only assess how I had felt rather than appreciate the hours of work that must be involved in drawing and cutting out the silhouettes- let alone rigging the lighting and scenery.
A piece of theatre that works is for me is a fusion of the senses- I savour what I see, what I hear and also how I respond. I want to be delighted, enthralled and surprised. For the most part of it, 'Genie' did work- but I did think some music would have enticed my mind in and perhaps have enchanted me slightly more. But then what music- obviously Fingal's cave et al would fit- but this would constrain the piece to a venue, a Scottish place and as we all know all good fairty stories or yarns are place free.
A head popped round the door. The second performance was ready to start. The title this time was The Queen Sighs as She Remembers Her King- quite a concept to grasp in a split second as we took our seats for show two. Pre conceptions raced through my mind as the curtains whisked open to reveal a lattice like cage silhouetted on the silk screen. My mind played pictograms. Prison. Cage. Prevention. Solitude? An exquisitely crafted Egyptian queen popped up stage right followed by an equally well crafted King head on the left. The cage- or was it a prison - seemed to be dynamic as the lattice work kept changing. At one point some streamers and a boat moved across the screen- presumably as the King was taken away from the audibly grieving queen. Apart from the audible grieving Silence was almost a character in the scenario. The grief of the deprived queen- and the absence of her king- were almost tangible. Although again I found deciphering some of the shadow action quite challenging I did understand the piece and it did affect my emotions during its short life.
Back to the front room for more scribbling- and we were so immersed that Caroline remarked it seemed like an exam. By now we had become serious reviewers and I was thoroughly enjoying the whole process. I quite hoped the others wouldn't express their opinions until I had mine safely down on paper. There was no structure to my responses- it was just a stream of consciousness, my raw immediate thoughts.
Another head round the door. Another title. Show three was based on Thumbelina. Aha, thought my mind. I know this story. I could sense some relief. I have the sort of mind that likes order, resolution- a beginning, middle and end.
We filed in and clapped enthusiastically as the curtains swept back to reveal a shoulder high pink satin flower with an illuminated suitably green stalk. I guessed it was crepe paper, of that glorious Jack in the beanstalkish green we all know from primary school friezes. Lovely. I was diverted away from my thoughts by the narrator. She had some kind of butterflyesque structure alighted on her shoulder. We were told it was a memory- and it whirred and crescented around her head in response. It was her memory.... of the tale of Thumbelina. This show had no silk screen separating the puppeteer from us - the audience. I was immediately drawn in by the narrator as she gestured and demonstrated how she had found a tiny seed in her garden and after she had waited.... and waited.... and waited - interjected by a yawn a this point... Thumbelina grew from the seed. I stifled a yawn too in sympathy and my eyes popped as an intricate silhouette flitted round the petals of the giant pink flower. The pink silk petals became the screen for the silhouettes and shadows to interact on - a really clever device. Then one day a nasty big frog- with funny convincing croaks- threatened Thumbelina - and ate her-much to the consternation of the narrator, aka Thumbelina's mother. Of course at this point a prince had to be flown in and yes he did- by using force- extract Thumbelina from the belly of the wicked evil frog. Hurray, we shouted, as one, with carthartic effect. I smothered a desire to show goodo, which I am prone to do in such moments. The prince, admirably, took Thumbelina home to her worrying mum and of course it all ended happily. I headed for my notebook with a ridiculous smile on my face. The youth of Britain might riot, phones might be hacked- but here in the Living Room Theatre - All Was Well.
The final performance was based on Beowulf. Arguing amicably about the spelling- and also berating myself silently for my lack of classical education, we took our seats in expectation. I had already seen a performance by this puppeteer and my hopes were high. I wasn't disappointed. The piece was visually brilliant from the moment a cleverly articulated main character took his seat behind the silk scree. I hadn't a clue who he was but I did realise that the much smaller character who was batting away at him and trying to clamber on his knee and that together with the father and son (?) we were witnessing some terrible ogre at work. There was effective use of black and red to simulate fights and injuries- and at some point severed limbs were proudly waved and borne off. There were no words- just a neolithic range of grunts which were actually very effective in producing understanding and effect in the audience. The piece was both powerful and terrifying at some points- all of which I would expect from shadow puppetry! An abrupt end surprised us into applause.
We left, blinking, and asked for some time to write up our feelings before the actors joined us. I felt this last performance was more professional than the others- in the way the timing and manual synchronisation seemed to fuse perfectly-but then what did I know about handling a mechanical structure and how to judge the visual effect on the audience. I wondered if such skills can be taught or are they inherent, like a sense of timing when we sing or recite a poem.
Whatever, all four pieces were a delight from start to finish. It was like opening a box of chocolates- each with a separate flavour but all tasting divine. After some discussion with the students I left, stepping outside the back door into the real world of trippers, yellow lines and pay and display tickets. I didn't mind one bit. My mind was full of glorious shadows, remembered and real, as the clouds played chase on the way home. Like Toad, I sang as my Ford Ka rattled her way over the Greenhow road back to Harrogate. If you ever get the chance to go to Living Room Theatre, don't say no. Just go.
I'd like you to note that my piece was the Beowulf one and she'd also been to see me at the Ripon Storytelling festival, hence her expectations of me. I failed the assessment :(
The light dashed ahead of me, on the Dales road. I was destined for Grassington, a little known knot of limestone cottages and walls clinging to the banks of the Wharfe river, in Yorkshire. Hikers hike there. Bikers bike- those who visit tea shops have tea. But I was doing none of these-I was bound for Bridge End, a stone ribbon of twelve or so cottages above the river. My purpose was to watch a puppet show- a shadow puppet show. The venue was Bridge End, a tiny terrace cottage built in classic two up two down mode.
The theatre performance was due to start at 2pm- and was described as 'Living Room Theatre' in my emailed invitation. The Living Room Theatre in Grassington is part of a phenomenon which is sweeping the UK. The concept is a brilliant example of Small is Beautiful. A complete professional performance with a cast of three or four play to an audience of... four. In my case the performance was the end point of a month long course for Puppeteers- for here, in the wilds of Yorkshire you will find the London School of Puppetry. Yes, I said London. Caroline, the School's director- and course director of the current course in Grassington- explained to us that it makes sense to teach the students in Yorkshire- where it is so much quieter, cheaper and easier.
As I knocked timidly on the glass back door, I noticed plum coloured curtains shrouding the kitchen window. Promising. I must have come to the right place. I was ushered in, apologising for my early arrival. Not to worry, there was already the other quarter of the audience in the front room. A local professional actor, he was helping with the performance and also wanted to enter the magical world of puppets. We sipped apple juice and crunched on nachos as the cast next door got ready for the show. The final member of the audience arrived and we compared parking experiences- Grassington is a maze of yellow lined streets and finding a free space in August is not easy- so we both plumped for the pay and display operated by the National Parks. I had opted for the two hours and over option - which was just as well, in retrospect.
Caroline explained to us that we would be asked to write some feed back on the four student shows we were about to see. As course director she was the final member of the audience so our company was complete.
The summer school can take up to four students at one time- living in the village locally or in the cottage. They take turns to cook and all aspects of puppetry are taught, culminating in a performance. Audience interaction is a part of the technique they are taught- and the course which was just ending had centre on shadow puppetry. The theme of the shows was memories- but each student had interpreted that in his or her own unique way. The format was we would watch one show then come back to the front room to write our reviews- then watch the second one until we had seen all four. Food in the form of homemade cakes, samosas and pizzas was on offer, next to a red enamel pot of tea.
I felt as if I had arrived in seventh heaven- food for both mind and body was in plentiful supply here.
A student popped her head round the door to say the first performance was ready to begin. We were told the title- The Genie and the Fisherman- but no more than that. I felt a stab of nervousness- or was it adrenalin- as we solemnly filed through the tiny hall to the theatre. Four red chairs stood in a slight semi circle in front of a plus stage curtain. I asked, jokingly, if I could sit on the back row- always my preferred place to sit in any theatre or cinema and was shown to my seat by a solicitous usher. No detail was missing in this perfect microcosm of a performance space. The lights were suitably dimmed as one of the students announced the title of the piece and the name of the student. Each student had made all the puppets and scenery for their show and also written the dialogue or sound patterns which accompanied it.
We settled expectantly in our seat as the curtains swished open. Spontaneous clapping broke out as we gasped at the beautiful silk screened structure in the centre. To my unaccustomed eye it was like a cross between Indian Willow pattern and Jan Pienkowski illustrations. A silhouette of a ship wavered across the silk. I had to adjust my eyes and expectations as my brain tried to make sense of the visual effects. A boatman with a realistic anchor sat on the right hand side, fishing in the sea. He spotted an unexpected object in the ocean area. I had noticed the bottle's outline and for an awful moment I thought maybe it wasn't supposed to be there. But the bottle was a central part of the plot. As it was fished out silhouette fashion, a large scary shadow genie was unleashed. I admired her scarlet finger nails on the end of her fingers as she told the fisherman of her disastrous love affairs. All three men in her life had promised to return or at least ring her but none of them ever did. The genie had vowed to kill the fourth man she met in her life- ie the unfortunate fisherman. Quick wittedly he did a sex change ( voice led) which distracted the genie. The fisherman also suggested that the lack of mobile phone reception deep down in the ocean might be the cause of the non contact by her lovers.
The genie submerged, already composing a letter of complaint to her mobile phone operator. By now I was hooked- literally - and enthusiastically joining in the plot.I like the modern twist to the plot - the mobile phone references - as this gave it some immediacy- and the audience laughed - all four of us. The show ended to rousing applause as the curtains closed and we trooped through to the front room to capture our thoughts. Radiant light from the early afternoon sun streamed in the windows and I felt a rare moment of quiet content as my pen flew over the paper. Maybe ecstasy was manufactured in this magic cottage. My only worry was my lack of knowledge about puppet shows. What did I know about puppetry and who was I to comment- but I could only assess how I had felt rather than appreciate the hours of work that must be involved in drawing and cutting out the silhouettes- let alone rigging the lighting and scenery.
A piece of theatre that works is for me is a fusion of the senses- I savour what I see, what I hear and also how I respond. I want to be delighted, enthralled and surprised. For the most part of it, 'Genie' did work- but I did think some music would have enticed my mind in and perhaps have enchanted me slightly more. But then what music- obviously Fingal's cave et al would fit- but this would constrain the piece to a venue, a Scottish place and as we all know all good fairty stories or yarns are place free.
A head popped round the door. The second performance was ready to start. The title this time was The Queen Sighs as She Remembers Her King- quite a concept to grasp in a split second as we took our seats for show two. Pre conceptions raced through my mind as the curtains whisked open to reveal a lattice like cage silhouetted on the silk screen. My mind played pictograms. Prison. Cage. Prevention. Solitude? An exquisitely crafted Egyptian queen popped up stage right followed by an equally well crafted King head on the left. The cage- or was it a prison - seemed to be dynamic as the lattice work kept changing. At one point some streamers and a boat moved across the screen- presumably as the King was taken away from the audibly grieving queen. Apart from the audible grieving Silence was almost a character in the scenario. The grief of the deprived queen- and the absence of her king- were almost tangible. Although again I found deciphering some of the shadow action quite challenging I did understand the piece and it did affect my emotions during its short life.
Back to the front room for more scribbling- and we were so immersed that Caroline remarked it seemed like an exam. By now we had become serious reviewers and I was thoroughly enjoying the whole process. I quite hoped the others wouldn't express their opinions until I had mine safely down on paper. There was no structure to my responses- it was just a stream of consciousness, my raw immediate thoughts.
Another head round the door. Another title. Show three was based on Thumbelina. Aha, thought my mind. I know this story. I could sense some relief. I have the sort of mind that likes order, resolution- a beginning, middle and end.
We filed in and clapped enthusiastically as the curtains swept back to reveal a shoulder high pink satin flower with an illuminated suitably green stalk. I guessed it was crepe paper, of that glorious Jack in the beanstalkish green we all know from primary school friezes. Lovely. I was diverted away from my thoughts by the narrator. She had some kind of butterflyesque structure alighted on her shoulder. We were told it was a memory- and it whirred and crescented around her head in response. It was her memory.... of the tale of Thumbelina. This show had no silk screen separating the puppeteer from us - the audience. I was immediately drawn in by the narrator as she gestured and demonstrated how she had found a tiny seed in her garden and after she had waited.... and waited.... and waited - interjected by a yawn a this point... Thumbelina grew from the seed. I stifled a yawn too in sympathy and my eyes popped as an intricate silhouette flitted round the petals of the giant pink flower. The pink silk petals became the screen for the silhouettes and shadows to interact on - a really clever device. Then one day a nasty big frog- with funny convincing croaks- threatened Thumbelina - and ate her-much to the consternation of the narrator, aka Thumbelina's mother. Of course at this point a prince had to be flown in and yes he did- by using force- extract Thumbelina from the belly of the wicked evil frog. Hurray, we shouted, as one, with carthartic effect. I smothered a desire to show goodo, which I am prone to do in such moments. The prince, admirably, took Thumbelina home to her worrying mum and of course it all ended happily. I headed for my notebook with a ridiculous smile on my face. The youth of Britain might riot, phones might be hacked- but here in the Living Room Theatre - All Was Well.
The final performance was based on Beowulf. Arguing amicably about the spelling- and also berating myself silently for my lack of classical education, we took our seats in expectation. I had already seen a performance by this puppeteer and my hopes were high. I wasn't disappointed. The piece was visually brilliant from the moment a cleverly articulated main character took his seat behind the silk scree. I hadn't a clue who he was but I did realise that the much smaller character who was batting away at him and trying to clamber on his knee and that together with the father and son (?) we were witnessing some terrible ogre at work. There was effective use of black and red to simulate fights and injuries- and at some point severed limbs were proudly waved and borne off. There were no words- just a neolithic range of grunts which were actually very effective in producing understanding and effect in the audience. The piece was both powerful and terrifying at some points- all of which I would expect from shadow puppetry! An abrupt end surprised us into applause.
We left, blinking, and asked for some time to write up our feelings before the actors joined us. I felt this last performance was more professional than the others- in the way the timing and manual synchronisation seemed to fuse perfectly-but then what did I know about handling a mechanical structure and how to judge the visual effect on the audience. I wondered if such skills can be taught or are they inherent, like a sense of timing when we sing or recite a poem.
Whatever, all four pieces were a delight from start to finish. It was like opening a box of chocolates- each with a separate flavour but all tasting divine. After some discussion with the students I left, stepping outside the back door into the real world of trippers, yellow lines and pay and display tickets. I didn't mind one bit. My mind was full of glorious shadows, remembered and real, as the clouds played chase on the way home. Like Toad, I sang as my Ford Ka rattled her way over the Greenhow road back to Harrogate. If you ever get the chance to go to Living Room Theatre, don't say no. Just go.
I'd like you to note that my piece was the Beowulf one and she'd also been to see me at the Ripon Storytelling festival, hence her expectations of me. I failed the assessment :(