December 10, 2010
As I cycled down the chill North Oxford streets, a freezing fog descended about my bicycle. All sound and light seemed to come from a great distance, and the glow of the streetlights flickered, casting weird shadows upon the mist. Sounds echoed about me, the clink of horses’ hooves on cobbles and the cries of speculative harlots. As I dismounted my penny-farthing before the smog-stained bulk of the North Wall Arts Centre, it was clear I had been transported to the late 18th century. My suspicions were confirmed when a ragged white-painted mummer beckoned me in, asking with a hideous grin if I had come to see the hanging.
Finger in the Pie theatre company seem to have stepped straight from some reeking street-corner in a London rookery (meant strictly as a compliment, of course). Five agile figures, dressed in a mixture of dirty finery and Victorian underclothes, faces grotesquely painted, they brought a splendid mixture of pantomime, cabaret and puppet-theatre with them. Presided over by Billy the Hangman (Alfie Boyd), Sweeney Todd: His Life, Times and Execution had the anarchic feel of street theatre. The dreadful murderer Sweeney turned out to be a lanky mute, charmingly naïve to the trail of death, dismemberment and injustice left in his wake- a kind of macabre Frank Spencer (a terrific performance from Frank Wurzinger, the sweetest-looking man to ever pull out a woman’s tongue onstage). He never loses his winsome smile, despite a parade of frozen parents, murdered fiancées and a pile-up of corpses in the pie shop.
This show overflows with grotesque charm, embracing a free-wheeling, cabaret-style performance, accompanied by a musical cacophony of hurdy-gurdy, washboard and clarinet. The cast keep us guessing constantly, moving with brilliant speed from puppetry to shadow-play, seamlessly integrating a film projecting on the grimy backdrop. The performances on display were top-notch: Helen Taylor and Rachel Dawson made for a beautifully Gothic pair, populating the stage with blind judges, doomed wives, seductive pie-cooks and slave-trading aristocrats. The spider-limbed Conrad Sharp seemed to have stepped from every silent horror film of the twenties- which suited the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari set design.
It’s impossible to overstate the beautiful design of this show, which knocks Tim Burton’s dreary filmsets down a flight of stairs. Chairs, doors and props were nightmarishly distorted, and the cast seemed at times more like grotesque caricatures stepped off the flickering screen than prosaic human actors. This air of unreality helped the audience keep laughing despite (or, rather, because of) the depravity onstage, most of which was beautifully realised, straddling a fine line between surreality and brutality.
Inspired by Buster Keaton and other slapstick comedy, the show certainly presents the fluffiest penny dreadful I’d ever seen. It’s hard to maintain an undercurrent of menace while juggling bodies, and despite the frequent salacious promises of an impending execution, Finger in the Pie did farce much better than horror. This leaves the abrupt change of mood at the dénouement feel forced, leaving a clunky feeling to the self-aware melodrama. Still, this show was a delight. Despite some pretty dark humour (the shadow-puppetry of corpses being turned into pies was fantastically, hilariously graphic), the tone felt light, whimsical, and fun. But the comedy lurking beneath the pie-crust of performance was sharp as Sweeney’s razor.
Finger in the Pie theatre company seem to have stepped straight from some reeking street-corner in a London rookery (meant strictly as a compliment, of course). Five agile figures, dressed in a mixture of dirty finery and Victorian underclothes, faces grotesquely painted, they brought a splendid mixture of pantomime, cabaret and puppet-theatre with them. Presided over by Billy the Hangman (Alfie Boyd), Sweeney Todd: His Life, Times and Execution had the anarchic feel of street theatre. The dreadful murderer Sweeney turned out to be a lanky mute, charmingly naïve to the trail of death, dismemberment and injustice left in his wake- a kind of macabre Frank Spencer (a terrific performance from Frank Wurzinger, the sweetest-looking man to ever pull out a woman’s tongue onstage). He never loses his winsome smile, despite a parade of frozen parents, murdered fiancées and a pile-up of corpses in the pie shop.
This show overflows with grotesque charm, embracing a free-wheeling, cabaret-style performance, accompanied by a musical cacophony of hurdy-gurdy, washboard and clarinet. The cast keep us guessing constantly, moving with brilliant speed from puppetry to shadow-play, seamlessly integrating a film projecting on the grimy backdrop. The performances on display were top-notch: Helen Taylor and Rachel Dawson made for a beautifully Gothic pair, populating the stage with blind judges, doomed wives, seductive pie-cooks and slave-trading aristocrats. The spider-limbed Conrad Sharp seemed to have stepped from every silent horror film of the twenties- which suited the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari set design.
It’s impossible to overstate the beautiful design of this show, which knocks Tim Burton’s dreary filmsets down a flight of stairs. Chairs, doors and props were nightmarishly distorted, and the cast seemed at times more like grotesque caricatures stepped off the flickering screen than prosaic human actors. This air of unreality helped the audience keep laughing despite (or, rather, because of) the depravity onstage, most of which was beautifully realised, straddling a fine line between surreality and brutality.
Inspired by Buster Keaton and other slapstick comedy, the show certainly presents the fluffiest penny dreadful I’d ever seen. It’s hard to maintain an undercurrent of menace while juggling bodies, and despite the frequent salacious promises of an impending execution, Finger in the Pie did farce much better than horror. This leaves the abrupt change of mood at the dénouement feel forced, leaving a clunky feeling to the self-aware melodrama. Still, this show was a delight. Despite some pretty dark humour (the shadow-puppetry of corpses being turned into pies was fantastically, hilariously graphic), the tone felt light, whimsical, and fun. But the comedy lurking beneath the pie-crust of performance was sharp as Sweeney’s razor.