ARABIAN NIGHTS
at the Oxford Playhouse, until Sat. 14th August, 7.00pm + Sat. 2.30 matinee

Listen. Not long ago in a familiar land there lived a reviewer who went to see a play called Arabian Nights. She was a cold and hostile critic whose heart had been chilled towards all things Arabian by news of the misogynies and oppressions that went on in present-day Saudi Arabia. She knew nothing about the production or the story - which was a text as old as time itself, passed down through the ages by storytellers and now wonderfully adapted by a clever man named Dominic Cooke. The play opened and the reviewer’s eyes saw nothing but darkness. Shahrazad the storyteller didn’t have thunderous projection, and very occasionally her acting seemed less than divinely inspired. To top it all, as it appeared to be a production intended equally for children as for adults, there were several noisy kids in the audience who annoyed the reviewer with their pipe-thin voices. She scribbled dark notes - very dark notes, because the houselights were down and she couldn’t see what she was writing. But as the play went on, the notes started to get brighter. And brighter. Until people sitting next to the reviewer began to peer over at her notebook, which shone and dazzled in the auditorium. On stage there was sumptuous colour and brisk action. The reviewer found herself roaring with laughter on several occasions. The story was enchanting, even touching - a young bride slowly saving herself from the daily menace of execution and healing the warped sensibilities of her royal husband, all through telling him stories. Stories with adventure and gore and magic and hilarity. Stories within stories. Stories that spoke of the earth-moving and lifechanging power of The Story. It was rather postmodern, really. Best of all, everything was staged with the utmost creativity. In this age of movie special effects and big budget, on location, computer-animated gloss, the reviewer was thrilled and refreshed to see actors cleverly becoming cliffs and islands and mountains and dogs and birds, to see scenery and props ingeniously magicked out of reversible costumes, to see choreography and movement cunningly conjuring events and scene changes. Why, this is theatre being used as it ought to be, she thought, now quite beside herself with glee. There was only one thing the reviewer could do. She went home and wrote a very nice review for a noble publication advising all the good people of Oxford who sought colourful, creative, fun entertainment to go and see Arabian Nights. Many of them lived happily for quite a long time after. The end.

                                                                              Fleur Kinson