REVIEWS, Summer 2024
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This is an aural version of a Carly Churchill stage play involving 100 scenes and 50 characters which zones in on the modern information overloaded landscape. Sneezing, sharing a secret, irrational numbers, God, sex and traffic lights float into earshot. It’s a muddled, scrambled, cornucopia of sensations, a conundrum enveloped in ambiguity and cloaked in mystery which communicates a central message that anything Churchillian is beyond reproach.
Competing with the hypnotic, ethereal visuals that the star man brought to the screen in Nic Roeg’s 1976 movie is challenging for a radio adaptation. This version, featuring Christopher Eccleston, has some aural dissonance, notably his faux American accent. At its core, this is a timeless story. It’s not solely a science fiction narrative; it delves into the experience of the outsider, with Harry Treadaway portraying a character who literally feels alienated by the society he finds himself in. He becomes subsumed by its excesses, ultimately falling drunkenly into a world he detests.
A strange, discordant theme tune sounds like a cross between a frog and someone plucking a comb.
Sean Bean donned the crown as King Creon for his first audio drama in twenty-five years in Jean Anouilh’s version of Antigone. Unlike Sophocles' original character, this belligerent sovereign shows a merciful side. However, Antigone, portrayed by the up-and-coming screen actor Rosy McEwan, is in no mood for compromise, even if it seals her fate. This conflict drives the story, which was thoroughly explained with a lengthy introduction from a member of the chorus—something that would have been useful for The Good Soldier (see elsewhere in this column). The Greek tragedy recounts Antigone’s desire to give her dead brother a proper burial against the wishes of the king, symbolizing the relationship between the individual and the State. Observers of Anouilh’s representation have noted its parallels with the hostility between the Nazi occupiers of France and the Resistance. Anouilh often explores themes of martyrdom, as seen in his depictions of towering characters like Thomas Becket and Joan of Arc. Conveying such powerful stories requires not just words but actors who can bring them to life. In Bean and McEwan, we have two compelling adversaries who are quite frightening at full throttle. The King of Thebes, barking at Antigone in a Yorkshire twang, was a reet grand listen, and I half-expected him to tell her to “shut thi’ cakehole” at one point.
I was intrigued to listen to this adaptation, having recently acquired a book about John Le Carré containing previously unpublished material. Adam Sisman’s follow up to his 2015 biography of the spy maestro reveals that Le Carré's go-to book was The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford. It soon became clear why. The story revolves around a patriotic married soldier, Major Ashburnham, who leads a life of complex infidelities. Le Carré himself, it transpires, treated his wives and, in one instance, his best friend, as vehicles for his duplicitous, hypocritical philandering. I’ve no doubt he preened while reading about Major Ashburnham’s irresistible allure to women, despite many wondering why. I found Le Carré's secret life so distasteful that I now look at the Le Carré shelf on my bookcase and contemplate a bonfire of moralities. But then again, who shall cast the first stone? I suppose we all harbour things better left unsaid. But back to Ford Madox Ford’s tale of betrayal. This is one of those stories that demands familiarity because I found it challenging to follow the plot in this broadcast. The Good Soldier is a complicated affair involving two couples entangled in cross-relationship treachery and various other shenanigans. The book itself is led by an unreliable narrator and is full of non-linear passages and flashbacks, making it no easy feat to reproduce faithfully in a radio drama. Despite the complexities, Baczkiewicz’s adaptation captures the essence of Ford’s intricate narrative, though listeners unfamiliar with the original work might struggle to keep up.
In his later years, Henrik Ibsen transitioned from realism to a more symbolic style, creating characters who strive to ascend towers, build castles in the air, or reach personal nirvana by scaling mountains. His final play, When We Dead Awaken, fittingly culminates on a mountain, where the artist Rubek and his muse Irene disappear into the clouds amidst a storm. The challenge of depicting an avalanche on stage might explain why this work is less frequently produced than Ibsen’s more famous pieces. This theatre of the mind may be better suited to radio, where a soundscape could recreate the atmosphere Ibsen intended and here eerie music and whistling mountain winds provide an evocative backdrop. Devoted Ibsen enthusiasts will recognize that through Rubek, Ibsen reflects on his own artistic achievements and potential failures. As this story unfolds there are strong suggestions that Irene, Rubek’s former model who reappears in a hillside spa town, might actually be dead—and perhaps Rubek is too. The climax sees the pair deciding to ascend a nearby peak together, seeking some sort of spiritual and emotional rebirth. Simultaneously, Rubek’s wife Maia and a gruffly spoken outdoor guide, Ulfheim, embark on their own ascent, symbolizing Maia’s desire to escape her oppressive marriage.
A Scottish swashbuckler sets the Lowlands alight. The RS Crockett tale of a young man with an older mentor caught between clans inevitably draws comparisons with his contemporary Stevenson’s more famous tale Kidnapped. One is struck forcibly by the old Scots vernacular although our hero Patrick Heron is called variously Patrick, Peytrick, and Petrick. Whether the brogue is authentic is not for these ears to determine, even though my lineage traces directly to Robert the Bruce's right hand man William Rule. One familiar trait of the adventure story is present of course, the implausible event that comes to the rescue of our hero. Still, it’s a rattling good listen for fans of Scott, Buchan and haggis toasties.
What a strange world this is. When I roamed the plains of West Lancashire as a reporter responsible for urgent matters like the price of potatoes and Fat Cows this sort of incident would have seen local journalists scrambling for copy like vultures around a lion kill. Perhaps some hacks might wake up for Alice the scapegoat’s crown court performance unless George turns himself in. @Turnbullissimo
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