Well – firstly I must warn you that this has nothing to do with the notorious 1933 film of the same name that rocketted Hedy Lamarr to stardom. This is about a very different form of Ecstasy. Not quite as funny, or as cringeingly embarrassing, as “Abigail’s Party” , this is a welcome revival of another Mike Leigh piece from the same era. The play is basically a four-hander, the characters, somewhat financially and emotionally impoverished, trying to make the best of their lives. Jean (Sian Brooke) lives in the bed-sit, in a then, obviously, less gentrified Kilburn, in which the action is set. She has a married lover whose love-making doesn’t appear to give her much pleasure – in fact nothing seems to rouse her to much reaction, even when her lover’s wife, a barn-storming cameo by Claire-louise Cordwell, bursts in and accuses her of trying to steal Roy, the lover/husband. Then there is her best friend, Dawn, who tries to make the best of everything – shop-lifting glamorous clothes so she can look good for her bibulous Irish husband, Mick, who spends more time at the pub than he does at home. At the pub on the evening of the second act, Mick bumps into an old friend of them all, Len, and he and Dawn bring Len round to Jean’s, where they all get progressively drunker. The characters are well-drawn and, though hovering on the edge of it, never descend into stereotypical behaviour. The trouble is that,  with Coronation Street and Eastenders now on television practically daily, none of this behaviour is particularly revelatory and the action (or lack of it) becomes just a teensy bit tedious. This being said, it is wonderfully performed by an exemplary cast and directed by Mike Leigh himself, and is well worth seeing for these reasons alone.

England is not my home.  I come from  a place far away and have only lived here full-time for about 9 years.  London is a place that feels familiar though.  There’s an energy.  There’s a feeling.  There’s an outward point of view that makes the expense, the brusqueness, the pressure worthwhile.

But, the London I know is a relatively recent invention.  Mike Leigh gave me a glimpse into London’s past with his thoughtful, ‘Ecstasy’ currently on at the Duchess Theatre. There they were a bunch of working class English folks from Kilburn.  Actually, make that three English and one Irishman.  Through them, ‘Ecstasy’ shows us realities of marriage of a sort – infidelity and drunkennes with a blind eye.  The play forces us to finesse our notions of the proletariat – the bookworm, the could-be professional singer.  Unsparingly examining the cultural limitations of those who have been put upon as they put upon the Pakis and the blacks, ‘Ecstasy’ in subtle, slow-moving revelation reminded me that the glitz of my London has a grimy, raw, exploited foundation.

Although the cast was a generally a triumph, Sinead Matthews gave the outstanding performance of the evening with her unabashedly common Dawn.  Mother, wife, shoplifter – Dawn shows the others how to have it all with very little.  Yes, she’s happily married with children, but her husband drinks too much and is never at home.  Dawn is often well turned out – if shocking pink blouses so tight that they could choke qualify. Dawn’s life isn’t anything we’d wish for.  But, she’s happy and somehow we’re happy for her.

That’s the beauty of the play.  The characters are far from perfect.  They’re far from attractive.  In some ways, they seemed trapped under a glass cover.  They’re smothered but animated as they struggle to breathe in life.

Damaged. Certainly. Somehow though, they touch us. And in 21st century London, that’s not easy to do.

Thanks Mike Leigh, writer and director.

Rattigan’s last play is fascinating – fresh and witty, it positively bowls along in the new production under Thea Sharrock’s direction at the Old Vic. Originally conceived as a play for the wireless and then expanded for the stage, it works seamlessly and has no longeurs. Based on a true court case of the 1930s that “reeked of sex”, as one contemporary wrote, the mixture of fact and fiction gives it true emotional depth – the reflections and change of heart of the fictional character, Edith Davenport, forming the real focus of the play. It is shot through with perceptive riffs on contemporary morality and double standards and the cast, universally out-standing, are pitch-perfect in their playing of it. Anne-Marie Duff is truly moving in the difficult role of Alma Rattenbury, accused of being an accessory in the bludgeoning of her older husband to death by her teenage lover. Aided by Rattigan’s subtle script she manages to convey a woman whose easy charm and enjoyment of life made her, despite her rather lax observance of contemporary mores, extremely attractive at many different levels to most of the people she came in contact with, though not the general public at large, who were horrified (perhaps tinged with not a little envy) by her story. Niamh Cusack is also wonderful as the conflicted Mrs. Davenport, whose own marriage is unravelling and whose son, Tony, sensitively played by Freddie Fox, is turning from a boy into a man. The legal team have by far the wittiest lines in the play and show the cynicism of the profession and also how important it is to have good council when your life is at stake – Nicholas Jones stands out as the most cynical.

All in all, it’s a spanking good evening at the theatre and a timely revival in Rattigan’s centenary year.

I seem to have seen Capriccio more than any other opera, so it’s just as well that I love it. Elizabeth Soderstrom was my first Countess at Glyndebourne, at which time I knew little of the history of the opera. Other Countesses stand out – Kiri te Kanawa at Covent Garden; Felicity Lott, again at Glyndebourne; Anna Tomowa-Sintow – sensational at Salzburg; and now Renee Fleming.  This is really an opera for older people, filled as it is with longing and lament, probably for a world that Strauss, by then in his 8os and in the midst of his second World War, expected to disappear for ever. The story is a trifle – a vain but charming aristocratic widow cannot decide between two suitors, a poet and a composer, so they vie to show which is the better, words or music. Neither is, of course, and she really only loves them when they are working together, which she persuades them to do. It is light and charming, with much affectionate sending-up of the theatrical profession, but the music, oh the music – it soars and swoons reflecting emotions far deeper than those depicted on stage. Renee Fleming seems to have been born to play this role and her voice and looks suits it perfectly – it’s a real shame that she’s not a better actress – her Countess seems to have too much vanity un-leavened, as it is, by not quite enough reflection and angst. She is supported by a universally wonderful cast in which Peter Rose manages to stand out as the impresario, La Roche. And they were given, by Mauro Pagano and Robert Perdziola, a set to die for – an 18th century French Salon with some 1920s additions  – sofa, armchairs, low table and a wealth of deep-fringed lampshades – I just wanted to move right in and not change a thing. Andrew Davies conducted an, again, faultless rendition of the music. I never wanted it to end…..

Opera is often a cheat.  Forcing us to savour a few moments of sublimity that stand in stark contrast to the preceding 20 minutes of greyness.  Or perhaps we are indulged by an aria of simplicity that stands out conspicuously from a surrounding chorus of bombast.  It’s all too often a conceit of the worst kind.

But sometimes, the composer and his interpreters get it right.  Enter the recent Live from the Met performance of Capriccio headlining soprano extraordinaire Renee Fleming.  Fleming’s Countess Madeleine was a bit meek in some ways.  Madeleine’s love for Flamand and Olivier, her two competing suitors, seemed less about a connection with either man and more about the inability of Madeleine to escape from her own narcissistic trap.  Will she choose the lull of music or the persuasion of poetry?  I’m not sure I cared.

But this Capriccio was about more than Fleming’s processing of gluttonous admiration.  This production of Richard Strauss’ final opera deftly meandered through the jealousy of the other lover, the competitive instincts of the artist, the vanity of privilege.  The musical score clinked with the bite of the loyal servant and bellowed with the laughter of the lucky struggling performers who are finally to get their break.  Strauss takes us through every emotion and every permutation of the relationships that inhabit the worlds of the artist and his admirers alike.

The set was a real triumph with its painted finishes and vibrant fabrics drawing us into the luxury of provincial France of a time gone by.  But, through it all was Fleming with the voice of the generation.  Strong, consistent, articulated and colourful, Fleming demonstrated why she is at the top of the list of contemporary sopranists; The American’s closing aria where she debates the choice of artistic loves and carnal lovers wends to a crescendo that is subtly expressive of the impossibility of her choice and convincing of the fate that we all share.  Choosing between loves always brings disappointment.  Choosing this production of Capriccio, however, is likely to bring plenty of  joy.

Oh dear – what a mess this is! The opera by Rimsky-Korsakov, never previously performed in this country (you’ll understand why if you bother to venture to see it) is really a bit of a pot-boiler woven around an obscure moment in Tsarist history, based loosely (very, I should hazard) on the brief third marriage of Ivan the Terrible to a simple country girl, Marfa. The plot, not based on any historical records, is lightweight and stupid relying on that hoary theatrical standby, the Love Potion. This must have already seemed thoroughly over-used and hackneyed in Rimsy-Korsakov’s day but, if staged with furs, jewels and barbarism, it might just about have been possible to get away with it. Up-dated to present day Russia, as it is in this production, just makes it seem crass in the extreme, and absolutely maddening to watch. Why up-date an opera that has probably never been seen by anyone in a London opera-going audience, and for its first outing ever in this country?

The singing is universally good, Ekaterina Gubanova standing out as the spurned mistress of the villain, Gryaznoy, also well sung by the Danish Baritone, Johan Reuter, though much of the acting and nearly all the direction leave a lot to be desired. All in all this is very much an evening for Rimsky-Korsakov completists only.

Jones: I enjoyed Guillaume Canet’s new film very much. It seeks to emulate, and perhaps gently send up, The Big Chill and other similar works where a group of close friends get together and shoot the breeze, mostly about eachother. This group is summering (and simmering) in a seaside villa near Arcachon while one of their number is lying mortally sick in Paris after a horrific accident – not one of the crew seems willing to give up the holiday to stay with his/her great friend and, as in all close-knit groups, there are tensions. Some of the situations seem a little forced, especially the passion one of the male protagonists suddenly professes to feel for his male friend of fifteen years standing, despite the fact that they both have wives and children. The  gay aspect is well-handled and it gives rise to some funny lines and business, but it doesn’t ring quite true. The funeral at the end is somewhat mawkish and bathetic but intentionally so, I think. The ensemble cast is spot-on, Francois Cluzet standing out as the neurotic and controlling host at the villa, and Marion Cotillard touching as a woman incapable of commitment. Glib and glossy, then, and without quite the depth of the films it’s trying to copy/send up, but still a really enjoyable, though long at 154 minutes, evening at the cinema with a great classic rock soundtrack.

Smith:  I can’t say it better than that.  Well done Jones.

Jones: Well we were going to see Ecstasy - we had the tickets, we’d eaten our pre-theatre supper and when we got to the theatre we were told the performance had been cancelled. What happened to understudies and “The show must go on” I asked myself. Ecstasy (as it so often seems to be) has been re-scheduled but, as we were already in the West End, we were allowed to go to see In a Forest Dark and Deep, Neil LaBute’s latest offering, which obviously isn’t playing to packed houses. I knew nothing about the play before walking into the theatre so had no expectations at all, which was, perhaps, lucky. I found it disappointing. A brother and sister meet to pack up a lakeside cabin rented by the sister and all sorts of sibling stuff comes out, but I found it hard to care as I didn’t feel much sympathy, or empathy, for either of the protagonists. Matthew Fox performed well on stage  in what must be his first leading theatre role after his success in television’s “Lost”. There were some funny lines but it was neither funny enough nor, indeed, dark enough to ever get truly intriguing. Perhaps I shouldn’t carp – it was free after all…

Smith:  Jonesey, Jonesey… a bit harsh don’t you think?  We were disappointed about not being able to see Ecstasy.  This consolation prize didn’t really have a chance did it?  For me, the play sufferred because of direction that wasn’t quite tight enough.  Tepid is the word that comes to mind.  This brother and sister had a past…a turbulent one and we were only allowed to stay on its periphery in both its literal history and its emotional detail.  Olivia Williams was a real disappointment.  I had heard good things about her although I hadn’t seen much of her work previously.  She seemed so focused on getting her box-standard aping of an American accent right that she forgot that she was in a relationship on stage.  Matthew Fox – pretty, pretty boy – was an upside surprise on the other hand.   I thought his portrayal of this backwoods redneck was pretty much on target.  Unfortunately, Williams gave him precious little to push off of.

I fear the theatre would have been rather empty had others, like us, not come over from the canceled Ecstasy performance.  Perhaps a harsh indictment?  Perhaps a sign of the pickiness of recession-fearing theatre-goers these days.

Pretty, pretty boy.  Come on.  Give it a go…

Now why was I slightly disappointed by Source Code? I found it vaguely unsatisfying, and everyone else has seemed to rave about it. It is pacey, elegant and smart. Its four main characters are well-cast and do their jobs extremely well, but still I was left with the niggling feeling that, though I had suspended an awful lot of disbelief, once I had suspended it, the story still tried to stretch its alternate truth beyond the limits of my re-aligned credibility. Jake Gyllenhall, handsome, winsome and immensely likeable is repeatedly thrown back into the last eight minutes of a train journey, about to come to a horrible conclusion caused by a una-bomber figure whom he has to try to identify. He is being sent back by a strange organisation run by Jeffrey Wright, and his liaison within the organisation is the excellent Vera Farmiga – their relationship, by far the most interesting in the film, is reminiscent of that of David Niven and Kim Hunter in A Matter of Life and Death, but without the romantic entanglement (the other films that I kept being reminded of  were, of course, Groundhog Day, and also an obscure British film of the 1940s, The Interrupted Journey). Within the confines of these eight-minute interludes, whilst desparately searching for the bomber, poor, brave, doomed Jake also manages to find time to fall in love with his travelling companion, Michelle Monaghan, and herein lies the problem – he, understandibly, doesn’t want her to die. But in the supposedly real world, she already has died – he is only being sent back to try to identify the bomber to stop future atrocities, not to tamper with one that has, to all intents and puroposes, already happened. The niggling unsatisfactoriness comes from the way the film deals with this seemingly insurmountable problem of time-travel (though we are told that this is not really what is happening ) altering the past.

Perhaps I am being too fussy. Go to the film. Enjoy it for all its extremely good things – it is sensationally shot and looks wonderful; it is exciting, sometimes funny and, occasionally, moving. Ignore the niggles and you will have an entertaining evening in the cinema.

Well, what is there to say about Limitless? It’s pacey and entertaining. Once one has accepted the not totally impossible (given the speed at which modern science is moving) premise everything else makes pretty good sense, and one is not given much time to consider the things that happen deeply anyway. It deals with two issues affecting modern life – greed and addiction – though, as the greedy addict seems to win out at the end (though we are not certain for how long), it’s not, perhaps, a very helpful or informative way of commenting on these problems. It seems futile to carp about it, really – it has no pretensions to being a film of great art or great social comment. It is an entertaining film, slickly made and with high production values, enjoyable while you are watching but pretty instantly forgettable once you’ve left the cinema. In fact, as you can probably tell from this review, though I enjoyed it at the time, I’ve pretty much forgotten any details of what it was about………….