Man and Superman - it's a (National Theatre Live) Shaw thing

'Do you and James fancy coming to the cinema on Thursday, with me and Gabs?' said Rachel.  'My treat.'
Cinema? An evening out? Entertainment?  Free entertainment?
'Sure!' I said.
'Exactly!' she said.
'What?'
'Shaw.'
Turns out she had tickets for Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw.
'But that's a play thing,' I said.
'It's a National Theatre Live thing,' she said.
Turns out that the National Theatre has started filming certain productions in front of live audiences in the theatre so that us benighted souls out in the boon-docks can get a bit of culture...you know, something to save us from our relentless foxhunting, pheasant shooting and kamikaze cider drinking sessions.

I confess my heart sank a bit.  Back in the day I used to review theatre in London and, awful but true, it sort of put me off live theatre. And the one thing that can be worse than live theatre is live theatre filmed.  The only advantage I can see is that you get a decent seat; no chance of being stuck behind a pillar or with an infeasibly tall person plonked in front of you.  Rachel knows me; she could hear the curl of the lip, the crinkle of the nose.
'It's got Ralph Fiennes in it.'
Silence.
'Oh come on! You know...Ralph Fiennes?  Voldemort!'
'Oh.'

I paused.  'Hang about.  How did you persuade Gabs to go?'
There was a very long pause.
'Er...I went a bit heavy on the "Superman" bit and...sort of coughed over the "Man and" bit,' she said.
I nearly choked.  'So my poor little godson thinks he's going to see some version of Superman?'
'Yup,' she said brightly.  'I'm going heavy on the popcorn.'

I really didn't think James would countenance it for five seconds but, to my utter amazement, he shrugged and said, 'Sure.'
'Exactly,' I didn't say.  Nor did I say that it was billed at three hours and forty minutes.  Silence is golden.

Five minutes in and he was glaring daggers at me.  'It's a play!' he hissed.
I smiled brightly and broke open the popcorn.

What can I say?  I'm not going to reprise my theatre critic days but, suffice to say, it was well-acted, very well-acted.  I found myself in awe of Fiennes' memory, above all.  The man (like many men, has to be said) doesn't stop talking, an incessant flow of rhetoric.  The modern setting looked pretty good but sat uneasily with the social set-up (woman needing man as guardian, when father dies).

The highlight, for me, was the hell scene.  Apparently this was commonly excluded from past productions which seems nuts because it is, as far as I see, the crux of the whole production. It's what stops it being another comedy of manners (a reverse Taming of the Shrew, a quasi Emma). Shaw explores the basis of love, the nature of...well...nature, inspiration, eternity and the meaning of life - clothed in Nietzschean concepts of life affirmation and the Übermensch.

Anyhow.  At some point, we left, nearly four hours later (James having given me one of his 'you are the worst mother in the entire world to keep me up so late when I'm in the middle of GCSEs...and for theatre' looks) and walked back to the car.
'I don't get the superman bit,' said Gabs.
I frowned.  Poor lad.  If James had found it interminable, how the hell (ho ho) had he stuck it out?
'I mean, that bit where she says, "Tell me where I can find the Superman?" and the Devil says he hasn't been created yet, and she says that she will look for a father for the Superman.'
We looked at him.  'Huh?'
'So he hasn't evolved yet, right?'

Hmm.

Mike June and Jess Klein play live at the Exmoor Beastro - I listen.

Back in the day, I used to go to several gigs a week but now I’m lucky if I get to see one a year.  Jane whisks me off, of course, from time to time but she tends to favour big stadiums or vast Mancunian fields.  And, really, I much prefer smaller, more intimate venues.  Like the Exmoor Beastro, in fact. 

The Beastro is a café/restaurant/whatever in Dulverton.  The owners are passionate, nay – evangelical - about good food and drink, and champion artisanal producers.  It’s getting a bit of a name for itself on Exmoor – not just because the food is fabulous but because the whole atmosphere is so damn good - easygoing, laid-back, supremely friendly.  Adrian loves it, and is frequently tugged inside by co-owner Alex to try some new beer or dip or whatever.  

Anyhow, a couple of days ago, Adrian came back and said, ‘The Beastro have got some singer-songwriter performing.  Sounds like your kind of thing.’  And, although the night was sold-out, Alex said they could squeeze me in and so off I went.

‘Are you going on your own?’ said Adrian. 

‘Sure,’ I said.  Because, really, it never bothers me.  I spent years doing it in London when I used to review theatre and bands and films and stuff.  It was all well and good when one had tickets to the National Theatre or the Marquee or whatever – but when you were being dispatched to listen to some band in a room above a back street boozer at the end of the Central Line, one’s friends seemed to…well…vanish. 

The courtyard had been turned into a sort of Arabesque tent for the night – with twinkling lights and heat blasting out from the wood-fired oven.  It all looked...quite magical.  

The music was great too.  Mike June.  Unaffected troubadour.  Jess Klein.  Fabulous voice, the kind that rummages around in your solar plexus.  Great sound system too (Alex used to work in the music business – he knows his stuff).  But hey, my reviewing days are gone.  Have a listen for yourself.

There was great food too.  Ribs for the meat-eaters, and a superfood salad for me.  Fresh crunchy bread with home-made hummus.  Olives and pickles.  All in all, a damn fine evening .  Musicians are having a tough time of it nowadays (maybe even tougher than journalists) so it's good to support live music.  And it's good to buy a CD too.  So I did.  

The Beastro promise lots more live gigs so keep an ear out. You can find them on Facebook here.  

What next?  Well, Jack Savoretti would be good.  Thea Gilmore wouldn't be bad.  Or maybe this guy...who I heard playing in a Polish garden.