TWELVE ANGRY MEN & I

Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

Where oh where do I begin? So much has stimulated me since last I wrote to you.

Fully-embraced three plays. One of which twice, Pole Factor - BLOW-IT-UP YOUR POLE FACTOR. One of which was my very first Shakespeare in London, King Lear - SHAKING-UP THE GLOBE. And one of which was a birthday treat, my father, Twelve Angry Men and I at The Garrick Theatre in London UK's West End -Theatre land!

Somehow I managed to find myself with several beautifully passionate, dedicated, inspirational and loving new friends. I say friends, we are still in preliminary stages of 'getting to know you.' I like to believe the genuine shared passion for words, stories, will unite us for many years to come. Crumbs have I jinxed it? Probably!

  Since first I wrote I hope you by now understand if only through this page, how intrinsically important family, the countryside and good old Yorkshire down to earth, a spade is a spade'ness is to me.

Spade'ness, is this a word?  . . . spade'ness, first used by RJ Wardle  Copyright 2014.

Keep it real. Really does resonate.

I really do hope.

Entering into a life spent with words is after all, more than just a cosy dream. It is with every inch of my mind, heart and soul an all encompassing mind-mapped goal I strive continuously to build. Go out and create my own opportunities. Don't wait for them to come to me, find them!

As I believe I wittered on about three updates ago in WAKING - UP IN LONDON.

Some weeks ago my much loved father and I skipped along to embrace possibly one of the greatest dialogue driven plays we have seen together in years.

With a cast of, funnily enough, twelve men, all playing jury service members in a murder trial in an American Court during the early 1950's. We the audience were collectively gripped by the gritty, at times sporadically sparse, at times elongated monologues delivered in a noticeably calm and fluid fashion. As was the movement more akin to a flock of geese floating through a pond than twelve angry men stomping about a stage. I blinked and the centre-stage long desk had silently, unnoticeably turned from lengthways to sideways. Robert Vaugh, a face I know well from his day's as Napolean Solo (Great name) in The Man From U.N.C.L.E (a 1960's american television series) shuffled, and yes I do literally mean shuffled about the stage remaining largely silent. But my, how his presence radiated throughout the theatre. All eyes were on him. Where on the stage is he? What is he doing? Not a lot largely. Took a loo break, washed his hands - I believe this is known as 'business.' On this point: most the cast frequented the sink, toilet and water cooler quite a lot. Quite a lot of business. Business? Vaugh doesn't need business. Nor does he require a ream of monologues, he is within his very fibres, a solid time-served man of words. Remaining seated at the table, after his loo break of course, silently scribbling notes before coming out with mostly one line nuggets of gold, like, 'Maybe he wanted to be noticed?'

   As the play climaxed, perhaps rather unsurprisingly, most the men originally . . .   no wait, that would be a spoiler. And like Agatha Christie's The MouseTrap, I personally feel I should respect the privacy of the conclusion so as it remains a luxury of those that are seated in the audience to know.

Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,

Warmly Yours

Peace Friends X

RJ Wardle

SHAKING-UP THE GLOBE

Good morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,

 This specific blog is something of an elongated, at times arguably self-indulgent review of a fantastically forward-thinking engagement of Shakespeare's King Lear. Just in-case you are in any doubt.

 As a lover of stories it was with a somewhat childlike Christmas day feeling I skipped out to embrace my first Shakespeare play last Thursday evening, man-flu in-tow. Storytelling by any and all means engaging the many not the few, starting with our children, as I was once engaged by my primary school teacher, Mrs Sarah Carlisle in 1989 to the enchanting world of words. A passion deeply routed, further back in my subconscious to the bedtime stories of the mid nineteen eighties. The Famous Five, Rupert The Bear, The Far Away Tree and many other such inspirational texts up to and including my own pleasures of writing short stories at this time, Inspector Kipper. Rather, the wonderful worlds created with words. Stimulating the imagination, the almost dream like quality of theatres, It's that dressing-up-box again, why do I instantly think of Helen Mirren's acceptance speech at the BAFTA's this year (2014)? Not only did Mirren engage her audience to think of their individual inspirational teacher, that did, as Mrs Carlisle did for me, engage them to their passion for literature, for stories, worlds created with words to be enjoyed, created, read, listened to and played. Mirren also quoted with pin-drop emotion, a section from Prospero's monologue in Shakespeare's The Tempest:

 Prospero:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

   A new yet dear friend of mine recounted recently how he felt Shakespeare's works that have lasted five hundred or so years, will, in his view [and mine], last another five hundred. Continuing to bring pleasures and educational values as we current human infiltrators of our globe have long since been 'rounded with a sleep.' As I believe you shall see from the quote above, Shakespeare was well aware of life's false realities and time-limits.

   This same friend also informed me a play review should be concise and not name any individuals. Well, I respect your views dear friend, I truly do. I am simply a passionate man behind a page (usually safest) but in my little world, a Yorkshire man skipping about in London finally engaging oneself for I hope a long life with words, I should like to thank publicly, for any who care to read, some of the talents on offer, for any who care to embrace, in The Network Theatre's - King Lear.

   'The bards' timeless qualities transcending boundaries, he wrote to be played, it was with a shaky skip in my step I ventured out from behind a page last Thursday evening. Not, I hasten to write,to The Globe. At the initial time of conception, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre was aptly and not by chance named as such due to discoveries by adventurous explorers within our globe, it is not flat for example. All encompassing, as are his works.

   It is worth noting as we mark the 450th anniversary of the bards birth this year (2014) and the 400th anniversary of his death in 2016, London has been shaking-up with Shakespeare with no-less than three King Lear's (I know of) playing in the first months of this new year. In conjunction with a plethora of Shakespeare plays, events on and off stage in celebration of in my view, a genius of words.

  Located at a hidden 'secret gem' theatre aptly named The Network Theatre, again, like The Vaults, underneath Waterloo, a London Uk train station, it is a soul-enchantingly characterful venue. And yes, indeed, with some delightfully impassioned characters within. The curtain will go-up, the show must go on.This King Lear was an intimately cut version by the talent with words that is dear Bernie as she is affectionately known. Bernie's right-hand women in the scrupulously meticulous production we all embraced last Thursday (27th, February, 2014) informed me as something of a newcomer to theatre visits here in London, Bernie is one of those people you meet and would instantly trust and do anything [within reason] for. Well, having been captivated twice now by the genuine down-to-earth, no airs or graces, the words are the important part of this not me character she radiates, I am sure she must be from Yorkshire, I can humbly agree with you. To meet with any like-minded soul, in this case Bernie and the company/ audience of/ at King Lear, who share an unstinting commitment to and love of creating worlds with words, storytelling, it is indeed in my view, all about the worlds with words.

   Let the words speak for the man - as I say to any who care to listen. Not all that many I hasten to write in jovial whimsicality. Mum and dad perhaps.On occasion.

  This written, Bernie's almost as intimate as two naked lovers relationship with Shakespeare's words, afforded an engaging cut from the three/four hours full-length to a more modest two hour inc. interval production. Seamless, would be one word I would use. Engaging, easily accessible plot line, a running commentary more-akin to a BBC news feed commentary box running behind the actors, the comedic nuances played anything other than discreetly by Mark Johnson as Edmund served to lighten an otherwise densely pact text for this particular newcomer to Shaky. A multitude of characters all in synchronisation with each other physically, emotionally and spatially

   As the story un-folded, cast engagingly mocking Lear, played to precise engagement of the absurdities of his characters actions by Michael Mayne. Lear himself at times mocked his own demise, with that dressing-up box reappearing again and again. We enjoyed an army of soldiers, a luminous pink nightgown, many different suits and a denim jacket wearing, woolly-jumpered crutch in this story.To the untrained eye acting as tools, in conjunction with the precisely woven parchment of cut script, the running-commentary box, and two pictures of London's skyline adorning the wings stage left and stage right, to bring this particularly complex play to the many not the few. Including this one, me.  Now surely this is what we strive to achieve. To maintain and grow as widely as possible the magic of worlds within words in this case, that Shakespeare has left us.

In Shakespeare's own words - via Lear,

  'Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say'

   Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness,


   Peace Friends X