ENO Pirates sail on in style

Never understood those detractors who claim Mike Leigh didn't do enough with Gilbert and Sullivan's first out-and-out masterpiece, The Pirates of Penzance, which I loved on its first appearance at ENO two years ago. Indeed, he taught me that it might, after all, be the best, despite some bigger ambitions in parts of Iolanthe, The Yeomen of the Guard and Princess Ida. Less is more in G&S: get the singer-actors to deliver its topsy-turveyness straight, and the fantastical wit will only seem the stronger.

True, there's some campery, but of the innocent sort: the Pirate King and above all the Major General (Andrew Shore, peerless both times round, pictured with Ashley Riches' Pirate King and chorus above in the first of many production images by Tom Bowles) are big kids who love to romp with, respectively, fellow noblemen-gone-wrong and daughters. The mesh of adaptable set and handsome period costumes seems just as clever second time round (everyone loves the Policemen peeking out around the circle-frame).

I went again partly to introduce the youngest godchild by some distance, seven-year-old Mirabel - the rest are now in their early twenties - to the delights of G&S. She seemed gripped throughout, but what she liked I don't know, because she's gone into a shy zone, head buried in books at tea afterwards (which is delightful in itself, especially as they're not of the electronic variety). But her parents and I adored it - indeed, mum Edsy, who's now a fan of Charles Court Opera's bracing reimaginings, constantly reels at the subversiveness of it all. Like so many folk, she'd thought the Savoy Operas were the provenance of polite home-counties am-dram, whereas when done at the highest level they provide the greatest sheer pleasure of which music theatre is capable.

The many newcomers to the cast were all impressive. I wondered if any Mabel could be as delicious and vocally impressive as Claudia Boyle first time round; welcome Soraya Mafi from Lancashire, a coloratura of high style and engaging stage presence (pictured above).

Ashley Riches brings opulent musical skills to bear on the Johnny Deppesque Pirate King, phrasing in long lines (what a classy singer he is). And I want one of them pirate skirts.

There's promise, too, from tenor David Webb as a Frederic more worthy of those girls' gushing about 'manly beauty' than the excellent Robert Murray. And John Tomlinson is nothing diminished as Chief Plod, doing subtle things with the famous song. Conductor Gareth Jones made a real impression with the ENO Orchestra in the Overture, and kept it all on the boil more skilfully than most audience members will have realised. The chorus actually gets its due for once this season; why do I forget until it arrives that 'Hail, Poetry' is such an a cappella stunner, the centrepiece of an Act 1 Finale that otherwise doesn't do much dramatically (think Katisha's entrance, the Fairy Queen's 'curse', to name but two)?

The one improvement on last time is Lucy Schaufer (pictured above with Riches and Webb), musical theatre pro who always knows the right buttons to press, as a Ruth with a very impressive chest-voice-taken-high and an unflinching delivery of west country vowels and consonants. As I've made her acquaintance, I suggested to Edsy that Mirabel might like to go to the Stage Door accompanied by the skull-and-crossbones-touting bear on loan from her school - truculent elephant Mr Panz, who sings G&S style songs already, had to stay at home - to meet her.

Mum was possibly more thrilled, childlike-fashion, at this proposal than daughter, but back we went, and Lucy was swiftly out, absolutely charming in sitting down and signing the programme before going off for a massage between shows (she's wearing the hat, by the way, to keep her hair flat between wig-sportings). We also got to meet Ms Mafi and young Webb, who of course were models of natural friendliness, as I told the family most British singers are in my experience.

Then it was off to Maison Bertaux for tea and cakes. A pretty good afternoon out, I'd say. If you want to revisit My Evening With Mike Leigh, in the pre-performance talk we shared back in 2015, you can find it on Soundcloud here.

Meeting Mike Leigh

I hoped, but hardly dared to believe, that one of my great heroes would show up for a pre-performance talk in which I was participating at English National Opera. Mike Leigh's film work has been carved into the consciousness of (most of) my generation, at least in the UK. It even seems from what my goddaughter Rosie May told me that a whole new fanbase is popping up among students for the evergreen Abigail's Party many years after Alison Steadman's Bev first tottered around serving up 1970s party snacks and asking a male guest flirtatiously 'Do you like Demis [Roussos]?': Rosie had heard of a production in which the cast drank in 'real time' so they really were pissed as the show wore on, and she'd seen it onstage elsewhere.

Since then, as well as having a good laugh, I've been touched at various levels by Nuts in May, High Hopes, Naked, Life is Sweet, Secrets & Lies, Vera Drake - and the surprise hit of Leigh's biopic on Gilbert and Sullivan at the time of staging The Mikado, Topsy-Turvy. The stage work less so. I thought Mr Turner was a total masterpiece - DVD review here - and I'd put it up there with Des hommes et des dieux (about the French monks in Algeria kidnapped and murdered by terrorists) and La grande bellezza, Paolo Sorrentino's ambiguous hymn to Rome as one of the three films I've seen over the past five years to have had the greatest impact.All three I imagine I could see again and again.

News that ENO had hooked Leigh to direct The Pirates of Penzance (production photos here by Tristram Kenton; talk snaps by Charlotte van Berckel from ENO's technical department) made me nervous. Would it work? It did, and I felt relieved to be able to praise it very genuinely on The Arts Desk, though maybe you have to be in sympathy with the razor-sharp G&S idiom and how that might most sympathetically be served to 'get' it. Like it or not - I loved it and laughed very loud very often - there was no doubt that time and effort had been put into every move, every grouping. Much surer-footed throughout, in short, than Terry Gilliam's Berlioz, though that had flashes of genius.

The work that had gone into a very polished show with a superlative cast (above, the wondrous Claudia Boyle as Mabel with Jonathan Lemalu as the Chief of Police and his deadpan men) became the more apparent following Mike's arrival the other Wednesday, five minutes before we were due to start, for the talk (by the way, the likely choice had been staff director Elaine Tyler-Hall, which would have meant a necessary woman in the group. But you can't sniff at the company that did materialise).

Christopher Cook, the absolute doyen of animateurs in my opinion and pictured on the right in the top shot, had mapped out a format familiar to these well-planned 45-minute events, which he always steers to perfection: he'd ask me questions for 10 or so minutes about the background and the music, then turn to Mike about the show, then the cover Major-General, Adrian Powter (top shot left), accompanied by vital repetiteur Chris Hopkins, would sing the patter song (Andrew Shore as Stanley Mark One with Joshua Bloom's equally impressive Pirate King pictured here),

and finally there'd be a general discussion and questions. But Mike took control, not at all in an unpleasant way, the minute he arrived, and decided it would be interactive from the start. It was impressive if slightly scary to see his stage management, but reassuring to see how he gave everyone credit (nice nod to the pianist, for example, and no sense of exclusive ego, though you've got to have one well adjusted to the world to do what he does).

So we batted the ball to and fro, I loved every minute, and you can hear the results on this podcast.

After the official business was over, we carried on chatting enthusiastically about G&S shows we'd seen going back some way, what we'd liked and what we hadn't (you'll hear on the podcast how it was a Finborough Theatre production of The Grand Duke which made that ML's first choice for ENO - but he couldn't get the collaborators he wanted to be equally enthusiastic). Needless to say, I'm going back to the ENO Pirates before the end of the run.

And while it's All About Me, and Great British Opera/operetta, here's the film Garsington finally released of the Death in Venice insight evening with Steuart Bedford and Andrew Mackenzie-Wicks. The Gondoliers it ain't, though I love Britten and G&S equally. You could say that the Savoy operas are tied to my childhood, Britten to my very slow coming out starting in my late teens.

Five things I never knew about Iolanthe

Yes, the all-male Iolanthe at Wilton's Music Hall has given me another bad dose of the Gilbert and Sullivan virus, as compulsive in its way as Wagnermania. One thing I'm especially delighted about is the coincidence with a renewed friendship. The man who inspired and enthused scores of us eager-to-learn youngsters in Banstead 'village' all those years ago, as choirmaster of All Saints Church and Savoyard extraordinaire, David Harding, is still going strong down on the Kent coast. My fellow chorene and subsequently university friend-for-life, Mary Amorosino née New, put us back in touch.

So now I learn he's putting on G&S with all the trimmings - which include a second Sentry's Song, performed in concert by the Deal Savoyards last week. The words were handed shortly before the 1882 premiere by Gilbert to Sullivan, who never set them. So DAH, as we used to call him, did, and orchestrated it to boot, using the vibrant three-against-four pounding theme of the great overture as the introduction:


That's thing no. 1. Thing no. 2 is probably more surprising, and to me the words are more interesting. As Lesley Baily puts it in his marvellously presented Gilbert and Sullivan Book, 'what really upset some of the critics [at the first performance] was that at one point in the opera Gilbert went beyond his quipping at Lords and Commons and became class-conscious.'


In short, Strephon, having entered parliament, actually got a song to air his tender social conscience. The bill he wants to introduce is prefaced with the invocation to

Fold your flapping wings,
Soaring legislature!
Stoop to little things,
Stoop to human nature.
Never need to roam,
Members patriotic:
Let's begin at home;
Crime is no exotic.

In the first verse, he tells us that a 'tipsy lout' is a 'mark of scorn; I might be another/If I had been born of a tipsy mother'. The second gives rise to the discarded number's being dubbed in the business the 'Fagin for a Father Song'. The connection to Dickens is one of several surprising historical links. Twelve years after the death of our second Shakespeare, a third pays homage:

Take a wretched thief
Through the city sneaking,
Pocket handkerchief
Ever, ever seeking:
What is he but I
Robbed of all my chances -
Picking pockets by
Force of circumstances?
I might be as bad -
As unlucky, rather,
If I'd only had
Fagin for a father!

Hardly strong stuff by today's standards, but the 1880s press complained that 'advocacy and denunciation of this sort are all very well in melodrama...but they jar upon the ear and taste alike when brought to bear upon us through the medium of a song sung by a half-fairy in a professedly comic opera'.

So it wasn't just Sullivan who had trouble being taken seriously. Sadly, they succumbed to pressure and cut it. What does DAH - who's orchestrated the number, transposed it up from A minor to C minor to make it easier for the average Strephon - think? He gives me permission to quote a typically erudite e-mail: 'It's not a masterpiece, and usually only gets polite applause. Gilbert's words are excellent and bitingly satirical, but Sullivan didn't seem to bother much about giving it a memorable tune. Perhaps he didn't like it either. So it doesn't compare with the brilliance of the music elsewhere in the opera.'


I suppose the third 'thing' should be the 'missing' number for Lord Mountararat, 'De Belville was the Crichton of his age', about a talented poet and painter who remains penniless and unrecognised until the death of a distant cousin makes him a millionaire and everyone suddenly thinks he should be made a peer. DAH thinks 'the result would make a good concert item, and I've put it on my work pile to try and set it some time soon'.

BUT I appreciate that non-Savoyards may be losing the will to live and read on, so let's have some kinda pretty pictures. Thing three is Gilbert's houses. Clearly despite the social conscience he loved to live high on the hog. At the time of beginning Iolanthe he was living in 24 The Boltons, now - possibly then - one of London's top addresses. No. 24 is on the less attractively foliaged side


so here's the east crescent, irresistible in a very London-in-the-spring way with its magnolias, cherry trees and camellias.


Remember the line 'no telephone communicates with his cell' in Act 2 of Pinafore? Well, in 1882 Gilbert had a telephone to communicate for the first time with Kensington Home No. 1. No. 2 had just been commissioned: the huge mansion in Harrington Gardens with four bedrooms and central heating.


There's no blue plaque at the Boltons; but the grander establishment has one.


Thing No. 4, while we're on the subject of mod cons: electrickery at the Savoy! They saved the best 'til last, as Durward Lely remembered - the 'very charming effect...made by the fairies at a given cue switching on the electric light on their foreheads, the battery being a small one carried on their backs, concealed by their flowing tresses.' Due credits for the different elec-tricks were given in the programme.


Thing No. 5, a darker coda: sombre circumstances for Arthur Sullivan. Just before arriving at the theatre to conduct the first performance, he learnt that through a stockbroker's bankruptcy he had lost all his savings (he recovered). Worse, in early 1882 he had returned from Egypt to Fulham to find that his mother had died. I ought to check the synchonicity, but I can't help feeling that the wonderfully desolate oboe solo which depicts Iolanthe rising from the stream - and which I saw somewhere plausibly compared to the doleful shepherd's piping in Act 3 of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde - is some kind of requiem. Anyway, Mrs. Sullivan was buried in Brompton Cemetery. One of the Friends pointed me in the direction of the grave, but I couldn't find it. Certainly it's somewhere near these three evocative angels, a good point at which to stop.

Unmodified rapture

I don't usually double up on an Arts Desk rave, but here's a show in which I wish I had shares: Sasha Regan's all-male Iolanthe, newly transferred from the tiny Union Theatre to the evocative space of the wonderful Wilton's Music Hall. And on it will no doubt go to the West End and Broadway, and if it doesn't, it should. Any excuse to put up a few more photos by Kay Young: of the fairies above, who of course have their fair share of camp, but do so much more besides, and of Alex Weatherhill who brings counter-tenorial beauty to the Fairy Queen's most melting number.


It's worth remembering, since Gilbert especially is taken to task for cruelty to old bags like Katisha and Lady Jane, that these ladies also get the most soulful numbers in the shows. The Queen's liquid melody has witty lyrics to match: 'amorous dove, type of Ovidius Naso' is invoked in verse 1, and verse 2 eulogises the then chief of the London Brigade:

Oh, Captain Shaw!
Type of true love kept under!
Could thy Brigade
With cold cascade
Quench my great love, I wonder!

There are so many pleasures in lyrics and dialogue, some of which I confess I was anticipating more keenly then they were occasionally delivered. We all love lofty Lord Tolloller's plea to not-so-simple shepherdess Phyllis to 'spurn not the nobly born':

Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials!

Here's Alan Richardson's charming Phyllis with Luke Fredericks's Lord Mountararat and Matthew James Willis's Lord Tolloller.


There's also such musical distinction in the music of Iolanthe's resurrection, and her Act 2 crisis - all the more so when you listen to Sullivan's limpid orchestration, as I have done again this morning on the Sargent recording (such a shame that Telarc pulled the plugs on Mackerras's series before he could get round to Iolanthe, which he specially adored). Yet Christopher Mundy's lone piano-playing was masterly.

As I've already intimated in the review, what I loved best of all about this magical evening is that G&S come out of it triumphantly vindicated as the best of tune- and word-smiths. Ideas flash up so thick and fast in the Act One finale, and - rare in most of today's musicals - the ingenuity continues all the way through Act Two. Plus here it all was getting new life through a young, pretty and buffed crew, a class-mix Gilbert would have relished of show kids and kosher opera singers, dancing boys from Essex and others exuding public-school confidence like the beauteous Strephon of Louis Maskell.


Now I'm waiting for our overseas friends to come and stay so we can have the excuse of taking a Monday tour around Wilton's Music Hall, which just gets better; I remember the peculiar atmosphere of the peeling auditorium from Fiona Shaw's reading of The Waste Land, but I don't recall the foyer rooms being so welcoming.


Do go and see Iolanthe there - book now before it's too late; I don't doubt the show will find an even bigger home, but none could be more susceptible to true fairy magic than this one.

A masterclass in titwillow'ry

Richard Suart (pictured above with Anne-Marie Owens in the first of Chris Christodoulou's images for English National Opera reproduced here) slipped in to the Jonathan Miller Mikado under the presumably small feet of Bill Oddie back in 1988, two years after its first airing. Which of course makes this classic of the operatic world a veteran production at 25 - I've written about this at length in the programme and on The Arts Desk - and though there were one or two things which could still have been brought into tighter focus when I saw the revival last night, Suart's Lord High Executioner is certainly not among them; custom has not staled his infinite comic variety.

Credit for a couple of the gags - Ko-Ko licking the Mikado's shoes, pure Monty Python, and, having been pressed to Katisha's ample bosom, spitting out a couple of her pearls - seems to have originated with the first Lord of the Chopper, Eric Idle. But I'm guessing Suart has built on the part in many ways since those two December '88 performances. Of course his ever-adapted little list is now a sacred and still hilarious rite (the audience applauded Berlusconi's 'bunga bunga' and a last-minute reference to the equally unfunny pronouncements of John Galliano last night). I can only say yet again that Suart's book on the subject in conjunction with A S H Smyth, They'd none of 'em be missed, is a delight from cover to cover and beautifully produced. But I did reel in admiration not just at the Lewis Carroll absudity of Gilbert's lyrics for the ballad of tit-willow - imagine a bird suffering from cold perspiration and a rather tough worm in his little inside - but also the new creativity brought to it last night.


It's treated as a cautious exercise in winning over the Margaret Dumontish Katisha (Owens, it has to be admitted, had some difficulty in manoeuvring her ample mezzo around the text and being heard, though my friend Clare's young son, who loved Trovatore at Covent Garden, observed that she was surely the only singer on the stage capable of 'doing dark and heavier opera'. Well, Donald Maxwell, the Pooh-Bah, used to sing Wozzeck, but that was some time ago). In a stroke of genius, when the 'echo arose from the suicide's grave', it's Owens who sings the 'tit willow'. She's hooked at last, and Suart's hitherto abject Ko-Ko waxes Pythonsequely confident.

It was such fun being part of the 45 minute whistlestop Join the Conversation Live event expertly guided as ever by Christopher Cook up in the Coli's balcony bar (yes, we've moved from the wacky set-up in the noisy Apple Store - scroll down to read about the last event I participated in there. CC actually asked me then about Parsifal, and I said that though I know it well, I'd actually rather talk about The Mikado). I was there loftily to draw comparisons between Sullivan and Puccini: 'The sun whose rays' is as much of a mostly-pentatonic master-aria as Liu's 'Signore, ascolta'). And you could have knocked me down with a horse-feather when my fellow panellist, Michael Simkins, told me he'd played Pish-Tush in Mike Leigh's masterpiece of let's-put-on-a-show thespian shenanigans Topsy-Turvy (time to get it on DVD and watch it even more carefully).


So Mike's achievement quite casts my junior efforts as Sir Joseph Porter and my endlessly recycled Nightmare-Song party trick in the shade. Even so I was quite amused, touched even, listening back to my patter of 1973 with the army of recorders and cellos (the only 'serious' instrument taught at Banstead Junior School) as accompaniment.

We also had a tasty appetiser from the Pish-Tush of the evening, William Robert Allenby, covering Ko-Ko and delivering for us the little list as originally set by Sullivan. He was allowed to make much of his relatively small role in the show itself, and I thought it was jolly nice of him after the talk to address my friend's two children, who of course had a whale of a time, especially with the special-guest wigmakers (Allenby explained that he was the only person on stage with his own hair, cut into Bertie Woosterish style by a lady of the wardrobe). Everything still looks dazzlingly beautiful in its crazy way, and it's a long time since I've heard an audience applaud a stage tableau, as they did when the curtain went up on the braiding of the raven hair at the start of Act 2.


By the way, the dressing-room board of pictures the staff brought with them to the talk included a droll composite picture of Felicity Palmer playing Margaret Dumont to Groucho Marx. Yesterday I took delivery of the Bell Telephone Hour potted Mikado of 1960 starring the great Groucho - Ko-Ko to glorious former Isolde Helen Traubel's Katisha (God, that woman was a marvel, from her 1930s Wagner Wesendonck Lieder with Stokowski through to a genuinely funny duet with Jimmy Durante in the 1950s as well as this). Their scene together is one highlight; Stanley Holloway's drolly low-key Pooh-Bah is another. The abridgement can be frustrating, but it's a curiosity well worth having.


Anyway, what a timeless work of genius The Mikado still is: I don't think there's a single line of dialogue which doesn't really fit today, even if a few need footnoting. Remember I grew up knowing most of this by heart, and it really was as fabulous a verbal education as going on to learn Latin or Greek. Not every singer is a natural at the spoken word in this revival, though all sing very well indeed: Donald Maxwell's Scots dignitary Pooh-Bah doesn't quite get the laughs in the right places, and though Alfie Boe moves well, he slightly gabbles his lines. But he makes a spiffing, gormless foil for Sophie Bevan's hard-as-nails Yum-Yum - really excellent in the dialogue, consummate as she has to be in her little ray of sun- and moon-shine - and they dance well, too.


You'd have thought Richard Angas's Mikado was a hundred now, but he too puts across the text with charm, and I love the slightly furtive delivery of 'My object all sublime'.


Conductor Peter Robinson handles the lovely woodwind solos well but could move it all along a bit more zingingly, a la Mackerras. Even so, the dancing is huuuge fun and the gags still work. This is a show ENO simply won't be able to replace, and although it seems to me that Miller quickly fell into wish-I-was-back-in-the-world-of-medicine diffidence, his Mikado and Rigoletto remain testaments to a once-sharp sense of luxuriant imaginative detail.

I put up this documentary on the making of the original show at the foot of the Arts Desk incarnation of the programme article, but there's certainly no harm in having it to hand here. Dig those 80s fashions...