No 40 -- Spring 1993 Edited by Michael Walters
The main trouble with this production was that it lacked any sort of cohesion. It emerged as a set of principals each doing his or her own thing – for the most part they did it extremely well, but it did not add up to a production. The complicated concept that Japan had won World War 2 and the setting of the piece in a suburb of a London (ruled by Japan) which had been twinned with Titipu, was as cumbersome as it was unnecessary. The idea presumably came from Sherrin's THE METROPOLITAN MIKADO, but the only outcome of it all was that the actors did not have to wear Japanese make–up, a very small bonus! The set was Japanese (sort of) and the cast and chorus wore Japanese "karate" costumes, and as staged and performed would have made just as much sense set in Japan. It opened in the rush hour on the London underground – but it could just as easily have been a rush–hour train in Tokyo, where they pack 'em in even more tightly than in London.
It was, however, all great fun, though most of it emanated from Gareth Bevan's supremely comic Pish–Tush – an hysterical portrait of an English caricature of an archetypal Japanese. Everything was there, nasal tone, absurd bowings, pseudo–Japanese mutterings, karate exclamations of "hi". I don't think he actually said "Ach so!" – but one could almost believe he had. (I'm sure it was racist in the extreme!) He took the Oriental habit of turning Rs into Ls one stage further, also pronouncing what should have been Ls as Rs! Producer Wesley Henderson said in his programme note that he wanted to bring out the intrinsic humour of the show. In fact 70% of the laughs were Mr. Bevan's and the rest were Gilbert's.
The one real blot on the evening was the positively awful performance by Nick Poole as Pooh–Bah. He was dressed and made–up as an impersonation of Julian Clary with punk hair, peppermint pink and lime green costume, masses of jewelry, etc. It was funny for the first 5 minutes, after that the incessant pursing of the lips, the repeated stock gestures such as stroking himself behind the ear, became unbearably irritating, because Mr. Poole totally lacked the acting ability to make such an interpretation meaningful. It was nothing but empty posing. The point is that Mr. Clary knows when to purse his lips and stroke himself, and why he is doing it. Mr. Poole didn't.
Colin Smith was a personable Nanki–Poo, a bit dry of tone to begin with (there were a few problems with "A wandering minstrel") but as the evening wore on his throat opened and he was producing a full and rounded tone – and some of the best singing I've heard in a YS production. His charm and broad smile were in evidence. John Chamberlain was a big bulky Ko–Ko, who seemed to be doing an impersonation of some unspecified American pop singer, with dummy microphone. The reason for this totally escaped me, particularly as he spoke some of his dialogue with, and some without, an American accent. This was evidently deliberate, and intended to mean something, but I failed to grasp what.
Steve Taylor was an excellent Mikado, a dry starchy man with a thin, drooping Chinese moustache, and high platform Japanese shoes. This was the best piece of acting per se of the evening, delivered with a professional aplomb and sensitivity – the contrast between this superb performance and Nick Poole's insensitive posturing was very striking. Both the Mikado's song and Ko–Ko's "little list" were extensively rewritten and updated, though no credit was given in the programme for the really rather clever rewritings. Katisha (Clare Henderson Roe) was a grotesque creation in black and purple, with, for her Act 1 appearance, gigantic bat wings operated by an (almost) invisible attendant who stood behind her. She looked quite like a fiend out of hell. It was a most impressive performance, but it was difficult to see how it related to the rest of the production. The three little maids were adequate. MICHAEL WALTERS
Date not stated. Reprinted from The Richmond and Twickenham Times 10 April 1992.
The Young Savoyards' synopsis for THE MIKADO was alarming. It threatened to set G&S in a modern world where the Nazis had won, Jap fascists were summarily executing Brits and a certain London borough was forced to be twinned with Titipu. But after a clangorous prologue at "Stamfor Blook" [Stamford Brook] tube station, Wesley Henderson's production at Questors was revealed as a traditional [sic] and (for this company) even subdued staging. Indeed there was nothing more shocking than Gareth Bevan's kamikase Pish–Tush, ingeniously swapping L's for R's in "Our Gleat Mikado" while muttering Nipponese curses and essaying karate chops. But it had the happy advantage of making all but the exotics into the English personages we've always secretly thought them to be: Colin Smith's Nanki–Poo as a wandering minstrel of demotic speech and fluting upper class vowels, Jane Dunworth's jolly girl–next–door Yum–Yum sharing confidences with school chums Pitti–Sing (Clare Turner strongly cast and in glorious voice) and Peep–Bo (Jane Ambler).
Best of all it released John Chamberlain's Ko–Ko from oriental overload [what? Ed.] for a sadly funny Lord High Executioner, culminating in his touching rendering of Tit Willow followed by a more tuneful than bombastic version of the Bellow of the Blast duet with Katisha. Katisha herself, a portrait of studied pathos by Clare Henderson Roe, was almost rendered immobile during the Act 1 climax by a striking but overlarge dragon's wing costume, designed by Joanna Lambert and Maria Moggi. This necessitated rear support by a masked, anonymous acolyte, reducing her movements to a crab–like sideways hobble. Nick Poole was a robotic, highly colourful Pooh–Bah with transgender voice and gestures; Steve Taylor in the title role was all any Savoy Opera freak would want from the Mikado, splendidly caparisoned for a neatly updated assurance that the punishment fits the crime. But the evening's musical highlight was an exquisite rendering of the wedding madrigal, sung by Dunworth, Turner, Smith and Bevan, prompting shivers of delight in at least one member of their audience. JOHN THAXTER
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