Theatre

On the go

Giles Gordon

Intimate Exchanges (Greenwich) 78 Revolutions (Lyric Studio, Hammersmith) On Your Toes (Palace) Mandragola (National: Olivier)

fOOn one level, the phenomenon that is Alan Ayckbourn is simply — yet far roin simply — that of a conjuror, the ultimate sleight-of-hand theatrical mer- Fhant or mathematician. Look how easy it Is, he suggests in Intimate Relations, to write one play; and then to provide seven `t1,,,Ilher versions. If you enjoy version one, "1r Ayckbourn modestly invites you to go

again, week after week. There are, in fact, eight

Plays, each called Intimate Ex- cipanges , showing at Greenwich. The lernma of critic and playgoer is whether You can form an adequate opinion of the reirk, its totality of 16 versions (there are VVf° quite separate chains of events derived rtnn whether a woman manages to resist having her first cigarette of the day until 6

and 30 scenes when any one evening Present a mere four.

t,n' Tou don't even, in a single play, meet all for ten characters. In the version per- twmed on the first press night, each of the pe° actors (the complete cast) plays three of°0,131e. Lavinia Bertram is Celia, wife ratn"Ie headmaster of Bilbury Lodge Prepa- 01;7 School, her maid, and Irene Pidwor- Re;Lsat rumped, flat footed County lady. C3ut Herford is Toby, the headmaster, N44.,nel, the caretaker cum gardener, and Miles the chairman of the school gov-

ernors. Both actors, who have worked with Mr Ayckbourn for years, display splendid powers of ingenuity in switching instantly from character to character, and couldn't be bettered.

But what of the content, the meat? The play is mostly set in the garden of the headmaster's house and in the tea marquee on sports day. It concerns the deteriorating marriage of Toby and Celia, and Celia's relationship with Lionel, In the ver- sion I saw, both Toby and Celia are cheesed off with life (she with him, he with the country for going to the dogs). There are scores of sidesplittingly funny lines derived from Mr Ayckbourn's acute observation of the middle classes at bay, floundering under the pressures of trying to lead, or to be seen leading, respectable lives. The comedy is wry, sardonic and bitter, a product of its author's middle, dark period, closer to Jonson than Wilde, the hollow, haunted laughter of angst. This is reinforced by Edward Lipscomb's smug set of garden, Lotts' bricks house and potting shed, the England of privilege with the apple turning sour. Mr Ayckbourn directs with precision and pace.

Almost the last Russian I saw on stage was Stalin in David Pownall's Master Class,

smashing dozens of Prokofiev's gramo-

phone records in the Kremlin, 1948. Michael Wilcox's 78 Revolutions is set in a

dowdy hotel room which temporarily dou- bles as a recording studio in St Petersburg, 1901. Two young Americans, Chip Field- ing (Norman Cooley) and Alan Svensen (Neal Swettenham) have come from Lon- don to capture on seven-inch zinc plates the voices of the greatest Russian opera singers. Dermot Hayes has designed a most intriguing black set, the highpoint of which is a piano raised on a platform almost to the roof. Below, is the recording horn into which the singers project their voices. Behind it, obscured by curtains, is the recording mechanism.

Mr Wilcox meticulously imparts much information about early recordings, how only two minutes of singing could be captured, and the excitement of this new technology. Philip Voss splendidly plays Alexi, the baddie who tries to persuade Chip, the engineer, to reveal his secrets to the Russians. (How does the drag mechan- ism really work? What sort of cutting stylus are you using?) Unfortunately, the prom- ise and dramatic possibilities of the play's first act are, albeit agreeably, dissipated in the second which becomes close to a recital by Lee Trevorrow as Madame Grazzione, singing arias from Bellini, Verdi and Donizetti: 'I am singing to the unborn'.

Besides which, the end of the play seems to fudge whether or not Chip sells out. Either way, as Alan remarks, the new technology has almost become the old technology: wax plates that can record three or four minutes are just around the corner. But it's an unusual, intelligent play, sensibly directed by Peter Lichtenfels.

Musicals come in three kinds, the in- novative, the agreeably escapist and the

bad. George Abbott directed Rodgers's and Hart's On Your Toes on Broadway in 1936, when he was aged 49, and he now recreates it for London. Recreates rather than redirects, for the pleasure of this utterly delightful revival is that there has been no trendy attempt to update the show. On Your Toes was the first musical — though it's closer to a gigantic Ziegfield's folly — to incorporate lashings of ballet (Russe, tap dancing and jazz) into its structure. Balanchine's choreography is, of course, of its period but still impresses not least because Natalia Makarova (as Madame Baronova, Russian ballerina) gives a performance of amazing style, wit, elegance and beauty. Tim Flavin is Phil Dolan III, known as Junior, who wants to dance and not teach music (the story is ridiculous). His personality is large and genuine and his dancing more than fit to share the stage with Madame Makarova. Zack Brown's costumes and sets are gorgeous, especially an art deco nightclub; the orchestra under Timothy Higgs pro- duces luscious sounds; and many of the lines are witty: `Can a good man love two women at the same time?' If he's very good.' It's the happiest of evenings.

David Gilmore's modern-dress travesty of Machiavelli's Mandragola is irredeem- ably vulgar, a disgrace. As with the Nation- al's Jean Seberg there is no interval, and for the same reason.