There’s something slightly lurid about Terrence McNally’s Master Class. Is it a homage or a disfiguration of Maria Callas? When it was first produced in London a decade and more ago, it struck me then as a rather odious love-hate letter to the late, great opera diva. Continue reading →
UTE LEMPER channelling Dietrich!
Marlene, forever the enigma, hated in her home country, Germany, later restored to favour. Wooed in Hollywood, loved by audiences round the world, pinned into frocks – I remember that sequined dress that made her shuffle to the front of the stage like a geisha when I saw her London – dying a recluse in Paris at 94. Continue reading →
Marie McCarthy’s Clapham Omnibus just seems to go from strength to strength.
Starting with a barely transformed library, and on the slenderest of resources, McCarthy has turned the venue into a positive mini power-house – a sort of BAC in miniature – now sporting a new café and running two shows a night. Continue reading →
The Yorkshire Ripper. Leeds 1975. Anyone reading those words might be forgiven for feeling a shiver down the spine. Notoriety comes in multifarious ways. For some it comes through misdeeds. For Peter Sutcliffe it certainly brought a particular form of `celebrity’. Continue reading →