Skip to main content

Sherlock Holmes… the last act! Dir. Gareth Armstrong. 1st Dec 2007, Truro.

Writer David Stuart Davies has created a superb one man show, and the script is spot on, combining humour and pathos with drama and keeping the tension throughout.

Sherlock Holmes returns to Baker Street after the funeral of his old friend, Watson and, from the moment he appears on stage Roger Llewellyn is riveting. It is impossible to tear your eyes from him as he talks to Watson, or to the memory of him, recalling their first meeting, reminding him of conversations past, and recreating the cases and the stories they worked on together. He demonstrates a tender and regretful affection for Watson which is often poignant, but also amusing.

Llewellyn’s performance is spellbinding. He plays a whole host of characters, switches accents and posture with bewildering ease, and terrific direction from Gareth Armstrong keeps him moving around the stage in surprisingly physical theatre. He is both fit and graceful. The pace is fine tuned so that moments of high melodrama move seamlessly into touching introspection, and on to camp self-aggrandisement. We are in the presence of a superior intellect; Holmes relishes his powers and thrives on stimulus.

Davies’ script provides a fascinating angle on the literary figure, a character wedded to reason and logic, fixated on the analytical, yet presenting aspects of vulnerability. He rants about the Great War, confesses to his addiction, is lost in reverie as he re-imagines an enchanting young woman and is disgusted by his own brutish father.

The set is minimal, only the few essential, recognizable props for Holmes’s rooms, and clever use of sound effects and lighting come together to create theatre at its most engaging. Davies’ great writing, Armstrong’s flawless direction and Llewellyn’s strong presence offer an astonishing experience.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Running ‘till your nipples bleed

An email from a friend of mine arrives; she complains that, at work, she is routinely subjected to gruesome accounts of female colleagues’ intimate medical procedures and gynaecological problems. I am all commiseration because I, too, have had years of listening to workplace chats about periods, childbirth and sex lives. Oh please. Later, I wander off for a walk in the early evening sunshine and it is so silent and so beautiful that I flop down on the grass and lay awhile gazing out over the rolling fields, and the mouth of the river, and fall into a reverie. Two men pass by. A few minutes later sounds of women’s talk float nearer and, by the time the two females of the species draw level with me, I have risen up from my deliciously recumbent position in the meadow, alert and tense, something like a meerkat. “I do feel for her. Going down that IVF route is such an emotional roller coaster. I was never prepared for how terrible it was going to be.” I remain frozen in my meerkat position...

Ian McEwan. Amsterdam. London: QPD, 1998

McEwan’s novel about ambition, personal betrayal and revenge features Clive, a modern composer trying to complete a major orchestral work, his friend Vernon, an editor trying to save his ailing newspaper, and Garmony, an unscrupulous right-wing politician on the rise. In common, all three have, in previous years, been lovers of recently dead Molly. They meet at her funeral and the story follows the next few weeks of the men’s lives. Vernon and Clive act as one another’s conscience, each infuriating the other. Which is more important, honesty, friendship and trust or Vernon’s newspaper and Clive’s symphony? The novel presents the difficulties of balancing personal and public morality, the importance of private shame and public reputation, the conflict between taking a moral decision for the greater good, or putting first ones own desires. Not just a simple exposé of a politician with a vulnerable side, Amsterdam is full of double standards and surprises, and takes a long, cynical look a...

Ralph McTell, Truro, 19 April 2007

Ralph's mates from Pentewan have all turned up in a mini bus to hear him sing and play, and he walks onto the stage looking comfortable; he's amongst friends. He's a big man; very charismatic, with a warm smile and a beguiling aura of powerful gentleness. He's relaxed, we're relaxed, and he sits with his guitar, chatting easily between songs, and playing with an easy familiarity with us, and with his material. His guitar playing is intricate and playful; going from ragtime to blues to folk, and his voice is deep and rich. He comments that he's put together quite a serious programme for the two hours he's on stage; it's true that the lyrics are thoughtful and the subjects serious, but there is light material too; a tune about Laurel and Hardy, and one or two covers of old blues numbers. When he sings Streets of London there are happy sighs and the audience sing along very softly; as softly as a whisper. It feels as intimate as if we were just a few people...