A tale of two sittings…

Mark Quartley (Ariel); Simon Russell Beale (Prospero) – photo by Topher McGrillis © RSC

It was the best of sight-lines, it was the worst of sight-lines, it was the stage of wisdom, it was the stage of foolishness, it was the epoch of humanity, it was the epoch of technology, it was the viewpoint of Light, it was the viewpoint of Darkness, it was the visibility of presumption, it was the invisibility of forethought…

Introduction: The emperor’s new seat…

Before I (sort of) pronounce judgment on my second visit to The Tempest – and hand down my wonted hundred sentences (or so) – I want to make one thing clear: Any drama production which values only a minority of the audience is – whatever its qualities for that minority – a failure. [That this failure has been propagated by the RSC’s Artistic Director and one of its most experienced designers just makes things so very much worse. If there are two people on this planet who should understand the audience dynamics and perspectives of this theatre, then, surely it is these? That they have failed to do so is inexplicable. It is also unforgivable. (And, yes, I understand that different price-points buy you different experiences – but not ones with such stark differences, surely…?)]

I also need to explain why I was there…. As a result of my previous review, I had been invited “as a guest of the RSC”. I had also been given a “superseat”, in the Stalls. But, like the worst sort of champagne (or, in my case, Aberlour 100 Proof) socialist, glued to that superseat, I felt genuinely guilty about my new vantage point: knowing that others (whose gaze would not meet mine) were not so fortunate.

It is, they agree, a huge undertaking…. Rehearsed in three weeks, teched in three days, the panto machine has a lot of cogs: scenes, routines, choreography plus all the bells and whistles, magic and dry ice. “You’re using all the tricks you can,” says McKenna. McDougall nods: “It’s another level of difficult than I’ve experienced before. So many elements have to come together.”

     Not least the audience. “They’re the last member of your cast,” McKenna stresses. “If you ignore them for a second, they back off for good.”

– Matt Trueman: The directors’ guide to making panto magic

That such a piece of experimental theatre has been carried out – an expensive gamble, in reality… – at the punter’s expense (both in monetary and anticlimactic terms) is simply not ethical. The whole run at Stratford-upon-Avon is virtually sold-out – with now only formally-labelled (rather than thoughtlessly accidental) “Restricted View” seats available for many shows – not because of the reviews (although these have mostly been positive: mainly, I feel, due to the critics’ seating positions and the relative wow-factor novelty); but because of the hype that has been generated over the last year or so. Yes, I am a Patron – and a lifelong visitor and fan – but, for many reasons (many of which I will and can not go into here), I believe the RSC should feel corporately ashamed.

In summary: If my earlier review captured what it was to experience the black-and-white, monaural radio version of the play, then what follows is the Technicolor, high-definition, surround sound, 3D cinema version (over 90% of which, visually – astoundingly… – was new to me). I count myself fortunate to have seen it – see Postscript – but that does not mean that this review is not tinged with sadness (as well as the guilt outlined above).

Not really a review: Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant…

Firstly – and this is a major illustration of just how much difference the position of my seat made – the play, which had dragged a week ago, flew by. Secondly, half-immersed (not fully: because of my previous experience; and despite my trying to see the production afresh, having left my first impressions – mostly – at home…), with the cast and their actions now given context, this was also a much more satisfactory viewing. The large number of things which had left me puzzled before now made sense. Or, as Alex says in A Clockwork Orange, “It’s funny how the colours of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen.” [Whether you take this as a warning, or as praise, when experiencing such a brave new world of such experimental hyperreality, probably depends on both your physical and mental points of view. (It may be – after the shock of the Brexit and Trump votes – that we require such an escape. But not into a world like this: controlled by the whims of one man.)]

What I took away, this time, though – even granted the now perfect vantage point – was not how powerful, how more meaningful – how improved (although far from perfect) – the technical effects were; but how variable Simon Russell Beale’s performance is – or perhaps how different it appears with and without the accompaniment of visible wizardry. His reviews have been mixed: and, although some of the grounds for this are manifestly subjective, it did feel – after trying to make allowances for my slightly deeper immersion (at least I got my toes wet, etc.) – that the man was a lot more involved in proceedings, last night. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the greatest scenes were those where he was alone on stage; and that he outshone everyone else by quite some margin.

To be honest (and to keep the word-count and my bedtime manageable), my friend Kirk’s thoughtful review says much of what I wanted to, and tried to: especially with regards to direction and acting (although see below). However, we don’t agree on everything – so feel free to compare and contrast! (He is, however, more magnanimous than I am – not letting his first experience so colour his second, as I have done.)

¶

I still found the humour too broadly played: and wondered why there was a need for such exaggerated stereotyping. At my first viewing, I struggled to keep up with Simon Trinder’s Trinculo: no matter what programme my hearing aids were set to – but this time, most of the dialogue was considerably clearer (which, of course, also helped me feel more involved). However, Ariel’s first lines from the very back of the stage – had I not known the play so well – would have remained a mystery. [It is worth noting that my hearing aids were again set to sample both direct sound and the RST’s normally infallible induction loop: so, as the latter is piped directly from the sound booth, I was left a little perplexed as to why this should be. (Only a little, though. My experience – although I am beginning to sound like a broken record on this topic – is that both music and audio-effects frequently render such speech into mime.)]

I had struggled with the sound before, though: and an online discussion with others who had also seen the production led me to considering the projectors as culprits. However, in the Stalls, there was an overlayed buzz of electrical interference playing hornet-style havoc with my hearing aids, every time there was a gap in the dialogue, no matter whether these twenty‑seven leviathans were on or off. At first, I had believed this to be a sound-effect: distant waves crashing against the island’s shore, perhaps. It was only when I reverted to live sound just before Prospero’s final speech that I confirmed that this audible hum was just a darned nuisance caused by all the surrounding gizmology emitting some form of electrical interference.

¶

Talking of which… – I described them as “various randomly-appearing diaphonous screens” in my original review: but I now know that the technical team at the RSC has designated this disquieting device “the vortex” – although, bizarrely, I prefer Quentin Letts’ characterization, in the Daily Mail, of them as “chimneys of silk lowered from on high”. This captures, more accurately, I feel, the steaming, menacing insubstantiality of dark satanic melanism that constantly hovers over us.

I wouldn’t say the effects wowed me – sometimes I could not make out what I was actually seeing; other times, having two non-synchronized Ariels on stage prompted low-level motion sickness – but I finally did see their point. And, had I not been coloured by their previous invisibility, would surely have been utterly drawn in by them.

And, yes, Stephen Brimson Lewis’ design is obviously inventive; and again captivating. But it doesn’t need special-effects to make it so; and it’s about time he stopped going too far behind the old proscenium arch (for visibility’s and the audience’s sake – although this often happens in his partnerships with Doran: e.g. Henry V…). It will be interesting to see how it is adapted for the run at the Barbican, that’s for sure.

¶

But what about the actors? Literally fish out of water, the first time around; as I said above, the new contexts – the effects; the obvious placement within the theatrical space/environment; newly-visible physical relationships… – brought polish to their performances: particularly Mark Quartley’s strangely hen-like (in both looks and moves) Ariel.

Now that I have had a chance to observe him more thoroughly, he appears to have arrived at the RSC after fronting a Muse concert – although his stage persona is paradoxically a lot less eccentric, a lot more subdued (and, I presume, intentionally). It’s as if his subservience to Prospero has additionally, and completely, incarcerated any jot of character or development. But he does begin to mature a little as the eternal elasticity of the deadline for his freedom finally becomes finite and snaps into place: and it is, therefore, ultimately, why his relationship with Prospero seems more cogent than Miranda’s.

This partnership culminates (as, it seems to me, does the whole play) in Ariel asking his stern father-figure of a captor – like some small child exploring both the definition of the word and the depth of promise it contains… –

Before you can say “come” and “go,”

And breathe twice, and cry “so, so,”

Each one, tripping on his toe,

Will be here with mop and mow.

Do you love me, master? No?

…a perfect, urgent, shocking restatement of Miranda’s abrupt interrogation of Ferdinand one act earlier: “Do you love me?” But this later challenge carries a hundred more times emotional heft. (And – much to my surprise – caused a sudden shoulder-shaking stream of tears to run down my face. Simon Russell Beale’s response, it has to be said, also affected me.)

Jenny Rainsford’s Miranda – strangely looking a lot older than in Love for Love, and certainly well out of her teenage years… – was too simply characterized: her supposed emotions – perhaps representing her naïveté – jagged, rather than subtle; jumping up steps, rather than running along a spectrum. [I wondered if there was a connection I had missed, the first time around – and which drove this spasmodic behaviour – that is, Miranda’s realization of a world beyond “this island we arriv’d”: her isolation perhaps deriving from Plato’s allegory of the cave. (But perhaps this was Shakespeare’s own implication; not Doran’s exaggerated inference?)]

Daniel Easton (Love for Love again), as Ferdinand, was a little too gauche for my liking – but effective, nonetheless. Tom Turner (yet another Love for Love refugee), as Sebastian, was also not allowed to shine, as he did in the earlier production. Joseph Mydell, though, as Gonzalo – a Polonius with a big heart – was terrific; and his concerns felt truly genuine. (I know this sounds cruel: but very few of the speaking cast made much of an impact in the way that usually provokes me to run through the whole list, devoting a whole paragraph to each….)

Joe Dixon’s Caliban, however, continually broke my heart: although (as I said in my first review) his portrayal worried me. I have always believed that Caliban is (for want of a better word) a savage creation – meaning both untamed and uncivilized (as natural as the island he was born of/on) as well as ferocious and furious – rather than the “creature who’s a bit slow on the uptake” portrayed here (however sympathetic I felt). In some ways, despite his obvious love of beautiful things (“Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not”), he is, as a monster (perhaps even the alter ego of his conqueror), as brutish and as violent as Prospero’s enslaving of him. Although we should therefore feel pity for this tragic figure, I also believe we should be more than a little “afeard” of him.

Here, the balance is overweighted to the former (his ‘otherness’ inciting mockery and advantage-taking – he is not even tragicomic; just comic…): yet another example of the removal of subtlety, of shade, of doubt. (For all the colour we are frequently bathed in: the depictions of persona and plot seem awfully black-and-white.)

One thing – just a tiny thing, really – seems a bit odd, given the liberties taken with the setting and approach. That is, having the actors use the Elizabethan pronunciation “Millen” instead of the more recognizable “Milan”. Authenticity doesn’t seem to be an important consideration here, so why say Millen when you mean Milan?”

– Suzanne and Greg Angeo: A Thrilling Tempest Comes To Forest Meadows

If I gave stars – which I don’t – like commercial reviewers; and, if I hadn’t initially ‘seen’ the production from the wrong seat – unlike commercial reviewers – then this second viewing might have merited a solid three. But, lying “Full fathom five”, drowned in the disappointment of my first experience – yet unable to “suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange” – I am finding it difficult to reach any new judgments or conclusions. So I will simply let it be; and let you form your own….

Postscript: The jade he doth protest too much, methinks…

Normally (whatever that means), I would not have accepted what could easily have been seen, by some, as a bribe – i.e. my “superseat”, as “a guest of the RSC”; rather than a simple refund – and I did think long and hard about my decision.

In the end – satisfied that the whole (for want of another better word) ‘compensation’ process was transparent, and would be resolved with a complete absence of precondition (because both sides of the equation wanted and needed it to be) – I concluded that my acceptance was in no way a compromise (one of my least favourite critters). On top of which, I made it very clear to my contacts at the RSC – who made absolutely zero effort to persuade me otherwise – that my original review would stand; and my opinions and concerns expressed there not changed one iota – unless for good, theatrical, experiential reasons. (Regular readers of this blog will have expected nothing less of me, I presume. Although I do hope that you will not think my continued negativity – albeit now salved with the occasional application of approbation – anything other than sincere; and provoked by my usual frankness, rather than a misguided exigence of contrived criticism.)

Needless to say – enthusiastic theatre-goer that I am – I also did not want to miss out on any opportunity of witnessing – and communicating (reviewing, and thus recording) – what has been billed (accurately or not) as “an unforgettable theatrical experience”: especially one that – good or bad – may well go on to influence other productions that I see at the RSC and elsewhere. (This admittedly has a tinge of self-interest. But I certainly didn’t want the play to be “unforgettable” for all the wrong reasons; and without the benefit of any doubt.)

Lastly: I had failed to make it to a preview, the week before (one of many tickets booked many, many months ago, that have recently ended up unused, due to a decline in my health) – a performance where I would have had a great vantage point, just off-centre, in the Circle (pretty much directly above where I sat last night). So, offered that unexpected privilege (a concession I trust I have ‘earned’ through honesty and hard graft) of salvaging what I thought was irretrievable – of viewing this production as GD intended – I was going to grab that seat with both buttocks! (And with a clear conscience – but a fervent heart.)

Gratitude and appreciation must therefore be heaped on the Box Office staff who made this all possible; who dealt with the fallout from my original review; and who were friendly, genuine and open in their communication with me. They not only handled my complaints with patience, great thoughtfulness and sensitivity – especially with regards to my needs as a disabled audience member – but have clearly taken my concerns on board; and managed them to my satisfaction.

In a way, I think I owed it to them – as much as the RSC did to me – to see the production again, and give it a second chance: as a way of demonstrating my thanks and reciprocal trust: knowing that the additional negative remarks I have made will be comprehended as intended – and then, where/if practicable, dealt with.

If we do not tell such caring customer-facing staff when things go wrong for us, how will they know to (try and) sort them? (Any sympathy, or even empathy, they may have – however sincere – is obviously constrained by the requirements of corporate loyalty.) And if enough of us make them aware, then gradually – hopefully – perhaps the organization itself will begin to develop the same ethos as those helpful, thoughtful, attentive individuals: improving the experience for everyone. I have my doubts. But I also always try to give the benefit of them….

Play’d some tricks of desperation…

Mark Quartley (Ariel); Simon Russell Beale (Prospero) – photo by Topher McGrillis © RSC

If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.

How many readers of this blog, I wonder, remember the landmark computer game Myst – or even played it (if “play” is the right verb for something so fascinating and disconcerting…)? “Initially released on the Macintosh platform on September 24, 1993”, and inspired by Jules Verne’s novel The Mysterious Island (perhaps itself borrowing a little from Shakespeare), Myst “was the best-selling PC game until The Sims exceeded its sales in 2002.” Despite its (now) almost-antediluvian technology, the story was extraordinarily immersive, and the (few) characters extremely believable. It therefore had a strong – but strange – influence on the gaming industry (as well as those who explored its eponymous island); and now – when all branches of arts and technology appear to be cross-fertilizing at a rate of knots – seems to be having a similar (if indirect) effect on dramaturgy.

I only ask, because, last night, I found myself overlooking an island not dissimilar, in theory: with a corresponding lack of death; and a comparable library filled with powerful books. However, despite the supposedly cutting-edge technology used to bring it to life, this isle “full of noises” failed to convince, to draw me in: firstly, because that technology seeks to wow, rather than intrigue; and because – rather than stay in the background, to aid plot and character development – when it is used, it overwhelms. We are then almost told how we must think – “Be gobsmacked!” – whereas Myst succeeded primarily because it forced you to think for yourself: there was no single route through its mystery; no single solution.

Despite the pizzazz, Prospero’s island home feels one-dimensional – the wizardry of the RSC’s latest production of The Tempest (about as “cutting edge” as a rusty butter-knife) shrouds, distracts and obfuscates, rather than enables, excites and enlightens: there is a lack of transparency, of subtlety, of doubt, of shade. (Does director Greg Doran honestly believe modern audiences are incapable of suspending disbelief – and that he must attempt to do it for them?) You open the pages of the colouring book to find them already completed: rough, broken pencil-strokes escaping willy-nilly beyond the printed lines.

Well, I must presume you do (mainly referencing the above photo: which came as something of a shock…): as – secondly (and principally) – from where I sat, all I could discern were the bright blinking Cyclops eyes of an army of projectors firing simultaneously into life from all quarters of the theatre, announcing that some privileged(?) members of the audience were about to have some blurry images projected onto various randomly-appearing diaphonous screens the rest of us could not see more than a small fraction of; or, therefore, understand. That the machines responsible for the supposed ‘magic’ were so prominent; that I could see clearly into the wings; that it was all so clunky and badly thought-out from an audience perspective… provoked only one sincere emotion in me: anger (as you can no doubt tell from this attempt at a review). This is not the holodeck I was looking for – and had been promised.

¶

My seat was not marked (on the revised seating plan [pdf] as one with a “Restricted View”. In fact, it was price-band B (normally around £40 – and priced at £55 for the equivalent captioned performance…): on the second row of the circle, stage left. Neither is this the first time such a problem has occurred. Members of my family were sat in similar seats, in the stalls, for Othello, but could not, from there, see much of the action. After my partner kicked up a telephonic fuss (a route unavailable to me, with my duff hearing), we received a refund; and had the seats marked as ‘unsuitable’ on my customer account. Why they were not marked as such for everyone, I do not know.

Unfortunately, my captioned seat, later in the run, is in roughly the same place… – which means that I will be able to see the text clearly (until the dreaded “various randomly-appearing diaphonous screens” are lowered… – which then poses an interesting discriminatory conundrum…) – but not the action.

As I wrote to a friend (edited for sense and language), after discovering that there are others in the same boat (ahem):

This is what happens, of course, when you have tech rehearsals directed from the best seats…. Any director with an ounce of common-sense – rather than an apparent god complex – would wander around every level of the theatre, confirming sightlines, whilst the set is built (like a good conductor moves around a venue – even one he knows well – checking acoustics); and then use the previews to adjust prices (and, if necessary, issue refunds or credits). Such honesty and openness – as well as an admission that the set designer, technicians and director ‘got it wrong’, and didn’t consider the needs of the punters (just their cash) – is anathema to much of the current management, though. (I bet you the press tickets were all dead centre…!)

     The RSC’s attention to its customers seems increasingly risible and tokenistic (part of, I believe, the miasma of entitlement that infects those in power in Stratford…) – it only hears and sees (and publicizes) what it wants and needs to. After all, like the Birthplace Trust, it ‘owns’ Will – and has the added benefit of royal patronage. (I may be the only socialist in the village: but come the revolution, etc..)

¶

So, for nearly three – extremely long and tedious – hours, I sat there repeatedly asking “What special effects?” As far as I could see and tell, they either weren’t very special, or weren’t very effective. And I actually wondered, towards the end, if there had been a mammoth technical malfunction that I was unaware of: and the cast had, as a result, fallen back on some Luddite Plan B. What is the point of hyping up the technology when it is used so randomly, and then only confuses? All the hype about Ariel’s performance-captured avatar: when it appeared – as far as I could tell – only two or three times, for a matter of seconds? Lucy Ellinson’s Puck was infinitely more spellbinding. And all she required was her own personal genius, and a hat.

And we’ve had the coloured glass floor before: but, of course, that too is not visible to many (meaning nearly everyone in the Stalls). So – unless your ticket is centred in the Circle (and you’d paid up to £70 for a “Premium Seat”) – you’re screwed. The poor lady next to me kept straining forward to see what we were missing. But, of course, it was as futile as peering over the top of the television set, trying to see what Paul Daniels had in his top hat. (Now, that was magic!)

As I texted my partner at the interval: “I can’t remember ever being bored in the theatre before.” And then, I nearly went home. But I remembered that the technical coup de grâce was supposed to be the wedding masque – the initial inspiration for this presumptuous peacock project. So I gave it the benefit of the doubt; got out of my car again; and returned to my seat. (Thank goodness us cripples only have to pay £16 for the privilege.) Honestly, apart from a few glowing feathers and trims – ultraviolet light, I guess – and some clunkily-animated, faux-Hockney scribblings (which I could just about see the last few inches of – if I leaned forward: further worsening what little view those behind me had…) – it didn’t seem any different to what went before or after it. (Oh, apart from some faux-Mozart Queen of the Night warblings – which made a change from the faux‑Enya dreariness, I suppose: although that had, at least, captured my mood perfectly.)

¶

The opening storm scene should have been warning enough. Having tried every hearing-aid setting I could, and settling on the mixed-live-and-loop programme as the best of a bad bunch, I couldn’t hear a word over the crashing and banging: the sound of the effects perfectly overwriting the frequencies of speech. However, I was truly moved in the scene which followed. Just Prospero (Simon Russell Beale) and Miranda (Jenny Rainsford) on stage. No fiddly stuff. No gizmos. Just two human-beings breaking our hearts. Great, I thought, at least the scenes without technology will be worth my while.

But the wrecked nobles were superglued to the spot (think 1960s opera); and the buffoonery between Trinculo (Simon Trinder) and Stephano (the usually-outstanding Tony Jayawardena) were over-played. And, here we go again, mocking the afflicted, rendering Caliban – the only role I had any empathy (or even sympathy) with – not an object of pity or scorn, or even of hatred (for his past treatment of Miranda), but as a creature who’s a bit slow on the uptake, and is there – as far as I could see… – to be mocked for his disabilities. (Post-truth marketing mixed with post-Brexit attitudes towards ‘otherness’…? Lovely – at least for the entitled Tory voters of South Warwickshire. But not for me. Bloody hell, it felt uncomfortable.)

¶

By the way, before anyone accuses me of being an old fuddy-duddy: firstly, I used to write for the technology pages of the Guardian – he said, establishing his credentials – and, secondly, I don’t object to technology in the theatre one bit. After all, it has made lighting easier, and help it grow into a major component of story-telling; as well as given those of us who require such things captions and hearing loops – although these are still somewhat clunky, from a user perspective. I just believe that utilizing gizmos for their own sake – to the extent that the plot serves them, rather than vice versa – is a trap-ridden cul-de-sac: one where people come to wonder, but not to engage; to gawp, but not to think; to be told, not to enquire. if this is the future of theatre – which I strongly doubt: it simply feels like (especially Shakespearean) theatre experimenting (at the audience’s cost); trying to attract more than its traditional core demographic; whilst wondering how to survive in a world of dying arts education, increasingly-stretched Arts Council grants… – then count me out. (If it is an experiment, how I pray that those who are responsible are – or soon become – aware that it has failed.)

Of course I can see the parallels between Prospero’s magic and Doran’s use of computers – as well as the play’s obvious meta‑references – but I think his justification for the use of so much top-heavy, sporadic, theatrical illusion is dubious, to say the least. Not all of the play is that (anticlimactic) masque. Nor can I find – apart from Doran wanting to see “what would happen if the very latest technology could be applied to Shakespeare’s play today” – a valid artistic reason for doing this. Either the plot has been lost (which it nearly is, burdened as it is with so much active and passive distraction); or this is simply boys (and girls) playing with the newest toys. It almost feels as if the text is secondary to – or even an excuse for – the abilities and facilities that Intel and Imaginarium Studios could provide. (The word used throughout the programme was “theatrical”: but this was mostly of the “Exaggerated and excessively dramatic” variety, rather than simply “Relating to acting, actors, or the theatre”.)

Perhaps Sycorax is still in charge, after all – and what we see is a “Hag-seed” even more twisted than “poor monster” Caliban…? Or Ariel hasn’t been quite as obedient as Prospero believes…!

¶

To discuss the acting in any detail seems pointless. It felt as if the actors were there as props; and to fill the longueurs between ‘effects’. Simon Russell Beale frequently looked as bored as I was; and felt trapped – in more ways than the obvious… – unable to give his masterful all and zoom off into the stratospheric levels of his talent – because of the wizardry (of other people’s making) walling him in. Perhaps he is recognizant of the fact that he has been brought in because of his rightly-earned fame; and perhaps also to lure those for whom the technology is not that great an attraction.

I always believed that The Tempest had mystery at its heart. The only mystery I experienced last night, though, was why there was so much cheering at the end (although I noticed the actors, about to return for a repeat ovation, stopping in their tracks, as the applause suddenly faded; and then promptly reversing…). Truly, our revels now are ended.

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go…

Initially lured by the phenomenon that is Michael Pennington, simply being King Lear, I now know that I will be returning to the marvel that is Northampton’s Royal & Derngate many times in the future – purely because of its very own distinct fascination and delight. In some ways similar to the RSC – two auditoriums (but with the added advantage of an 88-seat cinema; as well as the TOP-like Underground spaces) linked by cunning foyer architecture and captivating facilities – there are some major differences (principally derived from my local’s ‘national’ – if not international – status and greater heft) that I feel the RSC could learn from (especially the ‘vibe’ that comes from being in a good regional arts space – itself part of the town’s burgeoning Cultural Quarter).

Returning to Stratford-upon-Avon just over five years ago, when we had decided to make our home here, we were drawn into The Courtyard Theatre (as it was then) not just by our last-minute tickets for King Lear – another unforgettable production: starring Greg Hicks, Kathryn Hunter and Tunji Kasim – but also by the friendly atmosphere of its café, and its substantial heaps of freshly-cooked food. In fact, we ate there most days.

Although now resurrected as The Other Place: bringing back, for me, happy memories of its previous ‘tin hut’ existence… – and it is, admittedly, early days for the refreshed venue… – I feel it currently lacks both the length and breadth of menu, and natural, unforced informality, that made the previous almost-greasy-spoon (a complimentary tag) so welcoming. (And where you could easily find yourself comfortably sat next to the luminaries you were about to see on stage.)

At the R&D, The Wicked Way Café comes so much closer to this ideal of a relaxed and relaxing theatrical eatery – especially with its range of extremely-good-value, quirkily-named, scrumptious Pieminister Pies! – as it combines the best casual bits of the Riverside Café, Rooftop Restaurant and new Susie’s café bar (which, despite my grumbles, has great service, and is a splendid place to sit for a couple of hours, watching the world go by, whilst pretending to author blog posts, fuelled by some of the best coffee and cake in town). Crucially, the R&D also has its own equivalent of Stratford’s famous Dirty Duck – Bar Hygge! (No theatre or concert hall is complete without such a place of respite!)

Michael Pennington (King Lear), centre; and company – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Returning, therefore, yesterday evening, to see the all-important captioned performance of King Lear (“lured”, this time, by every single member of the company (as well as the prospect of a toothsome dinner…)) – knowing, as always, that there would be elements which had evolved since the preview we saw; as well as moments of magic that I had not entirely absorbed… – I decided that I should review the R&D’s access provision as well as the play itself (especially as I find myself relying increasingly on such amenities).

But I nearly fell at the first hurdle… – the theatre’s website indicated that I could not book a table in the café without the use of a telephone! (As much use to me as a fashion magazine; or a margarine cafetière!) However, the @RoyalDerngate Twitter bods could not have been more obliging: responding to my initial query with due thought and attention – even though it was quite late on Monday evening….

So it was that I woke up, yesterday morning, to find that they had gone out of their way to reserve one for me; and asking “if we can help with anything else”; as well as wishing me “a wonderful evening”! [This, to me, demonstrates two things: firstly, that access policies are only useful if they are implemented by knowledgeable and kind-hearted employees; and, secondly, that the tightly-knit team at Royal & Derngate – as you will also see in a couple of paragraphs’ reading… – are compassionate angels devoted to customer care beyond the remit of any rules or regulations! (Thank you.)] Asking for the table booked in the name of “The Bard of Tysoe” was therefore only a tad inglorious!

By the way, I hope that this proves that the R&D is not in any way ‘backward’ with regards to technology: I just do not think my request (and requirement) – and the resulting facility – to book things online, or by email, is as common as it should be (yet). For instance, the venue has its own iOS app (something, again, that the RSC should take onboard) – which, although, essentially, a neatly-packaged mobile version of its comprehensive website, was obviously designed effectively to fulfil both purposes. As it stashes your user details, as well as your order history (so you can check where you sat, previously), it is an incredibly handy tool for planning and booking a visit.

Michael Pennington (King Lear) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

This impressive customer service and friendliness extends in other directions, too. I fully appreciate the RSC Press Office’s initial reluctance to deal – on an equal footing with the mainstream media, anyway – with the exploding plethora of theatrical bloggers (like myself); but the R&D marketing team (especially Amanda Howson, Press Manager, and Box Office Manager, Erica Mynard) were almost tripping over themselves to supply information and photographs for my first review; and their swift replies to emails and tweets was genuinely refreshing. [This is not to besmirch the RSC – I simply sense a little reluctance from them (some of which may be caused by that titanic “heft”…). Now I have finally made it past first base, for instance, they are happy to email me photographs – on request. And yet I feel am still on probation: as I do not quite receive the privilege of, say, Michael Billington: who will have complete, direct access to the RSC’s comprehensive image database and press archive, etc..]

Anyway… back to my deaf and disabled assessment. Physical access is just as easy as at the RSC, despite the structural complexity of the site. There are many lifts and gently-sloping walkways (although some of these also feature short runs of steps: so look before you limp…). Entry to the building is level; and there are plenty of allocated (free) parking spaces for Blue Badge holders in the Albion Place surface car park, adjacent to the main entrance. (More information on all this can be found here.) The only place I really struggled – with my habitual wobble and walking stick – was the gentle climb up through the stalls, after the performance. But this is more to do with my own infirmity; and the deleterious effect of being seated, entranced, for prolonged periods.

Although I have not made use of it – as I have struggled with such systems in the past, and therefore much prefer to rely on induction loops (because of their direct interaction with my hearing aids and Streamer) – the venue provides a “Sennheiser Infra-red Enhanced Hearing System”: which is best accessed from certain seats, because of its directionality. I accept that, as my hearing continues to fade, I may well have to resort to this at some point – although I found the acoustics at the front of the stalls to be extremely clear.

Here, the RSC – with its loop(s) passing under every single seat – wins hands-down (ears up?!) for me; although I do understand that such high-granularity systems (where every punter receives an identical top-notch signal, wherever they sit) are incredibly expensive to design and install.

In November 2015 Royal & Derngate achieved Level 3 in the Space to Change campaign. This campaign enabled the general public to suggest the installation of much-needed facilities within various organisations.

Having booked online, I have not had to deal with the box office staff directly – but I noticed the requisite loop sign on the counter (as well as at the various “bars situated throughout the building”); and it is clear that they take their duties in this direction extremely seriously. (They also have a dedicated Text Relay number, and a “new mobile service” – although I am not quite clear how this latter resource functions.)

Apart from not being able to book my table as I would have wished, you will be pleased to learn that I had no problems, in person, ordering my ‘green goddess’ open top pie with ‘groovy gravy’ and ‘skin on fries’: as those serving me had obviously noticed the habitual international deaf symbol badge I wear – or had been forewarned! (A nice touch with your pre-theatre meal is being able to order a programme to be brought to your table – a great way to pass the time, if you are on your own.)

[As an aside… the RSC carefully stores details of its patrons’ disabilities and related requirements in their box office database (although I am such a ‘frequent flyer’ that many of the staff recognize me; and know that they may have to gently raise their voices, or face me so I can attempt to lip-read). There is therefore always an implicit recognition and understanding of where I need to sit to view any captions; and unforced acceptance of my preference for left-hand end seats, because of my neurological deficits. The system also keeps tabs on which sections – even which rows – of both theatres ‘work’ best for me. Not only that, but I am consistently asked (confidentially) on building tours, etc. about my ability to manage steps; how the guide or presenter can aid my understanding – usually by ensuring I am sat next to them; although they also seem willing to wear the tiny microphone I carry with me (when I actually remember) that interfaces with my hearing aids – and they are extremely generous with their assistance at all times; and with permanent, authentic smiles! To cap it all, the RSC’s Access tickets – no matter where you sit – are remarkable value at just £16: a price which a regional venue like the R&D cannot possibly match. (This is not a complaint; merely a fact of life. Small theatres simply do not receive the funding, or huge numbers of visitors, of such ‘national’ institutions as the RSC.)]

The Royal & Derngate (and all its constituent parts) is therefore a great facility – disabled, or not… – although, for me, it is, sadly, not that easy a place to get to. It is, however, definitely worth the tribulation – in this case, you could say, arriving (and staying) is a much better thing than travelling painfully…. [My review of the actual performance – with superb captions… – will follow a little later…]

Not How it was Supposed to be…

The terror of Jeremy Hunt’s Monday morning meetings to review trusts’ debts and waiting lists forces managers to put satisfying the health secretary above patients.

– Polly Toynbee: For a clear view of the NHS, look past the politics and promises of a cure

Generally, I love the NHS, I really do. Specifically, I love the fact that it exists; I love its founding principles; I love the many saints that work there, pushing the limits of responsibility; I love what it can achieve, as an organization, when it works well. However – and you could see this coming, couldn’t you…? – I do not love how it frequently functions in the real world; in my real world; how so often it has let me and my family down – whether through its lack of realistic funding; its commoditization of patients (turning us all into market-oriented ‘customers’ or ‘consumers of services’); or simply the arrogance of those in command.

Seven years ago, my partner had a life-saving operation – which, later, the kindly surgeon told us, he believed she had only a small chance of surviving – because A&E had failed either to take her complaint of pain and illness seriously; or were just too rushed to bother; and had sent her home. I am fortunate – and selfish enough to appreciate it (despite the mind-body conundrum stemming from my inherent, lifelong socialism (and lengthy Labour membership)) – that, although I no longer work, because of my disability, my employer still provides me with private medical care: so the surgery was carried out, yes, privately. Otherwise, she simply would not be here. Obvious, urgent symptoms were ignored, disregarded, or just not noticed by those at the NHS hospital.

Similarly, after each of the three serious road traffic collisions that caused my disability, my attendance at hospital – and, after a long waiting period (“it’s only whiplash”) – was addressed with proffered, low-dose painkillers. Again, each time, I was sent home. After the last incident, my then GP – having, because of my obvious difficulties (and agony), sent me for immediate CT and MRI scans: which revealed serious damage to my cervical spine – ranted at the hospital involved: but with little effect. Again, it was private medicine – and a long series of complex, expensive surgeries – that saved me. At best, I would not now be able to walk (although it’s still an intense struggle). At worst, I would have been paralysed from the neck down.

¶

It is yet another example of the NHS’s ongoing failure to provide deaf patients with information or dignity during their treatment while also denying them the chance to express their wishes and feelings….

     “He’s an intelligent man but in there they don’t value his intelligence at all.” They added.

     “He has his rights trampled on, he can’t express himself, he doesn’t know what’s happening and he’s left behind a curtain. Even if some nurses just learned the basics of how to communicate with deaf people that would make a huge difference but it just feels like it’s too much to ask.”

– Andy Palmer: The story of a Deaf man in hospital at Christmas showed me how the NHS continues to fail deaf patients

I have always, though, tried to give the NHS the benefit of the doubt; and – apart from the time I lived in north London – have often been rewarded with, at least, caring, thoughtful GPs (especially the rural ones: where care was more personal; more considered). Referrals to local hospitals, however – maybe because my condition is extremely complicated; and involves more than one specialism (a failing of the NHS itself, I believe – not everyone’s sickness slots easily into one category…) – have nearly always left me disappointed; physically worse off; or both. Much of my treatment – which basically consists of me coping with whatever my body decides is going to fail next – has stemmed from thorough research on my part being reinforced by my GP (and none better than my current one: who is as patient (sorry) an exemplar of the intelligent, knowledgeable, honest, kind-hearted, country doctor as one could ever hope for).

However, last year, the surgery where she works changed hands: it has new partners in charge; and seems to be morphing into the very (uncaring) model of an urban practice – with a real, demonstrable, lack of understanding of the skewed needs of the skewed demographic of its aging, rural population. For instance, being extremely hard of hearing (as are approximately one-in-six in the UK), I have always communicated with the practice through email (although, initially, I had to stress the making of “reasonable adjustments”, etc. to achieve this). That way, I can choose and format my words carefully, and attach relevant documentation.

Having an email address (especially for deaf patients) – according to Action on Hearing: citing their advice on Medeconomics – is also best practice. So, having read that article, I contacted my GP (as you will soon learn why, via Twitter):

Me Do you have an email address for patients like me? It appears to have vanished from your website!

Surgery we prefer patients to use the secure patient access app

Me When I have used this in the past, it has been hit & miss; also not useful for detail or longer messages. Email is simpler.

Me Just discovered a message sent in Jan 2015 that has no reply. Surely communication method should be the *patient’s* pref?

Surgery You can copy and paste your enquiry that you would have sent via email on to web version of the patient access app

Me I’m sorry: but that’s really poor. Did you actually read the original article? I don’t think you actually understand just what barriers are in place for those of us who cannot use the phone. I am deaf and disabled: and you are making life even more difficult: when I thought you were there to help/listen. Not happy; and seriously thinking of changing GP.

Surgery I gave simply advise to send electronic communication via the secure patient access app that is the same as typing an email

Me Is the word “care” actually in your vocabulary? This is *not* the way to talk to your patients.

In other words (although I accept that I – justifiably – lost my rag…), I am now instructed to communicate in an extremely limiting, difficult manner: which only allows me 450 characters; no formatting; almost no punctuation (“The only characters allowed apart from numbers or letters are full stop, comma and apostrophe”); no attachments; and is governed by a huge set of ‘Message Guidelines’ – including a prohibition of “sending medical information about your condition or treatment”. It is therefore cumbersome in the extreme. And not fit for purpose. Indeed, it has obviously been established simply to be convenient to the receiver – i.e. the practice – not the patient. (With only ten-minute appointments, it is hard to see how the patient’s needs are ever a driver for good customer care, though.) How am I – as someone who cannot use the telephone; and cannot always travel (I have probably cancelled more appointments than I have attended – due to ‘ill-health’); and who often is at my ‘best’ (my most conscious) during the night – therefore supposed to communicate; ask (scream, sometimes) for help; discuss my treatment? (In emergencies, my partner can telephone for me – but she does have to go out to work, you know.)

It is bad enough when commercial enterprises struggle to understand the needs of the deaf and disabled (therefore, of course, contributing to that disability) – but I find it utterly insulting that a public body meant to support my health deliberately erects health-related barriers in my way. Are my medical needs so complex that the practice cannot – or do not want to – help me? Or are they just so insolent that they – and by this, I really mean the partners who have instituted these new self-defeating decrees – believe they can dictate to a patient how they must comply with regards to their own (in my case, bloody awful) life?

¶

In the entrance of the headquarters of the University Hospitals of North Midlands NHS trust in Stoke-on-Trent is a small plaque. “A patient,” it discreetly says, “is not an interruption to our work, [but] the purpose of it. They are not an outsider in our hospital, they are a part of it. We are not doing them a favour by serving them, they are doing us a favour by giving us an opportunity to do so.”

– The Guardian: A portrait of the National Health Service: ‘It’s almost like a religion’

Currently, The Guardian is running an admirable four-week series, This is the NHS: stressing its advantages; its benefits; its successes – contrasting these with the present Government’s atrocious attitude to funding (completely in line, of course, with its atrocious attitude to anyone who is not stinking rich, like its own members). But where – asked one reader – are the “stories about misdiagnosis and poor treatment”?

Admittedly, both my parents owe their sight – and their ripe old age – to certain aspects of the NHS: but even these “successes” have been riddled with mistakes; with ignorance and arrogance:

“Your dad’s old: he’s therefore bound to be a bit forgetful.”

     “No, he’s had a stroke; and, before it, his mind was as sharp as a tack; he completes the crossword and sudoku every day; used to teach mathematics to A level; and, physically – well, apart from the arthritis that comes from a lifetime of cricket and football – is fitter than I am: by a long way….”

      I had to have a major, extremely public, shouting match – way beyond my normal, reclusive levels of embarrassment – to get him treated (both senses) seriously. He is now fine – probably because of his innate strength; and a supportive GP.

Although my favourite snafu has to be waking up on the operating table, when I was eighteen, about to have my appendix removed – because I had an obvious-to-everyone-but-the-registrar kidney stone. Yup. (Admittedly, having been very ill when I was born – having to spend a long time in hospital, having then developed pneumonia, with my mum always at my side – I would not have been in that operating theatre without amazing post-natal treatment. But that was decades ago: when there were enough doctors and nurses to be able to offer such prolonged intensive care.)

¶

A last thing that peeves me about the NHS is how we have been taught to treat it as a charity – when it is supposed to be a fully-funded public institution. There are volunteers – which I would understand were it the National Trust – and we are also supposed to be delighted to donate to campaigns such as the Stratford Hospital Cancer and Eye Appeal. As much as I love the Orchestra of the Swan, I really do not understand why they felt it necessary to record a CD (however wonderful) in aid of this – when, to me, such facilities should be part of the ‘core offer’ paid for by the Government.

The NHS was great – and can be again. Of that I am certain. However, until we stop believing the Westminster-issued propaganda that sells it to us as a luxury (similarly, disability and sickness benefits – don’t get me started…), such greatness will not be achieved (again).

I am lucky enough to have seen in great detail (although what took me there was the exact opposite of “luck”) how efficiently private medicine functions – much of which is obviously down to the exorbitant amounts of money involved. But private medicine also delivers from an ethos of individual healthcare and trust that is beginning to fade from some areas of the NHS (even, though, frequently, there is an overlap of personnel); and from a lack of management interference. Surely there are lessons to be learned…?

What a dream I had last night…

Emma Cunniffe (Anne) and Natascha McElhone (Sarah Churchill) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

I have written before – possibly(!) more than once – how a play only (usually) really comes to life when it is staged. And yet – because this was another captioned performance at the RSC – as is now my habit, I studied the text for Helen Edmundson’s Queen Anne in advance: so that, with my truant ears, I would not miss anything. (As hard as I try, keeping one eye constantly on the action, and one on the surtitles, can leave me gledging like Marty Feldman, with a poor head (and poorer neck); or means that I miss a vital word or crucial move.)

What readily became apparent is that this is an experienced and award-winning playwright at the very top of her game: crafting words that are intelligent, subtle and addictive – with canny characterization and mesmerizing momentum inked into (and woven between) every single line. I cannot remember a time – even with the harrowing Hecuba or awe-inspiring Oppenheimer – where I have pored over the pages of a script so eagerly: greedily devouring the clarity, the twists, the language, the turns, the subtleties, the leitmotivs, the emotions, the excitement, the interweaving arcs of power… as the drama continues to build: each and every word contributing a small, sparkling, essential grain to a soaring, incandescent pinnacle of theatre. In just one enthralled sitting, I discovered stagecraft and authorship of the highest quality. No wonder, last night, I entered the addictive Swan Theatre with even more excitement than usual (and, although this is near the end of a very successful run – so successful that it is sold out until it finishes on 23 January 2016 – convinced – fortunately – that just one sitting would (have to) be enough for the experience to remain with me for a very long time). The night before, I did not sleep.

¶

This production – whose programme is a work of art (as are the costumes) – features many of the same actors as the marvellous, side-splitting Love for Love; and yet, despite the synchronism of the two plays – Queen Anne herself attending the former on her thirty-second birthday – there could not be more of a contrast in the ribaldry of Congreve (here echoed in the decidedly bawdy Inns of Court scenes) and the artful nuance of Edmundson. These two masterpieces certainly fulfil the RSC’s professed aim, with new work, to create “an ever more urgent sense of enquiry into the classics [by] engaging with living writers and other contemporary theatre makers”. “Radical mischief” indeed!

¶

However, cometh the night… I left the Swan with my mind filled only with questions. And could only dredge up a few (and then only partial) answers.

Such as… Do the captions get in the way? I don’t honestly think so. My seating position meant that most of the action actually took place directly beneath them: enabling me to keep everything in eyeshot. And, they haven’t formed any sort of stumbling-block between the acting and me being captivated, in previous productions. Was the script simply so perfect that it could not actually be improved by enacting it? This, I do not know the answer to – although I suspect the answer is “no, not really”. Were the company just plain tired – and going through the motions – after an arduous season (commencing last October): which is now approaching its end? (This is my gut reaction, I suppose.) Or are they simply more attuned to the riotous Congreve than the niceties of Edmundson? Maybe. Those “bawdy Inns of Court scenes” certainly seemed to have more panache, carry more weight, be more appealing, be discharged more wholeheartedly… than the ‘serious stuff’. Or was it just ‘one of those nights’ when everything is just so teensily-weensily ‘out of phase’ – timing sometimes really can be everything… – not quite on the ball – that the whole thing just does not hang together; doesn’t flow; doesn’t have the energy of those occasions when the show has mysteriously been at its best; when the celestial spheres have aligned; and everything has just ‘worked’…? Is this related to the peak of the long run having now been climbed; and the fact that we’re rapidly descending the other side…?

Don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy it. I just didn’t – which is a rare thing indeed – engage with proceedings. None of my compulsory copious weeping (either from sadness or high spirits). And even those laughs that did emerge – as with the majority of the audience’s – felt and sounded half-hearted. (In fact, there were a couple of moments when the cast appeared to expect a huge guffaw that never materialized. Which must be heartbreaking for them…. (Sorry.))

Normally, a second sitting would resolve many of these debates (coming down on one side or t’other); provide me with more concrete answers. But, unless I am lucky enough to nab a return ticket – or three – in the final week, this looks highly unlikely; and, of course, I am probably in a minority of people who routinely (want to) go and see a play more than once (or thrice).

¶

One of my biggest issues, I’m afraid, was with the casting. I found Natascha McElhone surprisingly two-dimensional – especially set against the sublime (I have no other word) Emma Cunniffe. Perhaps this was deliberate…? But at no point did I sense much depth in McElhone’s power-grasping Sarah Churchill; nor feel the attraction that both her husband and the queen supposedly had to her – there was no chemistry. However, Cunniffe’s Anne visibly grew in power, stature, emotion and authority in front of our eyes: emerging, butterfly-like and almost radiant, at her coronation, from her earlier subdued, impotent cocoon of self-doubt. Watching her wings dry and spread, and her face transform, in the spotlight of monarchy, was immensely affecting – a masterclass in playing the long-game. This was certainly her night.

Even those members of the company who had so truly excelled in Love for Love – which is why I asked if they were “just plain tired” – such as Carl Prekopp, here as an angry King William III, and, later, a not-very-bothered Daniel Defoe; Tom Turner, as Jonathan Swift; Robert Cavanah, as John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough… seemed only half-involved. Jonathan Broadbent, though, as the wily manipulator, Robert Harley, shone again (as did his wig (again)); and Richard Hope (who was not in the companion play), as the wise, conscientious Sydney Godolphin, really tugged at my soul (the nearest I came to shedding a tear) as his well-earned authority was snatched from him: “You splice me then indeed, and through the heart.” Beth Park, as Abigail Hill; and Hywel Morgan as Prince George of Denmark (or consistently thereabouts) – “…in some strange, official way, he’s only twelve. And yet he’s such a man…” – both also played their rôles with conviction and veracity.

The music fitted perfectly, as well – a little Nyman-like in its periodicity, perchance… – and was also beautifully performed: both the sublime and the ridiculous bits. And the lighting intelligently revealed – and concealed – hidden dimensions, and that quite wonderfully.

¶

I honestly don’t like leaving the theatre, or any performance of any sort, dry-eyed. It makes me feel uncomfortable: as if a barrier has somehow been erected, which has muffled communication between the creatives and me; or as if I have somehow missed the point. And yet the words on the page spoke directly to me; grabbed me by the lapels, and sucked the very breath from me. Why was their power so obscured, last night? It is, indeed, a veritable puzzlement. And I am unhappy that I cannot fathom the reason…. This has therefore not been a review that I have enjoyed writing. (And I thought I always gained some sort of pleasure from stringing words together….) Bugger.

Postscript

A big thank you to the technical crew for replacing the faulty caption box at the interval. Yet again, the RSC’s customer service was spot on: and those of us who rely on the surtitles are grateful to you for listening; taking our comments seriously; and resolving the issue immediately.

Triangulation points…

In the mid 1980s Dr Martin Barnes created the Triangle of Objectives. The triangle demonstrates that quality, cost and time are interrelated. Focussing or fixing one point of the triangle impacts the other two.

– stakeholdermap.com

I first came across the above ‘project management triangle’ or ‘triple constraint’ – sometimes also known as the ‘scope’ or ‘cost-quality tradeoff triangle’; and “one of the most well known and well respected mechanisms for signifying the interaction of the key attributes of a project” – when working for a software development company, over a quarter of a century ago: it being stressed, at the time, that “You can optimise for two at the expense of the third, but you can’t maximise all three at once”; or, as one colleague put it to me, a few years later (and a little more bluntly): “Time, cost or quality – which two do you want?”

I only raise this device, because, in a recent post – prompted by a problem with (actually a failure of) my hearing aids that was, at the time, (shall we say) dealt with less than satisfactorily by the NHS – I made a plea to those in power, those that (should) care for us: writing that…

We did not choose to be born or become deaf…. Do not treat us, therefore, as if we are the deserved lowest of the low. Instead, please offer us the hand we need… – your hand.

…and yet – call me an old cynic (which I am: on both counts) – to my amazement, my supplication was answered. Not at first, natch – although I did receive one of the better attempts at a response to my list of criticisms: even if, as with all such ‘standard flea letters’, it either deliberately or unintentionally ignored some of those most salient… – but then, the writer was the person at who I had singularly aimed my vehement reproof; and therefore very much on the back foot. But I was then – once spleen had been vented (albeit inaccurately and incompletely); and satisfaction was (sort of) seen to have been had… – referred to the care (and that is certainly the correct term) of someone who obviously gave a damn. And then some.

It would – as a qualified grump – be all too simple to infer that this apparently newly-enlightened customer service (not ‘patient care’: we are all “customers” now – even in an healthcare delivery environment) was an act; a performance simply to quell (or satisfy) my grumblings: motivated solely by my complaint (not that one should need to complain, to receive good service – especially as there is an associated risk of revenge…). But it was actually astoundingly obvious – and from the moment I entered this lady’s “care” (I won’t embarrass her by publishing her name…) – that here was someone who actually, continually, sincerely, and consistently, innately, was interested in my perspective, needs and wants; was bothered; gave so much more than a monkey’s. And had obviously made a career of combining her expertise with a deep desire to help. Someone who was not only interested in those “needs and wants”; but was willing to take the time (and the time-consuming steps) to deliver what I, as a consultant, would once have called a ‘quality outcome’ – no conditions attached.

By the way: you could, of course, moot that no element of cost was involved in such a transaction – but the scheduled forty-five minute appointment started a quarter-of-an-hour early; and then ran over by not quite an hour: and there is, of course, a financial outlay associated with the provision of both the ministration of compassionate co-operation (by way of salary, office use, etc.); as well as that of the replacement equipment required to solve the problems I had suffered and therefore raised.

¶

Never before had my hearing been so thoroughly deconstructed – and then rebuilt, tiny piece by tiny piece! And, therefore, never – or, at least, not since I was first issued with hearing ‘instruments’, over six years ago – has my digitally-reinforced soundscape been so clear, so strong… indeed, so bloody wonderful! Such amazing customer service, needless to say, should be the norm, though, not the exception. But, of course, the NHS has been stressed by successive governments into shrinking all components of that ‘tradeoff triangle’ – with not-so-surprising results (well, not to those with hearts and brains). Not that this “stress” should be an excuse for contracting compassion; attenuating attention. In some ways, these ‘qualities’ should be increased – to compensate for the shortening of appointment times; and the diminishing economic investment. They are the reason those who can afford such care, use private medicine; and those who can’t, migrate to ‘alternative’ healthcare: where attention and treatment is holistic and personalized; and time is taken to understand the individual.

I could, of course, go into a prolonged rant, now, about the creeping privatization of the NHS; the decimation (and beyond) of all public sector support of “the individual” – whether childcare; education; transport; or social care, etc.. But this is not (yet?) the time or the place. This is just to say a big thank you to the lovely, attentive, understanding, remarkable, adept audiologist who went several giant steps beyond the norm. And to whom I therefore owe a great deal – for the improvement she has made, not just to my hearing; but, consequently, all aspects of social interaction and enjoyment of the world around me.

Never ascribe to malice…

In my long, varied, and deep experience, I have discovered that there are mainly two reasons for incompetence in any professional arena: namely, stupidity and greed. And they are not mutually exclusive: as is proven by the multi-storey car park developed (seemingly in haste – both from its makeshift appearance and its stunning lack of fitness for purpose (see below)) for the new Stratford Hospital – itself designed, apparently, to look like an ill-fitting conglomeration of partly-opened kitchen cabinets. If the Government is as keen to both commoditize (and subcontract) healthcare and create workhouse-like factories for the poorly-paid – especially those in the public sector – as I believe: then such architecture (and I use the term extremely loosely for something that has obviously been created by computerized machines with oversized egos, and no concept of the friendliness of the curved surface) will be a perfect environment (if not epitaph) for their joint demise.

According to Collins: “If you describe someone as incompetent, you are criticizing them because they cannot do their job or a task properly.” And, in my case, they are dead on. Doing a “job or a task” successfully does not – however right-wing your ethos – simply mean raking in money, or bringing a project in on time and budget. To function well, any facility must surely revolve around its users and their needs. But as George Osborne proved so adroitly, yesterday, such idealism, such ideology, such idiocy, is to ignore the slimy, hand-staining lure of profit. In this modern world of corporate scrounging and £93bn handshakes, the needs of the few (giant corporations) outweigh the needs of the many (little people) – as my hero Mr Spock would obviously never have said.

¶

When the “phenomenon of our times” Owen Jones wrote, in his “phenomenal bestseller” The Establishment: And how they get away with it, that the “great carve-up of the NHS is a threat to the health and even the lives of patients”, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t thinking specifically about the bent-over-double pensioner who took around thirty minutes to exit the labyrinthine travesty that HUBER Car Park Systems – whose slogan, “HUBER guarantees long-term, efficient and profitable use”, says all you need to know about why they were hired – describe as “Project Stratford-upon-Avon”:

Huber has constructed a 250 bays public car park facility for the Warwick NHS Trust in Stratford-upon-Avon. The car park forms a first part of a wider development in Stratford hospital; the steel structure is timber cladded and is serviced by two staircases and two lifts. The project is the first to receive the bespoke HUBER LED fittings with advanced controllers which provide low operational costs without increasing the installation times and costs.

Nowhere can I find an explanation (or boast) of how their “system” (however unsystematic in practice) benefits its actual users: with its overly-complex, indecipherable, automated ticketing machines; its narrow lanes – meaning that cars (especially the archetypal Warwickshire behemoths) cannot pass each other without great difficulty; and that all the multitudinous sharp corners must be taken (slowly) only in the few magical moments when there are no oncoming vehicles. It’s as if they have turned best-practice on its head to squeeze in as little investment, capacity and practicality as possible. (That’s why only 2% of the spaces are Disabled bays, of course.) For a service that deals almost exclusively in humans (you know what I mean: those soft, squidgy moving objects…) who are damaged in some manner, it seems to me that HUBER (and those who hired them) have deliberately gone out of the way to engineer an increase in the number of casualties entering the hospital: injured in the inevitable physical clash of SUV bumpers (with each other, as well as with disoriented stragglers); or mentally weakened by the tortuous, unmanned (ta-da: no fallacious living wages to supply!) payment gadgetry.

Were it not for the burly, hard-hatted, high-viz-jacketed saint who just happened to be passing by, I fear that the old gentleman, in obvious pain, and confused beyond belief (but ignored by those many hurrying folks besuited and lanyarded with NHS ribbons and tags), would still now be leaning on his stick, and the boot of his car, breathless: wondering both how he was going to shuffle across the incessant traffic entering, leaving, and almost-colliding; and then operate the Terminator-redux towering over his tiny, distorted frame. I admit that I was no help, either: as I too was befuddled and angered by the difficulties we were both having merely in attending for supposed healthcare.

¶

According to the Hospital’s own website:

There are exciting plans to build a new state of the art hospital in the centre of Stratford. The first phase will provide first class Cancer [sic] and eye services for local residents of Stratford and surrounding districts. Without these services near to home, patients previously had to travel long, tiring distances to other facilities which are further afield to receive treatment. In some cases cancer patients decided to go without their treatment as they were unable to travel long distances every day, when they may already be feeling weak from treatments.

It also says, under “Creating a pleasant environment”:

We understand that a visit to hospital can be a challenging experience. We want to ease this and help our patients and their relatives feel as comfortable as possible during their time with us. Our aim is to use charitable funds to create a homely and less institutionalised environment for the people that use our services. Research has shown that the environment in which a patient is treated can have an impact upon the healthcare outcomes. By developing a space that is theraputic [sic] and supportive of family involvement we will be able to reduce anxiety and stress, something that can aid recovery.

Which I can counter with only one word (and which The Good Lady Bard will tell you is my favourite and most-uttered) – bollocks. It is all well and good to spout such badly-crafted homilies; but it takes more than a jobbing copy- or speech-writer to turn them into customer-oriented, user-friendly reality.

Now, patients have “to travel long, tiring distances” simply to pay for their car-parking – which is only not free for the disabled because that would need the attendance of a costly human-being to monitor. And there is no doubt in my mind that “the environment”, as it stands – with its large ladling-out of “anxiety and stress” (which, of course, retards recovery (oops)) – can only have a majorly negative “impact upon the healthcare outcomes” of anyone trying to arrive under their own power. I would not be surprised if, as a result, there was soon a further increase in patients deciding “to go without their treatment”. Personally, I would rather drive all the way to Warwick or Oxford, than have to go through the struggles I and my disabled colleague endured yesterday.

¶

There is one drop of comfort in all this. According to the architects:

The new hospital… will include a new… energy centre and public realm as part of the strategic masterplan.

I would like to nominate myself to be the first leader of this new “public realm”, please (having first received some much-needed “energy”…)! And, if ruling it necessitates gratuitous violence (as I hope), Game of Thrones-style, then I would also like to nominate the car-park designers as my first victims. My weapon of choice will, of course, be a carbon-fibre-shafted walking stick, wielded brutally from my large Japanese war-chariot. There will be blood.