My dull deaf ears a little use to hear…

Season your admiration for a while

With an attent ear, till I may deliver,

Upon the witness of these gentlemen,

This marvel to you.

– William Shakespeare: Hamlet

As my deafness worsened over the years, I started to avoid the theatre-, opera- and concert-going that had filled so much of my life with joy. Music can still be a bit of a struggle, live, even with the best audiological marvels – especially if I am not familiar with the works being performed (although I will sometimes take my iPad with me: pre-loaded with the orchestral scores to follow…) – as, accompanying the loss of acuity, is a variable alteration of pitch (a form of diplacusis): where instruments that produce a plethora of harmonics (particularly string instruments; and, even worse, my own instrument, the piano) can result in conflicting timbres that may render even my favourites, such as Brahms and Elgar, akin to modern dissonance.

Where technology has come to my aid, though, is at the RSC. (In fact, the building, the productions, the facilities, the staff, have all brought a great deal of pleasure into my life, and continue to do so – as my addiction to the theatre is re-ignited….) As you lose your hearing, you soon realize that, behind all the signs indicating that hearing loops have been installed, usually lies nothing but utter disappointment. Not only are these systems often set up incorrectly; but the majority are either then poorly maintained or forgotten and inactive.

However, wherever you sit at the RSC – in both the Royal Shakespeare Theatre and the Swan (as well as at the ticket desk, etc.) – the induction loops provide clear sound: even when an actor delivering their lines has their back to you (because of the placement of the microphones). There is also no noticeable lag between live and sampled sound – something I discovered when I had my latest hearing aids programmed to be able to access both sources at once. This is now my preferred way of watching: as it gives more ‘presence’ and depth to the action (akin to the difference between monaural and binaural sound; or black-and-white and colour television); and my untrained lip-reading isn’t good enough to keep up with torrents of Jacobethan iambs!

The RSC also offer a couple of captioned performances for each production (as well as audio-described ones, and ‘touch tours’, for the visually impaired); and, when booking your seat, the ticket office – always immensely helpful and patient in matters of accessibility – will do their very best to find you a place where the captions are easily read, without impeding your view of the play. (As I am also physically disabled, they have on record that I am what my grandad would call an ‘okkerd bugga’ and prefer a seat at the left-hand end of a row!) In a week where “British tourist venues are being urged to provide better access for disabled visitors”, the RSC can be seen leading the way – with such access made an integral part of the transformation the theatre underwent a few years ago: not only designed into the building, but in the staff’s training and customer-facing ethos.

Returning to see The Two Gentlemen of Verona, this afternoon: instead of my usual seat in the stalls, I was upstairs in the circle (in another full house) – all the better to see the ‘surtitles’ on the balcony opposite. And I must admit, these added greatly to the enjoyment of the production: especially with some of the more laboured of Shakespeare’s youthful punning; or where the dialogue came thick and fast, with overlapping voices – and where, therefore, I had missed some of the subtlety, before. I had to be careful, though, not to get fixated on them. However, after years of practice with television subtitles – which the theatre captions were infinitely superior in accuracy to, of course…! – I soon adapted, and developed a knack for keeping them in the corner of my eye, whilst watching the action below.

Although, at one point, I realized that – as in previous visits – I did not actually need them to fully experience the drama, I know that I will return for other captioned performances: as they are that touch of seasoning that renders a tasty dish even more toothsome!

Cast photograph by Simon Annand/RSC

On second viewing, some of the threads and leitmotifs that Shakespeare weaves into the play become more apparent – the repeat tearing up of delivered love-letters, for example; and the riffs on what love means… – and I now believe that it deserves as much praise as some of his later work. It may not have as satisfying a conclusion as many of the more famous plays; but the exploration of human (particularly male) fallibility, desire, and (eventual) forgiveness – weaving together all the trademark strands of humour and emotion – is accomplished with ease; and demonstrates how well young Will understood the demands of his audience (even those whose hearing is fading…).

Postscript: 11 September 2014
Attending an ‘open set changeover’ at the Swan Theatre – from The White Devil to The Roaring Girl – the guide (who was wonderful, by the way!) must have noticed either my hearing aids or my not-too-subtle international deaf symbol badge: because she ensured that I sat next to her, throughout her commentary, so that I could hear everything she said. (It was also nice that the other tour members left me a seat free, of course, as a result of her pronouncement!)

The crew of ten or so stage-hands (plus the rarely visible lighting and sound technicians, and immensely thorough cleaners) transformed the theatre easily and efficiently in the allotted time (of ninety minutes): making it look oh-so-very-simple – a tribute both to their sometimes mute teamwork and the skill of the set-designers and craftsmen who built what appear to be complex designs: but which can be assembled and disassembled almost easier than an IKEA flatpack (and without any instructions, either)! Very impressive; and yet another sign of the quality and thought that can (and should?) remain invisible to the audience, and yet which we expect and take for granted.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf VI

Cold irons bound…

That change had arrived; and looked set to stay. Where the Mole stood, shaking, was once the meadow where he had lived for most of his previous life. What he should have seen, in the distance, therefore, through hedges, past copses, was the silver, twinkling, snaking river where he had first chanced upon the Water Rat; where they had shared so much fun – happy days filled with hampers of lemonade, ginger beer, gherkins and cold meats; where the Mole had learned, eventually, to row the Rat’s boat. But the river had first faded to a trickle, when, somewhere upstream, faraway, it had been damned; then its dwindling remains had been confined in harsh concrete pipes; and, finally, these were themselves buried beneath an expanding, featureless, flat wasteland. The soil underneath the Mole’s aching feet, as a result, was dry and powdery as sand, even after the morning’s showers (no dull roots stirred with the spring rain); the view – apart from the Wild Wood a long way behind him: almost invisible through the dust griming the air – bland, fuscous, parched, lifeless, flat: apart from one monstrous, overwhelming Thing.

Seeing it, looming above him, appearing so all-conquering, so savage, the Mole, as he moved forwards, instantly lost all hope. In its presence, he felt so very insignificant; his previous bravura escaping from him with each ragged breath.

A colossus of a machine – taller than an old oak tree, wide as the Mole’s tunnels had been long, planted on the dirt, harsh and yellow, sharp edges gleaming against the filth – glowered down at him, stomping hard, pushing thick metal columns deep into the ground; deeper than the Mole could imagine, or had known; to where he was conscious moisture still had reign – even if only in the clays where he could, would never have dug, would never have made his home. The water table was much, much lower now, he knew; but it still made building laborious: these piles the toll necessary in subduing treacherous nature; in stamping greedy desires on the unwilling land; in making marks that would take centuries to erase – if ever.

With each descending elephantine beat arose another cloud of arid grit, along with belching smoke, thickening in the Mole’s throat and chest: only stopping, briefly, to position another beam, before resuming its demonic, insatiable lust to overpower all in its path: hammering spikes through the Mole’s heart, as well as deep into the earth.

Wrapping the Badger’s old handkin over his mouth and snout, the Mole turned his back on the monster, and began to head wearily back, trying to rebuild his crumbling thoughts: mulling over, and rehearsing, what he had previously been sure needed to be done to try and put things right; who he needed to talk to; who he needed to convince; what he needed to say, and how. But it all felt so tenuous. “I wish Badger and Ratty were here. They would know INSTANTLY.” And thus the tears returned: his anger fading with his earlier confidence. “Hang being alone. I was ALWAYS on my own, before, and managed quite happily in my own small world; but I know now that a mole is NOTHING in the Wide World without such good pals; without their sensible thoughts to share; their cunning stratagems to put in place. Hang being alone. Hang… being… lonely…. Hang. It. ALL.”

¶

As the Mole stomped slowly back to the wood – his stick thudding into the diminishing dryness with each step, with each word, and with deep heartfelt pain – leaving the wilderness and his crumbling footprints behind, he remembered his prior ideas; how much sense they made; and how much hard work had gone into formulating them; and – although he knew their success would depend on the actions of others, as well as what little cunning he now possessed – his pace began to increase, little by little, as he started to see familiar landmarks, make out companion trees, and therefore regain his self-belief. “I need to do what Badger would have done. It’s no good just shouting and boasting. I need to stand my ground and take control. We did it once before; and we can do it again. But this time, it’s on my head; and my head alone.”

Is there anybody there…?

My car, at nearly thirteen years old, is now due for its 100,000-mile service – plus a couple of other little jobs. Because I am substantially hard of hearing, I looked up the details of a few local garages on the Web, and either filled in their online contact forms, or clicked on their resultant email addresses. Of the three I tried, not one of them replied.

However, in the name of research (and justice!), I thought I would pop into one of them – as I was nearby – to see if my email had actually made it through. “Oh yes, I saw that,” said the surly woman on reception.

There then followed a long silence, whilst my inner voice was screaming “So why the fudge didn’t you respond to it, then?!” – but I received no reply. She did, eventually, say the owner of the business (her husband) would email me later that day, though. But, of course, he didn’t.

I even got The Lady Bard (TLB; or, perhaps, SWBMO – She Whom the Bard Must Objectivate) to call one of the garages, to see if the email I had just sent had made it through – having obtained a bounce-back message from their supplier’s email servers. “No: we haven’t used that address in years. Try this one.” Firstly, why is that address still on your website, then; and, secondly, now you’re expecting an email on this ‘new’ address, can’t you be bothered to respond? I’m still waiting for a reply, a month on.

The third garage had a contact form – which wouldn’t let me send my message: as their systems weren’t expecting “this type of content”. Admittedly, I can be a little verbose: but they were only words. (Honest.) I did find an alternate email address on another website. But that only elicited silence, too.

[Even my 85-year-old technophobic father can use email. It’s not difficult. In fact, I’ve had the same personal(ized) email address for a quarter of a century; and, when my income depended on it, would respond probably too quickly…!]

¶

So, yesterday morning, fed up to my back teeth with people raising digital fronts for their businesses – probably only because everyone else is doing so… – and then neglecting them, I called into Pillerton Garage: for two reasons. Principally, because they have been (accidentally?) wise enough not to have a website: their details are simply available from lots of other sources – but only an address and telephone number; no email address. And, secondly, because I go past them nearly every day – and they probably rely on such passing trade… – and I believe in doing my best to support local businesses. The guy who I booked the car in with was friendly, helpful and knowledgeable – and it reminded me of garages I’ve used in other areas, in the dim-distant past, that were both truly customer-facing and somewhat old-fashioned. This is fine, though – they do not pretend to be anything that they’re not; and I value such honesty. What is important, in this situation, is the quality of the work they carry out. (I shall report back!)

¶

It is all well and good – and I write as one of the authors and architects of one of the first ever UK websites to be launched, over twenty years ago – to have a presence on the Internet; but it may not be as simple, in some ways, to habitually deal with as face-to-face or telephone contact. (It can be – it can even be highly profitable, if you are both efficiently reactive and proactive.)

You may see your website, and any allied contact point, as promoting your business (like a billboard): but proper, efficient communication is two-way; and any prospective customers will be – as I have been – utterly dischuffed not to receive an answer: and you are therefore driving such people into the arms of your competitors. Yes: you may believe you are marketing yourself – but this must be a continuous process involving a frequent investment in time; not just a one-off-let’s-pay-someone-to-build-us-a-website-which-we-can-then-forget-about idea that momentarily flits across your grey matter, and then gathers dust in a dark corner of the Web. It is as fundamental as doing – and part of doing (if you have elected to do so) – a good job. You must pay as much attention to the clicks as you do to the mortar.

Additionally, you may actually be infringing the Equality Act 2010: in not allowing disabled people (especially the deaf) access to your business on a commensurate footing (and don’t forget the ramps!) with everyone else. Perception is everything, supposedly; but reception and response may actually be even more important, if you are to attract and retain business.

¶

By the way, I did contact the main dealer for my make of car – Grays Garage – who, as always, responded in detail, and with great thought, within a couple of hours. However, they are too far away, for me; obtaining a courtesy car from them was a little too complicated (and they do not provide an automatic – which I need); and their prices were simply too much for my pocket to bear.

This could show, I suppose, that there is a correlation between cost and service. However, they are actually unusual, in their sector, in being an independent, family-owned company, with few staff. I actually think that their high charges bear no relation to their customer-facing and customer-pleasing stance.

From experience, I know that they really care; and it shows. They have also adapted to the demands of modern business and communication – without losing their original friendliness – and it shows and tells. (For instance, last week, I emailed them about the cost of a replacement part for The Lady Bard’s car – which turned out to be disproportionately expensive: which they obviously knew; but the price was set by the manufacturer. I therefore went hunting, and obtained the part, second-hand, at a small fraction of the new price; and, as a matter of courtesy, let them know. They were obviously delighted; thanked me for getting in touch; and described it as a “good result!” – not for them, of course, but for me; and this obviously matters to them – it is core to their business ethos, and their success.) Such concrete examples are few and far-between, though. True, caring, thoughtful customer service is a rare commodity – although I hope it is not doomed for extinction in a world where selfishness and arrogance appear to be the norms, both individually and corporately.

Finally, in response to my complaint to Waitrose, I was basically told to just put up with the situation, even though the company (said it) cared – but obviously couldn’t see what the problems were (i.e. weren’t remotely interested in putting themselves in my shoes) – and that they would get back to me about their Web-based contact issues. Which they never did, of course!

So it isn’t just the one-man bands, the small companies, who propagate this problem. The larger companies – the ones who “protest too much, methinks” in their advertising, literature, store notices, etc. about how very good they (obviously believe they) are at serving their customers – are equally guilty: just on a much larger scale. No wonder we spend so much time and money in Bart’s!

The devil was in your dream…

Sitting in the Swan Reading Room, a couple of hours before The White Devil began – with a wonderfully edited copy of the text on my lap (and a forgotten Americano in my hand…) – I was struck by the major stylistic differences of Webster and Shakespeare. John Webster’s writing, in some ways, is more direct, and somehow less ‘even’ or poetic; and the references to both ancient myths and current fashions seem to come thicker and faster. What can appear dense, lumpy and convoluted on the page springs to life on the stage, though!

Utilizing the wonderful company currently presenting both The Roaring Girl and Arden of Faversham, it is a neat trick by director Maria Aberg – as part of this ‘Roaring Girls’ season; and in a play that has misogyny at its centre: “Trust a woman? Never, never…” – to cast Laura Elphinstone as (male) plotter-in-chief Flaminio: emerging (especially in the second half) as the crux, perhaps the chief “White Devil” of the title (although almost no-one here can escape the accusation that there is a deeper, baser reality at their heart than the generally good – pure or white – way they depict themselves; although the term may also “illuminate the impossible position of the female character in tragedy”).

As the complex story emerges in the first half, it is David Rintoul, as Cardinal Monticelso – and later Pope (a nice echo of last year’s stunning production of A Life of Galileo) – who dominates proceedings. Natural and potent – particularly in the trial of Vittoria – he struts the stage menacingly; although Kirsty Bushell, as the accused, gives as good as she gets: “personate[s] masculine virtue”; and stands resolutely in defence of both her sexuality, and any involvement in the preceding murders.

These deaths are enacted as ‘dumb shows’ – a powerful way of involving the audience in the action: yet keeping both on- and off-stage witnesses complicit (as in Hamlet…), but, apparently, impotent. And the continual use of such ‘split stages’ – both vertically, using the Swan’s balconies; and horizontally, stepping back, behind a glass screen under a virtual proscenium arch – both by Webster, in his directions; and Maria Aberg, in her directing – convincingly brings greater meaning: demonstrating both correlations and differences in the separate groups of characters.

The night I saw it, Edward Buckley played the child role of Giovanni, making his RSC debut – and with great feeling – often as emotive, mute witness; but also revealed as a quiet, driven force of revenge (and developing the power to enact it): a small, still centre in the mayhem that surrounds him. As always, with this generous troupe – confirmed by repeat viewings of both The Roaring Girl and Arden of Faversham – there is no-one letting the side down, however small their part – all lending equal skill and credence to their characters; all equally committed; all accomplished and proficient in their stage presence.

The play is on at the Swan Theatre until the end of November. If you don’t mind a bit of “violence and scenes of a sexual nature”, then I would heartily recommend it!

Love, and a bit with a dog…

It’s difficult to write about The Two Gentlemen of Verona (currently on at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre until 4 September – far too short a run for a play that’s not been on the RSC’s main stage for 45 years; and is actually rollickingly good – but more of that, anon…!) without smashing into scholars discussing its date of origin; crossing swords with critics cogitating about the quality of writing and plotting; encountering Shakespeare enthusiasts wondering why there are nearly always only two or three talking characters on the stage at any one time (and often explaining in detail what is happening – in “exposture” – rather than letting the storylines emerge, as in later works); and why there aren’t others of his plays featuring a scene-stealing dog:

You see – comedy. Love, and a bit with a dog. That’s what they want.

In a way, that sums the play up pretty well! However, it wouldn’t be Will, if it didn’t occasionally plunge into real depths of emotion, periodic despair and tragedy. (Even in the great comedies, such as As You Like It – and what a wonderful production that was, last year: so good, indeed, that I saw it thrice…! – there are moments of heartbreaking sadness; with my hero Jaques providing a melodic thread of melancholy, throughout.)

Cast photograph by Simon Annand/RSC

The cast is uniformly excellent; and, yes, Mossup, cross-dressing as Crab the dog, receives repeated ahs and applause for her paw-fect timing (and even one word of dialogue)! But we mustn’t forget the humans – the young principals all subtly developing and learning, as the play moves on.

My particular favourite was Pearl Chanda as Julia (a full dress-rehearsal for Shakespeare’s future girls-dressed-as-boys; and a definite precursor to Rosalind) – perhaps because she, most of all, travels across an emotionally-challenging arc towards the somewhat subdued conclusion: emerging more mature from her travails. Nicholas Gerard-Martin is an excellent foil to Mark Arends’ Proteus; and his rendition of Who is Silvia? is one of the evening’s highlights.

Cast photograph by Simon Annand/RSC

As seems all the rage at the moment, at the RSC, the action begins before the audience arrives: although I missed out on the free gelato being handed out to select attendees invited into Antonio’s Veronese trattoria – the on-stage musicians were highly entertaining, though; and the score supports the action perfectly and appositely throughout.

As is also a current trend, some of the action takes place on an evolving balcony, high above the stage: lending a more commanding presence to certain characters, and differentiating them from – raising them above – the others.

Altogether, a highly entertaining evening – and a full house! Although Shakespeare’s dramatical skills don’t appear fully developed, here, they are still significant, and more than worthy of exploration – just not quite as subtle or with that constant touch of genius that would become his trademark. (Compare early Beethoven piano sonatas with the later ones, and they appear immature. However, they still have a ‘specialness’ beyond that of many of his contemporaries: demonstrating obvious signs of what was to come. I think the same came be said of this play….) Just a shame that there won’t be that many performances.