“Burton’s brisk direction of the piece highlights Lewis’ striking performance”
In the course of history there has been much written about the role of music and its importance in our lives. Perhaps it is the greatest creation of mankind. The greatest form of expression. Among its countless attributes, most people discover – at some point or other – music to be a way to escape from the pain of life. Jasper Rees, the protagonist of the one-man, semi-autobiographical “I Found My Horn” would certainly, if reluctantly, agree. We meet Jasper as he climbs into the attic of his former home to sort out and pack up the last few pieces of a broken life. The attic (a superbly and evocatively created design by Alex Marker) is a cave of intimate nostalgia and memories. Divorce has driven him here, with a mid-life crisis for a back seat driver.
That all sounds pretty grim, but it is merely a starting point and, in the hands of Jonathan Guy Lewis as the luckless Jasper, the feelgood factor is off the scale during the ensuing eighty minutes of joyous, warm-hearted-theatre. Written by Lewis, with Jasper Rees, it is based on the latter’s book published in 2008. The pair teamed up with director Harry Burton to create the show which opened in London in 2009. Lewis’s character has grown older since then: the text has been slightly altered to accommodate the advancing years, but the sentiment, the meaning and the comedy are as powerful as ever.
Rather than finding the French horn in his attic, it is as though the horn has summoned Jasper. It speaks to him, begging to be freed from its dusty case and given back its purpose. They can help each other out here. It has been thirty-nine years since Jasper last picked it up and now, as he tentatively holds it in his hands, he regales us with the memories it triggers: and the renewed ambition it stirs up. He attends the British Horn Society’s annual concert and decides to play Mozart’s Horn Concerto No3 at the event the following year. He attends a ‘Horn Camp’ in America which simultaneously crushes and ignites his ambition. Meanwhile we are treated to flashbacks to his school days and humiliating moments in the orchestra. Lewis switches hilariously and seamlessly between all the characters that crowd his past and present, adopting mannerisms and accents that are spot-on. He has an astoundingly natural ability to make them heightened yet recognisable and real. Even the French horn itself is given an endearing personality. And, as Jasper, we instantly relate to the man, and to his dreams and regrets.
It is no spoiler to reveal that Jasper achieves his objective and is given a solo slot at the concert. It is his journey there that captivates us. Burton’s brisk direction of the piece highlights Lewis’ striking performance. We effortlessly perceive the complex layers inherent in the writing that in lesser hands might have been muddied. The horn itself is undoubtedly a metaphor – a kind of “Sparky’s Magic Piano” for grown-ups. Ultimately it is a very moving story, not just of making music, but of facing your demons. But it is best not to over analyse. Just revel in the humour and forget the symbolism. It is a joyous and heart-warming performance.
“There is humanity and tragedy in the piece, but despite the magnificent performances, the emotional punch is too tender”
It is 1735, and life on St Kilda – in the far reaches of the Outer Hebrides – is pretty stark. And everything smells and tastes of fish. It is an abandoned isle, populated by abandoned people. A place where the crashing waves erode the shoreline and, if you let it, the spirit. But not so Lady Grange, the central figure of Sue Glover’s play based on the real-life wife of the eighteenth-century Lord Grange. A Shakespearean mix of King Lear and Miranda, she whips up her own storm that threatens to silence the unrelenting winds that sweep in from all sides of the island.
Lady Grange was exiled by her estranged husband to the Outer Hebrides, on the basis that she was hysterical, drunk, disorderly and uncivilised. In truth she knew too much about her husband; his Jacobite sympathies shrouded by hypocrisy and political pragmatism. Better she go and rage against the storm in isolation, rather than upset his veneered city life.
The turmoil is all internal and the interest promised by the historical facts doesn’t translate entirely successfully here. Anna Short’s sound design evokes the peace of the farmyard rather than the ravaged sentiments of the central character. The first act serves mainly to set the scene, into which Aneas, a bible-clutching minister and his new wife, Isabel come on a mission. Isabel, all innocence and compliance, is initially the antithesis of Lady Grange. What Glover’s writing cleverly reveals, however, is how the two women have more in common than we originally think. Along with Oona, Grange’s maid, the three women are all trapped in their own gender-defying roles of the time.
Siobhan Redmond is a force as the unhinged Grange – sexual and dangerous; one minute syrup and flirtation, the next acid and acrimony. Redmond portrays a Hamlet-like figure: mad at the world rather than mad within one’s head. Rori Hawthorn is equably believable as Isabel; an ember in the shadow of Finlay Bain’s surreptitiously domineering Aneas, yet Hawthorn reveals the flickers of a burning injustice. The flames fanned by Redmond’s powerful performance.
But it takes until the second act for the momentum to really take hold. Jenny Lee, wonderful as the no-nonsense Oona, is drawn into the fold and the play now belongs to the women. Polly Creed’s direction is finally allowed to flourish, particularly as the trio bond over shared whisky and dissatisfaction. Glover’s underlying comments on gender and power are unleashed as the tongues are loosened, while Bain takes a generous back step, yet without relinquishing his masterful portrayal of the steadfast missionary.
“The Straw Chair” is a play that demands attention, although it does take a while to grab it. Its hold on us is tenuous, but if it lapses, we are soon lured back in, with the added help of some plaintive music. As well as commanding the stage, Hawthorn (with co-violinist, Elisabeth Flett) provides a lyrical, pre-recorded underscore. There is humanity and tragedy in the piece, but despite the magnificent performances, the emotional punch is too tender. We want to hear the waves crash, rather than lap, on the rocky Hebridean shoreline.
