“skilfully and beautifully performed under Sarah Meadows’ flamboyant direction”
If you keep going North, you will eventually go South. If you keep going West, however, you will never go East. That is a reality. But like many realities, it wasn’t to stand in the way of Annie Londonderry, the first woman to bicycle around the world – albeit mostly by ship. A pioneer, pragmatist, opportunist and somewhat unreliable storyteller, Londonderry had a casual relationship with the truth. This is the thread that runs through “Ride”, the musical by Freya Catrin Smith and Jack Williams. Adopting the format of a pitch in which Annie is trying to sell her story to an offstage panel of senior (and presumably male) newspaper editors, it veers into a more introspective journey of self-reinvention.
Dubiously and rather loftily described as ‘the greatest story ever told’, it was nevertheless declared by the ‘New York World’ in 1895 as the most extraordinary journey ever undertaken by a woman. Annie’s version of events is a fascinating tale, particularly in its time. Beyond the headlines, Londonderry was really Annie Cohen Kopchovsky, a young, Jewish mother of three small children. She abandoned her role of wife and mother to pedal away into history, earning her way through self-promotion, selling photographs and becoming a kind of mobile billboard. The name ‘Londonderry’ came from the first of several corporate sponsors of her journey.
The show touches on the darkness and complexity of Londonderry’s character and motivations, but for the most part follows the ‘triumph over adversity’ narrative. Liv Andrusier, as Annie, bears the bulk of the story. From the off, a commanding and cocksure presence, Andrusier renders a not particularly likeable character loveable. A mixture of self-confident cynicism and self-aware charm, she is captivating throughout, but truly soars when she sings. Andrusier has the presence to carry the show singlehandedly, but her character enlists the aid of Martha, a secretary at the newspaper. A reluctant aid at first, Martha soon gets into the swing of things, shedding her own awkwardness as she adopts the various characters of Londonderry’s story. Katy Ellis manages the role with expert precision, a sharp eye for comedy, and a voice of her own too that gradually steals a greater piece of the action. To the point of temporarily taking over when Annie grinds to a halt under the weight of her own back story. “Why are you so ashamed of who you are?” Martha asks at one point, underlying the hidden agenda that shapes Annie’s fierce motivation.
The motivation, though, is never that clear cut and sometimes the complexity comes across as confusion, and the intricacies of Annie’s identity – her Jewishness and bisexuality – are glossed over. This is a show that relies on its performances, which are undeniably faultless and fascinating. The three-piece band, led by Musical Director Sam Young, adds drive, but the compositions never really change gear. The cycle ride took fifteen months and covered numerous and varied terrains, the ups and downs of which are not fully reflected in the score.
Ninety minutes is admittedly a short time in which to depict an epic chapter in a colourful life. It is skilfully and beautifully performed under Sarah Meadows’ flamboyant direction. That is the reality, but as Annie repeatedly pronounces ‘it’s not about reality; it’s about the story’. The story comes across as an incomplete journey, and we are also left suspecting that the real Annie might have been more interesting than the one she fabricated. At any rate, we are left wanting to know more. Andrusier and Ellis, in tandem, make sure of that. Their presence alone is worth the ride.
“It’s a conversation.” Max Alexander-Taylor chats with audience members pre-show, sitting casually on empty seats, guitar in hand. He speaks, not as Benjamin Scheuer, the autobiographical character he plays, but as himself. These intimate moments prime the audience for a similar intimacy in performance: a three-quarter thrust in Southwark Playhouse’s The Little, the light from elegantly scattered shade-less lamps low and warm, a musical performance that is spoken as much as it is sung. This opening moment, however, also highlights the difficulty of reviving an autobiographical show with a new performer. The tension between actor and character remains nearly constant.
The Lion, a revival of the Drama Desk Award-winning 2014 folk musical, traces the story of Scheuer’s upbringing, his battle with cancer as a young man, and his coming to terms with an imperfect father. The narrative and character relationships are drawn through the constant motif and medium of folk music. The songs are thoughtful and specific—a line about Scheuer’s first girlfriend writing corrections to the White House correspondent at the New York Times remains ringing in my mind. Key moments in the character’s life are marked by the introduction of a new guitar, all of which line the back wall of the stage. These guitar changes serve as an effective storytelling mechanism—the electric guitar marks Benjamin’s burst into early adulthood, his final acoustic guitar is visually and sonically glossy, matching his personal triumph and maturation. The red guitar, however, which is introduced midway through the show, enters unaddressed. This break in convention takes away slightly from what is otherwise a narratively taught piece of theatre.
As the performance unfolds, Alexander-Taylor oscillates between disappearing into the character and narrating from outside of him. Instead of leaning into this tension, aside from the pre-show conversations, the performance attempts to gloss over it, which leads to a general unevenness. Alexander-Taylor’s disappearances, which become more frequent in the final leg of the performance, are quite compelling. The guitar work becomes both looser and more detailed, which is mirrored by his impassioned and emotive vocal performance. The earlier portions of the show would have benefitted from this looseness, though the directorial impulse of Alex Stenhouse and Sean Daniels to reign these moments in is understandable. The trade-off between clarity of langue and clarity of emotion can be difficult to manage, especially with verbose and narratively rich songs.
Emma Chapman’s lighting design is understated yet expressive. The exposed bulbs that litter the stage and audience alike glow and temper along with the emotional waves of the piece. A blue wash creates the impression of the dive bars in which Benjamin plays the angsty grunge and blues rock of his youth. A cool, harsh sidelight transports us to a moonlit cemetery. At the climax, light emanates from beneath the weathered wooden planks (set design Simon Kenny) that form the stage, filling the room.
While the tension between character and performer lends itself to narrative instability, The Lion does not want for technical prowess or pathos.
