by Sarah Cope

At the beginning of 2011, listed in one of those “cultural highlights of the year ahead” articles, I came across Lullaby, the brainchild of Duckie, the vaudeville performers. To be staged at the Barbican, it was billed as a sleepover, where audience members could book a single, double or – intriguingly – a triple bed. Curious, my husband and I booked a double bed.

That was in January. Come July and I am almost six months’ pregnant, and we’re both coming down with colds, it suddenly didn’t seem like such an enticing prospect. Did we really want to sleep in a room next to 48 other people and be woken at 7.30am on a Sunday morning? (If indeed we had managed to get to sleep in the first place?)

On arriving at the Barbican, and finally locating the less than comfortable sounding “pit”, some of our fears were instantly allayed. The check-in point was decorated like a 1950s hotel reception, with low lighting and reconditioned settees for the audience to wait on before being escorted by pyjama-clad guides to the Barbican’s dressing rooms. Here we changed into our pyjamas, before heading back to reception for hot chocolate and communal teeth-brushing (which was a bit unnerving and I developed momentary qualms about my own tooth-brushing technique).

We had been allotted bed 11, and on entering the auditorium were instantly impressed by the set-up. Circles of beds were arranged around a central stage, with back rests, plentiful pillows and top-quality bedding (supplied by Toast, as one is reminded continually in slightly over the top marketing). We were supplied with water, ear plugs, eye masks, and even offered ergonomic pillows to increase our comfort and to maximise a good night’s sleep.

It was as though Duckie, given usually to more abrasive entertainment, had decided to set up an insomnia clinic and were determined to cure the restless. As a long-term insomniac, I was curious to see whether it would work for me.

And so to the show itself. Ah yes, the show. From the start, the purpose was clearly to soothe and to lull, with dream-like sequences, soporific songs and stories read out by a small cast clad in what looked like Babygros. The first half of the show was meant to be the “sit up and watch” part, the second half was for drifting off to sleep to.

As such, the second half was more disjointed than the first, and ended with amorphous plastic shapes swooping over our heads and a moon being projected onto a circular screen above us. The performance was at points charming but it felt a little lacklustre compared to the actually concept of the show, which was obviously the main attraction.

Indeed, I almost feel like saying that the show’s lack of coherence didn’t matter, such was the originality of the sleepover idea.

By this time it was going on for 1am and I was quite keen for silence. When the show finally ended, there was a rush to the loos which told me that a lot of people hadn’t managed to drift off. Two toilet trips later and I was still wide awake, though strangely enjoying the sleeping noises of my fellow audience members. Such an array of sighs, (mercifully gentle) snores and rhythmical breathing.

I did feel very sorry for the guide who had to sit on a chair by the door all night long, battling sleep. It did seem a terrible irony that in trying to give us a good night’s rest the cast and crew had to be so deprived of sleep themselves.
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by Natalie Bennett
(Article first published on Blogcritics)

It’s a reflection arising from last night’s performance at Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre, which, perversely, is a fine production – generally good acting (although Jasper Britton as Mr Peachum was having a bit of trouble spitting his words out last night), a spectacular tumbril-and-gallows-dominated set that works perfectly beneath the dark trees and looping bats, and energetic but controlled movement that swoops around the audience. Additionally there’s interesting, powerful music from The City Waites, using authentic instruments producing a sound that clearly belongs to another age.

But I’m with the Telegraph in describing the play as disconcerting, if not for exactly the same reasons. Certainly it is an odd mix of political satire, social comment and romp, and our reactions today, in an age of very different morality, put a distinctly different shade on some of the characters’ decisions.

Oddly, it isn’t the politics that’s the problem. Many reviewers have commented on the parallels between the early 18th century and today regarding official corruption, avarice in high places and general decay. A bit obvious, but quite comfortable.

But it’s the personal relationships that are the real issue. There’s an awful lot of negative commentary on the female sex, and a lack of sympathy in the treatment of women outside the two main love interests, but it’s the final scene and Captain Mackeith’s choice between the lovely, pretentious, and rather wet Polly Peachum (Flora Spencer-Longhurst) and the rambunctious, assertive and “common” Lucy Lockitt (Beverley Rudd) that sits oddly.

Both actors do a fine job in different ways – Spencer-Longhurst has a sweet but powerful voice, and Rudd spectacular comic timing and a strong stage presence. But when the hunky captain (David Caves) opts for Polly – the character who over the centuries seems to have been at the centre of audiences’ love affair with the play it feels both unlikely and odd.

Perhaps, although returning the play to quite traditional clothing and music makes it an interesting period piece, it now needs more adaptation, more clearly contemporary references – indeed rewriting – to work today.

The production continues until July 23.