The Independent from London, Greater London, England • 62

6 THE CRITICS THE INDEPENDENT ON SUNDAY CULTURE 31 JANUARY 1999 A legend in her own company IENNY U3? I nmT Sadler's VvefcEO truckload of mixed feelings yon take bone at the end of the three-and-a-haif hour epic that is Htaor, a kind of rjsychotherapy col A glamorous woman in a sleeveless dm casts confident gaze on the -at. snitir nm "Go on, ad-nzfrc nc," her sxmiing eyes Hen to be ssylng. "Amine a magnificent specimen of womanhood?" She welts. The audience waits. It's at if she's rrpcrtlng paparazzi to arrive, or perhaps for ua to aik why she's to radiantly happy.

She wafts, re-diantly; we wait, with increasing discomfiture because and we cant pretend we haven't noticed thai woman baa no una. The woman1! male companion arrive! to alip a fur coat over her shoulders aad uaher her away. Her limbicai Hate obscured, the image is svelte, familiar, OK. We fed relief, curiously tinged with shame for feeling that relief; then later, another kind of relief that, well, at least we're not so absurdly hung up as to deny that we felt relieved in the first place. This series of moral knee-jerks is in no way diminished by knowing UlathieiihythepBiaauicThadtwo pwleiithsjoudafnBsliiwiedbeM her back.

Ill disorienting, as Pina BsuschirdcndL She takes otlcuts of our smoothly-surfaced modern world, then pucks at stray threads to unravel the seams. Her work is meant to throw us off balance. can aan be amusing and uplifting along the way. The prickle of emotion this first cameo stirs is nothing to the Meal of what Bausch has been producing far 23 years. ndar not new; it was first per-formed in 1986.

But seeing as it is now 17 yean since ner group Hum heather Wuppertal paid Its last visit to Loodon, Bausch con-sidered new exujh for us. Perhaps she regards it as a kind of primer it's certainly less gruelling than AJUfem, seen at the Edinburgh Festival in 1996, in which sadistic are phyed on a fickl of pM carnations, patrolled by Ahatiaas and Ifi a drag? JuHc Anew gtaaaak of Thniltirstrr Wnppr rrhea Bsst docs Ftssi Basiirb disn her nrwanrnaarl rvputstlon aa queen of the swaagarder lvmimw choBBoajaphy show the nnsdatnost trained and possessed of the stami-na of navvies. But choreographed awveaaent is only one of the tools in this director's kit. When, in Pttaor, a woman performs a tabri- ncrfornjs a I 1 solo wkh raw i The physieal cuvironnMsnt oon- targets are beginning to look rather obvious, not to say old hat the destructive sesualwng of women with their cleavages and high heels: the inability of the sexes to communicate on things that matter, the hhilingnut vl linrtmifiif laHf truths Bauschi brilliance is in orches-tiatlng bwahwfi of dnparate cameos snrl lirfrhes into a single stream of creative thought: her performers arc magnificent in their clarity and commitment. But I take issue with patter.

A trench for war7 A freshly dug grave? An excavation? It's all rheae things Ario though there's ao Mtiiowleqgwnent by the pcifuiiu-en of the pU they're in, tor the epec-tator ha yowciiug preieute ousjuis every action, Thcar world, our world, is gradually caving in. Those expecting dance from Ihnztheater are often surprised to find so little, despite the fact that Bauschi 30-straug troupe are bsBet- anyone, legendary or otherwise, who leans so heavily on music ui provide the emotional narrative, yet credits neither the axraweers nor the source of the extraordinary sounds she exploits: Tchaikovsky symphonies. Buxtehuue psalms. Breton mouth music, Andean pipes and Slavic stomps. All go to feed the legend.

A jot of humility would not go amiss. For me. it was the music, not the men in lipstick, that was pushing all the buttons. anmochsng lo 1930b popular enues, AswiusathhapavaM-gardeTit's easy to laicfa on to accepted opinion, much harder to question it. It's now standard copy that Pina Rsiajrh is the most revered and initated force in European post-war theatre viz Balktt Frankfurt, DV8, Robert Lefage.

The Sadler's Wells season sold out weeks ago because she is "a Yet some of Bauschi insles here, too: the stage is banked on three sides by a 20ft earthwork, a towering structure of real soil pecpkinfronthcttuujofncrpointe sboee, fit cones across not as dance for fits own sake, but a nod to fof-maliacd expression of sny kind. It's aying: there's pain involved in art; in fact, there's pain everywhere you care to look. Other fragments of which, at minor-key moments, is made to disintegrate little by little, untWing tipi fn titff ffgff of thr pr1- It ain't half Russian, mum ROBERT BUTLER niMim lytterton, SE1 Alan Ayckbourn has written a new version of the conedy by Attainder Ostnwtkft 19th century ITissrisn dramatist, and the cast couldn't be more ueer-friencry. Settle back and enjoy the ride as one famous TV face after another floats nostalgically past. There's Frank Windsor (Z Cart, Softly Softly), playing a stooped white-haired family servant He's taking orders from Frances de la Tbur tiling Damp) as the fluttery, manipulative head of the household, who's trying to ensnare a young husband with enticing hints.

Dropping in to pass the tine of day is Windsor Davics (it Ain't Ha Hot Mum), as the local wealthy neighbour with red face, white beard and bad hearing. In the second act, and there's Michael Williams (t Fine Ronumct) as a wheczih bedraggled comic actor, down on his tuck. bu'd assume that 7V Ana opened last week at the Haymarket, produced by Bill Kenwright or Duncan Weldon, snd each of the actors had their faces on the poster. But no. This is one of those very nice, very pleasant National Theatre productions that might have been sponsored by Saga Hobdays.

Written in 1S70, Tht Fore offers versioa of the backwater country house play, after the emancipation of the serfs, with a middle-aged woman in charge of an ailing estate, a local businessman wanting to buy up land, and impoverished young men and old servants hanging around the house. See The Area) and yon see the tradition out of which Chekhov wrote 7V Cherry Orchard. And this is where Anthony Page's production gets it terribly wrong. He gives us posh version of rough material. We sense this from the moment William Dudley's high semi-abstract forest, with drawn and then don't have anywhere to go.

Hum comes over as an enjoyable tum-of-the-ccnlury soap opera about a small family business. I imagine it was meant to be more. Charlotte Jones's engaging new ptay. In Flame. offers a dual perspective on women's experiences this century.

In 1909, men were rotten to women. And women got pregnant. In 1999, men are rotten to women. And women get pregnant. So single motherhood continues.

In Flame mivvs between the constrictions of Edwardian Yorkshire, where opportunities for change are rare, lo contemporary London, where freedom and choice seem lo he available. Neither is a happy slate. This cross generational saga with its ambitious, thrmatic reach, embraces enough subject matter for a big novel (with Alzheimer's, questions of parenthood and contemporary ruudessnow). Most of the cast double up their roles, playing then and now. so the 10 characters have to make oveiriiaiged entrances, to tell us enough about themselves.

Charlotte Jones's gift for social comedy is evident in the hopes and anxieties that are caught in the photo-session si Thackiey Fair, nr the bitter truth-telling at the birthday party, or Gramma lap-dancing in her hospital room. Here, emotions are perfectly matched with events. I wished she couU nave channelled her themes through a stongcr linear narrative. As it is, the schematic spread ensures that In Flame glows with talent without ever catching fire. The Forest': Lyttelton, SE1 (0171 452 3000), ongoing in rep; 'Vassi': Albery, WC2 01 71 369 1 740), to 27 March; 'In Flame': Bush, W12 (0181 743 3388), to Saturday.

Albery, WC2 tnl thick brush strokes that run across the trees, breaks into two and revolves, bringing in the main room of the country bouse. As a showy hi-tech device for distancing us from the stage conditions with which Ostrovsky would have been familiar; it couldn't be bettered. We remain stuck in the smart, expensive world of subsidised theatre. For exanmle: when you cast Frank Windsor as the servant Karp you send out the wrong message. Karp should be played by someone we've never heard of and will probably never see again (this isn't Carry On, Jetvei).

Or when you cast Windsor Davies as the neighbour you create an expectation that he's going to have a gocdsceiietodafeiwast-ed here. Or when you ask Ayckbourn to do a new versioa of a comedy you assume it's going to tap in to his own particular gifts ss comic dramatist. The plot has two main mnsads. One a version of WOdOatt, with aa actor nephew, Gennadiy(tbe tirelessly energetic aunti house on a country estate in the Volga district, accompanied by an older colleague (Michael Williams). Gennadiy pretends to be a wealthy and successful figure and Arkadiy, reluctantly, has to play his valet.

If there's one joke in the evening that they overrate it's the idea that it's funny to watch actors on stage delivering lines Fast forward 40 yean, and there's another middle-aged Russian woman in charge of another ailing concern, in Maxim Gorky's Vfcisa. It's hard to pin down what business exactly Sheila Hancock's Hub is running. In Rob Howell's soaring office set there are rows and tows of drawers beneath the high windows and a typewriter that is used sparingly. A management consultant would not have to spend long here to spot the main problem with the business is that no one does any work. The famirs business as the family.

Howard Devics's production fluctuates in tone between sitcom and pathos. Sheila Hancock's tea caspenscs wreathed fdine smncs and curt dismissals. She struggles to hold her world toaether, brushing away an imaginary By as a nervous tie, and sharing her view that all the things we fear wQl happen. As Anna, her daughter, Aisling 0Sullivan gives an overheated performance. But there are neat comic cameos bom Adrian Scarborough as a stiff, pompous and ineffective son.

snd Debra Gillett as his prim, defiant wife Natalya, her face prrmsnmtly braced, as if for chilly wincL As die other son, with a lump and a limp, David lennant screws up his face with setf-pity and announces that his family will nrnr srr Nm again, only in rrtiirn irmnrti later to collect his shoes. These characters are rapidly Bush, W12 about what absolute riff-raff actors are. The other, more promising, plot-line centres on Frances de at Iburikmg-rangeseductkmofthedull Aleksey (David Bark-Jones)! Frances de la lour is on top form, giving an exquisitely nuanced performance as the mean, flighty and sensual lady of the house. Any highlights in the evening belong to her. Elsewhere, this early version of Chekhov ought to be boisterous, quick snd funny.

Whereas its only smooth, leisurely and mildly amusing. Getting older the Taylor way 'STEPin FlUAaFPS UIIIMI Ss. agar A'ssfuHlaVaanVsV aaVavaVxssWi Maaat hessnsnusassaasshsusast astaassi Ink wtnuntBun nmW NMMbuT sjsss If jj Muite PHIL JOHNSON At the Barbican last Sunday night the venerable old drummer Max Roach had lust come to the and IIKfV I a duet, and the two of them bashed away foralnxubow.Onlheonelumd,kwas great, wkh Roach stanrajiotersnbis partner a the wUkmoroer to take the piuas ofthecanssantyshMIng metre. er, there was fnrting that they nassined Inairasswil In their own wspaeuva sound-worlds throtstkout, with Tkylor dossg haj Mm RtMrCh wirf Gsdi ftylor BaVtxv EC2 KsaVaffiy VNlavWwawf Brolol St Gaargti BnaTckxirsl ofasiVMbttlrrtecielyifeythniksc Rising fron Us stool, Iss bo the tumultuous spplause and then anaouaced his partner for the evening's concert, Cecil Taylor. More applause followed, but Taylor didn't.

Roach tried again. "Cecfl Taytorr, be said. From sonsewhere in the depths of the building you heard a kind of rattllnroiird sound. nnng to tne bbh wnue itnecn, aeapsie pesvxtonaogoneverynoti pjayhig the assaa babop Meks nut mere was suu no lAxtiuamtls emenjlog from the curtain, easy lolrvosstlktoxkV.WMthefimaaw ana, tad tfaat didn't help much. The danc-bm was, if anythaii, even nora eccentric off to look for Un, Just as be through the folds of the acconasstyliMjChsrkehikermth Although the nsuaic reniaie unconipro-mkingry abstract, there stMwaan'taiw flcuhyj it Just want on too long.

Tnstnnnpeter Kenny WheeWhndbna his ahare of free saiprovislng over the years, but he has come out the other aide wkh an fnlwnfad ragard for the aood osd-fsarannrd virtues of proper tune. His afeun from 1997, AnmlSong anerval and lent wtsCuuhs skNetworetoisrdUkproiidmtfaecc vertedduichofStCeorae'sBrsodonHIll sslhistuion strange sis law I jars swi-typa even a spot of Eighties body curtahi, Taylor emerged at last, like a naughty chUd (he's 68) playing hide and sack with his older brother (agsd 74). AUtoiujhMapktfuatTkylorn for being just about as avaniardeasyou Iff Tying. At Ift, wwwtl maa can get, kiwi questions Jsmadvaa clothmg that he realhr st saantanswnawm Taylor aat down at the piano. Once Taylor begins to play, aU the setf-consrioua eeBantridty he an saaktiinnsry cuhivalai can bafoiglvaiL Though he uor-auury pounds at thekeys as if he's trying to smash them to srrarhffecns, in this short solo set hat touch was almost tender, Uke of ptsbflc taste.

Wearing what looked Uke FT" mrf'l't h-g- gy auk trousers of the type worn by odsllsaues in paintings by Ingres, with a ofthemuakjaM-WheeteonmsaraVen, on rtniaisf hass, and the veteran coof- llarw4rklsn. wochmonhnheadssm-dienns de -vmm ainsstaaa f-assast aiiasstssss -WMaat psa)atsM -its paasjiiiiis -mabi imaaaistBi 4-asar pin issues n-wssw anew ay st-ssjM psnewaan Jsas-aJsr amajsran sjMMBaibMwIsBWaM Ba1iBllfJsra1a1sVlM shsmerocksca bis feet While free zz may have iazz mav achoolar Lee Konaz on aho a wnasfnase. jftanattsiuadve sossecbiag to frighten the children with if fttrhsaay aal tUiscaOmstssfcnnrlng tendon of fdeyksg at lsanaotyajtlntj there was poetry and dsnca to aat out of use way. dbcs osxaBSsasaf verse seace nayrebcseneusuaBj tracts played by a inaati i there's reaSy no diffi- apnius nc so obvioonV hsmscsf to be the anriouahr sprung rtyhasatofTaylDrand kfne. Sacty, Wheete didn't dsnce, but by bW lead ttf O0 COaWM dlod ttd fDD0 10 DMMD ifl tlW MIDB..