The House on the Cliff - a play

I've mentioned previously that the local amateur dramatic society here, the long-established Bridgewater Players, occasionally perform entertaining whodunits at Thelwall Parish Hall, not far from where I live. Through one of their earlier shows, I got to know the playwright Derek Webb, and I recently attended their latest production, The House on the Cliff, by George Batson.

I was particularly intrigued by the title, given that Mortmain Hall, due to be published in April next year, involves - well, a house on a cliff. Suffice to say that the two storylines have nothing else in common - phew! The play concerns Ellen, a young heiress (daughter of a deceased lawyer) who is confined to a wheelchair, although her doctor believes there's nothing really wrong with her. She is looked after by her father's second wife and a housekeeper. When the doctor has to go to France, he calls in a nurse and a second doctor to look after her.

There is an odd aspect of the plot of the play which didn't seem to make sense in legal terms - it concerns the late lawyer's will. And I wasn't the only person to spot the anomaly. The explanation, I suspect, comes from the fact that the play was written by an American and originally set in the US, where the law is different. The action of the version I watched has been transposed to the UK, with the house relocated to a cliff in Kent, overlooking the English Channel. However, whoever amended the script (many years ago, I suspect) would have done better to correct the error - it could have been done quite easily.

I'd never heard of George Batson (1918-77), but Amnon Kabatchnik's invaluable Blood on the Stage reveals that he wrote nine plays, including one called Ramshackle Inn (1944) which enjoyed poor reviews but a good run. Kabatchnik reckons that The House on the Cliff is his most intriguing work, and I certainly enjoyed the performance by the Bridgewater Players. The challenging role of Ellen was particularly well-handled by Maria Marano, while Deborah Harper was a suitably equivocal stepmother and Cat Mercer a breezy nurse. Groups such as the Bridgewater Players deserve a good deal of support, and the first two nights of the three-night run were sold out. I managed to get tickets for the Saturday performance simply because it clashed with Strictly Come Dancing! I was glad I watched the play instead...

Thriller of the Year - theatre review

Until last Thursday, I'd not gone to the theatre for more years than I care to remember. It's not because of any lack of enthusiasm - as a student, I used to go to see plays constantly -, but I found working life (especially when my commute home often lasted until about 8.15 pm)  and the need to write at weekends incompatible with theatre-going. One has to prioritise. But this is something I'd like to change, and at least I've now made a start on fulfilling this ambition

The play I went to see was a local am dram production - Thriller of the Year, performed by the Bridgewater Players. The venue was Thelwall Parish Hall, down the road from home, which I last visited a couple of years ago to give a talk about crime writing. The Players are a long-established group - this production is their 179th. I've often seen adverts for their productions, but never found the time to watch them. Having prepared for the evening with a nice meal in the cosy low-beamed village pub across the road, I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

The play dates from the late 60s - a landline telephone plays a central part in the story, and there are plenty of other period touches. The storyline rather appealed to me, a few days after receiving the Poirot- it features a crime writer returning home after winning an award! A variety of incidents make it seem as though someone wants her dead, and is using her prize-winning thriller as a template for the crime.

Glyn Jones wrote the play, and one notable feature is that the cast of five is all female. Jones was a South African born actor, playwright, novelist, director, and lyricist who achieved the unusual feat of writing one early episode of Doctor Who and appearing in another. Some bits of the dialogue are rather wooden, and would have been in the 60s, and there were one or two iffy plot elements, but overall I was entertained. And the cast, led by Anita Rushman as the author Gillian Howard, overcame any first night nerves to do a sound job. I must also say that a ticket costing six quid with a cup of coffee and biscuits included has to represent fantastic value for a good evening out. Overdue as it was, I was glad finally to make the acquaintance of the Bridgewater Players.