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Order three bouquets if you plan to give out flowers after this classic presentation of Williams’Cat on a Hot Tin Roofat the Apollo Theatre.Hitting her strides, director Cordelia Lewis continues to deliver and for my money she is the most bankable stage director in the UK.
But the accolades must be shared with its two estimable stars, Emilia Blaese and Heath Earnshaw. Ensconced on stage in the vast Mississippi mansion, we are swept up into the prison they have made for themselves, the desperation is palpable.
Earnshaw is superb as Brick, the star athlete who has retreated into alcoholism. His emotional intensity is raw and powerful, and his wife, Maggie (Emiliar Blaese) yearns for the sexual pleasure they once enjoyed – and make no mistake, they have sexual chemistry.
With Big Daddy dying and the inheritance of his estate looming like a ticking time bomb, we are introduced to Big Daddy’s grandchildren – obnoxious spin-offs strategically played for maximum effect.
But of all the performers, all eyes are on Heath Earnshaw’s Brick as we watch his obsessive decline play out on stage. A broken man with injuries, a denial of his love for Skipper and lack of love for Maggie, he is portrayed beautifully as a tormented shell of the man he could be.
The supporting cast is convincing and capable, notably Rhonda Berry as Big Mama and Ena Pattinson as Mae.
A fine production.
Cat on a Hot Tin Roofis at the Apollo Theatre, London, for a three-week season.
*****
Heath swore theEntertainment Weeklyhad sold its soul and become a gossip rag, but love them or hate them, they had been wonderfully supportive of Heath and his talent. I suspected their theatre writer thought the sun shone out of him because every play Heath was in, not only got reviewed but very favourably at that. Nelly and I loved theEntertainment Weekly– it was the insider source of all information from roles that were about to open up, plus industry reviews, and sure, rumours too. It was compulsory reading and their website was updated daily so we found out about auditions.
They got the gossip right. Heath got a movie offer. It was after he did a brilliant job playing Brick inCat on a Hot Tin Roofat the Apollo.On the final night of the production, film producer Edgar Linton was in the audience. It was Nelly who tipped me off. Off stage, I scanned the audience looking for him. It’s not that easy in dim lighting to pick out audience members, usually.
‘Where is he? Which one is Edgar?’ I whispered to her.
‘The shiny, gorgeous one sitting middle centre with the beautiful woman on either side of him,’ she answered.
How did I miss that?
‘Wow,’ I muttered.
‘Yeah, my thoughts exactly,’ Nelly said.
It was like this guy had an aura around him – power and wealth and sexiness. We felt a presence behind us and wheeled around thinking we were in trouble for gathering backstage, which the director doesn’t like, but it was Lockwood.
‘Did you see him too?’ he said, in a low tone. ‘Edgar Linton! Oh my God, he’s amazing.’
We nodded.
‘Nelly spotted him first. Why do you think he is here?’ I asked.
‘To see the play,’ Lockwood stated the obvious.
Nelly and I turned to give him the look. Lockwood shrugged.
‘You think he’s recruiting?’ I asked.
‘Could be,’ Nelly agreed. ‘Or he might have just read the opening night reviews and wanted to see the play before it closed. I wish I had a bigger part now.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, I don’t think he’d be interested in me. He would have signed me up after seeing theWyldegirl in action,’ I joked. ‘But it’s kind of exciting he is here and good for the theatre company, and good for Heath!’
‘I’m going to ask Edgar for a pic with me, or failing that, get a pic with his sister,’ Nelly said. ‘It should attract more followers to my account. That’s a brilliant self-promotion idea even if I say so myself,’ she said, looking pleased with herself.
I knew his sister, Isabella Linton, like one knew a distant neighbour; we’d grown up near each other.
‘Why would you want a pic with his sister?’ I asked, and Nelly and Lockwood both looked at me like I had been living under a rock.
‘Isabella Linton,’ Nelly hissed. ‘For the love of God, Cathy, what do you do in your spare time?’
‘Um… read, walk the moors, learn lines, bed Heath,’ I said and grinned.
