Three stars
Imagine Last of the Summer Wine set on a Clyde puffer
and you'll be close to the mild-mannered territory of Neil Munro's Para
Handy stories. Written initially as a newspaper column in 1905, they
are the whimsical tales of the eponymous Para Handy (a Gaelicisation of
Peter Macfarlane), the skipper of the Vital Spark, on his voyages from
the Inner Hebrides to Glasgow, shipping coal, herring and, on a
humiliating day, sawdust.
It is ephemeral stuff, but also much loved, not least thanks to the three television adaptations, the most recent starring Gregor Fisher.
It is in this spirit of affection that director John Bett has adapted
the stories for this mainstage tour. The show tootles about on gentle
waters, an episode here, an anecdote there, before alighting on the
slow-burning romance between Jimmy Chisholm's genial Para Handy and
Annie Grace's prim Mary Crawford, the baker's widow.
Typically, this romance seems more to do with Mary's cakes than any primal lust. In this world of minor misdeeds and gentle japes, the appeal of Para Handy and his crew is in their sexlessness. Despite their years, they are childlike innocents at large in an unthreatening world, a romantic vision of Highland naivety, sweet tempered, well meaning and mildly eccentric.
Endearing though all this is, Bett seems to understand it's scarcely substantial enough for a proper play. Consequently, he places equal emphasis on Robert Pettigrew's live score, a rousing compendium of sea shanties and folk songs, sung with gorgeous harmonies by musicians and actors alike. It often feels less like a play than a ceilidh with the odd sketch thrown in.
The approach maintains the breezy spirit of the originals while rooting the stories in their Highland home. It's utterly inessential, but performed with too much gusto to dislike.
Typically, this romance seems more to do with Mary's cakes than any primal lust. In this world of minor misdeeds and gentle japes, the appeal of Para Handy and his crew is in their sexlessness. Despite their years, they are childlike innocents at large in an unthreatening world, a romantic vision of Highland naivety, sweet tempered, well meaning and mildly eccentric.
Endearing though all this is, Bett seems to understand it's scarcely substantial enough for a proper play. Consequently, he places equal emphasis on Robert Pettigrew's live score, a rousing compendium of sea shanties and folk songs, sung with gorgeous harmonies by musicians and actors alike. It often feels less like a play than a ceilidh with the odd sketch thrown in.
The approach maintains the breezy spirit of the originals while rooting the stories in their Highland home. It's utterly inessential, but performed with too much gusto to dislike.
© Mark Fisher 2011
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