Caryl Churchchill’s Top Girls- an abstract, exclusively female play about liberal feminism and England’s political crisis in the late 1970s- I initially thought too ambitious for a cast of predominantly GCSE students. The wet floor signs left standing the following morning, marking the puddles of tears shed during the finale, proved otherwise. An unnervingly mature performance from Deryn Andrews perfectly captured the essence of Marlene, the ball breaking business woman who sold her soul to the devil, or at least Thatcher. Switching from cold hearted drawl to remorseful plea with such ease and accuracy allowed her to give a much more tormented and generally bitchier portrayal of Marlene than Lesley Manville could muster in the BBC’s 1991 production (not quite the same, but still worth a YouTube).
Grace Chatsuwan gave an equally mature performance as Joyce, the mother of Angie (no spoilers). Despite playing a frumpy middle aged woman, (a difficult task for any actor, let alone a usually chirpy fifteen year old) her final argument with Marlene was arguably the most moving scene of all, and rumored to be responsible for at least half of the aforementioned puddles. Her resentment for her sister’s Bentley was particularly resonant for much of the audience.
Thousands of audience members claimed to have forgotten it was a school production in the copious thank you letters which have since flooded the English office. It would be easy and appropriate to praise each and every woman involved, but it wouldn’t make great reading. The ability to call year 13 veterans such as Deena, Steph and Evey into the smallest parts, allowing the young guns to flourish, is testament to the strength and depth of the cast. A final individual mention, however, must go to Grace Carr and her chilling performance as Angie. Equally as far away from her highly intelligent self as Chatsuwan is from Joyce, Carr straddled this difference with ease, giving a truly chilling finale whilst resisting the temptation to make a caricature of Angie, as many a lesser actor would have done.
Regardless of how chilling a performance Grace Carr gave, such eeriness could never have been created without the artistic genius of John Grime, using the lights to wonderfully creepy effect. It is a true tragedy that such a director has since announced his retirement- a crime in fact, stealing theatre of its brightest jewel. This news is perhaps accountable for the other half of the teary puddles. However, with such an obvious passion for theatre having now directed 48 plays, I think his fans need not fear- his half century is imminent.
To all those reading this review wishing they too had witnessed the definitive production of the SHB calendar- good news. Evey Ong’s photos of the dress rehearsal are almost as good as the real thing, and we will happily dig them out from the mountain of thank you letters in the English office under which they are buried.