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Showing posts with label Libby King. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Libby King. Show all posts

Monday, 9 November 2015

Theatre review: RoosevElvis

A couple of years ago American company the TEAM brought their show Mission Drift to The Artist Formerly Known As Shed, a Vegas-based piece of Americana that was generally well-liked but which I didn't warm to. I believe in giving second chances though, and this time they're at the Royal Court with a show that had many moments that entertained me, but as a whole struggled to remain memorable even as far as the journey home. Ann (Libby King) is a butch, shy lesbian who works in a meat processing plant in South Dakota; having started on reception she was moved to the factory floor as her bosses thought she was "more suited" to that environment, and she's been there for 15 years. She loves Elvis Presley and when she gets back home has imagined conversations with him to stave off her loneliness, until she finds Brenda (Kristen Sieh) on a dating site. After a couple of days together they decide it isn't going to work out, but their extended date includes a trip to Mount Rushmore, where Brenda tells her she comes from the same town as Theodore Roosevelt, whom it seems Elvis idolised in turn. Emboldened by her recent experiences, Ann decides to drive to Graceland in RoosevElvis.

Monday, 17 June 2013

Theatre review: Mission Drift

A play that looks at American capitalism through characters from the nation's early history sounds like a worryingly familiar prospect, but fortunately Mission Drift isn't another Low Road. Unfortunately I'm not quite sure what it is instead. The latest guests in the National Theatre's Shed are US company the TEAM, whose play charts the rise and fall of the American Dream in Las Vegas: Known for its resorts and casinos, it's also a place where everything is transitory. The famous buildings where Elvis and Sinatra played are regularly destroyed in controlled implosions to make way for the next biggest, most expensive hotel, which will in its turn become a relic sooner rather than later; the only reminder of past glories the signs saved and exhibited at a tatty museum called the Neon Boneyard.