The Rime of the Ancient Mariner at The Old Vic Tunnels

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner at The Old Vic Tunnels had "major event" written all over it. That meant moving quickly to get tickets before they sold out, which of course they did.

Having plonked a theatre date in the diary I made a day of it and went to the Wallace Collection first then took a bus down to Waterloo. And that is where the evening's adventure began.

I had been to the Old Vic Tunnels a few times so I knew where they are. I also thought that I knew where the entrance is but the information provided with the ticket made it clear that this time a different entrance would be used, one in Leake Street.

Leake Street was easy enough to find and I entered from the north-west side via York Road. The first impression is not good. The road/path runs under all of the Waterloo platforms and so is long and dark. It was also mostly occupied with youths blatantly spraying on the walls.

A few tentative steps in to the street reassures you that the youths are for more interested in art than robbery and that this art is encouraged. That is why Leake Street is also known as Graffiti Tunnel.

Some of graffiti was just tags and while they were in exotic fonts they were just letters. However, a considerable chunks of it was pictures and some of those were amazing. Like this one.

Even with precise directions the theatre entrance was hard to find.

This is it.

I was pretty sure that I was in the right place but I was still mightily relieved when somebody came out and could confirm it.

That also confirmed that I was the first person in the queue which was unintentional, unexpected and an opportunity that I was not going to let slip.

Other bemused theatre goers arrived and were equally pleased to have somebody to reassure them that they were in the right place and so there was quite a gaggle of us all trying hard to feel comfortable and not to look too much out of place.

The doors opened on schedule and the queue for the main door moved directly to the queue for the theatre. There was a bar and we were frequently encouraged to use it but the only people who did so were in teams where one could get provisions while the others protected their place in the queue.

Having maintained my position at the front of the queue I determined to translate that to a seat in the front row.

Finding the front row was the final challenge.

There were rows of folding seats and in front of those a were a few loose crates. I took a bit of convincing that these were also for sitting on but once convinced I claimed a low on at the very front.

This is the view that I had. All that queueing was worth it.

I was not quite sure what to expect. It was billed as a "performance" but that is such a vague term. Other performances of the written word that I have seen include a straight reading and one where the narrator moved from chair to bookcase occasionally, presumably to keep his circulation going.

This was a true performance. Fiona Shaw acted out the story with some help from a dancer who did little actual dancing but did move very gracefully.

For all but an hour I sat on my wooden box bewitched by what I was hearing and watching. The drama and tension filled the confined space of the tunnels left with nowhere to run except inside the audience. It was a beautiful experience.

At the end the tension suddenly lifted and we fought it back with long rapturous applause. Fiona responded by crying from the emotional effort. We could go home and let the experience swim through us, she had to do it again an hour later.

I was hoping for a special event and I got a special performance in a special venue and that made it an extra special event.

The Sea Plays at The Old Vic Tunnels

Certain events have "visit me" stamped on them in large bold letters and this was one of them.

Eugene O’Neill’s Anna Christie at the Donmar Warehouse was one of my theatrical highlights of the last year and so the chance to see some of his earlier works in similar settings was always going to be attractive.

The Old Vic Tunnels is one of London's most unusual theatres which makes it well worth a visit even for "average" shows.

And it was my birthday.

The theatre does what is say on the tin, it is in the old tunnels that run under the approach to Waterloo Station.

There are now some signs at the station directing you towards the theatre but once you get there the theatre refuses to admit its presence.

What you find is a nondescript and uncared for door in an equally unloved industrial brick wall.

This is the entrance to the theatre.

Arriving a little before it opened it was fun to see the groups of people walking past, then back again before pausing to ask if you knew where the theatre was only to have to explain that they were there.

Come opening time the door opens and a man appears to guide the theatre goers in.

What you find there is, not surprisingly, tunnels.

Some effort has been made to clean them up and to make them safe but none has been spent on decorating or disguising them.

These tunnels are proud of what they are.

On this occasion some of the alcoves held barrels and ropes suggesting that we might be in a boat.

Having had a quick beer in the makeshift bar we were led to the screening room where the plays were to be performed. On the way we had one final treat with some of the actors stoking away in the boiler room.

The performance area was just another tunnel into which some temporary seats had been added.

The stage was set as the heart of a large boat with the brick walls melting in to metal bulk heads.

The brutality and functionality of the theatre could not have been more appropriate.

Suddenly we were in the middle of a storm with high winds, braking waves and a tossing ship.

The reaction from the crew was hectic and frantic and we had furious motion to add to the light and noise.

In the chaos one of the sailors falls injured.

And then we are into Bound East for Cardiff which follows the last days of the sailor.

He lies in bed seriously ill, his friends surprised that he survived at all, but there is nothing that anybody can do for him other than hope that he lives until they get to Cardiff.

There is no doctor or medical cabinet on board and all that the Captain can offer is some more generic remedy that is entirely ineffective.

As he lies ill he discusses a shared dream with a colleague. Both have ambitions to leave the nautical life and to start a new life, and family, on a small farm in somewhere like Argentina.

In the Zone takes us forward a few years and in to the First World War.

Here the same crew, with one new member, is heading for Liverpool with munitions. They are blacked-out in fear of U-Boats.

They are also scared of German spies and stories are exchanged of their threat and of some being found in Canada.

Suspicion then turns on their newest member who had been seen behaving suspiciously in the night.

The play revolves around this suspicion, their reaction to it, the crew member's reaction to them, and the reason for his behaviour.

The Long Voyage Home takes us on-shore. The men have a lot of money to spend (many months wages) and want to spend it on cheap whiskey and cheaper women.

Except for the middle-aged Swede who has saved for two years and is booked on a steamer home, as a passenger, where he plans to spend some time with his aged mother before she dies.

Drunk men with money will always attract those with lesser motives and the Swede becomes a target when the rest of the crew leave to carry a colleague back to the boat. It does not end well.

The three plays are connected by their characters, portrayal of the harsh life they lead and the emotions drawn from some of the harsh events (death, accusation, betrayal). This is why they work well together.

They are also very good plays enhanced by the unusual setting, the way that the director takes advantage of this and the cast that all play their significant part in the whole.

And to think that they did all that just because it was my birthday.

Alan Moore's Unearthing

Witnessing Alan Moore's Unearthing is one of the oddest things that I have ever done, but not the oddest thing that I've done this week! It was an exhilarating mix of charm and strangeness that I hope to understand better through the cathartic act of writing about it. Here goes.


I should come as no surprise that I love bricks, industrial architecture and exploring and the venue scored highly on all three counts.

The Old Vic Tunnels are beneath Waterloo Station and the performance space has been created with minimal change and effort.

There is little outside to indicate that you are anywhere near a theatre, only the presence of a lone security guard gives the game away. And even then questions have to be asked to confirm the assumption.

The route in from the inauspicious entrance is dark, mysterious and confusing. Guides stand at appropriate places to direct the lost (all of us) to the next chamber on the path to the inner sanctum. Voices and footsteps echo with trepidation.


The path ends in a bar made warm and welcoming by dark reds, familiar household furniture and a few wall ornaments.

The beer helped too, even if all the beer they had was small bottles of Stella.

The good company also helped. I'd been in electronic contact with David for some years but this is the first time that we had actually met. And having got married recently, David also brought his wife April (or she brought him; I didn't ask).

The good company and beer were needed as the pre-event drink got extended by around twenty minutes due to technical difficulties.

Then the doors was opened and we were allowed in to the performance area which revealed itself to be another tunnel with a low stage and old cinema seats sliding up towards the arched ceiling.

On the stage were some electronics for the musicians to play with and a small desk and chair at the front for Alan Moore to deliver his script from.

At that point I had almost no idea what to expect and I'm not sure that I got much wiser over the next three hours.


The simple explanation is to say that it is the story of Steve Moore, a sometimes colleague of Alan's but never a relation.

Unearthing was clearly written to be read out loud and probably by Alan. The structure and rhythm reminded me a little of Under Milk Wood but I offer that as a comparison only because I can think of nothing else that it is remotely like.

Obviously a few others there did not know what to make of it either and there were a few departures in the first interval. But only a few.

The story reasonably traditional being chronological and biographically but this may be a subterfuge to trap the unwary as some mysteries seep in to the tale and it gradually changes and ends in a frenzied paradox where Steve Moore follows what the story says he will do in the future.

The three hours leading to that are mesmerising and compelling. The story, the rhythm of the reading, the richness of the language, the music amplifying the mood and the projected pictures all combined to make an experience that assaults the senses and the imagination on many levels.

The talk finished almost exactly at the bewitching hour. Alan quickly left the stage leaving the musicians to receive the genuine and deserved applause. Then there was just time for a final beer before catching the 00:42 to Kingston.

I would like to hear Unearthing again to try and understand it better and, therefore, to enjoy it more but the boxed set is on Amazon for a very unappealing £100. I can wait.

I am not sure that I am any the wiser about the event having corralled my thoughts on it into this post but I can settle on the certainty that it was a thoroughly enjoyable and stimulating evening and one that I would gladly repeat.