Theatre on a screen

What's it like to watch Danny Boyle's play <em>Frankenstein</em> at the IMAX? Pretty amazing, actual

The play ends, the audience applauds. But the actors can't hear the clapping -- the audience is dozens, if not hundreds, of miles away. Welcome to NT Live, the National Theatre's series of cinema broadcasts. In the three years it's been running, the project has grown to six annual productions, with each reaching more than 60,000 people via 360 cinemas in 20 countries.

For 2009's Phèdre, which played at the 890-seat Lyttelton Theatre, the single NT Live showing doubled the audience for its run. "As a national theatre, we have an obligation and a desire to reach as many people as possible," says the NT's head of digital media, David Sabel. He is eager to quash comparisons with other live filmings, such as those done by the New York Metropolitan Opera.

"Everyone has this bad idea that when you film live performances, it becomes extremely static, deadening," he says. To counter this, the NT uses between five and eight moving cameras, adjusts the lighting and gives the actors radio mics. (For the latest production, Danny Boyle's Frankenstein, there was another concession to the filming: a loincloth on the previously naked Creature.)

Having seen this play in the National's Olivier Theatre with Benedict Cumberbatch as the doctor and Jonny Lee Miller as the monster, I jumped at the chance to see the roles reversed. I'd been wondering whether the Imax screen could compare with the live experience; to my surprise, I enjoyed it more.

I had missed the subtleties of the actors' facial expressions from the rear stalls and the performance was much better for seeing them. (Also, I have a sneaking suspicion that most actors are TV-trained these days and expansive theatre acting doesn't come naturally.)

Sabel says mine is not an unusual reaction. "We thought it would be a second-best experience but what we found is that aesthetically it's really worked. You can never replace the feeling of being there," he adds, "but you get an incredible intimacy with the performers and there's a real sense of event."

The next NT Live is "The Cherry Orchard" on 30 June. See nationaltheatre.org.uk/ntlive

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She has presented BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and is a regular panellist on BBC1’s Sunday Politics.

This article first appeared in the 28 March 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Why Libya? Why now?

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The mizzly tones of Source FM

Drewzy (male, fortysomething) composedly, gently, talks of “time condensing like dew on a damp Cornish window”.

A mizzly Thursday in Falmouth and the community radio presenters Drewzy and the Robot are playing a Fat Larry’s Band single they picked up in a local charity shop. Drewzy (male, fortysomething) composedly, gently, talks of “time condensing like dew on a damp Cornish window”, and selects a Taiwanese folk song about muntjacs co-operating with the rifles of hunters. The robot (possibly the same person using an electronic voice-changer with a volume booster, but I wouldn’t swear to it) is particularly testy today about his co-host’s music choices (“I don’t like any of it”), the pair of them broadcasting from inside two converted shipping containers off the Tregenver Road.

I am told the Source can have an audience of up to 5,500 across Falmouth and Penryn, although when I fan-mail Drewzy about this he replies: “In my mind it is just me, the listener (singular), and the robot.” Which is doubtless why on air he achieves such epigrammatic fluency – a kind of democratic ease characteristic of a lot of the station’s 60-plus volunteer presenters, some regular, some spookily quiescent, only appearing now and again. There’s Pirate Pete, who recently bewailed the scarcity of pop songs written in celebration of Pancake Day (too true); there’s the Cornish Cream slot (“showcasing artists . . . who have gone to the trouble of recording their efforts”), on which a guest recently complained that her Brazilian lover made her a compilation CD, only to disappear before itemising the bloody tracks (we’ve all been there).

But even more mysterious than the identity of Drewzy’s sweetly sour robot is the Lazy Prophet, apparently diagnosed with PTSD and refusing medication. His presenter profile states, “I’ve spent the last year in almost total isolation and reclusion observing the way we do things as a species.”

That, and allowing his energies to ascend to a whole new plateau, constructing a two-hour Sunday-morning set – no speaking: just a mash-up of movie moments, music, animal and nature sounds – so expert that I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in fact someone like the La’s Salinger-esque Lee Mavers, escaped from Liverpool. I’m tempted to stake out the shipping containers.

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle