Why I'm falling for East 17
We seem to have chosen just the right moment to move to Walthamstow. The week before we got the keys to our new flat at the end of August last year, the area's only cinema – closed since the previous summer – reopened under new ownership. Next, in March, the Times named E17 the best place to live in London. Getting 'Stay Another Day' stuck in my head every time I write my postcode seems a fair price to pay for such heights. Then, last Friday, the new outpost of Soho Theatre, the confusingly named Soho Theatre Walthamstow, opened. It's not often that a PR invite lands in my inbox that I actually want to say yes to, but a long-anticipated opening night a ten-minute walk from my flat? It was an easy yes.
The site has been a cultural landmark since 1887, when a Victorian music hall opened there. The building that now exists opened in 1929 as a cinema, and was often frequented by Alfred Hitchcock, who was born in the borough (though too late, sadly, for William Morris, our other famous alumnus). Later, it operated as a music venue, hosting the Beatles, the Who, the Rolling Stones and Buddy Holly. In 2003 the building was bought by the Universal Church of the Kingdom of God, but they were unable to get planning permission, and it fell into disrepair. Various groups campaigned for it to be restored and reopened as an arts venue, and in 2018 the council acquired it and announced that Soho Theatre would operate it.
We missed all these years of hard work by local activists, swanning in at the last-minute for the rewarding part. But still, seeing the buzz on the street on opening night, I felt pride for my little corner of London. For our first six months of living in the area, the theatre was boarded up and, save for the odd glimpse through a door left open by a workman, we had no idea what lay behind. As it turns out, what lay behind was an opulent baroque theatre, which, at 1,000 seats, proffers a new sort of comedy venue for the capital: far bigger than Soho Theatre's Dean Street home, but far smaller the Hammersmith Apollo.
The opening-night show, Weer by the LA comedian Natalie Palamides, is a piss-take of Nineties comedies, in which Palamides plays both on-off lovers over the course of their three-year relationship. When her right-hand side faces the audience she is Mark, with a plaid shirt and a brooooooo-ish drawl; her left is Christina, in alarmingly low-rise jeans and a G-string pulled up to her waist. It's an extraordinary feat of physical comedy; Palamides, at various points, runs into herself, snogs herself, tries to revive herself after a car crash. It's clownish, explicit, and fearless.
There are a lot of in-jokes – knowing nods to the duality of the performance; references to Notting Hill and The Notebook – and some truly hilarious audience participation (though perhaps I'd feel differently had I been called upon to pretend to dance in a club on stage). Those roped in are generally good sports, though Palamides has to petition three audience members before one will deliver the traditional 'discovering he's cheating' voicemail. I am all ready to go, should the mic be pointed in my direction: 'Hey baby, I had so much fun last night. You left your pants behind…' There's also a lot of nakedness; I keep waiting to get used to the fact that Palamides has her boobs out for a considerable chunk of the show, but the moment never comes. After a high-energy 80 or so minutes, Palamides gives an emotional thank you and the whole room stands to applaud, and I find myself moved that this space could mean so much to so many, as I often am by collective demonstrations of emotion.
I never really wanted to move to Walthamstow – leaving Islington was a financial necessity more than anything. But I'm getting to know it, growing to love it, more each day. Here's hoping those drawn out to the end of the Victoria Line by our very own Soho Theatre don't feel the same, because house prices are bad enough as it is.
[See also: The solitary life of bees]
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