Oh. My. God. And to think, I damn nearly missed it. I went to see the Bell Shakespeare production of Much Ado About Nothing at the Opera House last night. And it was, quite simply, the best theatre experience I've ever had, by a country mile. It was the play and the players, they just had me doubled over with laughter. It was, it just was...outstanding. It just worked. For me it was the night, the seat, everything, it just clicked.
Oh, but the play's the thing, and you know how I love Bill. And I'm not sure if it was seeing it down with Oz accents, though the action was set in post war Italy and a lot of the action and comedy came from delightful send ups of our beloved post-war Italians, or, maybe, as some say, the Oz accent is archaic and is closer to Elizabethan English than any plummy RSC tones, or maybe the cast were such fabulous clowns, but it was all far, far more ribald and raucous than any Shakespeare I've seen before. I loved it.
The players? All of them excellent. Mr Gilles make the clown a fellow of almost tragedy with his simple, well meaning misunderstandings and failing sense of his own importance, oh, everyone was just perfect, from oily Leonato to Borachio (who did wonders with a small role), but Toby Schmitz as Benedick. Oh my god. He was funny and louche and flirted wildly with the audience, h the was a wonder to behold. I am entranced. Move over Hollywood, here's another one for you. This boy is solid gold.
I'm still giggling over the scene when he's hiding under the billiard table as Claudio and the Prince impossibly describe Beatice's wild passion, and the triangle, or whatever it is gets thrown under the table and he jumps, then signals to us that it missed a rather important piece of anatomy by that much. Oh, Toby, you shameless scene stealer, you.
I have never seen a production I've loved so much. Oh, to go back again, but, alas, I can't. I wish somebody would record this production. It's magic.
Just as well I enjoyed myself last night as it was decidedly frosty this morning, and I don't just mean the weather, which absolutely everyone has remarked upon. No, it was the thin lipped wall of silence that greeted me this morning. Too many late nights in, keeping the household up, oh dear. Well, if there was a way of tip toeing in I'd do it, but as the front door has also required itself to be kicked in ala Gene Hunt as it always sticks, and badly, there's nowt to be done. And maybe, on a frosty night, I do want a cuppa, or, as per last night, a gloriously sticky hot chocolate imptovised from left over Maltesers (it worked rather too well, I'm afraid, as in I'd not be dissauded from attempting such silliness again).
Sigh. Oh well. The rest of the office ain't in yet, so I'm sure I'll get my well deserved kicks and lumps today.
Lumps they be. Tried to be polite and professional but as I'm sleep deprived it's very easy to find fault, and find fault they do. I know I'm pushing it this week but I always get a bit desperate, when work becomes so miserable I'm driven to tears, to prove that there's more to life than this. And there is. It's just that sleep and typing aren't factoring in as much as they should. Maybe tonight. An hour of struggling with cold hands on the keyboard and then a shivering attempt to get to sleep (no heaters allowed).
But I'm glad I went last night. A few hours to myself and to revel in the sheer joy of the performance. That was it, the joy. The players seemed to be having a good night of it, and everyone joined in. That's what I like about Shakespeare plays. They don't preach at you like some mad Methodist minister, they frolic, and invite you to the party. They address you, include you, explain, welcome, nudge and wink.
Shakespeare always considers his audience, something a lot of tv writers forget, I feel. It's not passive art to be marvelled at and understood by the few. It's entertainment for the people who bothered to show up, so do try and be entertaining. You'd think that'd be obvious, but so often it seems an afterthought, if at all. Sorry, grumbling. Must the come down. It was amazing last night. It really was.
Am I the only person that looked at today's Google animation & wrongly thought it celebrated the Order of St Beryl? http://bit.ly/iSRgAC
Oh my god. I swear, if there is something I haven't dropped, tripped over, spilt, broken, snagged, rumpled or walked into today, well, let's just say I'm Klutzy McKlutz today. You'd all be well advised to steer well clear of my orbit today.
So, Wednesday? Four meetings and a nervous breakdown, pretty much. I didn't mention any monkeys, which Himself remarked was strategic, but it didn't mean I wasn't publicly berated and humiliated in every single one. My hands are still shaking (hence the drop everything festival).
Late day, too, but I still stayed up dutifully and did my alloted 1.5 hours of typing. Didn't do any last night so it's a three hour sesh tonight (if I don't have my head in a bucket).
Yesterday? Blah, but I did get to the park and discovered that all I really needed was sunshine. A bit of sun and warmth and I cheered up enough to get out the old spiral bound notebook and be scribbling away frantically. Scribbling away soo furiously I didn't notice the mounted police until they almost stepped on top of me. Clearly, I am a suspicious looking character. I blame my ancestors (rakes, to a man). Fortunately, I wasn't writing gay porn, so they clopped on.
Actually it was a very pivotal scene, where Neal makes a grand declaration and a grand gesture. Alas, Peter has more practical concerns, because he's Peter and has to live in the real world, and, for the boys, it is the peak of their relationship. Afterwards, their differences become more pronounced, their disagreements more bitter and vicious, the way things do once sex enters the equation. Peter loves Neal, make no mistake, but Neal is very hardwork. He doesn't live in Peter's world or live by Peter's rules and while Peter enjoys the romance of Neal's rarified existence, he just can't make the jump.
I'm not judging, it's just like Neal is a fire sign, and poor Pete is a plodding Capricorn, looking up at the stars, but always mindful of the bottom line.
Oh, stars, I saw the planets this morning. Pretty.
Anyways, speaking of scribbling fic in parks, I forgot to mention how bemused I was that the White Collar ep they screened last Sat was filmed quite a bit in Madison Square Park, and if anyone read the blog last year you'll know that was my base camp during my visit to New York. I spent a lot of hours sitting there, scribbling away, on the very seat young Bomer was occupying, and, given the filming dates, not long vacated by myself.
It's a good thing furniture doesn't really pick up the vibes of previous occupants otherwise poor wee Bomer would have been fairly slammed mit ze gay porn. Can you imagine the poor little boy sitting there, unaware, when, suddenly, 'Somebody was writing WHAT about me?!' Oh yeah, baby. Read it and weep.
Still, funny. It's not often that the objects of my dark arts actually arrange themselves where I've committed the wicked deeds. Colin and Brad should probably avoid the lovely lawn in front of Pierrefonds, heh, and Bomer should avoid the steps of the library, oh my, yes. And Bomer really, really needs to avoid Tarallucci E Vino on 1st Ave, oh my, yes. I scrawled out screeds and screeds there.
Last night? Hot chocolates and space pirates. Watched a naughty version of Doctor Who as I was still in the doghouse and hoped, as ever, Mr Bonneville yo-ho-ho-ing about the place would go some small way to appeasement (diito the Haigh's hot chocolate). It wasn't a bad as episode, but not all that I'd hoped, though maybe I was just tired. There were some great moments, and I was bemused about attempting to ward off the siren (beautifully done, btw) with the Not Starbucks symbol. They'd gone to such pains to make it Not Starbucks that they might have well not have bothered, such was the effect of drawing attention to it, if you know what I mean.
It also jarred a bit with the whole lecture about the gold. That sounded far more Tennant, as Matt's Doc tends to be all pre Eighties grey areas and mercifully not so on message. The sudden turn from ghost story to after school special really annoyed me and I just couldn't get back into it after that, which was a pity, because it was quite creepy up until that moment.
Alas, the ending was very, very Stargate and I'm afraid there was a chorus of 'Oh my god, they've killed Rory!'. 'You bastards!'.
They need to try and not kill Rory for at least two episodes running, if they can possibly manage it. It has become a joke now. It was a joke last series, actually, now it's getting really quite annoying, especially if one likes Rory, as I do. Talk about passive aggressive writers who just want Amy and the Doc to hook up (would that Neal's GF was subjected to such aggressive trials by OTP writers).
Speaking of which, Human Target introduced a chick into the mix of the formerly buddy cop brotherhood of the show, and now it's cancelled. Are we listening, White Collar?
No, of course not. Story arcs, unwanted characters and pissing off fans are not the way to go in these difficult times. Why are you doing this? Why?
Never mind. We'll always have Madison Square Park, I guess. Everything must change, and not always for the better (and, yes, now I'm old it's almost always for the worst, I know).
Speaking of things I would like to see on telly, this just has to be a Doctor Who episode. I mean, mummy's curse, the Titanic, the British Museum, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Rider Haggard? How can you not?
LORD CARNARVON'S DEATH - COLLECTORS IN PANIC. Antiques Sent to Museum.
Argus [Melbourne], 9 April 1923 p 9:
Argus [Melbourne], 7 April 1923, p 25:
Okay, busy day today, so to finish up, the Peanut Gallery found this image, just to prove that the Seventies don't have the sole franchise on hideous interiors. The Fifties weren't all banana shaped coffee tables, either. Behold the world's creepiest candelabra.
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