I am rolling and polling about the place today, though, for shame. Still, I needed cheering up. Maybe that was the idea. They kept talking dessert and I folded like a house of cards, cracked like an egg, etc, etc. Mission accomplished. Oh, but sweet, sweet dessert.
Didn't get any typing done, instead doing the usual chasing my tail on the to do list and not getting a single thing ticked off and done, even though I worked from dawn to dusk. Okay, I did sit down and have long, long tea breaks while watching an episode of Being Human at a time, but that was my televisual spoonful of sugar. And sugar it was. The last two series of BH UK, were, if I'm frightfully honest, not the best. So it wasn't high on the must see list and I'd recorded it while watching something else at the time. And I've been spolied enough to know it all goes horribly wrong, but right now, right now, it's pitch perfect and hilarious. The uptight succubus given the Being Human treatment, the nerdy Blue Peter badge wearing werewolf, the vampire solicitor, the grumpy old guy ghost, the malicious serial killer ghost (behaving like several twats in the workplace, oh my, yes) and the vampire in the Team Edward shirt. Hee. It's like True Blood done Shameless style. And I love Hal. I love him to bits.
Interesting, too, his OCD coping methods, because I remembering somewhere, in vampire lore, back in the days before the interwebs and books could print any damn rubbish they pleased without fact checking or peer review, but I do seem to remember reading something about vampires, in some stories, being very OCD and one way to flee from them is to chuck a handful of seeds at them, so they have to count every grain before resuming the pursuit (Vampire: 'I've come to suck your blood'. You: [Fling!] Vampire: 'Oh...one, two, three...')
I also remember reading that a knotted up fishing net will also work, the vamp has to sit and untangle all the knots before resuming the hunt.
So it's cute that Hal sits on his urges by being OCD to a ridiculous degree, it's using a wee bit of vamp lore I've never seen employed amongst the brooding Bryonic masses until now.
Speaking of brooding and Bryonic, UKTV finally coughed up the last episode of Sense and Sensibility. Phew. I was feeling rather deprived. I mean, I know how it ends, but it's the principle of the thing, and something to watch with a cup of tea as I stagger in from my Sisyphean tasks after sunset. I need my fix of Dominic Cooper/Dan Stevens/David Morrissey romping about in period drag, being broody and Bryonic.
Missed Cambridge Spies with everyone including the Cumberbatch, but those are the breaks. I did catch a bit of Justified and True Blood, which is still WTF, but a rollicking WTF, and I figured I might as well stay with the fangy tortured types.
Caught the end of Wallander (thus ending with a couple more Hals) and I can't help but think 1) the last time I saw this on EvilChannelSeven they must have cut all the Hiddles scenes because he's in it a lot more in the ABC versions, the way I remembered he was, and 2) everytime Wallander dismisses, ignores or in any other way treats poor lil Magnus like the unappreciated drudge that he is, I keep thinking I wouldn't do that if I were you, because you can just see Loki seething beneath the surface. You really can. It's a fun, extra textual layer of watchiness, but it is there because Tom's sulky bitchface is pretty much the same in both. Hee.
Oh, and if you think the interwebs, or at least the invention of the comments box, has hastened the end of days, to quote The Word, then clearly you've not ready any of the weird and wacky phamplets they used to put out when they first got hold of this new fangled printing press thing, and any eejit could get his crackpot theories out there to the masses. Like Prince Rupert's devil dog: Observations upon Prince Rupert's Dogge called Boy.
Reads like a red top tabloid, doesn't it. Anyhoo, speaking of presses, and the demise thereof several centuries later, my most beloved magazine, The Word, has ceased publication. Weep. This was the magazine that contained such poetry as 'the fluttering breeze of flipping through vinyl' and silliness like 'the Hanna-Barbarians at the gate'. The only magazine I was still reading from cover to cover. Oh, the happy day I found my first copy of it, stranded in one one my UK rellies's picturesque but remote and dull to the point of creepy villages, and banned from bringing The Guardian into the house, I picked up The Word instead and read every page while they were away at their bridge club (well, they said bridge club, goodness knows what they really get up to in those creepy little villages, see also Hot Fuzz, Children of The Stones, etc, etc).
I've read it ever since, the magazine for grumpy and ecclectic misanthropes. No more, alas. Oh, what am I to do. It'll be a sad day when my backlog of back issues runs out (I have a stack to get through, which I am now going to savour to an absurd degree, like trying to suck the last bit of flavour from a cheap boiled lolly). Sigh.
I will be sad when my subscriptions end, but sometimes I wonder why I've chosen to inflict so much theatre on myself. Especially this week, where it's here, there and everywhere. Oh yes, there's making up for lost time, and wanting to see people and lights, looking for that bit of magic in a humdrum and tedious existence.
So rare though, but once in a while, there is a night, a performance, that hooks me all over again. Last night was such a night. Maybe because I'd heard it was another shouty, challenging and baffling Teutonic playright, twizzed up by hand wringing inner city aesthetes, a combination that usually fills me with dread, and, by bitter experience, for good reason. WE're talking black turtleneck and beret theatre, the sort of theatre Sydney has never really grown out of.
Mercifully though, this production was from Melbourne, where they love a bit of razzle dazzle, and are not terrified of sets, props, costumes, music or wild actorly flourishes to breathe life into a piece. In fact, it was commented at the end that it wasn't a minimalist bare stage set, perhaps as a snark towards the Belvoir, whose production of Death of a Salesman has been note for it's bare stage (so, not a bit like the creepy, rambling, shadowed, crumbling house of lies and secrets in the NY production, then). Or maybe they've been reading the blog - grin. Hey, set designers have to eat too, you know.
It wasn't an overly structural set, but I did love the wacky, crazy oversized props, like the giant vegetables and the giant hand and statues that were moved around, indicating chaos, decay, and detris long past it's proper use. The music was brief and sparse, but I was tickled by the use of Falco's Rock Me Amadeus, reminding me very well that the play was a slice of mid 80s Austrian diatribe.
As for the play itself, not challenging at all. Europe's in a mess, behaving like battered wives, staggering around pretending it never happened? What else is new? There was a whole local is global and global is local schema going on, as well as the downfall of a once mighty blowhard (and if you didn't get that, there was a picture of Herr H. up on the wall as a clue) but to me, I found it a comedy. I was just laughing along. Maybe abused and abusing families stuck tight in a near cult like sect of submission isn't new to me. To be honest, I rather loved Bille Brown as Bruscon. He brought to life all my father's most florid moments, his overblown passions, his trumpeting self importance masking deep distress, his random acts of cruelty and kindness. Oh yes, Bille brought my father to life again on stage, in all his mighty flaws and foibles. Joy to give the man a loud cheer at the end. Greater joy that he acknowledged my whoop with a wide flourish of a bow.
You'd think I'd be upset, but no, I just thought it was funny. Bille was bloody marvelous. Such a tour de force. I mean, seriously, pages and pages of unpunctuated monologue brought to life with bombastic theatricality. And it worked. Oh, all young actors, and some old, should see this man in action Perhaps unkindly, I was warmed up for this style of extreme stage luviness by listening to a very funny interview with Sir Patrick stewart on Triple J before I had to white rabbit it across to Walsh Bay.
Ah, Walsh Bay. Hate the new bar, the service is wretched, the seats unsittable, but the view is still to die for. I wish my US pals could come out again. I'd take you down that rock face at sunset. And it is a rockface, and to think I usually do it after a couple of beers at the Mercantile, but, like Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor, I need a few to dampen the worst excess of my klutzy Aspergers creepiness, but even stone cold sober, oh, those last straks of orange past the black box of Blue's Point.
Anyhoo, loved the play, the performance, the performers (inlcuding Mr Otto, sighted on stage at last, reminding me rather too much of my fidgety old mother), great audience and best of all, it was actor's night. I can't do subscriptions ever again, but rather than cold turkey I've talked myself down to trying to get a few actors night perfomances, because they're the best, the energy level is high, the audience are proper theatre buffs and I'm actually starting to see some familiar faces. The actors and some production troop out and answer questions on the performance and text, often with extra textual citations, and I just love it to bits. It's educational, and for me, who was taught nothing at school, I need that education.
Best quote of the night was Bille, of course, quoting Confucius: 'Few things in life are more agreeable than seeing your neighbour fall off his roof', in respect to watching the funny/sad fall of the blustering tyrant at the end.
It was a great night out.
Got my hair done and went for a job interview. Sadly not in that order, but it couldn't be helped, and I still did seven hours at the office. Interview? My usual babble, I'm afraid, but I really tried hard, but you know, I don't test well as a human being so I'm sure it'll be thanks but no thanks. Great on paper, creepy monster in real life, alas.
Hair also not the business, but it was almost worth the price of admission, and very pricey it was, for Hermes and his Theatre of Hair. Good grief. Think of David Tennant in his Fright Night gear carrying on like Bugs Bunny in that barber shop sketch.
Oh well. Taking my new hair off to the theatre tonight. The bare stage Belvoir version of Death of a Salesman. Wish me luck.
Oh, I know all my friends love edgy theatre, but for me, and I know I'm turning into my elderly aunts as I say this, but there's a fine line between confronting and vulgar and sometimes, and if I'm not in the mood I feel it gets crossed rather broadly. It's like the actors are scared of that big, bare space and have to behave badly to fill it. Give 'em a couple of giant carrots to carry around, it seems to calm them down.
Still, I've been reasonably satisfied this year. It's always a bit hit and miss for me (though my Broadway choices all got Tony noms) but when they send you the subscription form, well, as the Peanut Gallery mocked, I tick the box for The Importance of Being Earnest, and it's only when the Herald reviews the preview do I realise it's an all naked lesbian post apocalyptic version. In German. In mud. Oh dear.
So, bracing myself for tonight. If I survive, I think I'll take myself off to see Spider-Man sometime. I miss wee Andy Garfield (he was so good as Biff).
Of course, all this busy means I've not done a jot of what I really want to do, which is finish that damn rascally fic. Turned on the telly last night and there was the Bomer, in White Collar. I felt guilted (in my defence, I've met every other single bloody deadline, but my stuff always comes last, as it should).
Meanwhile, there's this picture, which made me think Arkady had manifested himself in film. I wouldn't put it past him, but I'd be miffed.
I know, hyprocrisy knows no bounds, but come on, White Collar is a bunch of one dimensional tropes wandering about a show whose premise seems to have been scratched out on the back of a beer coaster. I mean, that plot? An eighteenth century music box somehow holds the code to finding a sunken Nazi sub and the whole plot relies on Neal breaking out of gaol to find it? Never mind all the so called government comspiracies and secret agendas and hidden identiies they throw in there to confuse already confusing, and dare I say daft, matters. Bulwer-Lytton would have scratched his own eyes out if he'd ever written a plot as hackneyed as that. I'll believe Simon Templar battling giant ants before I'll believe that load of codswallop.
So Arkady needs to stay well away from whatever trite triflings they get up to on screen. Besides, he's mine. He popped into my head, fully formed and wickedly twisted, while I was watering the back garden. One second I was dully watering the ferns under the mandarin tree, the next second I had Arkady there, being a dark shadow of Peter- the leash he keeps Neal on is made of leather, as Arkady sets him to hunt out fraud in his organisation, and Neal's cage has real bars (Neal has run away from home to a frying pan/fire type situation, and serves him right). Heh. I love Arkady. Just when I think he's getting soft and predicatable he surprises me, so much so I nearly missed my bus stop this morning. Alas, no chance to scribble it down. Maybe tonight? Doubt it. Never gonna do it. Story of my so-called life.
Oh well, at least Matty is doing other stuff. Oh, I missed my park window, it's raining now. Sigh. Had to work all through lunch again. Like I said, everything is more important.
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