| Things to do in February besides animating my nose. |
| My cultural highlight of the month was a trip to the Comedy Theatre for a production of R C Sherrif's Journey's End, based on the author's experiences in the trenches of the First World War. In a sense, it's a pity that we've all seen Blackadder goes forth, the great-grandson at a remove or two of this piece, as the latter has perhaps magnified and prismatically distorted our view of life in the dug-outs. Then again, that's the purpose of Elton and Curtis's comedy, whilst Sherrif's first-hand experiences allow some of the absurdities of wartime life a voice in the enveloping tragedy. And yes, there are quite a few laughs, although again, too often I found myself comparing Mason's apologies about his cooking- the lack of pepper or the fact that it would be pineapple chunks rather than apricots for dessert to Baldrick's substitutes for milk, sugar and cappucino. But that is my fault (or at best, Ben Elton's), not the play's. The cast, particularly Geoffrey Streatfeild, as the whiskey-driven Captain Stanhope and David Haig as his closest friend and confessor Osbourne are all great, but was Christopher Coulson as Raleigh, a touch over-the top with his early unblinking enthusiasm? Probably not (again, I'm proably being over-influenced by Hugh Laurie..). My only real gripe was with the ending, so if you don't want to know the result, look away now. Amidst an aural cacophony of explosions bouncing around the very fabric of the theatre as the German attack reaches its peak, a black curtain descends, fading the stage to oblivion. That was a brilliant device, but the director then raises the curtain.once again to reveal the cast staring out unblinking with a memorial stone listing hundreds of the dead behind them.. We all know millions died for nothing- the play in and of itself tells us that- but this addendum confuses too much of the audience: applause rings out, uncertainly. I sometimes think that the greatest applause that any work of art be it a play or a symphony can receive is a long, settled silence before appreciation is audibly made. |
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| But that's just me. Click on the poster for more details and to buy tickets. Click here for some more information on Sherriff, courtesy of Elmbridge District Council. |
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| February has obviously left me feeling a little warped...or else I've just found another graphics package on my computer. |
| Well, it's the 29th of February, and I seem to have got throught the day without anyone feeling the need to propose to me. I've had a fairly busy week or so, and I'm done my usual Sunday trick of only just getting up in time for Coronation Street. A week last Friday saw a very pleasant evening for my ex-flat-mate Catherine's birthday- a pub meal and a few drinks flew by before we headed off to a club somewhere near Kings Cross. It was supposed to be an eighties night but it didn't sound much like that: I stood around in my brown corduroy suit with my Albanian scarf, looking every inch a mid-thirties Geography teacher, and feeling just as out of place. Nonetheless, I suppose it was worth the �7 entrance just to feel so utterly disclocated. I met Catherine the next night at Rachael's oscar-night themed cocktail party. Apparently she had found the eighties night, which was in "another room". It all sounded a bit like the Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allen Poe, where every room in a bacchanalian celebration becomes progressively more debauched... ...not that this is making any sense. My evening became progressively more deranged as rather too many Vodkas and Orange slipped down. The parts of the evening when I discusssed my trip to Tirana , in French, with an Albanian, and had a long chat about the future of the monarchy in New Zealand with a couple of Kiwis seemed to go well. I suppose it was the bit of the evening when I was rescued from hypothermia as I fell asleep on the lawn, followed by the mini-cab driver refusing to take me home in his shiny white car just after I had Jackson Pollacked my shoes that kind of spoilt things. Rachael, though, was gracious in her forbearance and I stayed the night on the sofa- bed. I suppose we must pay for our board with providing a little cabaret. |
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