Thursday, June 22, 2017

Dammit. So it's still running too long. Full run last night and it sat, albeit with some dithering, at one hour and 48 minutes. I'm aiming for a nice neat 90 minutes. So the great debate is how much will they speed up when they're consistently concentrating. 

Ty /Gregor said last night, with great surprise, "it's actually really funny. I hadn't realised". In fact, I think his actual words were "it's a hilarious farce". Which I had to take issue with like a pedant as it's not farcical in the slightest really. But I hope that my dark mind has yielded something that's darkly funny. Certainly, we're all laughing away watching it in that slightly slavishly adoring way that comes from seeing it too many times and anticipating your favourite bits. But we are undoubtedly biased.

I continue amazed at how much I love rehearsals. I arrived 8 minutes late from a train back from London last night and by rights, should have had no appetite at all for such frivolity when I'd been up since 5:30am. 

But beyond furious irritation when the actors were mostly late and - I'm guessing - hadn't travelled from another country to the rehearsal rooms, they won my heart again. They're acting now, you see, as well as urgently trying to learn their lines (books down on Monday!). And everytime they do a few little lines particularly well or get just the right facial expression, I want to jump up and hug them. And the final scene. Boof. 

I wait with equal terror and anticipation to see whether people (an audience - for we must have one at some point I suppose. But oh the bad language. Thank goodness I didn't make young Brad say the worst of words. Think of the grandparents!) are appalled or thrilled. Or just ambivalent. What larks.

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Rehearsals lope on. To my surprise, I'm dearly loving it. Now the terrible scrutiny of is the script good enough is over (more or less), I'm left with the comical delight of seeing people I don't know (and some I do!) wrestle with words from my head.

It turns out my head (my lack of background research) failed me when it came to the Scottish judicial system. Last night, the lawyer in the cast told me sheepishly that the scene I described when the photographer is taken in for questioning by the Police would never have happened.

We ran the show from start to end on Sunday and it was - at a kind estimate - twenty minutes too long. At a mean estimate, thirty minutes too long. I think over-running in the Fringe is the height of rudeness so am currently on an editing rampage. It will clearly speed up when they know their words and know where to stand. But it'll be nice to leave them pause for thought too.

So the implausible prison scene, despite containing a beloved (by me only) line about a man whose eyes were filled with blood (the ultimate horror surely in a play of aesthetic overload), is gone. And it turns out that 'most everyone had secretly thought it didn't work but no-one was vulgar enough to mention it.

I love that, three weeks in, they feel that they can speak their minds. This is a good sign, right?

Friday, June 02, 2017

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

 
From Justine to Ty, following their first meeting.  
I'm on high magpie alert now for anything that helps us get this show on the road. I spotted this at the weekend and thought it would be just about perfect for Ruby. I'm sure our budget would run to Dior, right, DG? 

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

More homework, courtesy of, well, Vivienne Westwood, but B S second.



Monday, May 22, 2017

Last minute? Me?

Daft, isn't it, as in some respects, I'm so far ahead of myself (for now) that I've been fussing around making the show programme over the past few weeks. And yet it's Monday and I start rehearsals on Wednesday and I'm - admittedly somewhat belatedly as I've already written the script - doing some research into the characters.

Better late than never, right? 

Anyway, in case I needed an excuse to read the likes of this, a Fringe show could hardly be a better one. 

Friday, May 19, 2017

I missed the first 45 minutes of the National Theatre's live relay of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? last night. Cineworld blamed a technical fault but as the screen didn't leap into life for about 20 minutes after the advertised start time, we fear they just forgot to turn the projector on.

The remaining portion was worth the wait. I didn't like the set - lumbering and claustrophobic (though I'm sure this was intentional) and apparently, according to a strange sudden monologue in the second, brief interval, reminiscent of a boxing ring (it was approximately square), it did little to conjure up the dilapidated jumble of slightly impoverished academia that I feel should be their house. 

I also didn't like George. He seemed permanently on the brink of tears which is, I suppose, a legitimate interpretation of the role. But not mine. Richard Godden wins that showdown.
Caroline Hood stole Honey almost from the (45 minutes in) get go. Imogen Poots was very good but lacked the terrifying brittle-ness that Caroline gave her. 

The jury's out on the Nick. They were both pretty good.

But Imelda was the star. My reason for traipsing along to see this looooong play when it must only be one year since I last saw it. And although I love the words and the script and the evil, I'm not sure much else would have lured me back but a marvellous Martha.
My only objection was she was a little neat and petite. I feel Martha should be fleshier. Mel is / was a slim little thing too but somehow burst out of her dress far more lasciviously and efficiently than Imelda managed. But you can't do anything about that. She roared and purred and gyrated and bawled and was quite quite wonderful in her eulogy to their decaying relationship. 

As ever, Michael B says it better than I do. But on short, I'm glad I put myself out for the two hours and twenty of it that reached us. I dearly wish I'd seen it live. That would have been some experience.