Friday night was An Argument About Sex at the Traverse. "A response", the programme suggests (rather pretentiously, I would say) to Marivaux's The Dispute (or whatever it would be in French. La Dispute peut-etre). Well, I would question my response to the play but the set was absolutely outstanding. I would have paid x3 £16 to see that. So a good use of a night.
Saturday night was EUTC's (students. Danger!) 4:48 Psychosis. I love Sarah Kane. You'll know this by now. I love her use of language. I love the bottle of Bulgarian cabernet sauvignon and however many sleeping pills. And the
Watch the stars
predict the past
and change the world with a silver eclipse
It's a delight to listen to. Misery aside. Misery cushioned in lovely language is always more palatable, surely.
Well. Most of this production was unfortunately delivered in a screech. Cast of five. One tormented girl. One psychiatrist. Three millers-about who contributed now and again to proceedings. Holding tormented girl's arms as she yowled and retched through her misery for example.
It was beautifully lit. When they were quiet, it was sometimes effective. There were two nice moments. One - the second countdown from 100. Choked out by tormented girl in a frustrated halftone. Worked very nicely. And two - the exchange towards the end where they imagine what it must be like to be normal. You know, just before she tops herself. Also very nicely done.
But my Bulgarian cabernet sauvignon was flung away. My watching the stars. Well, who knew it was even really there to begin with? And the overall piece was such a groaning wrenching retching squall that it became tiresome.
Andy was there out of love for the play. Poor Gillian. Well, I think she thought it might be a nice night out. Oh well.
Though we had a very nice Viognier in the Hotel du Vin bar subsequently to allay the horror. So it wasn't all bad.
From misery to icy misery. I pitched up to prompt to a poorly heated (heated at all?) church hall at the tail end of the all the rain in the sky falling in one single day Sunday. Still, Wit is in fine form. It's going to be a cracking play. I trust you have bought your tickets?
And in between all of this, reading reading fretfully reading plays. I've made the mistake now of seeking opinion from Others. And of course Others aren't always saying what I dream of hearing (which might, for your information, be "Claire, that's an amazing idea, you're so smart and visionary and imaginative and cool and that script, oh my word if you do that, that will the best thing that the Fringe has ever seen").
I realise now that this is the mistake I make when I try and be democratic.
Saturday night was EUTC's (students. Danger!) 4:48 Psychosis. I love Sarah Kane. You'll know this by now. I love her use of language. I love the bottle of Bulgarian cabernet sauvignon and however many sleeping pills. And the
Watch the stars
predict the past
and change the world with a silver eclipse
It's a delight to listen to. Misery aside. Misery cushioned in lovely language is always more palatable, surely.
Well. Most of this production was unfortunately delivered in a screech. Cast of five. One tormented girl. One psychiatrist. Three millers-about who contributed now and again to proceedings. Holding tormented girl's arms as she yowled and retched through her misery for example.
It was beautifully lit. When they were quiet, it was sometimes effective. There were two nice moments. One - the second countdown from 100. Choked out by tormented girl in a frustrated halftone. Worked very nicely. And two - the exchange towards the end where they imagine what it must be like to be normal. You know, just before she tops herself. Also very nicely done.
But my Bulgarian cabernet sauvignon was flung away. My watching the stars. Well, who knew it was even really there to begin with? And the overall piece was such a groaning wrenching retching squall that it became tiresome.
Andy was there out of love for the play. Poor Gillian. Well, I think she thought it might be a nice night out. Oh well.
Though we had a very nice Viognier in the Hotel du Vin bar subsequently to allay the horror. So it wasn't all bad.
From misery to icy misery. I pitched up to prompt to a poorly heated (heated at all?) church hall at the tail end of the all the rain in the sky falling in one single day Sunday. Still, Wit is in fine form. It's going to be a cracking play. I trust you have bought your tickets?
And in between all of this, reading reading fretfully reading plays. I've made the mistake now of seeking opinion from Others. And of course Others aren't always saying what I dream of hearing (which might, for your information, be "Claire, that's an amazing idea, you're so smart and visionary and imaginative and cool and that script, oh my word if you do that, that will the best thing that the Fringe has ever seen").
I realise now that this is the mistake I make when I try and be democratic.
posted by Claire at 10:08 pm
3 Comments:
Here are a few suggestions that might be up your street or in a neighbouring one:
Huis Clos by Jean Paul Sartre - an always popular show about three people trapped together for eternity, a fourth character is an official in hell.
The American Dream by Edward Albee - bright eyed bushy tailed dark comedy of dysfunctional family.
Duet for One by Tom Kempinski - two hander for suicidal multiple sclerosis victim and psychiatrist.
Stevie by Hugh Whitemore story of poetess who committed suicide.
And don't dismiss Loot by Joe Orton or indeed any of his plays.
I did also suddenly brilliantly think of "Who's Afraid...". But maybe I need the Churchill for that. And besides, I want to be Honey...
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