I'd like to say I'd had a weekend of high art but I think that's probably over-stating it. Low to medium art. No, cruel. Medium to high art. We'll settle for that.
Friday night and I saw Douglas Maxwell's new play, The Bookie. By the time I got to the theatre, I'd convinced myself (for no reason that I can now explain) that this was a show for teenagers. About a man that runs a bookmakers. My expectations were moderate to low. Though I love Decky. And now having seen it, I can't quite put my finger on what I thought.
It's a musical is the first thing to say. The band were excellent. Squished into the middle of the stage in the heart of the story, Beggar's Opera / Band Called Quinn style which immediately endeared them to me. The singer started off in the audience. Also immediately endeared them to me. And the singer was superb. Whisky soaked / cigarette sucked voice of gravel and a face to match. He was marvellous.
When it came to the story, was it the characters or was it the presentation of the characters that was a little bit two-dimensional? Hard to say. It was a very slick little production for sure. The plot, as they should, skipped along. The singing appeared to be of variable quality though I'm not convinced that I'm a very good judge of such things. And so (or possibly not at all as a consequence) I found it hard to care much about any of them. I also found it hard to care very much about what was going to happen next. But it was a polished show. I liked it but I didn't. Puzzling.
Saturday saw me peel myself up from my pit far earlier than I would have liked on account of too much alcoholic consumption the night afore and returning to the Traverse for a dose of Ben Harrison, Co-Artistic Director of Grid Iron, sharing his wisdom about writing site-specific theatre. Far less interested in writing than just doing site-specific stuffs - and far too hungover to think about writing much more than my name as the day began - this was a delightfully satisfactory session. He talked a great deal about himself and shows that they had done which luckily was very interesting. We did a couple of writing exercises but luckily, nothing terribly taxing. And we spent a great deal of time wandering about backstage at the Trav, scouting for possible locations and inspiration. Which turned into an exercise in spotting the pretentious actor vs. the regular joe who just wanted to write a bit vs. the hungover just wanted it all to be over participants. But I daresay I learnt something along the way.
Saturday night was a pocket production of Carmen, courtesy of Scottish Opera. I wondered through the first act if I was just becoming too cynical for my own good (becoming..?) or if I just hated opera. I ascertained in the interval from the wisdom of mother that the singing was patchy, the acting lacklustre, yes indeed the costumes could be improved upon and the pianist attempting to fill in for all instruments maybe didn't do the score supreme justice. So I felt justified in my (failed - they were too noisy) attempts to sleep through the second half. I departed from the theatre sympathising more with 8 year old Miriam. "Why on earth did they have to break into song every five seconds..?" My conversion to opera is clearly not yet complete.
Friday night and I saw Douglas Maxwell's new play, The Bookie. By the time I got to the theatre, I'd convinced myself (for no reason that I can now explain) that this was a show for teenagers. About a man that runs a bookmakers. My expectations were moderate to low. Though I love Decky. And now having seen it, I can't quite put my finger on what I thought.
It's a musical is the first thing to say. The band were excellent. Squished into the middle of the stage in the heart of the story, Beggar's Opera / Band Called Quinn style which immediately endeared them to me. The singer started off in the audience. Also immediately endeared them to me. And the singer was superb. Whisky soaked / cigarette sucked voice of gravel and a face to match. He was marvellous.
When it came to the story, was it the characters or was it the presentation of the characters that was a little bit two-dimensional? Hard to say. It was a very slick little production for sure. The plot, as they should, skipped along. The singing appeared to be of variable quality though I'm not convinced that I'm a very good judge of such things. And so (or possibly not at all as a consequence) I found it hard to care much about any of them. I also found it hard to care very much about what was going to happen next. But it was a polished show. I liked it but I didn't. Puzzling.
Saturday saw me peel myself up from my pit far earlier than I would have liked on account of too much alcoholic consumption the night afore and returning to the Traverse for a dose of Ben Harrison, Co-Artistic Director of Grid Iron, sharing his wisdom about writing site-specific theatre. Far less interested in writing than just doing site-specific stuffs - and far too hungover to think about writing much more than my name as the day began - this was a delightfully satisfactory session. He talked a great deal about himself and shows that they had done which luckily was very interesting. We did a couple of writing exercises but luckily, nothing terribly taxing. And we spent a great deal of time wandering about backstage at the Trav, scouting for possible locations and inspiration. Which turned into an exercise in spotting the pretentious actor vs. the regular joe who just wanted to write a bit vs. the hungover just wanted it all to be over participants. But I daresay I learnt something along the way.
Saturday night was a pocket production of Carmen, courtesy of Scottish Opera. I wondered through the first act if I was just becoming too cynical for my own good (becoming..?) or if I just hated opera. I ascertained in the interval from the wisdom of mother that the singing was patchy, the acting lacklustre, yes indeed the costumes could be improved upon and the pianist attempting to fill in for all instruments maybe didn't do the score supreme justice. So I felt justified in my (failed - they were too noisy) attempts to sleep through the second half. I departed from the theatre sympathising more with 8 year old Miriam. "Why on earth did they have to break into song every five seconds..?" My conversion to opera is clearly not yet complete.
posted by Claire at 10:52 am
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