Danza Contemporanea de Cuba last night. Festival Theatre.
I didn't really have time for this show. What with my last Spanish class of the term's last night's Fiesta, sixty-eight different things to get done at work, an endurance test of a work night out tonight and a plane to catch on Friday. #middleclasswoes, I might say if I were one of those silly narcissists that twitter to myself all day.
But it was booked and it was sure to be fun. And actually, luckily, it was.
First dance. Twenty pretties. Boys in shorts and vests. Girls in vests and tiny flippy skirts. All in boxing gloves. A drum drum drum beat. (Cue Brian: "I don't much like drums.) Although they did lapse into a ramshackle acapella tune at the end when the drums fell silent. They danced about. What more can I say?
Piece two. Seven men. Black trousers and waistcoats with a rainbow array of primary coloured shirts across the different fellows. The soundtrack: a sort of Andrew Lloyd Webber on acid remix of various extracts from Carmen. (Perhaps not solely - there may have been outside influences.) And this, I suppose, was intended as the humourous piece. I hated it. They danced in a silly mocking way (I fancied), all flicky hands, pretend bulls, hilarious pairs of red thongs a-flyin' as they traversed the stage. (Brian: "I loved it when they jumped so high they left the stage". I didn't notice these jumps. I just sat there stewing about all the other things I could've been doing and cursing my silly pretentious sense of humour.
Great debates with myself about whether or not I just leave before the end but by meanness wins the day and there I am as the curtain goes up on round 3.
Which, luckily for my populist and superficial tastes, was like a Gap ad. the twenty in their vests and pants again. Though different pants - and jut like a Gap ad, they changed their vests constantly throughout. Nice funky soundtrack. Quasi-ballet but more like street dance. Now this - this - was much more like it. Thirty minutes of high energy beautiful writhing.
I don't know what Brian thought of that one as the twenty pretties has scarcely left the stage before I was - uncharitably - flying down the road for the bus.
But thanks for visiting us from Habana, pretties. And do come back soon.
I didn't really have time for this show. What with my last Spanish class of the term's last night's Fiesta, sixty-eight different things to get done at work, an endurance test of a work night out tonight and a plane to catch on Friday. #middleclasswoes, I might say if I were one of those silly narcissists that twitter to myself all day.
But it was booked and it was sure to be fun. And actually, luckily, it was.
First dance. Twenty pretties. Boys in shorts and vests. Girls in vests and tiny flippy skirts. All in boxing gloves. A drum drum drum beat. (Cue Brian: "I don't much like drums.) Although they did lapse into a ramshackle acapella tune at the end when the drums fell silent. They danced about. What more can I say?
Piece two. Seven men. Black trousers and waistcoats with a rainbow array of primary coloured shirts across the different fellows. The soundtrack: a sort of Andrew Lloyd Webber on acid remix of various extracts from Carmen. (Perhaps not solely - there may have been outside influences.) And this, I suppose, was intended as the humourous piece. I hated it. They danced in a silly mocking way (I fancied), all flicky hands, pretend bulls, hilarious pairs of red thongs a-flyin' as they traversed the stage. (Brian: "I loved it when they jumped so high they left the stage". I didn't notice these jumps. I just sat there stewing about all the other things I could've been doing and cursing my silly pretentious sense of humour.
Great debates with myself about whether or not I just leave before the end but by meanness wins the day and there I am as the curtain goes up on round 3.
Which, luckily for my populist and superficial tastes, was like a Gap ad. the twenty in their vests and pants again. Though different pants - and jut like a Gap ad, they changed their vests constantly throughout. Nice funky soundtrack. Quasi-ballet but more like street dance. Now this - this - was much more like it. Thirty minutes of high energy beautiful writhing.
I don't know what Brian thought of that one as the twenty pretties has scarcely left the stage before I was - uncharitably - flying down the road for the bus.
But thanks for visiting us from Habana, pretties. And do come back soon.
posted by Claire at 7:43 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home