I've been very neglectful of this blog recently for which I apologise. Too much else has been sucking up my attention and squeezed around the edges is writing and writing and writing for a 5 June deadline. But with tenacity and determination, my cultural life hasn't been too pauce. 

A National Theatre live relay of Ralph Fiennes in George Bernard Shaw's Man and Superman. Which I can see caused all sorts of delightful frissons in 1905 but plopping into the modern day courtesy of assorted denim jeans and a motor car (or am I just jealous?) does not retain the one-time power of the piece whose success hinges on appreciating that woman shouldn't have tongues in their heads and unmarried but with child women were a more shameful thing yet than women who Had Opinions. Concept aside, Ralph annoyed me so much with his panting and strutting and fretting that I felt compelled to leave a whole 40 minutes before the end. Which still saw me exit the theatre at 10pm. A play not to be taken lightly.

I caught a film called Birdman at the weekend by a director with an incredible number of vowels in his name and starring Edward Norton, a girl I know well but can't name and a man I feel I haven't seen before. Telling the tale of an actor trying to make his debut on Broadway with a lacklustre co-star who couldn't much act, it was always going to be my cup of tea. But it turned out to be better than that and an extraordinary piece of film-making to boot. See it unless you're B S in which case you might just find it strange and irritating.

Then - the shameful iced doughnut treat on amidst the self-edification. Pitch Perfect 2. But I don't care that it was a shameful doughnut treat as it was also excellent. (Three stars was far too harsh, Mark.) Now I want to be Elizabeth Banks.