Tonight, I was off to the Bridge Theatre for A Very, Very, Very Dark Matter, by Martin McDonagh. Starring Jim Broadbent, this is a dark take on Hans Christian Anderson (whom he plays)! Our new starter saw it recently, and proclaimed it "weird". Well, weird is good. North London Friends were going as well - but they were sat down in the stalls. I hoped to get to chat a bit with them - they're a lovely group, and I don't meet them enough.
I did let them know I was going - but as they didn't include me in the mailing list for their social arrangements, I decided not to intrude. Certainly, I had enough to be doing at the office. Caught the bus before the one I needed to, to make it in time for the show, and wouldn't you know it, my second bus was at the stop when we got there! It wouldn't have waited, except they were changing drivers. So I got there just as the bell rang for people to go in - perfect!
I did let them know I was going - but as they didn't include me in the mailing list for their social arrangements, I decided not to intrude. Certainly, I had enough to be doing at the office. Caught the bus before the one I needed to, to make it in time for the show, and wouldn't you know it, my second bus was at the stop when we got there! It wouldn't have waited, except they were changing drivers. So I got there just as the bell rang for people to go in - perfect!
I was in the highest level, and just at the corner..
Now, as it happened, there were very few people around me - indeed, almost my entire section was empty - and since, as you can see, the balcony obscured what turned out to be an annoying amount of the stage, I soon moved a bit to my left. For reference, I started in A21, and moved to A23 - it has a much more direct view. Which is why it costs £35, as opposed to the £15 I paid. I'd possibly have been better off in the row behind, with the balcony less in my line of sight.
This is as cockamamy a tale as anything that Hans Christian Anderson ever concocted. I loved the staging - it starts out very creepily, a wooden box swinging slowly from side to side, creepy music playing, as a deep voice growls out something about being trapped in a box.. this turns out to be Hans Christian Anderson's attic. And when the plot moves to other locales, a panel with appropriate decor drops in front of the attic, and people ascend from a trapdoor to the front of the stage. Mainly sat around a table - at the start, however, we get Hans Christian Anderson on a podium, giving a speech. Beautifully done.
I'm afraid that's all I really liked about it. With gratuitous foul language (and I'm no prude!), this is definitely not one for the kids. The story - without giving too much away - concerns the Congolese pygmy woman that inhabits that box, for some unknown reason, and is the real author of his stories. He cut off her foot at some point, to sell to Chinese travellers in exchange for a haunted concertina. (It isn't really haunted, but does prove useful later on.) The action takes off when he accepts an invitation to visit Charles Dickens (whom he persists in calling Charles Darwin) in London. Oh, and there's a couple of blood-soaked brothers, who turn out to be Belgian. You don't want to know what they're doing there.
It repeatedly occurred to me that Martin McDonagh must have been roaring drunk when he wrote this. A lesser known playwright wouldn't have got away with it. As I say, I loved the staging and the atmosphere - but honestly, the play itself is dreadful. No wonder both people I previously asked opinions of got all cagey. The only other good thing I can say about it is, with no interval, it's over nice and early. Runs till the 6th. And the bus I took back dropped me near Liverpool Street, so I now know a few more of the backstreets around there! The night wasn't a complete loss, then.
Tomorrow, I was going with North London Friends to The Convert, at the Young Vic. Discounted top-price seats, it seems! And then, the Crick Crack Club sent around an advertising email - and damnit if they haven't arranged a meeting that night! The House of Nine Lives is at the British Library, and has Nell Phoenix, Tim Ralphs, and TUUP talking about pussycats. Irresistible. Just got word the other night that my ticket for the play has been sold on, and I duly got a refund (less Paypal fees) - good stuff.
Now, as it happened, there were very few people around me - indeed, almost my entire section was empty - and since, as you can see, the balcony obscured what turned out to be an annoying amount of the stage, I soon moved a bit to my left. For reference, I started in A21, and moved to A23 - it has a much more direct view. Which is why it costs £35, as opposed to the £15 I paid. I'd possibly have been better off in the row behind, with the balcony less in my line of sight.
This is as cockamamy a tale as anything that Hans Christian Anderson ever concocted. I loved the staging - it starts out very creepily, a wooden box swinging slowly from side to side, creepy music playing, as a deep voice growls out something about being trapped in a box.. this turns out to be Hans Christian Anderson's attic. And when the plot moves to other locales, a panel with appropriate decor drops in front of the attic, and people ascend from a trapdoor to the front of the stage. Mainly sat around a table - at the start, however, we get Hans Christian Anderson on a podium, giving a speech. Beautifully done.
I'm afraid that's all I really liked about it. With gratuitous foul language (and I'm no prude!), this is definitely not one for the kids. The story - without giving too much away - concerns the Congolese pygmy woman that inhabits that box, for some unknown reason, and is the real author of his stories. He cut off her foot at some point, to sell to Chinese travellers in exchange for a haunted concertina. (It isn't really haunted, but does prove useful later on.) The action takes off when he accepts an invitation to visit Charles Dickens (whom he persists in calling Charles Darwin) in London. Oh, and there's a couple of blood-soaked brothers, who turn out to be Belgian. You don't want to know what they're doing there.
It repeatedly occurred to me that Martin McDonagh must have been roaring drunk when he wrote this. A lesser known playwright wouldn't have got away with it. As I say, I loved the staging and the atmosphere - but honestly, the play itself is dreadful. No wonder both people I previously asked opinions of got all cagey. The only other good thing I can say about it is, with no interval, it's over nice and early. Runs till the 6th. And the bus I took back dropped me near Liverpool Street, so I now know a few more of the backstreets around there! The night wasn't a complete loss, then.
Tomorrow, I was going with North London Friends to The Convert, at the Young Vic. Discounted top-price seats, it seems! And then, the Crick Crack Club sent around an advertising email - and damnit if they haven't arranged a meeting that night! The House of Nine Lives is at the British Library, and has Nell Phoenix, Tim Ralphs, and TUUP talking about pussycats. Irresistible. Just got word the other night that my ticket for the play has been sold on, and I duly got a refund (less Paypal fees) - good stuff.
Wednesday is our office Christmas party, but Let's Do This has advertised a Christmas dinner- which sounds a more attractive prospect. So I'm doing that instead. Places filled up quickly with regulars. The boss has asked me to drop by if we finish early, and it's not far away, so I'll try to do that.
On Thursday, I'm thrilled to be going to Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake, at Sadler's Wells, with Up in the Cheap Seats. He's a fantastic choreographer, but I've never before gotten around to seeing this all-male version. Sold out now for that day, I believe. Then I'm back to Ireland for the weekend again.
And on the 17th, the Crick Crack Club is performing Gilgamesh, at Soho Theatre. With Ben Haggerty in the spotlight, this will be a treat! Sold out, of course - you have to book these things early. He's doing it again on the 10th of February, at the British Museum. Meeting Helen for a meal beforehand.
No comments:
Post a Comment