Arcadia

Arcadia, Tom Stoppard, Duke of York’s Theatre, 29th May 2009

This play is a bitch. It sucks you in with an opening scene of easy drawing room farce. Then, quite without warning, the smooth theatrical mechanics have transported you to an intricacy of interlocking debates on history, science, poetry, sex and philosophy; a complete list of the issues it explores would fill this review and more. That there are no answers is fine – this is art, not science – but the sheer number of questions is dazzling.

A pure set of classical architecture and unobtrusive lighting is occupied by a large cast of considerable skill. Ed Stoppard sulks handsomely as Valentine, while his nineteenth century counterpart, Septimus, is coolly handled by Dan Stevens. Jessie Cave is convincingly vulnerable and precocious as Thomasina. Meanwhile, Samantha Bond is complex and poised as one half of the duelling academics; it is a shame Neil Pearson cannot quite match her.

That the staging and production should be unadventurous is fitting; this bulging, baggy work leaves little room for directorial intervention. The air sizzles with ideas, from which the audience is better not distracted. Occasionally, though, this can render the production a little cold. This is particularly true in the modern scenes, which lack overtly sympathetic characters. Similar ground has recently been covered with more charm by Alan Bennett’s ‘The History Boys.’

Nonetheless this is a philosophical meditation of astounding virtuosity, supported by the wit and careful theatrical machinery of one of the most skilful playwrights of the age. Just don’t go because you couldn’t get tickets to ‘The Lion King.’

Buffylicious

I have just watched the first ever episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, on an extraordinarily low quality Indonesian streaming site. I'm probably hooked already. It's not Shakespeare, but I like it. Everybody is smart and sassy. EVERYBODY is ridiculously good looking - even Thomas the Vampire sounds like Sean Connery. I also like the fact that the fantasy is silly and slightly self-knowing - it's a nice change from the plodding earnestness of Tolkien.

I watched it a few times when I was 14 or 15, but only for a few minutes at a time, for adolescent drooling over Sarah Michelle Gellar (something I'm not above now, admittedly). I certainly wasn't concentrating on dialogue or characterisation. I usually had my finger hovering over the remote, in case anybody came in and read my rather transparent motives for watching it.

Bed now (I'm supposed to be getting my sleeping patterns under control in time for exams, and it's 1am already!), but I look forward to episode 2 tomorrow.

Online-Real Life Etiquette

Further to a brief exchange with Unmutual, I want to say a few words about the nature of blogs. Relatively anonymous, and with a similar subject matter, they feel something like a diary. There is, of course, one crucial difference: they are public.

Naturally that means blogs require a certain amount of self-censorship. That's fine. But people still seem to be more willing to share personal things online than they might have been in a face to face situation. Even if they are quite circumspect, and say nothing that they dont mind their readers knowing, a regular reader can still find out a lot more than they would in real life, simply because the number of conversations is greater.

Which brings us to the problem. It can be downright weird when someone mentions something that you wrote. Even quite anodyne posts can have the effect of killing conversations. For instance:

Major Tom: I really hate that David Bowie.
Ziggy: I know, I read your blog post. You really dont like him, huh?
Major Tom: No I dont. He's just so supercilious.
Ziggy: I know. I read your blog post.
Major Tom: Yeah.
Ziggy: So...um...I have to go to the toilet now.

As someone who relies quite heavily on anecdotes for conversation fodder, this is a particular problem.

But then, it is also downright weird to repeat a conversation you've already had online.

No resolutions offered, I'm afraid. But if you guys have any, I'd be interested to hear them.

Bong. Bong. Bong.

This is not a drugs related post, but rather about the news. Though drugs may well have been involved in the design of Jeremy Vine's election graphics.

I'm not going to rant about how shit TV news is. Go watch Charlie Brooker's Newswipe - he shares my views, plus he does masturbation jokes.

Instead, I want to mention a few of the news sources I do use, trust and love.

The first is BBC World Service. It's a magnificent institution. Friendly, expert and with a genuinely global focus. In fact, those adjectives could apply equally to another favourite of mine, the International Herald Tribune. It's the international spin-off of the New York Times. It has a magazine-y writing style, and a confidence that the reader is intelligent and interested. Also, they are quite happy to put tiny, quirky stories on the front page - Carol Ann Duffy was front page news for them! Unlike the World Service, it does have a moderate-liberal bias. That's fine with me, because that's about where I am, but you need to read some of their columns with care.
The next is The Economist. The quality of the journalism is simply unparralleled. They have an excellent style guide, which makes their writing more careful than anything else. They know more than anyone else. Their strong opinions are always clearly seperated from facts; a prescription for action, or some predictions, usually follow a clear explanation of the situation.

Finally, there is The Guardian. They are too liberal for me, especially when it comes to foreign affairs - for about 3 years, they published an identical story every day on page 3, about suicide bombs in Iraq. It is wearying, and their writing is always completely loaded with assumptions. That said, their writing style is excellent; the quality of prose is extremely high. Also, their sport coverage is by far the best around, because it mixes serious analysis with genuine humour.

I would love to work for any of these, someday.

Blog officially populated

Now that this blog is well and truly underway, I can relax. Hope you enjoy reading some of those reviews.

This is a little old now, but I see Carol Ann Duffy has been made Poet Laureate. That she's the first woman, and the first openly gay person, to have held the position, are cool firsts, but more to the point she is an amazing poet.

I'd never read any of her stuff - at a conservative all boys school, she didnt come up on the curriculum, surprisingly enough. When I heard the news, though, I sought out the five or six of her poems that are available online. What a turn of phrase she has. It's unbelievable. I have to get a copy of 'The World's Wife'.

How about this from Mrs Lazarus:

'I breathed/his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,/moist and dishevelled from the grave's slack chew'

More, more. I want more.

Pinter, Marvellous Pinter

This was a Pinter double bill, of two of his more obscure early plays. I've made a resolution now that, having seen almost all the Pinter canon (bar the Caretaker), I'm going to see some other serious drama. I've finally seen Beckett, there's some Ibsen on at the Barbican right now, and I'm sure I can locate some Chekhov. For the moment, though, Pinter is good fun.

The Lover and The Collection

This Pinter double bill is about sex, captured, trapped and examined. It is the constant undercurrent, the backdrop and the motivating force for accusation and counter-accusation, for lies, and for games turned serious.

In the first of the two plays, ‘The Lover’, a happily married couple (Richard Coyle and Gina McKee) dispel the monotony of suburbia by role playing as adulterers. The game continues on and on, becoming more powerful, until their double characters invade every part of their lives, and pretence and reality become intertwined beyond separation.

The second play, ‘The Collection’, once again deals with truth and sex. An angry husband (Coyle) alleges that playboy Bill (Charlie Cox) has slept with his wife, and as the two men build up a curious rapport, Bill amuses himself by altering his story, delighting in the anguish he causes James. Meanwhile, Harry (Timothy West), Bill’s patron, rushes around trying to resolve the trouble which Bill is determined to cause.

Both plays are extremely well acted; in particular, Gina McKee is gloriously erotic as the wife in ‘The Lover’, and Charlie Cox is charmingly supercilious as Bill in ‘The Collection’. Timothy West is, of course, as good as you would expect as the frustrated, disappointed landlord, half lover, half father to Bill. Both plays are equally well staged, with an overpowering black wall betraying the apparent coziness of the living room, and a set which manages to evoke both moldering Kensington decadence (‘The Collection’) and dull Home Counties suburbia (‘The Lover’) without alteration.

Yet there is something missing. It is not the ending – neither play ends conclusively, but this is Pinter, and you would not expect it to. It is not the language, which is as witty as always. These plays feel somewhere in the middle; they are neither as glaringly intimate as ‘The Dumb Waiter’, nor as aggressive as ‘The Homecoming’. This double bill has all the hallmarks of Pinter, and is most certainly worth seeing – but it is not his satisfyingly brutal best.

Sigur Ros and Snap judgements

I once wrote a piece entitled 'Are Sigur Ros the most boring band in the world?' It may be the most wrongheaded piece of writing I have ever done, and it serves as a lesson to me in not making snap judgements. On my second listen, I fell in love with Takk, their best album, and have yet to fall out of love with it. I later saw them at Rock Werchter, a Belgian festival, and would rate it at the very least in my top 3 gigs. It was a gorgeous evening, and just as the sun went down and the sky turned whitewash blue, they played. The lead singer played his guitar with a cello bow, and at one point the camera zoomed in on him, on his knees. This delicate icelandic pixie, a feather in his hair, had collapsed from the sheer emotion of it, and was on his knees crying, with the cello bow shredded in his hand.

The Magic Flute

My experience of opera is pretty limited. A few years ago, I saw La Boheme. The music was undoubtedly beautiful, and the acting surprisingly passable, but I wasnt sufficiently taken by it to rush back. That said, I acquired a few bits and pieces of opera - a greatest hits sampler, something or other by Mozart (I can't be bothered to check what it was), and Turandot. This, though was my second foray into live opera:

The Magic Flute, Duke of York Theatre

Opera has an image problem. It is generally seen as staid, mannered and difficult. This production of Mozart’s final opera sets out to correct that stereotype. Brimming with energy, colour and humour, it borders on what advertising executives like to call an ‘extravaganza’.

That is not to say that this is a faultless production. The translation from German, in its quest for accessibility, has more than a few rather trite rhymes, and opera always loses some of its mystique in English. Some of the performances, too, are a little weak. Although Pauline Malefane is magnificent, imperious in both voice and acting, as the Queen of the Night, and her daughter Pamina (Nobulumko Mngxekeza) is a touching actress, both of the lead male performers – Mhlekazi Andy Mosiea as Tamino and Khanyiso Gwenxane as Papageno – lack the stage presence to fill what is not a particularly big theatre; their voices haven’t quite the power, and their acting is a little obvious.

The best scenes, therefore, are the ensemble ones, when the enthusiasm and energy of the chorus results in a joyous overlay to the tinkling marimbas (a type of xylophone which replaces the orchestra in this production). It is all one can do to prevent oneself joining in, and conductor Mandisi Dyantyis is clearly itching to do the same, leading the musicians with as much energy as any of the performers.

Directed by Mark Dornford-May and produced by Eric Abraham, both adoptive South Africans themselves, this show is a fascinating experiment. The result is a qualified success. At the moment, the company is searching for the funding and the audience to support it in its native South Africa; tonight demonstrated that they overwhelmingly deserve that chance to develop.

Child 44

A very short review of Child 44, a potboiler which mysteriously made its way onto the Booker shortlist last year.

'Child 44' is a decent enough debut; a thriller which checks all the boxes. It is not, though, a Booker Prize-winning novel, and it is rather surprising to find it on this list. The writing is rather clumsy and lumbering: characters do not have depth so much as lists of attributes, and Smith has never heard of the writer's rule 'show, don't tell'. Meanwhile, the historical detail is on occasion innacurate - even the KGB (which is for some reason referred to as the MGB throughout) didn't execute 'several hundreds a day'. Indeed, the vigour with which Smith attacks the Soviet system is curiously anachronistic; in 1962, this might have been a powerful political statement, but it certainly isn't now. Although not an unqualified disaster, neither can this book rightly be called a success.

Les Miserables

I first bought tickets to this show as a present to my then girlfriend. That means it has some complicated memories associated with it, but mostly it's just an amazing soundtrack. The day I saw the production was an odd one - an inability to revise led to my wandering out of the library, into Covent Garden, where I bought two pairs of shoes, ate Chinese food and then went to see Les Mis. This is my report:

Les Miserables – 12/03/08

Les Mis has been running 22 years, longer than any other show in the West End, and on a Wednesday night, it was sold out. And with good reason. It is the best show in town. One friend of mine (studying music at Oxford, no less) compares it favourably to a Mozart opera. The sophistication of its plot, the beauty of its solos, the energy of its chorus numbers and the grandeur of its staging put lesser shows to shame. That said, this was a disappointing production.

Many of the performances were remarkably misjudged. Drew Sarich as Valjean was wild eyed and angry, with an accent that wandered around the Atlantic; too immature to be the moral centre of the play. Hans Peter Janssens, meanwhile, had an oddly clipped style as Javert, reducing him from a zealous Angel of Justice to a pedantic bureaucrat, pursuing a 20 year old error in his records. Worse still, he gabbled and garbled many of his lines; certainly he could hit the notes, but even I, who know the soundtrack inside out, had difficulty deciphering some of his key lines. Eponine’s gorgeous number ‘On my own’, meanwhile, was belted out with all the fragile vulnerability of Shirley Bassey.

Oddly, the most convincing performances came from Marius and Cosette. Usually absurdly saccharine and improbable, their story was transformed into a delicate meeting of lovers by the simple expedient of not overacting, amid all the posturing and exhibitionism. Equally marvellous were Chris Vincent and Melanie La Barrie as the Thenardiers, who were as hilariously horrible as they ought to be.

These, though, were the exceptions. The failure of so many of the main characters – all of them with illustrious lists of credits – would seem to point the finger at the musical direction. Whoever was at fault, this was not up to the (admittedly incredibly high) standards of Les Mis.

It is a testament to the show that despite all this, I still came out humming the tunes.

Eden Lake

This was quite good fun to write. Remarkably, the movie got decent reviews from proper critics. Which I suppose just shows that I should have their jobs.

Eden Lake

Eden Lake is a truly awful movie. A horror movie which doesn’t scare. A torture movie which doesn’t shock. All in all, a waste of time and money for both makers and viewers.

The premise is this: a perfect West London couple (Michael Fassbender & Kelly Reilly) head to the country for a perfect romantic weekend. Unfortunately, their peace is disturbed by a particularly unruly gang of youths, led by Brett (Jack O’Connell). So far, so plausible. But then, after a mishap involving a dead dog, the youths are transformed into knife-wielding maniacs, determined to capture, torture and kill the hero and heroine, who must flee through the dark and scary woods.

From here, the plot – capture, escape and degradation of our sweet Hammersmith heroine – unfolds with all the innovation and unpredictability of an episode of Scooby Doo, though – alas – without that format’s brevity.

This plot is not aided by James Watkins’ confused direction. There are repeated shots of something watching from the bushes, despite the fact that the villains of the piece are just down the beach, and clearly not in those bushes. There is a sequence in which the heroine tries to make a call via the phone of her fiancé using Bluetooth, something which I am not even sure is possible, and at any rate is depicted in a baffling amount of detail. Meanwhile, the scene in which Fassbender scrambles over a rooftop to escape from Brett’s violent father would be more in keeping with a Noel Coward farce than a horror movie.

On a more positive note, the standard of acting is generally passable. In the undemanding early scenes, Fassbender and Reilly are convincingly childish. Meanwhile, Jack O’Connell battles manfully against a script which offers him no transition period from annoying teenager to psychotic killer; he is able to introduce a slightly more subtle blend of madness, remorse and social commentary to his performance.

Brett aside, the social commentary is crude, blunt and unconvincing. Much, indeed, like the violence, the direction and the movie as a whole.

Less Than Jake

Less Than Jake are not cool. Ska is not cool. Less Than Jake are fun. Ska is fun. I got hot and sweaty to ska, and pretended to be 13 again:

Less Than Jake, Astoria, 12/11/08

There was an air of slight nostalgia about this gig. It wasn’t just the impending closure of the Astoria, sad though I’ll be to see it go, its walls soaked with piss and history. There was something too about the band.

It wasn’t that they didn’t rock out. They did, as only Less Than Jake can do. The crowd bounced and pogoed and moshed their way through all the poppy happy classics, nothing being quite so well received as ‘Gainesville Rock City’. The childish ribbing of each other, the encouraging the crowd to still higher frenzies, it was all there.

And yet – and yet – there was a slight hollowness to it all. Confetti cannons seemed to hide a paucity of invention. Even the fact that they’ve learnt to play their instruments (and they have certainly improved hugely over the years) seems like something of a cop-out. The band, as they approach their mid-thirties, seemed to wonder just how long they can keep this up.

Of all the times our group had seen them – and it must be getting on for 20 times between us – it was generally agreed that this was the worst. That, however, is hardly a damning criticism for a band with quite so much verve and vim. They might be slowing down just a little, but so long as they keep touring, I’ll keep going.

A note on the support acts: Imperial Leisure were excellent in their home town, and certainly one to watch. Beat Union were nothing special. Pepper may be arrogant, but they write a good reggae-rock song.

Waiting for Godot

Last Friday, I saw Waiting for Godot, starring Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen. If I wrote the word "awesome" in capital letters, flashing red and orange with a brass band soundtrack, it would not convey the enjoyment I took from it. I'd never seen any Beckett before, but this is certainly the way to be introduced to it. I'd bought the tickets way back in February, and they'd been sitting on my bookshelf ever since, for me to stare at with excitement and impatience. This is what I wrote:

This was a hotly awaited production. With two major stars – Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart – together, there was bound to be excitement. This is added to the formidable reputation of the play; it was originally reviewed as ‘the most unforgettable and important’ night of a theatre-going life. It is therefore something of a relief to find that their relationship crackles precisely as it should. Limping through some strikingly realistic ruins, the two bicker and play in utterly believable fashion.

If one wished to pick holes, one might suggest that a less star-struck audience would gift fewer laughs. One might also point out that Stewart is just a touch too authoritative and self-assured at times. In general though, his performance is well judged. McKellen’s performance meanwhile is magnificent. He is vulnerable, confused and wise, with all the subtlety of a great actor. Simon Callow as Pozzo and Ronald Pickup as Lucky are overshadowed, yet their performances would be considered stand-out in any production but this.

To confront something is to make it disappear. That is a theme which shines through particularly strongly in this version. Likewise, this is a production which is extremely difficult to nail down. The play endlessly invites interpretation, yet constantly confounds understanding. The relationships, the events, the time and the place; virtually everything is ambiguous. There are playful hints – the mannerisms of vaudeville theatre; the Bavarian dress of Pozzo. Yet they are inevitably contradicted and crowded out as theories pile up. It is a credit to the acting that the audience are repeatedly dragged from their theorizing; the little sparks onstage are too interesting to allow the mind to wander.

This is such a production that people will one day say ‘I was there’. It is a special theatre going experience of dazzling subtlety and genuine humour. If it attracts audiences because it stars Gandalf and Captain Picard, then so much the better, for they, unsuspecting, will have encountered something great.

Seasick Steve

One of the reviews I'm less proud of. I was really struggling for wordcount here. Still, it ought to be posted for the sake of completeness.

Seasick Steve; Hammersmith Apollo; 31/01/09

There is a lot of hype surrounding Seasick Steve. He has a romantic back story, a natural showmanship and gimmicky homemade instruments, all of which have helped him on the long road to success. Tonight’s performance, though, was a useful reminder that he also has the musical credentials to deserve that success. Jools Holland once picked Steve as one of his guitar heroes; it is perhaps the best decision that odd little man ever made.

The first half of the set roars through rocky versions of his Blues, backed by a full drum kit and a second percussionist. Tracks like Dog House Boogie and Hobo Low are belted out with fiery energy and consummate guitar skill.

In the second half, one too many jams cause the performance to meander a little, and some of the previous zip and vim is lost. Intimate tracks like Walking Man fall down slightly in so large a space as the Apollo.

Nonetheless, this was a great gig. Steve plays genuine blues, born of genuine hardship, but more importantly he simply plays great music. The lyrics are deeply personal anecdotes, yet they have a universal appeal. His juicy, growling voice and fantastic guitar playing have the audience enraptured. A bevy of great songs are carried off with showmanship and verve.

Support act Joe Gideon and the Shark combined pretentious performance poetry with some genuinely skilful musicianship. The White Stripes comparisons are inevitable.

Othello Review

As one of the big Shakespeares I'd never seen (quite a few remain), I was really looking forward to this one. And it was done by the RSC. Oh well. At least I can report that the Hackney Empire has a really cool bar attached to it, and that they dont mind if you eat Sainsburys food there, so long as you drink their drinks.

Othello at Hackney Empire, 11/02/09

This is a very long show, with little to recommend it. The performances are bland, the direction on the weak side, and the result is a production which neither challenges nor entices.

The performances first, then. Patrice Naiambana plays Othello with an accent that flits from London to RP to West Africa, not necessarily in line with Othello’s moods. That said, he has both gravitas and insanity in him; like so many Othellos, where he stumbles is the tricky transition from one to the next. Only a stand-in, Alex Hassell cannot perhaps be blamed for his Iago, which is passable enough. He adds an interesting vulnerability to the role, but it is not believable that a man could be so maliciously persuasive who fluffs so many lines. Cassio and Desdemona are perhaps the pick of the performances, both played with the naivety demanded of them.

The weaknesses are exposed by a desolate stage, bereft of set for many scenes. Without innovation in lighting, background or set, a huge burden is placed on the actors. Significantly, the highlights of the production are the two scenes when the set is at its most lavish. A set of wooden screens is put to effect, firstly as an impressive stormy sea lashing two surprisingly believable galleys. Their second use is as stormy allegory to Othello’s epilectic fit. In both, with skilful lighting, they add some excitement.

Kathryn Hunter, who directs the production, might have smoothed much of this over. She could have chided Naiambana for his wayward accent. She might similarly have asked Rodrigo and Brabantio to stop their comedic Italian accents. She might have trimmed this long play a little; it may be Shakespeare, but it is not a holy text. She certainly did not need to add quite so many songs, nor did a background sex scene add anything to plot or atmosphere.

Finally, setting the play in what was probably (though by no means certainly) Mussolini’s Italy, allows the audience to condemn the protagonists as evil fascists, and thus not confront the uncomfortably contemporary themes racism.

Amanda Palmer

Amanda Palmer is one of the coolest people I can think of, and she writes great music too. Plus she's friends with Neil Gaiman. I saw her play at the Electric Ballroom in Camden a little while ago. This is what I thought:

Leonine and wild, Amanda Palmer straddles her stool and proceeds to belt the piano into submission. Accompanied by dark mime troupe The Danger Ensemble, she is at the Electric Ballroom to play songs from her first solo album, ‘Who Killed Amanda Palmer?’

It is a powerful show. She is a skilful keyboardist with a low, driving voice which occasionally breaks into cheeky yelps. A couple of the songs meander a little, and she is certainly at her best when accompanied by the fantastic violin of Chester Lyndon, whose jerky, uneven melodies add depth and variety to the percussive piano. Stand out track Oasis, though, is one she plays alone, and tonight it has an emotional power not immediately obvious on the over-polished single.

This show is about more than the music, though. A wonderfully intimate performer, mistakes, experimentation and chats with the audience are part of the charm. An on-stage proposal has the audience cooing, whilst the auctioning of a painting (so that the struggling Danger Ensemble can eat for a few days more) manages to be both lucrative and funny.

The Danger Ensemble themselves are adept performers, adding genuine comedy to Dresden Doll’s track Coin Operated Boy, and dark illustrations to more than a few tracks.

This is a fine show, and here’s to hoping that at least one major radio station agrees to play Oasis (it has been banned by all but BBC6, apparently for making light of rape, abortion and religion).

Support band detektivbyrån were described by Palmer as ‘like a wonderful tripping movie soundtrack come to life’. That is a little generous for a band who may be ironically light and insubstantial, but are light and insubstantial nonetheless.

Dorian Gray

I have decided that my first action, as master of this corner of the internet, will be to recycle some old copy - I'm going to post a series of old reviews, most of which were published by my university's magazine. I doubt they will object, but if there are any issues of copyright, then you presumably know who I am and can contact me.

First up is a review of a theatre production of Dorian Gray:

A Picture of Dorian Gray; Leicester Square Theatre; 31/01/09

All red velvet and decadent cabaret, this is certainly a stylish production. Linnie Reedman’s production skims unevenly through the well known gothic fable, but nonetheless displays some highlights. Joe Evans’ gorgeously arranged musical accompaniment conjures Victorian alleys and Wildean emotions with not a little skill. Robert Donnelly is impressive as thwarted Romantic, Basil. The waistcoats are wonderful.

Unfortunately, this is not sufficient to justify the production. Amateurish touches let the play down: an absurd Halloween mask signifies the corrupted portrait. For a play in which the power of the debauchery is that it is all imagined, this is a laughable miscalculation. Screams, devilish lighting and Victorian caricature too often tip the piece into melodrama, obscuring any genuine examination of the major moral questions of the novel. To briefly parrot a Socratic dialogue is no replacement.

Lord Henry (Vincent Manna) and Dorian (Mostyn James), though fairly well drawn, lack the intensity to hold the audience’s attention. Manna is not aided by a script which allows for no character development whatsoever, while James has the opposite problem. Where Wilde gives a chapter of internal monologue, he must here communicate Gray’s reformation in just a few lines.
In such a small theatre (and with rattling fridges at the bar and pillars obscuring the view, it is not a kindly space), intensity is all. Without it, the audience notices every extraneous sound and fidget. Ruby in the Dust, the troupe behind the production, would do well to observe some of the work at the Arcola Theatre, where small spaces and quirky productions are carried off with more verve. That said, there are just about sufficient highlights to make this an entertaining, atmospheric melodrama.

Introduction

To anyone out there,

Since a friend of mine started giving out classics based nicknames, I have wanted one. Having failed to earn one, I have instead awarded myself one. Later, I will be awarding myself military ranks and a number of prestigious literary prizes.

This is a mostly personal blog, though reviews are likely to feature. I do plays, poems, politics but rarely pirates. Philosophical musings may make an appearance, though I shall try to avoid angst of all kinds.

Readers will no doubt notice that this blog is being founded during the revision season. This is not a coincidence.

Hope to see you here.