If Bluebeard was Lear, and Cordelia was Cinderella, or vice versa, and you added in some iron shoes, metamorphoses, the worship of stellar bodies, and then wrapped the whole thing up in a sort of para-parable about the nature of, and boundaries between, faith, fate, fidelity and trust (not to mention love, or perhaps better Love), then you would start to get an idea of what Dove and Middleton’s The Enchanted Pig is about.
In line with previously-stated policy decision in re: theatrical shenanigans, went with S t’other night to see Into the Hoods, a hip-hop dance-based musical reworking of Sondheim, I kid you not.
Obviously hip-hop is my thing now. I am buying my spray cans this afternoon and will be practising my “tag” all afternoon in a well-ventilated area. Just as soon as I’ve done the washing.
He may be forty, but Brett Anderson put on a pretty darn good show at Bush Hall tonight. Of course, I remembered after about 3 seconds what my problem with Suede gigs always was: I can never take my eyes off Matt Osman. Not, I add in a leisurely fashion, due to hopeless physical attraction; it’s because he weaves like a snake and I turn into a wholly hypnotised rabbit. Genius stage presence. Makes your man Mr. A look a little showy, which is a shame, since he’s putting heart and sweat into the whole frontman thing, but nonetheless mesmerising. A darklooks.com recommended gig of the year.
Morrissey moz-moz, mozzer Morrissey morrisey morrissey. Morrissey “S. Patrick”, morrissey Wembley Arena morrissey mosh. Moz, mozzer morrissey, morrissey “How Soon Is Now”, “Please, Please Please Let Me Get What I Want”, morrissey morrissey. Morrissey — STEVEN PATRICK — moz morrissey “Disappointed”, morrissey moz-moz.
ps: Boz Boorer. I thank you.
Right. This evening’s meejah round-up as follows:
Avenue Q: Very good, definitely not safe to describe to colleagues unless they quit some time ago.
Untold Stories: Very Alan Bennett, much more to my taste when I imagine his voice than when I hear it (as in the endless trailers on R4) for some reason. Sorry Mr. B., no idea why that should be. Nonetheless the kind of eminently readable and slightly tart prose which it’s hard not to read.
The Prestige: Actually rather good. Although I admit to being a sucker for anything with Hugh Jackman in, and, fair enough, anything with Christian Bale in, and, fair enough, anything with David Bowie in, and, fair enough, anything with Andy Serkis in… I thought it had its own merits as well ;> Even if the “shocking twists” retained their shock, they certainly weren’t surprising; a couple of unaccountabilities in the film earlier on clearly signpost the way. Ah well. Nonetheless an enjoyable couple of hours’ romp.
Oh, and I bought a filing cabinet this morning. Does anyone else think I should get out more?
I have caught, mesdames et messieurs, an earworm. And what’s more, it’s the worst kind: a little snippet, a single line of a song… with the words in the wrong order. All together now, in your best Elvis: “A little more conversation, a little less action please….”
Just that. No more. Over and over. Soon I will start giggling like Madeline Kahn at the end of Clue. Or join the People’s Whatever-it-was of Judea (“This calls for immediate discussion!”).
There’s no particular reason anyone but me should be interested in this: but I do want people to realise, as I stare over their shoulders glassily, that it’s nothing personal, simply that some reptile part of my treacherous brain has decided to torture me 24/7 just for the moment.