It's time for a midyear theatre recap, but Under a Black Flag deserves a special entry all its own. It's the least I can do for something that sucked three hours of my life bone dry.
I admit it. It was my fault. I picked the play. I was on a pirate high after giggling my way through Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (okay, it's not a great movie. But it's FUN. Fun is good.) and wanted more buckle in my swash.
This was not the play to feed my pirate fancy. If anything, this play should quelch any liking for pirates dead, dead, dead.
Under a Black Flag is a prequel to Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. If there was ever an argument that copyright should be granted to the author/author's estate in perpetuity instead of the current lifetime plus 70 years, this is it. Poor Robbie, rolling in his grave at the terrible abuse his characters were put through.
Here, Long John Silver is imagined as the son of a charlatan street preacher who flaunts Cromwell's laws. When Cromwell himself witnesses the con artist Silver claiming he saved the Lord Protector's life (because Cromwell obviously had nothing better to do than walk the streets of London looking for old men who drop trou - yes, full frontal male nudity opened the play), he sentences Silver to impressment in His Lord Protector's Navy.
When pirates board the ship (as pirates do), Silver eagerly volunteers to take up the black flag. But when he claims to be a saint (!), he freaks out the Evil Pirate Captain who turns him into a slave instead.
When they make port on the pirate island of Rabat, Silver and his fellow slave, who is African, are forced to perform Hamlet (!) in front of potential buyers (because who wants slave physical labor when you can have slave thespians...) Only, oops! the pirates gave Silver and his friend swords that work, and they fight their way to freedom, with Silver accidentally running through his best friend (who had too much stage fright to perform with them and so was hiding in a really bad place. See, acting saves your life!)
Then someone takes the Sultan of Morocco's daughter hostage in the melee and Silver saves her life and the Sultan pleads for Silver's return. Only the Evil Pirate Captain is still freaked out by Silver claiming to be a saint and tries to kill him. But the other pirates, even more freaked out, demand that he and his thespian friend (now called Hamlet) get to live, and off they go to the Pirate parliament.
Oddly enough, for a place that has a parliament, the pirates are not very democratic - until Silver proposes an equal share in all the booty. This doesn't go down very well with Evil Pirate Captain, who is used to getting, well, the captain's share. The men vote to make Silver their captain (well, I'm assuming they did. The play was unintelligible in many spots to my still American ears). They then name him "Long" after the length of his penis (which we don't get to see, but Hamlet vouches for. Hmmm.)
After the intermission, the play became truly interminable. Silver now has a lovely wavy wig to cover the crew cut he had in the first half, and some lovely iridescent green billowy pantaloons. He's sleeping with Isabella, who is Evil Pirate Captain's niece/lover/object of obsession, but he really yearns after the Sultan's daughter. Evil Pirate Captain, looking somewhat the worse the wear, is angry that Isabella runs around with Silver, and Isabella is angry that Silver moons over the Sultan's daughter. Evil Pirate Captain and Isabella plot to capture Silver, but Isabella is actually plotting to kill Evil Pirate Captain. Evil Pirate Captain is successful, Isabella less so. She gets carved up off stage for her betrayal (lots of crimson splatters all over Evil Pirate Captain, and a knive he lovingly fondles.) Evil Pirate Captain then proceeds to torture Hamlet, aided by a comedy duo who sing songs about being bastards. Hamlet gets carved up off stage. Silver, after being strung up ala the crucifixion and ranting to his father/Father about being a saint (a plot point dropped during the second half until now), gets his finger sliced off on stage, and the ring meant for the daughter he so loves taken away.
Meanwhile, back in England, the captain of the ship upon which Silver was impressed finally returns. Silver let him live, but killed his son, and set the captain afloat with his dead son's body for company. In case you miss how the captain survived his first weeks at sea, he will refer to eating his son. Many times. Subtlety and subtext are far from this play's strength. The pissed off captain, having threatened Silver at the time with the death of Silver's wife and daughter, is now good to go on the threat. He carves up Silver's wife off stage, but the daughter runs away to look for dear old pa. Now the captain wants to go after Silver himself. Cromwell says, sure, why not, and throws him a toady to supposedly keep him in check.
Silver has gone a little mad since his torture and is followed around by the ghost of Hamlet (I repeat. Subtlety is NOT a hallmark of this product). A young, stroppy cabin boy shows up - why, it's Silver's daughter Anne! She keeps her true identity a secret, and no one questions her because she exudes sullen teenage 'tude all too well. Silver is still captain - because no one else wants the job, now there's a surprise - and the ship is becalmed. The ghost of Hamlet tells him that the next person to call Silver friend is the Jonah and needs to be thrown overboard. Funny enough, that might be the new cabin boy - but another pirate steps in and utters the fatal words first. Bye bye pirate. Silver also goes overboard, carrying a sack of potatoes claiming it is gold. The ship starts to move. There is nothing ironic or even logical about this scene, except that ghostly Hamlet has either a warped sense of humor or he really sucks at this supernatural message from beyond thing.
Silver tries to bury his sack his potatoes before hanging himself. The Sultan's daughter stops him (WHY? OH WHY? I'D BE OUT OF THE THEATRE FORTY MINUTES EARLY IF YOU WOULD JUST LET HIM DIE!) because apparently the Sultan doesn't mind his unveiled daughter talking to strange men in the garden. Wow! One smile from the Sultan's daughter and a couple of "Allah is Great"s and Silver has the will to live again! Curse you, Sultan's daughter!
Silver and his men decide to take the fight to Evil Pirate Captain, because, y'know, eventually you have to fight the man who enslaved you, killed your friend, killed your lover, cut off your finger and stole your ring. Eventually. About two and half hours after it was made painfully obvious that Evil Pirate Captain is a very bad guy (if all the killing & pillaging wasn't a clue, the actor playing him aped Alan Rickman in Die Hard), Evil Pirate Captain is killed. Hamlet is avenged (he was one mouthy ghost. Wonder why the friend who Silver killed waaaaay back before the intermission never haunted him? Oh well, no use applying logic to this story) and he and the Angel of Death improvise some scat as they sashay off stage.
Silver claims that whoever finds his ring (and finger, one supposes) will be his partner and split the booty 50/50 with him. Hey! What ever happened to equal share for equal pirates, democracy pirate boy?! Anyhoo, stroppy cabin boy finds it. Hey, it was her ring originally. But Silver won't let stroppy cabin boy keep it. He needs it for another purpose.
Which is, of course, to convert to Islam and take the Sultan's daughter as his wife. Okay, Silver spends 3/4 of the play declaiming about his love for his daughter and how he wears the ring as a reminder of her, only to put it on the finger of the first Sultan's daughter he marries? What, he couldn't find another ring in the booty - Evil Pirate Captain wore plenty of them - or use some of it to buy a new one? And she didn't mind getting some hand-me-down? Whatever.
Alas! Married life is not meant to be. Pissed off English captain finds Silver's boat. They fight, Silver surrenders. Pissed off English captain wants to kill Silver. Toady protests that the pirates are unarmed and to kill them would be, well, unsporting. Pissed off English captain kills toady. Toady, who up to now has had maybe fifteen lines - most of them, "Yes sir" to Cromwell - then gets a soliliquy about violence begatting violence, etc. etc. etc. A soliliquy. Like, five minutes of stage time for a minor character. Which he uses to beat us over the head with the Important Theme.
Pissed off English captain is about to kill Silver. Oh no! Storm comes up. Sultan's daughter washes overboard. Silver goes after her. Stroppy cabin boy survives the storm, picks up pissed off English captain AND her father (now missing a leg, of course, so he can have a peg leg in Treasure Island). Because no good deed goes unpunished, pissed off English captain kills stroppy cabin boy just after she reveals herself to her father. Silver then moans to the heavens. My husband and I exit.
Three HOURS this took. There were some nice bits of staging; the play made full use of being performed in the Globe, with its standing room of audience members at the foot of the stage. Some of the costumes were nice. And, um, that's about it.
Overall, this was one tonal mismash, with broad humor next to Grand Guignal horror. Oh, and songs. Yes, there are musical interludes. Not very memorable tunes, but singing does ensue. The playwright strove for Shakespearean sonorance in his speeches, but alas! His pen was more of the sort Master Thespian enjoyed. The actors did their best, but the material defeated them every time. They didn't have characters, just disjointed moments that when added up made no sense.
Stay away. Stay far away from this benighted play unless ye, too, want to suffer the curse of the numb bum and the hurting brain.
2006-07-14
Summer evenings, had me a blast...
*sigh* The Tower of London Music Festival is now over. No more evenings sitting outside under a slowly darkening sky, sipping Pimms and listening to great music - in a moat. Well, a former moat. The water was drained in 1843 by order of the Duke of Wellington, or so we were told by the Beefeater welcoming us to the first concert we attended. He added that the reason grass grows so well in the moat is because it doubled as a sewage system for the City of London. Those must have been some fragrant summers back in the day...
But still. How often do you go to a concert in a moat? Next to a 900 year old castle? And men in skirts (okay, not really, but really cool uniforms with peplums) introduce the bands?
We saw three of the acts in what was a two-week long event: Pink Martini, Madeleine Peyroux and Jamie Cullen. Pink Martini (and if you don't know who they are, get thyself to Amazon or iTunes immediately) was a fiesta of good vibes and better dancing; I commented to my husband that we went to an open air party and a Pink Martini concert broke out. There were people having a very good time, filling up the grassy aisles and salsa-ing and swinging to the music. No one told them to sit down and go back to their seats. By the last song, a fabulous rendition of "Brazil" that built and built into a joyous crescendo, everyone was on their feet and a conga line spontaneously formed.
It was muy cool.
When we arrived for Madeleine Peyroux, they traded our back of the audience tickets for the front section. I'm sorry Madeleine didn't sell out but I am very grateful we got to see her up close. This was a more intimate concert, all smokey jazz vocals with a sideorder of blues and bluegrass. We relaxed in our comfortable directors' chairs and let the music wash over us.
Jamie Cullen did sell out, as one would expect from a London boy returning home after a year touring other continents. We were in the back, but Jamie brought three large video screens and two handheld camera operators so while actual Jamie was a tiny figure, virtual Jamie was easy to see. Part young Harry Connick Jr., part young Billy Joel, part all himself, he was thoroughly winning. He brought on a Brazilian street band as a coda to "London Skies" which went on a bit too long considering the time limit (the Tower concerts had to finish at 10:30 sharp, which made them perfect for those who are no longer as young as they think they are, like me). But he won my heart completely with his final song, a lovely piano and voice version of "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans." Since I do indeed know what that means, I very much appreciated the sentiment (and his nod to Louis Armstrong).
Seriously. Music in a moat. It's one of the things that make me appreciate London so much. And the Tower is far from the only place to hear music or see theatre under the sky (I would say stars, but as it is still light until well past 9:00 p.m., that's not strictly true). There's Holland Park, Regent's Park and Kenwood House in Hampstead, all of which we will be visiting before the summer is over. There's free opera on big screens in Trafalgar Sqaure. There's the Globe, open to the elements. When it is sunny and warm (which luckily it has been), there's nothing more wonderful.
So, while I'm still a little homesick, we're definitely trying to make the most of the summer. After all, there are Pimm cups to be drunk.
But still. How often do you go to a concert in a moat? Next to a 900 year old castle? And men in skirts (okay, not really, but really cool uniforms with peplums) introduce the bands?
We saw three of the acts in what was a two-week long event: Pink Martini, Madeleine Peyroux and Jamie Cullen. Pink Martini (and if you don't know who they are, get thyself to Amazon or iTunes immediately) was a fiesta of good vibes and better dancing; I commented to my husband that we went to an open air party and a Pink Martini concert broke out. There were people having a very good time, filling up the grassy aisles and salsa-ing and swinging to the music. No one told them to sit down and go back to their seats. By the last song, a fabulous rendition of "Brazil" that built and built into a joyous crescendo, everyone was on their feet and a conga line spontaneously formed.
It was muy cool.
When we arrived for Madeleine Peyroux, they traded our back of the audience tickets for the front section. I'm sorry Madeleine didn't sell out but I am very grateful we got to see her up close. This was a more intimate concert, all smokey jazz vocals with a sideorder of blues and bluegrass. We relaxed in our comfortable directors' chairs and let the music wash over us.
Jamie Cullen did sell out, as one would expect from a London boy returning home after a year touring other continents. We were in the back, but Jamie brought three large video screens and two handheld camera operators so while actual Jamie was a tiny figure, virtual Jamie was easy to see. Part young Harry Connick Jr., part young Billy Joel, part all himself, he was thoroughly winning. He brought on a Brazilian street band as a coda to "London Skies" which went on a bit too long considering the time limit (the Tower concerts had to finish at 10:30 sharp, which made them perfect for those who are no longer as young as they think they are, like me). But he won my heart completely with his final song, a lovely piano and voice version of "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans." Since I do indeed know what that means, I very much appreciated the sentiment (and his nod to Louis Armstrong).
Seriously. Music in a moat. It's one of the things that make me appreciate London so much. And the Tower is far from the only place to hear music or see theatre under the sky (I would say stars, but as it is still light until well past 9:00 p.m., that's not strictly true). There's Holland Park, Regent's Park and Kenwood House in Hampstead, all of which we will be visiting before the summer is over. There's free opera on big screens in Trafalgar Sqaure. There's the Globe, open to the elements. When it is sunny and warm (which luckily it has been), there's nothing more wonderful.
So, while I'm still a little homesick, we're definitely trying to make the most of the summer. After all, there are Pimm cups to be drunk.
2006-07-06
So maybe it's not Mercury's fault...
So after I whinged and whined in the last post:
1) My husband has two job interviews tomorrow
2) A British friend from out of the past called and we're having lunch on Wednesday
3) The sun came out and it's hot, but not beastily so
4) I managed to walk past the "70% off!!!" signs on Oxford Street without breaking stride
1) My husband has two job interviews tomorrow
2) A British friend from out of the past called and we're having lunch on Wednesday
3) The sun came out and it's hot, but not beastily so
4) I managed to walk past the "70% off!!!" signs on Oxford Street without breaking stride
2006-07-05
It must be because Mercury is in retrograde...
Last night, as we came home from the theatre, loud, explosive but very familiar noises assaulted our ears. The sky above Holland Park Avenue lit up with bursts of red, white and blue light. We could see the fireworks' reflection in the windows of the townhouses opposite our flat, but we couldn't see the actual pyrotechnics.
I guessed that the fireworks came from the street behind us, too low to see over the roofs from our street, but perhaps visible from our back bedroom. I ran upstairs, searched frantically for the key that opened the door to the small balcony off the bedroom, discovered that the key was not on top of the bookcase as I had carefully left it but was downstairs on the keyring o'spares, and managed to step outside in bare feet on the unswept, unkempt balcony just long enough to see, through a small gap in the adjoining rooftops, about two minutes of fireworks.
I'm not sure who put on the display, but it was very much appreciated. I noticed the couple next door, also American expats, were on their roof terrace, wrapped in each other's arms, watching as well. Happy (belated) Fourth of July!
Mercury went into retrograde yesterday. While I am not a huge believer in astrology, I am enough of a Gemini to want to keep my options open. And I've certainly started to feel out of sorts and wrong side front the past few days.
I'm...homesick. There. I admitted it. Oh, I still love living here and if I were told to move home tomorrow I would be devastated to leave but...I'm homesick.
I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss having a network. I miss feeling plugged in. I miss knowing all the unspoken, unwritten cultural "rules."
Some of this comes from moving to a new place, and I would feel the same if I had just moved to a new town in the US. I keep reminding myself that it takes time to make friends, it takes time to put down roots. But while we had a very promising start to our social life here, our favorite people have moved away (another by-product of living an international life - people & their jobs tend to be transitory) and replacements have been hard to come by.
Part of it is the weather. We're having a heatwave. A muggy, sticky, non-air conditioned heatwave. According to the Evening Standard newspaper, the heat index on the Central Line (my commute) is 98 degrees Fahrenheit. It's not much better in our flat, which, as fabulous as it is (great location, lots of space) has zero cross ventilation. And two floors. Above a garage. And heat rises.
I'm consoling myself by going shopping. The sales are on! Unlike US stores, which have permanent markdown racks, most London stores only put their wares on sale twice a year: January and July. But...and I never thought I'd ever say this...it IS possible to have too much stuff. It just is. And I hate feeling like I need to be out shopping because now is the time for a bargain. I love to shop. I'm a great shopper. I'm great at spotting bargains. But when sale time comes only twice a year and EVERYONE has bargains and it's buy now or never get your bargain again it's just...draining and ennervating. I'm not explaining it well and I know I sound like a spoiled prig because, after all, I can afford my shopping habit but...sometimes the hole is in your soul, not in your closet, and no amount of cutprice fashion is going to make you feel better.
And my husband is out of sorts because his job search is dragging on and he's had to deal more than one person ever should with the veddy British passive aggressive recruiters, whose way of dealing with rejection is just not to return phone calls. Look, pick up the phone and tell him he didn't get the job, m'kay? Don't just leave him sitting by the phone, wondering what happened. Especially when you all but promised him the job when you called to set up the interview.
Directness. I think I miss that most of all.
Mercury comes out of retrograde on the 29th. I can't wait...!
I guessed that the fireworks came from the street behind us, too low to see over the roofs from our street, but perhaps visible from our back bedroom. I ran upstairs, searched frantically for the key that opened the door to the small balcony off the bedroom, discovered that the key was not on top of the bookcase as I had carefully left it but was downstairs on the keyring o'spares, and managed to step outside in bare feet on the unswept, unkempt balcony just long enough to see, through a small gap in the adjoining rooftops, about two minutes of fireworks.
I'm not sure who put on the display, but it was very much appreciated. I noticed the couple next door, also American expats, were on their roof terrace, wrapped in each other's arms, watching as well. Happy (belated) Fourth of July!
Mercury went into retrograde yesterday. While I am not a huge believer in astrology, I am enough of a Gemini to want to keep my options open. And I've certainly started to feel out of sorts and wrong side front the past few days.
I'm...homesick. There. I admitted it. Oh, I still love living here and if I were told to move home tomorrow I would be devastated to leave but...I'm homesick.
I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss having a network. I miss feeling plugged in. I miss knowing all the unspoken, unwritten cultural "rules."
Some of this comes from moving to a new place, and I would feel the same if I had just moved to a new town in the US. I keep reminding myself that it takes time to make friends, it takes time to put down roots. But while we had a very promising start to our social life here, our favorite people have moved away (another by-product of living an international life - people & their jobs tend to be transitory) and replacements have been hard to come by.
Part of it is the weather. We're having a heatwave. A muggy, sticky, non-air conditioned heatwave. According to the Evening Standard newspaper, the heat index on the Central Line (my commute) is 98 degrees Fahrenheit. It's not much better in our flat, which, as fabulous as it is (great location, lots of space) has zero cross ventilation. And two floors. Above a garage. And heat rises.
I'm consoling myself by going shopping. The sales are on! Unlike US stores, which have permanent markdown racks, most London stores only put their wares on sale twice a year: January and July. But...and I never thought I'd ever say this...it IS possible to have too much stuff. It just is. And I hate feeling like I need to be out shopping because now is the time for a bargain. I love to shop. I'm a great shopper. I'm great at spotting bargains. But when sale time comes only twice a year and EVERYONE has bargains and it's buy now or never get your bargain again it's just...draining and ennervating. I'm not explaining it well and I know I sound like a spoiled prig because, after all, I can afford my shopping habit but...sometimes the hole is in your soul, not in your closet, and no amount of cutprice fashion is going to make you feel better.
And my husband is out of sorts because his job search is dragging on and he's had to deal more than one person ever should with the veddy British passive aggressive recruiters, whose way of dealing with rejection is just not to return phone calls. Look, pick up the phone and tell him he didn't get the job, m'kay? Don't just leave him sitting by the phone, wondering what happened. Especially when you all but promised him the job when you called to set up the interview.
Directness. I think I miss that most of all.
Mercury comes out of retrograde on the 29th. I can't wait...!
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