RSC (Stratford-Upon-Avon - 6th-9th of July)

King Lear

It was a truly breathtaking production, seamlessly amalgamating traditionalism and industralism with grand, dusty chandeliers hanging alongside decaying fluorescent lights. The calibre of the acting was truly outstanding, and their deep understanding and passionate enjoyment of the text was obvious and infectious. The biggest problem I had with the actors was that Edmund (though exceptionally talented) was distractingly goodlooking. In fact, by the end of the play he'd quite easily persuaded me to his side. (YEAH! Take it all, Edgar!)

The storm was incredible. Lighting rigs fell from the ceiling, the iron wall backdrop collapsed with a huge bang on the floor, the deafening noise surrounding you. And there was Lear, alone, drenched in the rain that poured down on only him.


It's difficult to describe how I felt while I watched the production. It was like I loved it too much - it made me greedy. I wanted more; I wanted to taste it, absorb every minute into my being. I wanted to pack it all up and put it in my pocket and carry it around with me always. A tad creepy, I know. I felt a certain panic - like I couldn't hold on to each moment tightly enough. And I was heartbroken I couldn't stand on that stage and feel that... fullness? Connection?... that could only happen as a result of being a part of such a production. Instead, I walked home alone along the dark cobblestone streets of the tiny town.

Morte D'Arthur

It was bound to happen, when seeing a play sandwiched between two Shakespeare ones. The language was simply shown up as being blatantly not as good. And the production as a whole was rather boring. I won't waste your time or mine by going into details, but the whole production seemed rather tiring and superfluous - the constant narration by very detached chorus members, the plot that went all over the place and yet no where, the affected attempt to intergrate modern references and jokes... Also, the fact that I was overcome with hayfever halfway through and my nose started running like a tap (attractive, I know) probably didn't help. Despite this, one could still appreciate the calibre of the actors (bar one that really jarred me) and becaise of this, the play reminded me of a talented company at Newtown getting shafted with a hopeless director. A shame, but seeing as I paid £5 for the ticket (oh, did I mention King Lear was free? FREE?) I can't really complain. Not that its ever stopped me before.

Romeo and Juliet

This was the first professional production of the play I had ever seen and once again I was blown away by the sheer greatness of the actors involved. Particularly the nurse - whose purpose in the play I'd never really had a reason to acknowledge until RSC. It was not until this production that I fully comprehended that it is the nurse who not only enables the drama, but catalyises the conflict - the miscommunication that leads to the eventual tragedy. And this actress was an absolute gem. Playing her as an old no-nonsense Caribbean woman, it was so invigorating to see an actor so effortlessly makes the most of every moment they have. Even more invigorating was that she wasn't the only one. Each actor in the company cherished each line and action, which made the play so engrossing, despite the fact I was so familiar with it.

Unfortunately, conceptually the play fell a little flat. Again, I blame bad direction - a naive assumption that the story had to be integrated into the 21st Century. The majority of set and costume was Gothic Era but R+J were dressed in jeans and Chucks - playing opn the whole 'rebellious adolescents' thing. It came off as a bit contrived but the gorgeous chemistry between the two stopped it from tainting the performance too much. One particular cool feature was that the all-too-famous opening monologue was given as a voice over - heard by characters as if by a tour guide in a museum. An interesting and different way to take us in to the world of the play, which I soon found myself completely engrossed in. As if I had never seen the play before.

I felt such a pang of panic at every wrong turn. Why couldn't they just have...? But if this hadn't happened... If only...

I'm not going to lie. I cried.




And so ended my RSCathon. I can honestly say I've fallen in love with the whole company and could only console myself by spending copious monies in the RSC Giftshop. This included a canvas bag with this:



Wicked.

And some badges that say 'Eat my leek' and 'He's a saucy fellow'. Ahh, retail therapy, you never fail me.


One day, I went for a bicycle ride through the Stratford countryside.

Then, I got tired, and stopped for a snack. And wrote this post into my little diary.

A thought from September...

I'd like to tell you a story. At the beginning of this year, I attended a party in Marrickville. It was a pretty nondescript night; I just sat in the garden and had a few beers and chatted topeople I didn't see all that much any more now that school was well and truly over. Nice, casual, relaxed. The party broke up relatively early - for reasons I can no longer remember - and all-to-soon everyone started to separate, wandering off in the direction of 'home'. A fewof us tried to 'keep the party going' by heading to a friend's house in Newtown but shortlyafter arriving, I said my goodbyes and left. I think that night marked my final acceptance of the inevitable deterioration of my most very close circle of friends - both due to geographica land other reasons - and I needed some air and some space to think.

I walked slowly though the streets of Newtown, streets I probably should have been weary of walking along so early in the morning, but streets that were so familiar to me I never even thought of it. At the top of Australia Street, despite my musing, I noticed an office wheelie cheer lying abandoned at the top of the hill. Those who know me well know my love for spinning wheelie chairs, and riding down hills, and so of course I was not able to resist seizing the opportunity to combine the two. At 3am, the streets were silent, save for the awkwardly loudscraping of gravel as I pulled the chair into a prime position in the middle of the road. (It didn't occur to me to just pick up the chair...) I sat down, and without a second thought - without weighing pros and cons, listing consequences, without even making a conscious decision - I kicked my feet off the ground and let gravity work its magic.

It felt like flying.

And as I flew, I also spun in circles; uncontrolled, unplanned, unanalysed. And I felt my speed pick up, and the wind through my hair, in my face, cutting through the muggy summer night. The world was a blur and I could hear myself laughing and my heart beating loudly over the deafening rumble of plastic on gravel.

I think that may be the most free I have ever felt.

But, as I came to a graceful (ha!) stop at the corner of my street, I heard pointed laughter. A couple taking a midnight stroll were laughing at my mode of transport (hey, it was cheaper than a taxi!) I pushed the chair in their direction. 'Don't knock it until you've tried it,' I advised them. As I let myself into the house, I heard the unmistakable rumbling accompanied by whoops and shouts of joy, and one long 'Wheeeeeee!'. I went to sleep that night grinning.


Now, the reason I'm telling you this, and the reason I've been thinking about it a lot recently is because I think that's what I expected this trip to feel like. Unencombered freedom, and the opportunity to let go. And it has felt like that, I think, kind of, more than ever before, I suppose. I'm flying down that hill but sometimes I find myself scraping my feet on the ground, desperately trying to slow myself down or direct myself back to the middle of the road.

You know, this isn't always a bad thing. I'm grateful in a way - that un-switch-off-ableautopilot has probably stopped me from doing a lot of stupid things (and even once or twice has kicked in a bit late) but you always end up remembering those things you didn't do. Or rather, I always remember the things I didn't do. Financially, experientially, romantically, geographically, characteristically speaking.

More than anything, I hope by the end of this trip I'll have learnt to freefall.