You can gauge how much you're going to like this from how funny you found that. Me, I actualized a new cliche: I actually did laugh myself hoarse. In this anniversary year--we're going both births and deaths now, to double up on the heritage occasions--this was everything I wanted to see: people with foam maces bashing each other to do the rando minor deaths in, like, 3 Henry VI; a woman with a strap-on doing Macbeth; and three men dressed as a snake for the Cleopatra bit.
It says something about my year in theatergoing that this was the first time I've seen the jamming of things in rectums played for laughs. All of the other times--I'm looking at you, Herons--have been deadly serious, Balinese cockfight, tell-us-about-our-society-oh-it's-bad-innit violations. (For prospective students, I Hardly Knew 'Em: The Epistemology of the Rectum on the British Stage, 1999-2016 is a grimly viable dissertation topic.) Here it was two men with skewers and red paint doing something sort of jolly to each other. I came in not knowing there was an adult clown scene in England; I left maybe wanting to follow it.
Sort-of related: Shoreditch remains my favorite living-joke part of London, where everything is exactly what you would expect it to be. Before the production, someone at the next table was showing a friend her new tattoo: a death's head inside of a jar. At the interval, a family of aging culture-vultures were describing how often their daughter was traveling to Ghana (alert: it may be the new Prague), and how all the clubs were closing, because of course they were. Kunst indeed.
No comments:
Post a Comment