Saturday, October 3, 2009
So I am returned.
Why I hate contemporary theatre: part II
So, in the past few months I have again found myself slotted into some uniform chairs, some cheap and coarse, some not so. Some stacked in graduating height, and some sadly not so. I have this dear friend, you see. He likes the 'magic' of the theatre.
I have stood beneath the frigid prism of university sandstone watching Classics students romp as Satyrs, we knew they were Satyrs by the puce cotton-filled pendulum listing between their legs (one actor had thoughtfully sculpted a flared glans at the tip of the otherwise taper-less cylinder). I viewed the show within the effulgence of a rotund man in lambent black who was not enjoying the show perhaps as much as he was enjoying sucking on the frayed meatus of his fat cigar and discharging a blue plume of ordure. His small, wet teeth glistered as he grimaced, opening his mouth slightly, like a dog, smelling the high perfume of his shapely cigar secreted within the aperture of his damp fist.
I have known myself ensorcelled by a Hecate-like director to sample a mug of arterial-red mulled wine on top of a lunch and dinner of air and believed I was rather close to vomiting upon my neighbour.
And most recently I could be seen dotted amongst the audience of the Fringe festival. Oh, what earnest treats are to be had there. I have watched two couples dismantle washing machines and bicker in a crosette of cliche. It was then that I dearly wished (Wishing Chair, take us to the nicest spot you know!) to be instead supine on the pier in Capeside by the thankfully aureate cliche of Dawson and Co. And to be contemplating the strange geometry that is Dawson's head.
Let us return to the aforementioned friend, said friend moonlights as a reviewer of theatrical works and is likely to have an effigy of him torched to the puling of Brian Molko by all the toadying DIY theatre groupies, in between polishing up their Doc Martens with spittle and the scarifying of the arms, of course.
Here is a template of the critical delights one might receive if one does not like another's art and makes it known:
You are an unassailable jerk. Since you do not like my art, you patently do not possess the right vintage of intellect to comprehend my art. You are certainly palsied, are without friends, and ringed by blubber. You are most obviously jealous of my singular talent. You have the imagination of a Shih Tzu. And your rodomontade makes me and my hackneyed Sharpie feel sick.
Love from Fey, Limp-Haired Best Friend of Production's 'Director'
PS: I have coralled all my Facebook fanlets and they shall send you volleys of superbly turned hate mail. So watch out, Dickwad.
As the elegance of 10 CC would have it, "The things we do for love".