The stone in Scone is mainly under the throne
So we saw the Scottish play Saturday night, despite my many and profound misgivings.
It did not start well. The curtain went up, and a single spotlight illuminated a skull. In the director's mind, no doubt, the skull began to tremble with the unbearable knowledge of ominous prophecies, channeling dark energies, until it slowly levitated above the stage, a towering and fearful embodiment of the slaughter and mayhem to come.
In actual fact, the skull was a bit top-heavy, and spun and tilted as soon as its clearly-visible wire was tugged, revealing it to be a vinyl Halloween hood. Moreover, no one had even sealed up the neck-hole opening of the hood, so the audience was treated to a view of the suspended vinyl orifice, madly flapping and spinning, as it was jerkily yanked toward the ceiling, inch by painful inch, the spotlight hopping along in pursuit and occasionally losing it.
As was I.
I won't say much about the rest, except...well, just imagine lines such as sleep knitting up the ravell'd sleeve of care declaimed in the vocal rhythms of Apu.
Oh, I'm being horrible, am I? You try it without laughing. And don't forget to throw in "out, out damned spot."
But since that's my own cultural narrowness talking, let me speak instead of the audience.
They're unspeakable. You have to understand, I've already acculturated to Mumbai moviegoers. That same eager gent who obscenely presses up against your back while "in line" and then reaches around you at the counter to try to get his ticket first, will, once inside the cinema, completely ignore the movie in favor of catching up with his friends. But it's surprisingly ok, as the movie is cranked up to Dolby-distorting decibels, and, anyway, the chatter is in such a potpourri of languages that it's not really distracting.
In the theatre, dear readers, the live theatre -- the legitimate theatre -- cell phones not only rang, but were answered. The folks sitting behind me were engaged in lively debate over which one was Malcolm and which one was Banquo, and not only had to be shushed twice, but were getting it all horribly wrong. The general unruliness included the stage crew, who got into an apparently unscripted and highly audible disagreement in the wings. When the actors started looking even more stricken and distracted than in the first act, someone from the audience did get up and go around the side of the stage to remonstrate with them, but they continued their fisticuffs wordlessly, as evidenced by occasional sounds of scuffle and then a prop or piece of furniture appearing abruptly on far stage left. This continued for a good -- no, make that great -- twenty minutes.
Afterward, K and T and I went to a posh bar, where K gamely tried to convince T -- it was her first Shakespeare, and she really wanted to like it -- that it was a good performance, and I drank heavily and tried to think of England.
It did not start well. The curtain went up, and a single spotlight illuminated a skull. In the director's mind, no doubt, the skull began to tremble with the unbearable knowledge of ominous prophecies, channeling dark energies, until it slowly levitated above the stage, a towering and fearful embodiment of the slaughter and mayhem to come.
In actual fact, the skull was a bit top-heavy, and spun and tilted as soon as its clearly-visible wire was tugged, revealing it to be a vinyl Halloween hood. Moreover, no one had even sealed up the neck-hole opening of the hood, so the audience was treated to a view of the suspended vinyl orifice, madly flapping and spinning, as it was jerkily yanked toward the ceiling, inch by painful inch, the spotlight hopping along in pursuit and occasionally losing it.
As was I.
I won't say much about the rest, except...well, just imagine lines such as sleep knitting up the ravell'd sleeve of care declaimed in the vocal rhythms of Apu.
Oh, I'm being horrible, am I? You try it without laughing. And don't forget to throw in "out, out damned spot."
But since that's my own cultural narrowness talking, let me speak instead of the audience.
They're unspeakable. You have to understand, I've already acculturated to Mumbai moviegoers. That same eager gent who obscenely presses up against your back while "in line" and then reaches around you at the counter to try to get his ticket first, will, once inside the cinema, completely ignore the movie in favor of catching up with his friends. But it's surprisingly ok, as the movie is cranked up to Dolby-distorting decibels, and, anyway, the chatter is in such a potpourri of languages that it's not really distracting.
In the theatre, dear readers, the live theatre -- the legitimate theatre -- cell phones not only rang, but were answered. The folks sitting behind me were engaged in lively debate over which one was Malcolm and which one was Banquo, and not only had to be shushed twice, but were getting it all horribly wrong. The general unruliness included the stage crew, who got into an apparently unscripted and highly audible disagreement in the wings. When the actors started looking even more stricken and distracted than in the first act, someone from the audience did get up and go around the side of the stage to remonstrate with them, but they continued their fisticuffs wordlessly, as evidenced by occasional sounds of scuffle and then a prop or piece of furniture appearing abruptly on far stage left. This continued for a good -- no, make that great -- twenty minutes.
Afterward, K and T and I went to a posh bar, where K gamely tried to convince T -- it was her first Shakespeare, and she really wanted to like it -- that it was a good performance, and I drank heavily and tried to think of England.
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