It's 23.23 and I'm in my front room listening to the new Do Make Say Think album, You, You're a History in Rust, for the first time. I probably shouldn't have it up so loud, considering the time of night, but I feel I'm educating my neighbours, who have previously shown no reservations about "sharing" Rod Stewart and other such soft rock abhorrences at more ungodly hours than this. Besides, this is an album that deserves to be listened to at full volume - both stirring and soothing, it is proving the ideal Friday night combination.
Earlier this evening I partook of some culture by way of a trip to the theatre - to see Harold Pinter's Old Times at the Theatre Royal. It was an odd play. And disconcertingly short. I find Pinter's dialogue, whilst compellingly naturalistic in intent (awkward pauses, unfinished sentences etc.), somewhat flat in execution. This three-hander concerns a reunion after 20 years between two girlfriends, in the presence of one of their husbands, who, it transpires, has a hitherto unknown connection to his wife's old friend. Each character reminisces aloud, but also very much in their own little world, so that the backstory becomes confused and one is unable to piece together any kind of coherent picture of the past. It concludes with the husband sobbing into his wife's lap while she stares coldly into the middle distance. The impetus for his outburst remained unclear to me, but perhaps that was the point. In confusing the audience Pinter demonstrates the weakness of the human mind, how easily memories are bent according to the will or subsequent experiences of their owner, and how people have different recollections of the same event years later. An interesting concept, and commendably undertaken by an undeniably talented cast and director in this production. But overall, it left me cold. Just as well I had the superb aforementioned album waiting at home to revive and soothe me. It's now 23:58, the CD is finished, and whilst I'm tempted to listen to it all over again (ideally under the influence of a large Godfather*) my eyelids are beginning to droop and my bed is calling...
Earlier this evening I partook of some culture by way of a trip to the theatre - to see Harold Pinter's Old Times at the Theatre Royal. It was an odd play. And disconcertingly short. I find Pinter's dialogue, whilst compellingly naturalistic in intent (awkward pauses, unfinished sentences etc.), somewhat flat in execution. This three-hander concerns a reunion after 20 years between two girlfriends, in the presence of one of their husbands, who, it transpires, has a hitherto unknown connection to his wife's old friend. Each character reminisces aloud, but also very much in their own little world, so that the backstory becomes confused and one is unable to piece together any kind of coherent picture of the past. It concludes with the husband sobbing into his wife's lap while she stares coldly into the middle distance. The impetus for his outburst remained unclear to me, but perhaps that was the point. In confusing the audience Pinter demonstrates the weakness of the human mind, how easily memories are bent according to the will or subsequent experiences of their owner, and how people have different recollections of the same event years later. An interesting concept, and commendably undertaken by an undeniably talented cast and director in this production. But overall, it left me cold. Just as well I had the superb aforementioned album waiting at home to revive and soothe me. It's now 23:58, the CD is finished, and whilst I'm tempted to listen to it all over again (ideally under the influence of a large Godfather*) my eyelids are beginning to droop and my bed is calling...
*Whiskey & Amaretto cocktail
