Unsolicited Opinions: Translations

—The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home,Christ,ale,master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young man.

Strange to think that this was written somewhere in the region of a hundred years since Translations is set. Watching the twilight of an ancient language knowing full well its future was fascinating and sad, though I could not forget the irony of this play's being performed in the conquering English.

I'm not really in a mood to review tonight's performance, it was a great production of a great play. I only wish I had had this piece of work in my repertoire when trying to explain the differences between Irish and English people, and these people to demonstrate it for me! So many people would have been spared my mildly inebriated gesticulations and vaulting speech.

The cast grapple well with the tough Donegal accent, and perform the doubly impressive feat of declaming Lating and Greek like those whose first language is Irish. This should be praised, as I can't imagine how I'd go about that. They also capture for me the hard-edged eloquence and verbal deftness I recognise in my memories of my grandfather, who learned Irish as a foreign language but retained its capacity for imagery.

The drama of every day life is there too, the fights and songs and cheers and dancing withing which the English are alien and totally separate. I thought we were wondering into 'allo 'allo' territory at one point but mercifully the production steered clear of any awkardness with regard to the common use of English. The love story between Moira and George was truthful and touching, bringing to life the power of language in love.

The set I thought slightly too much, it seemed to have enough books to fill the schools of county Donegal for one hedge school with less than ten students. I would have liked more on the lighting and sound front, particularly at the end.

These are quibbles really. I left the theatre relishing the walk to the bus as I was brimming with thoughts and ideas. The lights reflected in the river were brighter than I'd seen before, and the smell of the water filled my head as I drew it in. This is how I feel after a really good piece of theatre, it's why I go again and again, show after show, because in all the poor and mediocre nights there is that one that stimulates the mind and makes me want to make things happen.

That's quite enough from me for one night. Here's a nice picture to end with.

Ramblings of a kind.

I lost my USB in the library. It has swallowed up that useful little thing and for that I resent it fiercely. Can't fault the library staff, though. I asked them if any red ones had been handed in this week, she rooted through a drawer and rather apologetically handed me the cap of my USB. So close and yet so far. This only confirms my suspicion that the computers here have eaten it.

Of course the librarians are not above suspicion. Perhaps they are aliens who, on receipt of my USB looked through its contents and discovered to their utter amazement that my John Donne essays, seemingly insignificant and frankly pedestrian according to earthly academic standards, to them form the missing final part of their ancient galactic constitution and supplying the final ammendments to their bill of rights, tricky to pin down on beings that are mainly gaseous and therefore straddle the divide between the physical and metaphisical existence.

Their writer, whose name is unpronounceable to all solid beings, was so unimaginably brilliant that on completion of his 100 volume political work he knew at once that he had created the solution to all life in the galaxy. Only peace and brotherly love could possibly exist between all beings in the galaxy under this great document, and possibly the universe itself. The laws of entropy would be reversed and the universe would hold itself together in perpetual motion fromtge good will of its blissful inhabitants.

It came as a shock only to him, that when he presented his life's work to the political leaders of the planet it went down like a balloon filled with Xenon. As political leaders from a long line of all patrician races, species and elements of the galaxy their fortunes all rested on arms dealing, and peace and brotherly love to them meant instant ruin. They imediately seized on the denser parts of the genius and threw him into a black hole, where, as a loose-particled element he was able to maintain a vague, coma like consciousness. They took his works, and to add insult to injury, used a heavily weighted interpretaion of its basic tennets, discarding the rest in fragments across the universe among only
the most primitive species known to them. Of these the most complex and politically fatal last
page was consigned to that most stupid and lumpish of creatures cursed with a pathetic consciousness: human beings. This was placed without thought into the unconscious of a budding poet, one Jack Donne. However his earthly intelligence was so far beneath their own that they could make out nothing that he wrote, less still realised his literary importance among the other ape-like creatures and that through his primitive writings the message of their genius gradually slipped into the unconscious of every bored English literature student in the world. They would be as surprised to discover that humans had processed this information than we would be on discovering existential longing in a mollusc.

Now our poor genius had disappeared, but he had not been forgotten. He had a few privileged disciples among the great academic institutions and they worried when he stopped collecting his awards, for he was meticulously polite in such instances. A few of the lesser known professors, fearing the worst, began a secret society to discover his fate, and they searched his home for evidence of his last and much rumoured work. The notes they found on post-its and shopping lists arranged in geometric patterns on the fridge were themselves so brilliant they guessed the danger of the work itself. They devoted their whole lives to its recovery and the lives of generations of other academics who would come to join them over the centuries.

In the subsequent military coup they all quietly faked their own deaths and escaped to the furthest and most primitive recesses if the galaxy, where to their astonishmbt they began to stumble upon traces of the very works they had sworn to find. As academics it is no surprise that the disguises adopted placed them where they could gain some small happiness- in libraries. They have gain a significant interest in the primitive works, for them it is like tracing the dawn of conscious thought.

Imagine their wonder on finding lodged within the rushed points and crude rhetoric the the key to decode the last and finest part of the work that became the work of their lives. This discovery will have brought about the last great battle of the galaxy, leading to either total annihilation or union of all life, which means the loss of my USB is part of a great destiny in the history of the galaxy and I'm not just some twonk who logged out of a library computer and forgot to take her USB containig her headshots, CVs and several essays.

The football was abysmal. Harriet and I got a little hysterical at 3-1 and opened the prosecco, the first toast at the wake of england's wildly overblown hopes. Now I'm heading home as quickly as possible to avoid the carnage.

Unsolicited Opinions: The Crucible

Three hours and twenty minutes. Phew. I'd forgotten just how much of this play there is. And thursday night's full, totally uncut version brought it all screaming back to me in my plush Victorian chair.

But enough moaning, this is a great production, all the cast keeping up Bristol Old Vic's high standard. The stark, wooden set of rafters, planks, crates and one very imposing cross really brought home the Spartan existence of early American farmers. Proctor's house in particular made an impression on me, its beams jagged and refusing to meet, implying the damage John and Abigail's affair has done to his home.

I'm not going to get into too many details as to the individual performances as I know a cast member and I'm not sure I'm up to a huge list of character names and a snappy little line to match.
This was a strong ensemble performance by what felt like two casts. The 'us' and 'them' feeling runs through the play, so that you're left with the feeling that those accused are charged, not with witchcraft, but with the full stigma of poverty and lack of education. Mutual distrust backs up every accusation, and it is clear that the law is only for the educated.

This play is always linked to the McCarthy trials and I did see some parallels (a brilliant little Roy Cohn moment here and there which made me smile) but what really struck me was the battle of the actors onstage. Politics were a sideline in this production; what really mattered was the delicious, poisonous cocktail of sexuality, religion and sin. Sin hangs in the air like the smell of a locker room, insidious, pungent, infecting the air and those who breathe it. The lead characters are driven almost insane by it, and the beginning of act two implies that Abigail has given way almost completely to madness, drunk with power and bloodlust. The sin of adultery drives her and shackles him, though it did not hold back the performance, as the actor prowled and brooded and sulked across the stage like a man who knows perfectly well he is the centre of the universe.
The men come off far better than the women in this play. It's plain to see that Proctor is one of those superior human beings who draws attention and respect to him whether or not he deserves it. They are the people who become figure heads and symbols at the front of the purer but less charismatic heroes of history.
The jealousy and hatred between the women however, particularly between Elizabeth and Abigail is apparently to blame for all the bloodshed and trials, which I found rather hard to swallow. The revealing of the affair reveals Proctor as a good, misguided man and Abigail as a common whore, which I personally don't buy, and maybe had there been a little more detail and a little less shouting and what I call 'Jesus acting' (arms thrust out at shoulder height, palms facing out, head back, Adam's apple exposed, striding in a big circle, you all know who you are) and we might have seen more of the reasons why Abigail goes mad, why Elizabeth would rather the father of her children die good than live a liar, why they gain so much energy from tearing each other apart over him, body and soul. While it's clear that Proctor is different, Abigail's story isn't dealt with in enough depth, so that you forget the childhood trauma and the disturbed mind and see only the bitch who'll get what she wants whatever may stand in her way, however entertaining that side of her may be.

However I'm happy to blame the director and not the cast for this, as what they did they did well, I just know I would have had the same cast do something rather different. Should I ever become artistic director of a famous drama school I'll try it out and prove myself totally wrong I imagine

Thumbs up to the cast in this case and 'could do better' for the direction methinks. But go anyway- they're on till the 26th and at the price of an Imax ticket you'll see real people doing exciting things for a Wagnerian length of time. And do get a pint afterwards, you might as well when the show ends after the last bus has left.

What skills do you have and how do you think they will enrich The Soul Destroyers?

So, eleven days in the city. I'm starting to feel like I actually live here. I even know my postcode by heart, which I managed to avoid for the whole six months I lived in Warwick. While I think the honeymoon period is still in full swing the weather's taken a hideous turn and so I've begun applying for work.
Boy is it difficult. 'Yes, we know,' I can hear you all say, job hunting is a dull, soul destroying activity undertaken only in the pursuit of eventual financial gain.' This has not passed me by, of course. I just mean the differences in applying for acting work and, well, pretty much everything else.
I think I've been a bit spoiled in recent years, as while singing and dancing (well, not really dancing, more moving my feet awkardly round the beat) in old peoples homes was exhausting and sometimes, usually after the residents' lunch, felt pointless, I was working for someone who knew exactly what I could and couldn't do- I didn't have to prove myself after the first tour. I don't mean in terms of ability; my dancing skills were constantly called into question. I mean that my professional demeanour was never an issue.
Because that's what I find so odd about so called desk jobs. Your ability to do the job seems to come second to 'are you the sort of person we want to work with?' This bothered me, as things I don't understand tend to, and brought out a competitive streak in me I didn't know I had. I wouldn't have minded not getting the job on grounds of lack of qualification. I have a degree in English and Theatre Studies and a Post Graduate Diploma in Acting. I am qualified for nothing. What upset me was the possibility of being turned down for a job, a means of financial gain and mark of social success, because they didn't like me. I didn't let it bother me for long, and instead of following my instinct and asking the interviewer outright, 'Is there a communal living element of this job I didn't spot in the ad? Will I, on gaining entry to this shining light of door-to-door sales be inducted into a secret cult, be tattooed and drink the blood of a still living chicken thereby sealing my entry into the secret world of the successful?' I instead was a total jellyfish and lied. Those who know me well would not have recognised the bubbly persona gurning and giggling across the interviewer's desk. They would have thought I had lost my mind. Maybe I had.
Far simpler was the audition for a band that night. They perform on average once a month. They wanted someone to replace their singer while she was on maternity leave. Basically they wanted someone to do exactly what she could do. Fair enough. So I got a lift with the keyboard player, learned a bit about the band, got there and the five of us girls who'd turned up sang our songs and went home. Bliss. So easy.
The difference for me is that in an audition, generally your professional conduct is taken for granted. There are certain ways of behaving on polite society and you will of course adhere to them, the question is will you do the exact job they want you to, right look, right voice, right style. It sounds personal but it isn't. Perhaps this comes from actors themselves, who in general want to be liked and enjoy having a wide circle of aquaintance. There is no need to question their ability to get on with their colleagues and bosses, as they will do whatever it takes to make friends, imsecure though that probably sounds. So I was surprised to discover that a sales company that specializes in recruiting young people didn't take this for granted at all. Maybe it was to see how well an applicant can express themselves, on reflection, but it all felt a little claustrophobic, like finding yourself cornered by a bore at a dull party. You don't really want to be there but there isn't much else on offer so you might as well play along till your bus comes.
The bad/good news was, my lie worked. They did like me. Everyone liked me. I made friends at the interview and at the subsequent open day where I pounded the pavement with one of the most determinedly positive people I've ever met (bear on mind when I say that most of my mates are actors and picture him again). Every door was an opportunity, in fact, doors were things to be maximised, though only at certain times of the day. My mind started to wander after the second lap and the process felt like Monsters Inc, with so many doors and targets, and the fact that my 'leader' was a six foot three rugby type. He liked me too. To be fair I liked him, it was hard not to. He's very, very nice, and not in an insipid way. I wasn't surprised to be offered the job after eight hours walking the pavements of an estate in north Bristol. I'd made a point of being exactly the person they wanted. We all liked each other. How lovely.
I didn't take it. I changed my mind yesterday morning. I don't regret it at all, even though I still feel I let down the nice people I met. But the problem was it was all a lie on my part, in a light hearted way. I'm not a young professional. My hair is untidy, I can't be arsed with cocktails, I don't want my life to revolve round the next holiday. And I still have a faint glow of hope in the next acting job, whenever that should arise.
I got a bar job. If you're in Bristol and you're watching one of the World Cup games, come down this weekend. I'll be there serving cider. Phew.

Unsolicited Opinions: Far Away at Bristol Old Vic and Apple

Far Away, written by Caryl Churchill
Dir. Simon Godwin

Bristol Old Vic 24 May- 9 June



It was somehow inevitable that Caryl Churchill would catch up with me eventually. In my head her plays still stand for a lot of ucertain wadings through the theatre maker's canon, often funny, occasionally revelatory but in my case mostly plain difficult. I tend to leave with the feeling I haven't learned any more than she wants me to. Maybe the idea is to go work out the rest yourself, but when that applies to significant plot devices I find it really quite irritating. However she has enough preachers to make me feel a little guilty and, dare I say it, old fashioned for holding this view, so I got my intellectual waders out again for this new play, having been so celebrated on opening in The Royal Court.



I have to admit I was almost converted, and do now wonder if it was a lack of high quality actors that put me off previously, as the three named performers Annette Badland, Cara Horgan and Tristan Sturrock all gave very strong performances. Badland in particular made an impression as the sinisterly kindly aunt Harper. As the writing skips neatly around the clichés of the inquisitive- child-who-knows-too-much being smilingly lied to by the grown-up-dealing-with-dangerous-situation both Badland and the excellent score are wonderfully threatening. And they didn't have to work so hard. A sweet, granny-ish figure in an aga catalogue kitchen is bound to be sinister, Hollywood taught us that decades ago.

So far, so eery, and suddenly the little Joan has grown up and is a hatter (Horgan) in a 1984 warehouse. She and her co worker Todd (Sturrock) make hats for a series of 'parades'. I don't like to spoil big plot moments but the parade scene itself is very unsettling, an example of human life made worthless, nameless, faceless figures humiliated under outlandish hats. Surrounding this scene is a rather sweet love story including a misty eyed discussion of the nature of art which in a way is the most disturbing part of this act and I found myself thinking of the callousness of art and artists, totally unconcerned by the incinerated corpses but wistful about the 'ephemeral' quality of the hats burned with them.

Much as I would have liked to have seen this story further explained, it's time now for the biggest leap yet. It's some years on and the earth has become a distopian Narnia. This is the Churchill I remember, quickfire delivery ruthlessly pinning down the paranoia and stupidity of war: Harper has warped into a volatile, head scarf wearing Babushka figure, Joan and Todd are soldiers in a bloody battle. But it's a fight with nature, and the two sides are composed of any category imaginable on earth. Armies of wasps attack horses in great black swarms, deer gore and trample shoppers in malls, dentists and children under five have sided with the Japanese, or was it the French, no, wait, that cats are with the French, alligators on the other hand, oh god my head hurts, please stop shouting at each other I can tell it's a stressful time but I can't tell any more whether I'm meant to keep up...

So close. I'm sure this is exactly the stuff that gives Churchill fans hot and cold flushes. It's a tremendously slick production, great acting, spine-tingling score and I was so nearly swept along by it all. I wouldn't be so arrogant as to suggest it's the playwright's fault, indeed it's almost certainly me, not her but I still feel on the outside, interested and frustrated. If you love the playwright then this is the play for you. Personally I might giver her next one a miss, but I'm willing to bet that when the time comes the reviews will again be all a-glowing, theatre nerds a-waffling and I'll once again concede I was probably wrong last time and haul out the waders.

Apple

The Apple Cider Co. Ltd
Welsh Back,
Bristol,
Avon BS1 4SB

This having already been to me yesterday (thanks, Laura!) I headed here with my Bristolian Sherpa for a quick pre-theatre drink. The bar is basically a barge on the river with outside seating spilling onto the pavement. I think I may have caught it at one of its ideal moments, along with several other people gathered outside, chatting in clumps, arranged over tables and benches catching the last of the glorious saturday sun. The bar is a slightly trendy celebration of all things cider, with. Chalkbord crammed with guest and house varieties and cider inspired mixes. My friend went for Cider Sangria, I went for a pint of Happy Daze (4.5%) on her recommedation. It was full without being heavy and definitely a good beginner's pint. My friend declared there was a hint of cheese in the flavour but I pretended not to hear. I love cheese but I'm not quite ready for it in my booze.

So a full evening was had by all. Such was the atmosphere we got talking to a teacher about to leave for Buenos Aires on sabbatical and in the course of the conversation her recommended we go to the St Werbughs city farm festial (well I didn't actually catch all that in a crowded open air bar but it's what worked out when I got home) so that's where I'll be headed next week, hopefully with my trusty Sherpa! Think I might try and get somebody there to recommend another place or event and so on, could ve quite a fun way to get talking to people and find new places.

Speak soon!

Alice

St Werburghs Festival

Baby's first week in the city

"I just don't know how you do it." was my mother's response to the tiny house I moved into on Tuesday. It could have been worse. At uni in on moving into my first student house, an unremarkable victorian terrace, she made several Billy Elliot references, just to make sure she got her point across.

But at long last, after months festering in the midlands, I have come to live in a little house in Southmead. I should probably mention a couple of things about myself in case anyone who doesn't know me reads this, extraordinary as that seems right now. I am 24, and a year out of Drama school. I am from South Lincolnshire and prior to Tuesday I had visited Bristol a grand total of six times. Thus I feel slightly DIck Whittington-ish as every day I get up, head into the city centre in search of my fortune (here read 'a job').

So in light of my almost total lack of Bristolian or West Country knowledge I'm using a blog as a sort of online diary documenting my progress. I'm going to try and update it as often as I can, particularly when I've done or seen something or someone, or just if something's on my mind and I feel I can make something vaguely readable of it.

I'm also open to suggestions (within reason, I don't want a criminal record!) from anyone with more knowledge than me about the city, what bars or restaurants to visit, local bands or events that are going on, I will visit all I can and report back.

So my first social event is tonight, heading to see my one Bristolian friend Harriet and see Carol Churchill's new play Far Away. Update on that later, for now I'm baking her some chocolate chip biscuits. Forget flattery, in my experience good food will get you everywhere! Here's the link for the recipe I used, a basic biscuit recipe that can be used in practically any way you like and is brilliantly quick:

http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/3468/basic-biscuit-dough

Alice