K.A. Laity's Blog, page 159

Review: Hamlet

I am eternally grateful for the NT Live broadcasts; they bring a little bit of the London theatre experience to the (currently) frozen north, which seems so far from the city of my heart. Thank you, Spectrum 8 for hosting the broadcasts, even if Monday night's show seemed to have its share of technical difficulties, including some on-screen monkeying with the display. Hard not to call out, "No, not resolution! position!"



I'd heard great things about this production of Hamlet from the start. I'd seen Rory Kinnear in other productions at the NT and had been impressed with him, but hadn't really thought of him as a Hamlet. He fits perfectly into Hytner's vision of Denmark as police state where everyone's under constant surveillance. Hamlet, far from being a pampered prince, seems to be a confused young man mourning a father he admired and idealised. Patrick Malahide plays his uncle/stepfather as a cold and calculating bureaucrat; Clare Higgins plays his mother as a weak woman with a drink always to hand. When Hamlet speaks of how her first husband cossetted her, we see that weakness and a fear of being alone. I loved how Polonius (David Calder) is not the buffoon he's usually played to be: there's something almost chilling about him, though sometimes he pauses as if realising all at once what he's doing to his own children. His cruelty to Ophelia in particular is sharp here.



Ruth Negga, who was so lovely as Aricia in Phèdre , plays Ophelia with affecting vulnerability, goofing with her brother while their father reels off his advice, then naïvely meeting with Hamlet and guiltily giving the game away (the bible she reads has a hidden mic inside). When mad, she pushes a shopping cart across the stage like a street person though tracked yet by two of her father's staff. In an exquisitely chilling moment, Hytner has her pushed out the door by the security guys. She's become too embarrassing, so she gets bumped off.



David Calder doubles as the gravedigger, a good choice to show him as affable as Polonius was creepy. James Laurensen doubles as the Ghost and the Player King, also a nice pairing. Giles Terera's Horatio didn't seem to be quite the confidante the character normally is, though his regard for Hamlet came across clearly. The atmosphere of paranoia affects all the relationships, which gives a new reading to the dialogue -- which is everything you hope for with Shakespeare. It helped bring out the machinations of Fortinbras better as well, which is seldom done well.



But Kinnear really was a wonder. The first few lines, his delivery seemed almost too clipped and arch, but it worked. In the first speech he's conveying his anger and betrayal. Throughout Kinnear presents the lines as if they were thoughts arising from his head, not "speeches" written down. It's hard: even people who've never seen a Shakespeare play know "To be, or not to be." I get impatient with actorly excesses: Kinnear gave an utterly natural performance -- especially so when Hamlet is conscious of performing as he puts that "antic disposition" on and overplays. Hamlet is trying to figure out what's real and what's not, and like so many people, sometimes it's the loss of things that makes him realise what matters most. It's a wonderful process of discovery in this production.



The only real disappointment -- it's a stellar cast, the sets wonderful, everything really moved along despite the three and a half hour length -- was Patrick Malahide. At times it looked like he might have been reading off a prompter as he stared too fixedly in the same direction. I know he can be fantastic. I saw him with Jeremy Irons in Embers, where he spends most of the play listening to Irons' character, yet he seemed every bit as present as Irons. Maybe it was an off night. I loved this. I wish I could see it again. Maybe they'll put it out on DVD. I hope so.



And yes, you can buy the t-shirt :-)

Horrified

Rep. Gabrielle Giffords, D-Ariz., Others, Reportedly Shot And Killed Well, Sarah Palin, I guess your target map worked. Don't fool yourself that it's just Arizona: that complacency has brought this country to the edge of a terrible abyss.

Friday's Forgotten Films: What a Carve Up!

Bending the rules a bit (do you expect any less from me?), I offer not a neglected tome but an overlooked bit of celluloid. In my defence, I just learned about it last night -- thanks to the lovely Caroline Gold -- and watched it right then thanks to YouTube. The film was not only inspired by a book but also inspired a further book. I suppose that makes it sound rather more literary than it is. I had thought it was going to something like Carry On Screaming! (yes, everything has exclamation marks today) but it's more like the Abbot & Costello horror movies but not so goofy. Funny though! Besides, I'm a sucker for Sid James thanks to Tony Hancock.



WHAT A CARVE UP!

AKA No Place like Homicide!

Dir. Pat Jackson

Based on Frank King's novel The Ghoul

Writers: Ray Cooney and Tony Hilton 



Cast:  

Sid James ... Sid Butler

Kenneth Connor ... Ernie Broughton

Shirley Eaton ... Linda Dickson

Donald Pleasence ... Everett Sloane

Dennis Price ... Guy Broughton

Michael Gough ... Fisk - the Butler

Valerie Taylor ... Janet Broughton

Esma Cannon ... Aunt Emily

George Woodbridge ... Dr. Edward Broughton

Michael Gwynn ... Malcolm Broughton

Philip O'Flynn ... Arkwright / Gabriel Broughton



Connor's Ernie, a timid copy editor (very Dudley-esque), receives a visit from creepy lawyer Sloane, played effectively without too much showboating from Pleasence. His uncle has died so he must head up to Yorkshire for the reading of the will with his much sharper pal, Sid. Cue bad Northern accents and "primitive" conditions (for those unfamiliar with it, the north of England tends to be portrayed like the southern States -- and about as accurately). Ernie's meeting his relatives for the first time and finds they're mostly all mad. Then the murders begin.



There are some good spooky moments and some good-hearted humor. Price and Gough are brilliant of course, Esma Cannon really shines as the dotty auntie who's a little unstuck in time, promising to introduce her "literary" nephew to this Shaw fellow who ought to be helpful. There are the usual old dark house elements and surely most of the plot will be predictable to a 21st century audience, but nonetheless amusing. There's even a surprise cameo at the end that will please early rock-n-roll fans.



So, if you've got some time on your hands and enjoy mild horror and classic humor, make the most of YouTube or pick up the DVD (region 2 only).

Publications: Plea, Professor and Provocateur

I thought I would have Bend Sinister read by today so I could write it up for Friday's Forgotten Books (maybe I will later today), but at present I don't and somehow I have decided that today is finally "Send out Queries for the Non-Fiction Project" Day, so there's that.



In case you missed it, my piece "A Plea on Behalf of the Small Hat League" is up in the inaugural issue of State of Imagination. Do drop by and leave a comment. Some very entertaining pieces in the collection; I really like the cover, too.



I'm happy to announce that my faux Lear "There was  a Professor of English" will appear in an upcoming issue of Asinine Poetry . And I just got word from Beth Virtanen that my story "Provocateur" will appear in the forthcoming edition of the literary journal Kippis!, so hurrah.



UPDATE: My humorous piece, "Resolutions for Better Sex in 2011" went up on Thursday at Polite Company Magazine, but they neglected to tell me. So drop by and share.



I'm going to get the queries ready and listen to the Punk Rock Jukebox, so if you need entertainment, consider watching Sir Michael Caine do his impression of Dud:

BitchBuzz: Get Unstuffed

Endeavouring to make it so in my life, I of course advise others on how to do it.

6 Ways to Unclutter Your Home & LifeBy K.A. Laity  Every January you think about a personal make-over, sometimes one that lasts past the 31st, but isn't it about time you dealt with that other problem?

I ignore all the resolution making, diet fads and gym invitations of January. Habits taken up in the middle of winter seldom stick. There's too little distraction and too much of a temptation to sit at home, eat carbs, and blame your already too low self-esteem for making you such a failure when you should be laughing with a salad.



A much better use of your time would be un-cluttering your place and your life.



It always seems a gargantuan task: the whole of our western culture is weighted toward making you want to BUY STUFF (those words ought to be written in neon, because that's how your brain sees them anyway). Lose your job? Buy chocolate. Lose your house? Splurge on a spa. Break up with someone? Buy ice cream, chocolate and a some kind of kitchen gadget you will never use because a) it reminds you of that person and b) you pretty much live on chocolate, ice cream and brie.

Read more: http://life.bitchbuzz.com/6-ways-to-unclutter-your-home-life.html#ixzz1AHgPi4Ie



Thanks to Peg for linking to the women-laughing-with-salad meme on Facebook. Yes, I am back in Albany again, facing a lot of work that cries for prioritizing. News round-up later, I think, as I have publications and appearances to highlight.

The Oxford Odyssey, Part 3

I will be traveling today, so here are some cute pictures of Pumpkin rolling around on my bed. It's been very lovely visiting Miss Wendy, Pumpkin and Boo.









And don't forget --

The Oxford Odyssey, Part 2

Our visit to Rowan Oak today, Faulkner's home -- a very comfortable and soothing home.







































Then we went off to the Clear Creek Recreation Center to do a little strolling and bird watching. Anyone know what those grapefruit-sized things are? Some kind of nut?

The Oxford Odyssey, Part 1

Arrived in Memphis Friday, spoiled by getting free wifi on both legs of my journey. Despite a nervous few minutes at Albany, I did get on the overbooked flight and got to Memphis ahead of a rather nasty storm, which we could see from the plane. Miss Wendy picked me up and we headed to Oxford.



[Here's where I notice that if you upload pictures via HTML they default to a different size than if you do them through the other editor. Whatever -- I'm on holiday and have the unfortunate luck to be sick today, so I will get around to adjusting them later (or not).]





Here's the welcome center: it's still disconcerting for me to see stars and bars on state flags. But people are attached to their histories.





And their hometown heroes: here's the statue of Faulkner in the Square, home of Square Books, Off the Square Books, and Square Books Jr (a great bunch of indy bookstores).





Miss Wendy shares the local gossip with Bill.





I love this plaque: the power of imagination. People of Oxford happy to call themselves dwellers in Yoknapatawpha, Faulkner's fictional region.





They also like to give a nod to their equally famous sister city with this traditional British phone box.





Wendy's bank is the same one where Faulkner worked as a clerk.





The old courthouse forms the center of the square. It was a blisteringly bright but cold day Sunday.





We decided to see what "Faulkner Alley" was: turns out, it's just, um, an alley. But there was this one bit of graffiti that amused me.





After idling some time in the bookstore, we decided to head over to see Faulkner's grave and pay our respects.





It's a respectably swank site, with relatives along side the writer.





There were -- in addition to the more usual offerings -- two red aprons. If anyone knows there to be a significance to this, I'd be grateful. Otherwise I assume some clerks, fresh from work, decided to share a drink with the native son and then quit their jobs in a fit of inspiration, declaring they would dedicate their lives to the arts instead.





Faulkner's thirst was legendary, so fans continue to slake it to this day. May he never thirst, wherever he may be.





Quite a lovely old cemetery, still very much in use. We found it necessary to double back at one point to avoid interrupting grieving folks. Since Faulkner casts a long shadow over American literature, this shot seemed appropriate. It gives a little context, too. There was a wind chime in a tree nearby which gave a little live music to the location.





The U Miss campus is quite pretty: I love the nineteenth century observatories. This statue of James Meredith provides a beautiful reminder of how recent civil rights changes have been and offers a place for people to sit and talk and find inspiration.





Speaking of inspiration, I highly recommend the fabulous repast at Big Bad Breakfast -- another Oxford landmark. You just can't get biscuits this good in the north. And oh, the sausage! Mmmm.

Happy New Year

From the wilds of Mississippi with Miss Wendy, a random video from the season (really, off the top of my head couldn't think of a New Year's song):







Oh, and I have a publication to start off the new year: "A Plea on Behalf of the Small Hat League."

Friday's 'Forgotten' Books: The Corinthian

[image error] Georgette Heyer should be a household name; that's the only thing that qualifies this as a "forgotten" book. Heyer is still a nonpareil amongst romance readers, but little known beyond that group. I only learned about her because of Stephen Fry; for his 50th birthday he had a short program on his "guilty pleasures" and one of them was Heyer. She came along at just the right time for me,  as her lively cant became incorporated into the ongoing serial that's now been published as The Mangrove Legacy.



Heyer is primarily responsible for making The Regency a genre all itself, though she wrote mysteries and stories set in other periods as well. For readers who rip through Austen's works and then lament there is no more, Heyer is a treasure trove. She doesn't just capture Austen's period; she also shares a great deal of her sense of fun and wit. In short, her books are a delight.



The Corinthian provides an excellent example. The title is slang for a man of fashion, the type who spend an awful lot of time worrying about the state of his cravat. A very drunk Sir Richard Wyndham one night happens upon the runaway Penelope Creed; both are facing a marriage they do not wish to engage upon and the tomboyish Pen convinces Wyndham to chaperone her on a coach trip to her childhood home -- and of course along the way, he sobers up, she reveals herself to be more than the "child" he continues to call her and they get mixed up in various misunderstands and crime. Delightful stuff that will amuse anyone; Heyer's skill at bringing characters to life is superb, her dialogue crackles with good humor. The covers her work appears within, however, seem designed to appeal only to romance readers, alas. Trust me -- and Stephen Fry! -- Heyer is wonderful.



I'm off this morning to the airport: Atlanta and then Memphis where Miss Wendy will whisk me off to Oxford. We're hoping to have a lot of fun ringing in the new year. I'm looking forward to seeing her new home and the land of Faulkner.



A rather Leary sort of poem (or so at least I once passed it off without a murmur of dissent) I wrote has been accepted by the Journal of Asinine Poetry. I'll let you know when it's available. The short humor piece I did for State of Imagination will be up tomorrow I believe. Look for "A Plea on Behalf of the Small Hat League."



It's the little things that matter: in the midst of a very irritating day yesterday, I was cheered by receiving a card in the mail -- a holiday card from Alan Moore and Melinda Gebbie. Cue fan girl squee. It's hard not to do so, even though having met them -- they're both so nice and easy going -- I can understand the frustration with the public persona created by the media (and pop songs). At least they have a good sense of humor about it: I remember Alan telling a story about walking past a football match on the green in Northampton, when a waggish cabbie stopped to shout, "Say, Alan, do you know the score?" Hee! Yes, that's the "reclusive" writer, who spends an awful lot of his time rambling around the city and talking to people. Never believe the press.