I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
This morning I watched Dead Poets Society. Having missed it when it first came out, I’ve been vaguely aware on the odd occasion that I should get around to seeing it.
Naturally its’ age and acclaim has spawned a range of parody-style names and titles from “Dead Bats Society” to “Dead Runners Society”. I was more aware of such pop jokes than what the film was even about, so it was good to finally glimpse the original.
Attention to detail is beautifully carried through the design of exquisite lighting, sound and sets. Robin Williams and all of the cast put on a remarkable performance. There’s a uniqueness about the film that became clearer after watching the interviews with the actors. They talked about the director, how they had all - much to the dismay of a mature, acclaimed actor - had to face a test for their roles, his style, his generous collaborative approach and interest in their views as individuals. More than just a director, Peter Weir seems a very nice guy.
Looking back 12 years on, a number of the young actors remarked that, in spite of the great things that the film happened to have done for their careers, what the experience meant for their personal growth was infinitely more valuable. The film is touching, moving and inspiring. It certainly changed the lives of those involved and the strength of this carries on for audiences.
Last night I saw a production of Deathtrap at the Knysna Playhouse. Apparently it’s supposed to be a comedy-thriller. From the moment the first two performers appeared on the stage and opened their stage frightened mouths it was obvious that this was to be a dismal failure on both fronts.
By interval I was bent on leaving. Unfortunately my company was adamant on soldiering on for various reasons. I resorted to drinking a double of something strong to numb myself to the impending boredom of the second half in the hope that it would stop me laughing out loud.
The set was poorly designed with scant attention to detail. The music was an absolute disaster. The performers appeared to be attempting a dry run as they bumbled and stumbled over their lines. It’s common knowledge that timing is critical to humour in any medium from animation to film to theatre. With the director in the lead role, the lunatics were really running the asylum. And so it was that the lifeless characters nervously rushed their lines and talked almost over each other without the slightest concern for pause to reflect, consider or react. I’ve seen better primary school productions. Perhaps taking the title and running with it in a curiously literal interpretation, like poor robots, they breathed death into every line. All potential for humour was bled dry and some of the audience occasionally laughed instead of cringing due to sheer disbelief and desperation at how thoroughly pathetic the production was.
The only glimmer of hope was the performance of the German psychic character. With good skill for accent and a nice comic sensibility, she breathed some life into the morgue like situation and resurrected some dyingly desperate laughs from the aging audience.
It’s difficult to say if the play is actually funny after seeing one poorly executed delivery. Apparently it’s the longest running comedy-thriller on Broadway. Of course this begs the question: how many comedy-thrillers are there on Broadway? However, there’s a film by the same name that I’ll attempt to remember to see at some point to lay the mystery to rest.
I would recommend this performance to drunken cynics with sardonic sensibilities. Everyone else should rather stay home and watch crap on TV, where channel hopping provides a liberating form of cheap relief.
Do you actually listen to Bitches Brew, he asked her? Not really, she said. When I left I made a copy of it and wondered if I would ever listen to it. Now I do and I love it.
That’s what she said after she sent it to me and I said that I liked it. I said “why?” She tried to explain and I didn’t really understand. Now I think I do.
