I revere theatre. To number a few more fitting superlatives, I adore, love, worship, hold dear; am infatuated, smitten, besotted with theatre. We saw "Arsenic and Old Lace" ("Arsenikk og gamle kniplinger") yesterday, and loved it.

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And, I wrote something earlier. Joy!

"Breaking the Waves" was not as powerful as I had hoped - or rather, perhaps, expected - on-stage. If we decide that I expected rather than hoped, we may also accept that I expected too much. Unlike the film, it didn't leave me stunned, gasping for breath. Playing a madwoman cannot be easy, and to play one that speaks to God regularly must be ( Read more... )

Right, I'm infatuated again. Acting this time, Darlings. Not the craftsmen, the craft. The techniques, the ideas, the stage. Oh, and theatre in general. It's so, so, utterly wonderful. When I have the money I'm going on the tiniest of tiny rampages - I need books. Theories, philosophies, plays ( Read more... )

Right, new theory: women, in general, suck on-stage. They're poor actors, lack presense and any real means of expression.
The exceptions are few, and very good.

I'm pathetically worried about the darn English essay: The poem seemed terribly pointless, but I couldn't make myself write that for fear of hearing "academic dignity" again, and now I regret that. I regret it greatly. And seeing how the task simply told med to "interpret", I did that, just that. No analysis, whatsoever. Not even a theme *headdesk/ ( Read more... )

If Shakespeare can do death on stage, why in the world can't I? Do elaborate, dears, I want to know. Heavens, the man not only does death on stage, he poisons three of the main characters, stabs one and drowns a fourth. And you won't let me have even the tiniest of suicides ( Read more... )