bloody farce
Nov. 4th, 2006 09:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lotesseThe show is over. I feel so depressed.
Because, see, I hate this play. I think it's stupid and ill-written and maybe has a good point somewhere but dear god why are there no arcs? I'm spoiled--I've worked on nothing but Shakespeare for at least the past five years, and I'm used to plays giving more and more as you press them harder. I'm used to having someplace to fall down into as you let go of your ego-self, somewhere to go. But I don't think I found anything more in performance tonight than I did in reading the script at the auditions.
It was a favor to a friend. But it took up more of my time than I would have liked. And something in me squirms and wiggles desperately at having to play a part in anything that I don't truly admire.
It's like bad sex--no matter what, when the house lights go down, there's that rush. And you step out in you makeup, standing differently, moving differently, speaking differently. Becoming not-yourself. And the audience is there, and you throw your energy out to them, and they reflect it back only with about ten times more intensity. But when the show's just no good, the glow dies quickly. And then in half and hour you feel depressed and somehow dirty. It's even worse than not having sex in the first place, because you know that there's this marvellous thing that sex is supposed to be, can so easily be, and this so clearly wasn't it.
At least it's over. I can go back to focussing on papers and teaching and Shakespeare. I have to--term ends in ten days, and then it's off home for a while. And I can brush my hair again, and there will be no more greasepaint in my ears.
Because, see, I hate this play. I think it's stupid and ill-written and maybe has a good point somewhere but dear god why are there no arcs? I'm spoiled--I've worked on nothing but Shakespeare for at least the past five years, and I'm used to plays giving more and more as you press them harder. I'm used to having someplace to fall down into as you let go of your ego-self, somewhere to go. But I don't think I found anything more in performance tonight than I did in reading the script at the auditions.
It was a favor to a friend. But it took up more of my time than I would have liked. And something in me squirms and wiggles desperately at having to play a part in anything that I don't truly admire.
It's like bad sex--no matter what, when the house lights go down, there's that rush. And you step out in you makeup, standing differently, moving differently, speaking differently. Becoming not-yourself. And the audience is there, and you throw your energy out to them, and they reflect it back only with about ten times more intensity. But when the show's just no good, the glow dies quickly. And then in half and hour you feel depressed and somehow dirty. It's even worse than not having sex in the first place, because you know that there's this marvellous thing that sex is supposed to be, can so easily be, and this so clearly wasn't it.
At least it's over. I can go back to focussing on papers and teaching and Shakespeare. I have to--term ends in ten days, and then it's off home for a while. And I can brush my hair again, and there will be no more greasepaint in my ears.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-05 05:36 pm (UTC)Wow. That is the most brilliantly apt description of bad theatre I've ever heard. It distills perfectly everything I couldn't put into words after The Magic Flute, everything that's had me running screaming from theatre ever since.
What play was it?
no subject
Date: 2006-11-05 05:49 pm (UTC)Yeah.