For me, headaches are almost always self-inflicted, and the worst part about that is that no matter how I slant the argument, it’s still really hard to get any pity. This morning wasn’t as bad as the time I had homemade wine and then spent the entire day at Marble Mountain, but it still involved sitting still for most of The 39 Steps, the black and white Hitchcock movie, at 10 am, after a night of free wine and after-hours shenanigans.
If I wasn’t having so much fun, I might fish for a tiny bit of pity.
We made our way out of Harlow around lunchtime, hoping to get to the matinee showing of The 39 Steps at Piccadilly Circus, at a cool little Victorian-style theatre, the Criterion. We made our brisk walk past St. Paul’s – again? Pfff, haven’t we seen enough of this unbelievable building? – and then along the Strand, but whether we hung around the train station too long eating baguettes and drinking tea, or whether the crowds were too much or there were too many photo opps, we ran late. D. Nichol hit panic mode well before Trafalgar Square, and we went into a confused jumble of groups going every direction to get cabs to take us to the theatre in time for 3 o’clock.
I would not want to drive in London, not even on bike. I thought it was bad enough not knowing whether it’s safe to walk at an intersection or which direction to look in; driving through the roundabouts in central London is borderline terrifying.
We made it there in one piece, with time to spare. The theatre had a very cool old – authentic old – feel to it, and we had pretty sweet seats in the dress circle, hovering above the stage.
It turns out that we couldn’t really have asked for a better first performance than The 39 Steps. The movie set up what to expect plotwise – a normal dude gets caught up in a fast-paced conspiracy involving lots of deception – but the atmosphere was totally different. The show we saw was a comedy, and a very minimalist one at that. Four actors (assuming nearly 200 roles collectively, if you believe the brochures) acted out the whole thing in a slapstick style that never once took itself too seriously. Some of the best moments were those where the lack of props and other actors were so conspicuous, and handled so artfully, that it actually ended up being much better.
Imagine two actors doing a full scene of dialogue between multiple characters, seamlessly switching hats, changing outfits, and slipping off stage. It was comedy, and it was a lot of fun, but there was some serious skill at play here.
Some different faces, but the right idea
After the show, we retraced the path we would have taken earlier, if we hadn’t been in such a blind rush. That took us through Trafalgar Square, full to the brim of people and street performers, by the Royal Courts, and back to the train station, just in time to be hungry for a good reason.
Taste of Trafalgar
And very, very tired. That meant the evening had to be spent doing ordinary things: laundry, grocery store trip, homework . . . and getting some plans together for a trip to Scotland over the weekend, to see the castles at Edinburgh, drink scotch, wander the highlands, and maybe even find Doune Castle, the spot where John Cleese tried to figure out the velocity of an unladen swallow in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. All of that is enough to wear anyone down, especially since we have to get up for 8 am tomorrow, to take a bus to Stratford-upon-Avon – you know, the spot where Shakespeare was born, and where we’re checking out two shows, one of which is A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
After a day like that, don’t I deserve some pity?
Cheers,
rb
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