Yesterday, we headed into London in the early afternoon, shivering at the chilly Harlow Mill station while we waited for our delayed train. Once we made it into the city, we got comfortable on the Circle Line, heading deep into the West End of London to go to the Victoria and Albert Museum.
The V&A Museum, accessible directly by a tunnel from the subway station, boasts the claim that it’s the world’s largest museum of decorative art and design, some 4.5 million objects spread out over 12.5 acres. From the onset, it looked deceptively like most of the other museums we’d already been in: rows of headless statues, walls of paintings, cabinets of ceramics. As far as that goes, once you’ve been to the British Museum, it’s hard for other spots to measure up.
Dig a bit deeper though. We were there to see a special commemorative display on Private Eye, a biweekly British satirical magazine that’s been in publication for the past 50 years, has consistently criticised the British and global establishment, and has been sued that many times that simply irking the mayor of Toronto quails in comparison. The walls of the display were lined with cartoons that went for religion, the postmodern human condition, politics, and society, with a sometimes black, sometimes sarcastic, but really, really funny sense of humour.
We took a spin through the corridors then, missing out on some really cool retro displays, but coming across some giant Raphael Cartoons (not what you think – these are seven tapestries, part of a set of ten commissioned by Pope Leo X back in the day, to be hung beneath the famous ceiling of the Sistine Chapel), as well as a set of William Hogarth prints of the Harlot’s Progress.
We were just about ready to go, displays were shutting down, when I got asked if I saw the special House of Annie Lennox display, adorned with authentic memorabilia and celebrating the creative life of the Scottish singer. More specifically, I got asked if I saw her Academy Award.
In a normal situation, I’d find a legitimate Academy Award pretty cool. But, the only reason I know who Annie Lennox is, is because nearly a decade ago she performed the theme from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, “Into the West.”
Oh yeah, and she won an Oscar for it. Not since the kid from The Pagemaster was chased by a cartoon tidal wave did someone run so fast through the archives and displays. I heard an alarm when I ran into the deserted room, and was half expecting to get dragged off, but at least I got to see the Academy Award that was part of LOTR’s almost unprecedented award sweep in 2004 (AND, that was the only Academy Award ceremony I watched all the way through, and saw this chunk of metal being presented).
It was duckish by the time we headed out into the English night. Christmas comes early in the United Kingdom; not only have restaurants and bars been advertising their Christmas booking rates since mid-October, but now the lights are up in the trees, and an outdoor rink, complete with a lit-up carousel, was waiting for us on the museum’s threshold. We made our way to Trafalgar Square, on to Trafalgar Studios, the same spot where we saw Top Girls a while back.
“Well,” says I, “hopefully this one will be a bit better. Not that Top Girls was bad, I just didn’t get it.”
“Ryan,” says Mary Walsh, taking me by the arm, “you’re really smart, but sometimes you can be so dumb.”
“FINE. I don’t even think I’m gonna bother paying attention to this one then.”
“Yeah, it might be for the best. You should probably just go home now.”
I’m pretty sure she was joking, but I do kind of wish I’d listened to her.
The play we saw was Three Days in May, a show set in Winston Churchill’s newly acquired (by 18 days) Cabinet Room in 1940, during a time when Hitler’s European victory seemed certain, and when France seemed on the brink of a peach agreement with Italy. In other words, things weren’t going so good. The realistic historical drama explored 3 tense days, when the British government seriously considered agreeing to Mussolini’s terms; a decision that would have, in effect, have changed the entire face of the Western World.
The show had great potential, and by the time the second act came around, it hit some decent dramatic strides, exploring personal tensions, differing ideologies, and the enormous stress riding on Churchill’s shoulders. Too bad the first half was like reading the tedious, boring minutes of a drawn-out meeting. Half-reading them, anyway; I slept through most of it.
We’ve got a few more trips into London this week, before making our way to France for the weekend. Much more on that when I get back, though it promises to be a memorable trip. It starts tomorrow night, when we go to a £6 hostel that I can only assume is the height of luxury, heading out of King’s Cross in the early hours of Thursday morning and arriving in Paris before noon. We’re planning on checking out the city then, definitely visiting the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower (I’m gonna have to grow a bit of stubble so the pictures aren’t completely ruined by the Movember stache), going to Beaumont-Hamel for November 11 (there are no Remembrance Day ceremonies taking place, but the opportunity to be on the battlefield site on that day is still an incredible opportunity for any Newfoundlander), and then Disneyland Paris on Saturday.
Shite, what an adventure this is going to be. Hang on tight.
Cheers,
rb
No comments:
Post a Comment