I banged my head in the gym showers today whilst trying to do a stretch. I was surprised by my own flexibility and ended up thumping my crown on the soap dispenser. Five hours later, it still hurts.
I've spent yet another day story-boarding Brass. On and on this process goes, to the extent that it's making me a little antsy, but I can't cut corners. I have to make sure the story makes sense. Although, the moment you start cutting scenes and moving things around, you open up a mathematical puzzle which can make a head hurt even more than a soap dispenser!
This evening we went to the Rosemary Branch to see our friend Anthony performing puppet opera, which is one of those hybrid art forms which screams for funding from the Arts Council. Tour Scotland with it, and commission a composer from the Orkneys, and you've got yourself core funding for years! I genuinely can't wait to shake Scotland out of the British Union. They get such an extraordinarily large share of the arts funding pot!
This evening's show consisted of three mini works of contemporary classical music theatre. The first of them, a sort of masque drama by De Falla, was an absolute turkey. It was one of those pieces where you feel desperately sorry for the performers because they're being given nothing to work with. The overwhelming question afterwards? Why? Why, why, why? Why did De Falla set the story? Why did he write the music on the back of a cornflakes packet? Why did the producer think anyone would want to see it? Why did the director allow the little tenor fella to play the role so camp? Why was I in the audience?
The other two pieces were massive improvements. There was a new commission - an alluring, rather magical setting of the story of an old man who falls in love with a young woman's reflection - and a version of Stravinsky's Renard, rather cleverly set in a kitchen, with puppets created out of kitchen utensils. Great fun.
Julie came, and we dropped her off at her mother's Barbican flat after a post-show drink with Anthony. It's about time I slowed down, however. We've been out most nights this week.
Friday, 11 October 2013
Thursday, 10 October 2013
Forever Autumn
I went to the osteopath again today. My back pains are apparently being caused by a block of muscles tightening around my mid-spine as a result of bad posture when working at my laptop. When the osteopath asked how many hours a day I usually spend at my computer and I said "twelve" he laughed hysterically!
Diagnosis took a long time, mostly because, upon entering the clinic I immediately stopped displaying any symptoms. Sod's law. I felt like a total fraud. By the time we'd established the root of the pain, we'd sort of timed out on treatment, but he did manage some deep massage and a "soft roll up" or something which sounded a little rude and made me think of condoms.
As ever, I visited the British School of Osteopathy in Borough, where, in the interests of being thorough, all manner of processes need to take place involving tutors and things before any treatment can be done.
On my way there, I encountered an astonishingly annoying group of musical theatre students, all girls, all late for some kind of gig. One of them, a great tall lump of a creature, decided the tube aisle was a really practical place to practice her devellopes. I wouldn't have minded, but she was repeatedly kicking my laptop in the process.
The group reminded me of scenes from my youth. As a drama student we were always playing "look at me" games like that. Me and my mate Jo used to stage the most awful rows on the tube to see what people would do. There were proposals and split ups and "why are you sleeping with my sister?" role plays. Another friend of mine, with a cushion under her jumper, went into fake labour, and on another occasion we decided to see how many commuters we could get to join us singing "Kum Bye Ah." Desperate! I'd have smashed my mate's guitar!
So, when a nutter next approaches you in a public space, it's always worth wondering if they're a drama student doing character "research."
The weather has turned bitter and freezing high winds and a smattering of icy rain remind us that the slow march towards Christmas has begun. I was beginning to worry a little that the trees we still surprisingly green for the time of year, but I'm sure weather like this will soon sort things out. Welcome autumn. It's rather nice to see you again!
The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke.
I'm now in a Starbucks on the Kings Road waiting to see my mate Abbie in cabaret. A group of modern day Sloane Rangers are sitting next to me. I genuinely thought they were taking the piss. They sound exactly like the character Jessica Hynes plays in 2012. "Totes chillax, peeps, ya ya. Daddy daddy. Horses. Ya ya. I don't have money for food because I keep buying art." I genuinely didn't think anyone spoke like that. Or had those morals. Or existed.
Diagnosis took a long time, mostly because, upon entering the clinic I immediately stopped displaying any symptoms. Sod's law. I felt like a total fraud. By the time we'd established the root of the pain, we'd sort of timed out on treatment, but he did manage some deep massage and a "soft roll up" or something which sounded a little rude and made me think of condoms.
As ever, I visited the British School of Osteopathy in Borough, where, in the interests of being thorough, all manner of processes need to take place involving tutors and things before any treatment can be done.
On my way there, I encountered an astonishingly annoying group of musical theatre students, all girls, all late for some kind of gig. One of them, a great tall lump of a creature, decided the tube aisle was a really practical place to practice her devellopes. I wouldn't have minded, but she was repeatedly kicking my laptop in the process.
The group reminded me of scenes from my youth. As a drama student we were always playing "look at me" games like that. Me and my mate Jo used to stage the most awful rows on the tube to see what people would do. There were proposals and split ups and "why are you sleeping with my sister?" role plays. Another friend of mine, with a cushion under her jumper, went into fake labour, and on another occasion we decided to see how many commuters we could get to join us singing "Kum Bye Ah." Desperate! I'd have smashed my mate's guitar!
So, when a nutter next approaches you in a public space, it's always worth wondering if they're a drama student doing character "research."
The weather has turned bitter and freezing high winds and a smattering of icy rain remind us that the slow march towards Christmas has begun. I was beginning to worry a little that the trees we still surprisingly green for the time of year, but I'm sure weather like this will soon sort things out. Welcome autumn. It's rather nice to see you again!
The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke.
I'm now in a Starbucks on the Kings Road waiting to see my mate Abbie in cabaret. A group of modern day Sloane Rangers are sitting next to me. I genuinely thought they were taking the piss. They sound exactly like the character Jessica Hynes plays in 2012. "Totes chillax, peeps, ya ya. Daddy daddy. Horses. Ya ya. I don't have money for food because I keep buying art." I genuinely didn't think anyone spoke like that. Or had those morals. Or existed.
I went to the osteopath again today. My back pains are apparently being caused by a block of muscles tightening around my mid-spine as a result of bad posture when working at my laptop. When the osteopath asked how many hours a day I usually spend at my computer and I said "twelve" he laughed hysterically!
Diagnosis took a long time, mostly because, upon entering the clinic I immediately stopped displaying any symptoms. Sod's law. I felt like a total fraud. By the time we'd established the root of the pain, we'd sort of timed out on treatment, but he did manage some deep massage and a "soft roll up" or something which sounded a little rude and made me think of condoms.
As ever, I visited the British School of Osteopathy in Borough, where, in the interests of being thorough, all manner of processes need to take place involving tutors and things before any treatment can be done.
On my way there, I encountered an astonishingly annoying group of musical theatre students, all girls, all late for some kind of gig. One of them, a great tall lump of a creature, decided the tube aisle was a really practical place to practice her devellopes. I wouldn't have minded, but she was repeatedly kicking my laptop in the process.
The group reminded me of scenes from my youth. As a drama student we were always playing "look at me" games like that. Me and my mate Jo used to stage the most awful rows on the tube to see what people would do. There were proposals and split ups and "why are you sleeping with my sister?" role plays. Another friend of mine, with a cushion under her jumper, went into fake labour, and on another occasion we decided to see how many commuters we could get to join us singing "Kum Bye Ah." Desperate! I'd have smashed my mate's guitar!
So, when a nutter next approaches you in a public space, it's always worth wondering if they're a drama student doing character "research."
The weather has turned bitter and freezing high winds and a smattering of icy rain remind us that the slow march towards Christmas has begun. I was beginning to worry a little that the trees we still surprisingly green for the time of year, but I'm sure weather like this will soon sort things out. Welcome autumn. It's rather nice to see you again!
The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke.
I'm now in a Starbucks on the Kings Road waiting to see my mate Abbie in cabaret. A group of modern day Sloane Rangers are sitting next to me. I genuinely thought they were taking the piss. They sound exactly like the character Jessica Hynes plays in 2012. "Totes chillax, peeps, ya ya. Daddy daddy. Horses. Ya ya. I don't have money for food because I keep buying art." I genuinely didn't think anyone spoke like that. Or had those morals. Or existed.
Diagnosis took a long time, mostly because, upon entering the clinic I immediately stopped displaying any symptoms. Sod's law. I felt like a total fraud. By the time we'd established the root of the pain, we'd sort of timed out on treatment, but he did manage some deep massage and a "soft roll up" or something which sounded a little rude and made me think of condoms.
As ever, I visited the British School of Osteopathy in Borough, where, in the interests of being thorough, all manner of processes need to take place involving tutors and things before any treatment can be done.
On my way there, I encountered an astonishingly annoying group of musical theatre students, all girls, all late for some kind of gig. One of them, a great tall lump of a creature, decided the tube aisle was a really practical place to practice her devellopes. I wouldn't have minded, but she was repeatedly kicking my laptop in the process.
The group reminded me of scenes from my youth. As a drama student we were always playing "look at me" games like that. Me and my mate Jo used to stage the most awful rows on the tube to see what people would do. There were proposals and split ups and "why are you sleeping with my sister?" role plays. Another friend of mine, with a cushion under her jumper, went into fake labour, and on another occasion we decided to see how many commuters we could get to join us singing "Kum Bye Ah." Desperate! I'd have smashed my mate's guitar!
So, when a nutter next approaches you in a public space, it's always worth wondering if they're a drama student doing character "research."
The weather has turned bitter and freezing high winds and a smattering of icy rain remind us that the slow march towards Christmas has begun. I was beginning to worry a little that the trees we still surprisingly green for the time of year, but I'm sure weather like this will soon sort things out. Welcome autumn. It's rather nice to see you again!
The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke.
I'm now in a Starbucks on the Kings Road waiting to see my mate Abbie in cabaret. A group of modern day Sloane Rangers are sitting next to me. I genuinely thought they were taking the piss. They sound exactly like the character Jessica Hynes plays in 2012. "Totes chillax, peeps, ya ya. Daddy daddy. Horses. Ya ya. I don't have money for food because I keep buying art." I genuinely didn't think anyone spoke like that. Or had those morals. Or existed.
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
Make up
I watched a woman applying makeup on the tube this morning. I've never seen anyone paint so many shades of brown onto herself. At one point I wondered if she was actually applying varnish. First came the rouge, which was plastered liberally onto her cheeks and swept across the forehead before being dragged down her nose. Then came the eyeshadow in the same shade as the rouge, before a pot of darker brown powder was dabbed
under her eyes, like someone artificially pollinating a pumpkin flower. She'd already done her eye lashes. They looked like giant spiders. She then smothered herself in lipstick, painted some kind of dark ring disguiser under her eyes, and then used some more bronzer to finish the look off. I have seldom seen such a variety of brushes and dabbers and sponges being used in a ten minute make up
session. I used to get told off at school for applying too many layers of paint to my pictures. The rice paper always used to go soggy. She'd have done well to remember this, because by the time she'd finished, the poor girl looked like a freshly creosoted fence!
As I looked around the tube (such an unforgiving light) I was aware of quite how much make-up I could see. The beautiful-skinned Asian woman next to me had painted her cheeks with deep pink circles which looked like terrible bruises, the girl who stood up to my left was so desperate to look pale, that she'd bedecked her face in something which looked like dry toothpaste. I could see every brush mark, every neck line, every open pour, every spot "concealed" with a big dollop of something. The overall effect was either incredible greasiness or flaky dryness, and I thought how weird it must be to be so unhappy with the way you naturally look, to want to, or be expected to, change things so profoundly and so unnaturally. The first woman, the teak sideboard, looked so much more attractive before she caked it on. What on earth's going on?
I am, of course, not anti-makeup. Drag queens look fantastic in make up, and I understand why anyone would want to make their eyes stand out, or go to town on the whole face to create a vampy character for a night out, but in the harsh light of day, and when it's so badly and obviously applied, I find myself questioning why it's done.
I can only assume that the majority of straight men are either not attracted by natural beauty or, more worryingly, that some women THINK they're not, and feel that men would actually prefer the chicken fillets, the blob-busting pants and the fake tans to the actual truth.
Perhaps this view is somewhat coloured by my sexuality, and the fact that I find imperfection a great deal more alluring than unnatural beauty, but surely all of these deceptions must ultimately lead to huge disappointment, when the man finds his woman's face smeared onto the pillow next to him, or when he cups her face to kiss her goodnight and his finger tips sink into something altogether too gooey. When he realises his girlfriend's sultry fat lips and generous cleavage are an optical illusion; a bodily trump l'oeil.
I was on my way to Shoreditch to see Philippa for my first dramaturgy session on Brass. It was a hugely rewarding experience. We went through my treatment with a fine tooth comb and Philippa was able to point out all the places where she felt I'd missed a beat or not quite developed a character's story. I think the musical will be a great deal stronger as a result. We even managed to brainstorm a new ending for the piece, which I'm a great deal happier about.
From Shoreditch I buzzed along the central line to White City for a "thank you" meal with some of the people who'd worked on our recent film. I discovered many interesting things, a few that surprised me, a few that shocked me (the BBC is a wonderful and frustrating organisation in pretty much equal measure) but most interesting of all was the fact that one of the community champions on the White City estate had once been a highly successful actor, who'd had a starring role in some of the early episodes of the seminal Robin of Sherwood series in the early 1980s. The one with the Clannad music; "Rhaaaabin (bling blong) the hooded man... (Dum dum.)"
And now I'm heading home. I'm gonna kick off my shoes, sink into a sofa and do nothing but watch telly for the rest of the evening. Bliss!
under her eyes, like someone artificially pollinating a pumpkin flower. She'd already done her eye lashes. They looked like giant spiders. She then smothered herself in lipstick, painted some kind of dark ring disguiser under her eyes, and then used some more bronzer to finish the look off. I have seldom seen such a variety of brushes and dabbers and sponges being used in a ten minute make up
session. I used to get told off at school for applying too many layers of paint to my pictures. The rice paper always used to go soggy. She'd have done well to remember this, because by the time she'd finished, the poor girl looked like a freshly creosoted fence!
As I looked around the tube (such an unforgiving light) I was aware of quite how much make-up I could see. The beautiful-skinned Asian woman next to me had painted her cheeks with deep pink circles which looked like terrible bruises, the girl who stood up to my left was so desperate to look pale, that she'd bedecked her face in something which looked like dry toothpaste. I could see every brush mark, every neck line, every open pour, every spot "concealed" with a big dollop of something. The overall effect was either incredible greasiness or flaky dryness, and I thought how weird it must be to be so unhappy with the way you naturally look, to want to, or be expected to, change things so profoundly and so unnaturally. The first woman, the teak sideboard, looked so much more attractive before she caked it on. What on earth's going on?
I am, of course, not anti-makeup. Drag queens look fantastic in make up, and I understand why anyone would want to make their eyes stand out, or go to town on the whole face to create a vampy character for a night out, but in the harsh light of day, and when it's so badly and obviously applied, I find myself questioning why it's done.
I can only assume that the majority of straight men are either not attracted by natural beauty or, more worryingly, that some women THINK they're not, and feel that men would actually prefer the chicken fillets, the blob-busting pants and the fake tans to the actual truth.
Perhaps this view is somewhat coloured by my sexuality, and the fact that I find imperfection a great deal more alluring than unnatural beauty, but surely all of these deceptions must ultimately lead to huge disappointment, when the man finds his woman's face smeared onto the pillow next to him, or when he cups her face to kiss her goodnight and his finger tips sink into something altogether too gooey. When he realises his girlfriend's sultry fat lips and generous cleavage are an optical illusion; a bodily trump l'oeil.
I was on my way to Shoreditch to see Philippa for my first dramaturgy session on Brass. It was a hugely rewarding experience. We went through my treatment with a fine tooth comb and Philippa was able to point out all the places where she felt I'd missed a beat or not quite developed a character's story. I think the musical will be a great deal stronger as a result. We even managed to brainstorm a new ending for the piece, which I'm a great deal happier about.
From Shoreditch I buzzed along the central line to White City for a "thank you" meal with some of the people who'd worked on our recent film. I discovered many interesting things, a few that surprised me, a few that shocked me (the BBC is a wonderful and frustrating organisation in pretty much equal measure) but most interesting of all was the fact that one of the community champions on the White City estate had once been a highly successful actor, who'd had a starring role in some of the early episodes of the seminal Robin of Sherwood series in the early 1980s. The one with the Clannad music; "Rhaaaabin (bling blong) the hooded man... (Dum dum.)"
And now I'm heading home. I'm gonna kick off my shoes, sink into a sofa and do nothing but watch telly for the rest of the evening. Bliss!
Release
So, today, after making my fourth call to EE about having no phone reception in my own home for the past three weeks, I finally snapped, and instead of asking politely for them to try and remedy the situation, I pointed out that, as a man who works from home, a man who desperately needs his mobile phone, I no longer considered EE to be fulfilling their side of our contract and that I expected them to release me from said contract with absolutely no financial implications. That could well be the longest sentence I have ever written.
The woman on the phone said there was very little chance that they'd be able to meet my demands, so I asked to speak to the EE press office and she immediately capitulated. So, after fifteen years as a loyal Orange customer, I find myself a free agent again, looking around for the best deal, searching for another multi-national to lure me in with the promise of a shiny new phone.
I was quite surprised at how easily they allowed a long-term customer to throw in the towel, but then again, it's astonishing how rapidly everything went down hill when Orange became EE. Their arrogance and lack of interest in my problem was breathtaking, as was the sheer ineptitude of its staff. I made a note every time I called them over the last week as to how long, in four separate calls, I was kept on hold. The total? 1 hour and 12 minutes! That's a lot of "Prima Donna" by Marina and the Diamonds!
I've spent the entire afternoon in Central London. The lovely Siobhan texted at about 3pm to say she was down from Cov, so I stuck my computer in a bag and rushed down to Soho for tea and a natter, and lovely it was to see her. I walked her to Charing Cross and then sat in another cafe for a couple of hours doing some more work on Brass. I have a meeting with Philippa in the morning who is working as a dramaturg on the project.
I met Nathan out of the theatre and we went into Soho for drinks with our friend Carey and his partner, John, both of whom are very successful writers in the States. Every time I talk to Carey, I realise how much more seriously the Americans take their musical theatre. It is a TRUE industry over there, where even rank and file creatives can make huge sums of money.
Yanks invest in musicals because they revere the art form. The previews for all new shows are sold out weeks in advance. By comparison, the first preview for From Here to Eternity, was half empty. I don't know what the answer is, but I do know that if Brass takes off in any meaningful way, I'd be foolish not to haul myself over to the States to at least see how things go... There's a limit to how long one can feel ignored!
The woman on the phone said there was very little chance that they'd be able to meet my demands, so I asked to speak to the EE press office and she immediately capitulated. So, after fifteen years as a loyal Orange customer, I find myself a free agent again, looking around for the best deal, searching for another multi-national to lure me in with the promise of a shiny new phone.
I was quite surprised at how easily they allowed a long-term customer to throw in the towel, but then again, it's astonishing how rapidly everything went down hill when Orange became EE. Their arrogance and lack of interest in my problem was breathtaking, as was the sheer ineptitude of its staff. I made a note every time I called them over the last week as to how long, in four separate calls, I was kept on hold. The total? 1 hour and 12 minutes! That's a lot of "Prima Donna" by Marina and the Diamonds!
I've spent the entire afternoon in Central London. The lovely Siobhan texted at about 3pm to say she was down from Cov, so I stuck my computer in a bag and rushed down to Soho for tea and a natter, and lovely it was to see her. I walked her to Charing Cross and then sat in another cafe for a couple of hours doing some more work on Brass. I have a meeting with Philippa in the morning who is working as a dramaturg on the project.
I met Nathan out of the theatre and we went into Soho for drinks with our friend Carey and his partner, John, both of whom are very successful writers in the States. Every time I talk to Carey, I realise how much more seriously the Americans take their musical theatre. It is a TRUE industry over there, where even rank and file creatives can make huge sums of money.
Yanks invest in musicals because they revere the art form. The previews for all new shows are sold out weeks in advance. By comparison, the first preview for From Here to Eternity, was half empty. I don't know what the answer is, but I do know that if Brass takes off in any meaningful way, I'd be foolish not to haul myself over to the States to at least see how things go... There's a limit to how long one can feel ignored!
Monday, 7 October 2013
Pride
I worked like mad today to get all the remaining parts delivered to the singers of the Pepys Motet. I felt like a machine, generating scores and individual, specially-tailored learning files for 20 singers. It's not taxing work, but, when sending them off, it's all-too easy to make mistakes.
Fiona stayed with us last night, so we went down to the cafe to work together. I got project envy. She's currently composing and arranging music for string orchestra and percussion, which is just about my favourite line-up of instruments. In fact, I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers to score music for anything else!
I reached a natural hiatus in my list of things to do this week, and have made the brave decision to travel into town without taking work to do on the tube. This is incredibly rare and I'm blogging because I don't know what else to do with my hands!
I'm meeting Nathan and Julie to see a play called "The Pride". These gay plays tend to be given the least imaginative titles, don't they? I reckon you can spot any "gay" play from its title alone; "Bent" "La Cage" "Torch Song Trilogy" "Blowing Whistles" "Edward II" (well, alright, that last one was the exception which proves the rule; "Sandy II" would have more eloquently given the game away!)
Isn't it amazing how fashions come back around? Out of the ten men currently sitting on my carriage, eight have what I'd describe as a World War One hair cut; the short back and sides" with low parting. Men's fashions seem to almost continually return to this old standard, largely because it's genuinely the neatest and most flattering cut of them all. I welcome it with open arms and would have it myself if my hair weren't a curly mop.
When I used to do film casting, the young lads would arrive looking like they'd been dragged through hedges made of hair straighteners. A clump here, a wedge there, a big block dragged across the forehead or cheek to disguise the actual shape of the face. I used to go into castings with a big pot of Brylcreem, beckoning for the young, fashion-conscious actors to come to me before they read to have their damaged, straw-like hair scraped out of their eyes.
I'm actually wondering if there's some sort of connection between the fashion for "short back and sides" and people emerging from recession with a work-like attitude, but perhaps I'm taking things a bit far!
It's 11pm and we've just watched The Pride at the Trafalgar Studios. It's a long time since I saw such fine words spoken by such genuinely excellent actors. I felt privileged to be in the audience.
The piece tells the story of a love triangle - two men and a women - in the present day and in the 1950s. The characters share the same names in both eras, one assumes they're representations of the same "sorts" of people, with similar passions and similar battles trying to move forward within two contrasting eras. Whilst the ghosts of the past and future hovered in the ether. It was particularly interesting to see the female role moving from a woman in a loveless marriage to a gay man in the 50s becoming a sort of fag hag in 2012 who almost needs to "break up" with her gay best fiend in order to give love a chance with a legitimate boyfriend. Fascinating stuff.
Rather beautifully, as they actors, who included Gavin and Stacey's Matthew Horne, arrived for their second bow, they whipped out little rainbow flags which simply read "From Russia With Love" on them. A more impressive, yet subtle show of solidarity it would be hard to find.
Fiona stayed with us last night, so we went down to the cafe to work together. I got project envy. She's currently composing and arranging music for string orchestra and percussion, which is just about my favourite line-up of instruments. In fact, I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers to score music for anything else!
I reached a natural hiatus in my list of things to do this week, and have made the brave decision to travel into town without taking work to do on the tube. This is incredibly rare and I'm blogging because I don't know what else to do with my hands!
I'm meeting Nathan and Julie to see a play called "The Pride". These gay plays tend to be given the least imaginative titles, don't they? I reckon you can spot any "gay" play from its title alone; "Bent" "La Cage" "Torch Song Trilogy" "Blowing Whistles" "Edward II" (well, alright, that last one was the exception which proves the rule; "Sandy II" would have more eloquently given the game away!)
Isn't it amazing how fashions come back around? Out of the ten men currently sitting on my carriage, eight have what I'd describe as a World War One hair cut; the short back and sides" with low parting. Men's fashions seem to almost continually return to this old standard, largely because it's genuinely the neatest and most flattering cut of them all. I welcome it with open arms and would have it myself if my hair weren't a curly mop.
When I used to do film casting, the young lads would arrive looking like they'd been dragged through hedges made of hair straighteners. A clump here, a wedge there, a big block dragged across the forehead or cheek to disguise the actual shape of the face. I used to go into castings with a big pot of Brylcreem, beckoning for the young, fashion-conscious actors to come to me before they read to have their damaged, straw-like hair scraped out of their eyes.
I'm actually wondering if there's some sort of connection between the fashion for "short back and sides" and people emerging from recession with a work-like attitude, but perhaps I'm taking things a bit far!
It's 11pm and we've just watched The Pride at the Trafalgar Studios. It's a long time since I saw such fine words spoken by such genuinely excellent actors. I felt privileged to be in the audience.
The piece tells the story of a love triangle - two men and a women - in the present day and in the 1950s. The characters share the same names in both eras, one assumes they're representations of the same "sorts" of people, with similar passions and similar battles trying to move forward within two contrasting eras. Whilst the ghosts of the past and future hovered in the ether. It was particularly interesting to see the female role moving from a woman in a loveless marriage to a gay man in the 50s becoming a sort of fag hag in 2012 who almost needs to "break up" with her gay best fiend in order to give love a chance with a legitimate boyfriend. Fascinating stuff.
Rather beautifully, as they actors, who included Gavin and Stacey's Matthew Horne, arrived for their second bow, they whipped out little rainbow flags which simply read "From Russia With Love" on them. A more impressive, yet subtle show of solidarity it would be hard to find.
Pride
I worked like mad today to get all the remaining parts delivered to the singers of the Pepys Motet. I felt like a machine, generating scores and individual, specially-tailored learning files for 20 singers. It's not taxing work, but, when sending them off, it's all-too easy to make mistakes.
Fiona stayed with us last night, so we went down to the cafe to work together. I got project envy. She's currently composing and arranging music for string orchestra and percussion, which is just about my favourite line-up of instruments. In fact, I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers to score music for anything else!
I reached a natural hiatus in my list of things to do this week, and have made the brave decision to travel into town without taking work to do on the tube. This is incredibly rare and I'm blogging because I don't know what else to do with my hands!
I'm meeting Nathan and Julie to see a play called "The Pride". These gay plays tend to be given the least imaginative titles, don't they? I reckon you can spot any "gay" play from its title alone; "Bent" "La Cage" "Torch Song Trilogy" "Blowing Whistles" "Edward II" (well, alright, that last one was the exception which proves the rule; "Sandy II" would have more eloquently given the game away!)
Isn't it amazing how fashions come back around? Out of the ten men currently sitting on my carriage, eight have what I'd describe as a World War One hair cut; the short back and sides" with low parting. Men's fashions seem to almost continually return to this old standard, largely because it's genuinely the neatest and most flattering cut of them all. I welcome it with open arms and would have it myself if my hair weren't a curly mop.
When I used to do film casting, the young lads would arrive looking like they'd been dragged through hedges made of hair straighteners. A clump here, a wedge there, a big block dragged across the forehead or cheek to disguise the actual shape of the face. I used to go into castings with a big pot of Brylcreem, beckoning for the young, fashion-conscious actors to come to me before they read to have their damaged, straw-like hair scraped out of their eyes.
I'm actually wondering if there's some sort of connection between the fashion for "short back and sides" and people emerging from recession with a work-like attitude, but perhaps I'm taking things a bit far!
It's 11pm and we've just watched The Pride at the Trafalgar Studios. It's a long time since I saw such fine words spoken by such genuinely excellent actors. I felt privileged to be in the audience.
The piece tells the story of a love triangle - two men and a women - in the present day and in the 1950s. The characters share the same names in both eras, one assumes they're representations of the same "sorts" of people, with similar passions and similar battles trying to move forward within two contrasting eras. Whilst the ghosts of the past and future hovered in the ether. It was particularly interesting to see the female role moving from a woman in a loveless marriage to a gay man in the 50s becoming a sort of fag hag in 2012 who almost needs to "break up" with her gay best fiend in order to give love a chance with a legitimate boyfriend. Fascinating stuff.
Rather beautifully, as they actors, who included Gavin and Stacey's Matthew Horne, arrived for their second bow, they whipped out little rainbow flags which simply read "From Russia With Love" on them. A more impressive, yet subtle show of solidarity it would be hard to find.
Fiona stayed with us last night, so we went down to the cafe to work together. I got project envy. She's currently composing and arranging music for string orchestra and percussion, which is just about my favourite line-up of instruments. In fact, I sometimes wonder why anyone bothers to score music for anything else!
I reached a natural hiatus in my list of things to do this week, and have made the brave decision to travel into town without taking work to do on the tube. This is incredibly rare and I'm blogging because I don't know what else to do with my hands!
I'm meeting Nathan and Julie to see a play called "The Pride". These gay plays tend to be given the least imaginative titles, don't they? I reckon you can spot any "gay" play from its title alone; "Bent" "La Cage" "Torch Song Trilogy" "Blowing Whistles" "Edward II" (well, alright, that last one was the exception which proves the rule; "Sandy II" would have more eloquently given the game away!)
Isn't it amazing how fashions come back around? Out of the ten men currently sitting on my carriage, eight have what I'd describe as a World War One hair cut; the short back and sides" with low parting. Men's fashions seem to almost continually return to this old standard, largely because it's genuinely the neatest and most flattering cut of them all. I welcome it with open arms and would have it myself if my hair weren't a curly mop.
When I used to do film casting, the young lads would arrive looking like they'd been dragged through hedges made of hair straighteners. A clump here, a wedge there, a big block dragged across the forehead or cheek to disguise the actual shape of the face. I used to go into castings with a big pot of Brylcreem, beckoning for the young, fashion-conscious actors to come to me before they read to have their damaged, straw-like hair scraped out of their eyes.
I'm actually wondering if there's some sort of connection between the fashion for "short back and sides" and people emerging from recession with a work-like attitude, but perhaps I'm taking things a bit far!
It's 11pm and we've just watched The Pride at the Trafalgar Studios. It's a long time since I saw such fine words spoken by such genuinely excellent actors. I felt privileged to be in the audience.
The piece tells the story of a love triangle - two men and a women - in the present day and in the 1950s. The characters share the same names in both eras, one assumes they're representations of the same "sorts" of people, with similar passions and similar battles trying to move forward within two contrasting eras. Whilst the ghosts of the past and future hovered in the ether. It was particularly interesting to see the female role moving from a woman in a loveless marriage to a gay man in the 50s becoming a sort of fag hag in 2012 who almost needs to "break up" with her gay best fiend in order to give love a chance with a legitimate boyfriend. Fascinating stuff.
Rather beautifully, as they actors, who included Gavin and Stacey's Matthew Horne, arrived for their second bow, they whipped out little rainbow flags which simply read "From Russia With Love" on them. A more impressive, yet subtle show of solidarity it would be hard to find.
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