It’s been a busy, busy several days. I’m in London right now, more project stuff. I helping with this so much I can’t even tell you.
I also saw Coriolanus for a second time with friends. I’m glad I had the opportunity, since there’s so much more to pick out on a second round, particularly if you sit in a different part of the theater. Still impressed that Tom Hiddleston has brought such depth to Martius the prideful douchebag. Still want to write Aufidius and Coriolanus slash, but I just couldn’t swing the iambic pentameter. On second viewing, Birgitte Hjort Sørensen’s performance really leaped out at me more. There’s so much she does with just looks and very subtle facial expressions. But everyone in that play is good, we already knew that. (Rochenda Sandall is definitely my favorite part of the ensemble cast.)
One thing that did strike me on this go around was, like in Hamlet, just how much subtle funny there was in the play. What makes those lines funny is entirely the delivery–particularly since the jokes sometimes aren’t as apparent to the people in the audience today as they might have been back when the play was written. The timing and tone of it was all excellent. And it makes me wonder why Shakespeare movies often seem intent on sucking the bits of humor out of the play. It’s a nice relief from the feeling of impending doom inevitably comes with knowing the play is a tragedy.
Oh, and the chairs still steal the show. I wish I could have had my picture taken with one. I was all set to make that incredibly awkward request, but couldn’t track down the right person to ask in the mess of people after the show. Sadness. I also did make the attempt to queue for the stage door after because I was so bereft after being kept from the chairs I thought that might fill the gaping void in my heart. But wait, that would violate my life goal of never actually meeting Tom Hiddleston! Fear not, gentle readers. The queue got cut off somewhere like 5-10 people in front of me. The fabric of space and time is still safe, as we passed quietly by like ships in the night.
London (but probably not Tom Hiddleston. Probably.) has now destroyed my right shoe. There’s a crack across the sole, and it made for an incredibly squishy and uncomfortable walk back to the flat from my dinner with Ingvar. (Ingvar showed me mercy this time and did not ply me with alcohol.) I think instead of buying another set of Pumas (though there is a Puma shop in London, I checked) I’m going to just go whole hog and get a pair of Doc Martens. I honestly think they’ll be more comfortable for all the walking I’m doing anyway. I don’t think the thin soles of Pumas have necessarily made the plantar fasciitis in my right foot worse, but I honestly don’t think it’s helping, either.
So tomorrow, there will be shoes. I am also planning to take the train down to Waterloo station for the sole purpose of taking a ride on the Waterloo & City line, because Ingvar told me that’s the deepest of all the lines (and it literally has only two stations) and that sounded kind of cool. I have a feeling it will be one of those things that sounded much cooler than it will actually turn out to be, but I’ll bring a book and look forward to riding seven thousand escalators up to the surface so I can blinking, step into the sun…
(Join with me now: Because there’s more to see than can every be seen, more to do than can ever be done…)
Also, you should know I have started a new writing project. Its title is simply Tea. And that’s all I’m saying about it for now. I’m just going to boil in my own amusement.
