People Went To Bed With Him To Stop Him Talking

There was a day in London in early February, and it was a good day for Hannahs to enjoy birthdays. 

It started with one Hannah giving the other Hannah the gift of waking up far too early in the morning. After defeating the brutal winds of icy hatred on the Hungerford Bridge, the Hannahs triumphed in their quest to be early-bird-gets-the-rush-Alan-Bennett-play-ticket-worm lasses. 

The early bird can also get a Delicious Oaty Breakfast.

In between the ticket purchasing and the ticket using, the Hannahs filled several pleasurable hours with appropriately-birthday themed adventures: 

Such as exclaiming over cupcake mixes packaged to look like ice cream cones...

Saying hello to our friends and making sure we had enough lolly bags for everyone...

And, most importantly, buying a birthday carrot cake cupcake with cream cheese frosting from the Lola's counter at Selfridges.

Then, the play. 

The Habit of Art

The stage is set... at the National Theatre's Lyttleton Theatre. Did I mention this was the theatre? Theatre.

To be honest, I feel less sure of how to talk about this play, Alan Bennett’s The Habit of Art, than I did about The Invention of Love, and yet I enjoyed Bennett’s play a dozen, nay, fifty times more. Thinking back, both plays deal with similar concepts and tensions, including (hopefully) past taboos of homosexual love and desire, the nature of friendship and how it can but may not change over time, and the value of intellectual and artistic pursuits. 

Both also focus and extrapolate on the lives and thoughts of real artists (writers, scholars, musicians), with Bennett’s play a multi-layered construction wherein the (real) actors Richard Griffith and Alex Jennings play actors rehearsing a play in which they play the poet W. H. Auden and the composer Benjamin Britten respectively. 

And yes, I realise my use of the word “play” there outdid my previous use of the word “theatre”, but I feel that this linguistic repetition almost encapsulates the complex and intertwined synchronicity of the play’s (there I go again) many stories. 

And this is where the actors playing the actors who were on stage but not the play-within-the-play's stage sat watching the other actors rehearse their characters' parts, and also where the stage manager, her assistant, and the play's play's author sat. Got that?

Richard Griffiths as Fitz playing W. H. Auden was magnificent at portraying an actor’s insecurities about the likability of his character, while also providing many a laugh through Fitz’ interjections about the other actors, about cake, and about his desire to wear a mask. (Hold out for the mask. It’s brilliant.) 

Alex Jennings created an incredible atmosphere of sadness, longing, tension, and a sense of being lost when inhabiting Benjamin Britten, yet also hammed it up marvelously when switching roles from Britten to one of Auden’s cleaners in order to fill in for an absent actor (at the level of the play being rehearsed… not the play we were watching… oh, I fear I’ve lost you again). 

This woman is one of the best photogramaphers I've ever met. I am certain you'll be seeing her name in National Geographic or another prestigious publication before long. You heard it here first.

The more I try to write about this play the more I find myself tangled up. There’s a rent boy and there’s a biographer, who both meets Auden and somewhat “hovers” as an omniscient presence throughout; there’s Frances de la Tour as the stage manager who magnificently strokes her actors’ egos in a delightfully patronising way; there’s the author of the play-within-the-play who can’t stand how the actors keep getting in the way of his script; and there are hilarious, cringe-worthy speeches from Auden’s furniture, which are all the more entertaining for the smirks of the actors giving them.

I have to give up. I feel like this post is a tangle of yarn that I have no hope of unravelling, yet I must say that this play, with its mix of laughter, longing and sadness, and its glimpses into the creation of music, theatre, writing, and poetry, was very likely the highlight of my London experience.

For that I thank you, H.CarryOn, and wish you another happy birthday, almost one month on. I wish you were here in Belgium to take me on more magical mystery theatre adventures.

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“More Spooniness Than You’d Find in a Cutlery Drawer”: Tom Stoppard’s The Invention of Love

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
…
I go so far as to think you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with cherry trees. 

- Pablo Neruda, Every Day You Play 

Frosted flowers discovered on an early morning walk around Oxford's parks. (Also, a photo for my mum.)

I don’t profess to know a lot about poetry, but Pablo Neruda and the poem above, of which I have given you the opening and closing verses, are quite likely my favourite poet and poem. From the first time I read Every Day You Play I knew it almost by heart, and the opening verse periodically runs through my mind at unbidden moments. 

(Of course, so does “Seven hearts the journey make / Seven ways the hearts will break. / Bravest heart will carry on / When sleep is death and hope is gone”, but somehow I don’t think Rowan of Rin is in quite the same league as dear old Pablo*.) 

So why am I putting this poem** on my blog? Maybe in the hopes it might stop running through my head so much if I do; maybe because I’d love for other people to read it in its entirety; maybe because this year was the first time Valentine’s Day made me sad; maybe simply because I went to see Tom Stoppard’s play The Invention of Love and thought I could justify the connection. 

Broad Street, Oxford.

And yet when it comes to it, I find myself a bit lost as to how to discuss the play. It’s heart-rending and it’s hilarious; it’s about unrequited love and it’s about classical scholarship and the value of learning for learning’s sake; it’s about the corruption of manuscripts passed through antiquity and it’s about death; it’s about old men glorifying, as the play states, “the Golden Age”, and it’s about young men who both do and don’t want to live in that age; it’s about the poet A.E. Housman and it’s about Oscar Wilde; and it’s about life in general and it’s about Oxford in particular***. 

The Invention of Love is a long play, but a rewarding one. I was personally thrilled to discover that many of its conversations centre on the Roman poet Catullus, whom I discovered as a teenager but have not often heard other people mention (outside of year 12 Ancient History, when I was similarly excited to already know of whom the teacher spoke). As the play mentions, Catullus is thought to have invented the love poem as it’s known today – so you should go look him up too, along with Pablo Neruda… 

As you can see, I’m not really covering much of the play. Yet there are some brilliant ruminations on life, love, and learning in it, from Housman’s poignant, repeated statement that “I would have died for you, but I never got the chance” to Moses’ hilariously-conveyed musing that “Kissing girls is not like science, nor is it like sport. It is the third thing when you thought there were only two…” 

And for me, currently mired in my to-PhD-or-not-to-PhD panic, the following struck close (again, from Housman): “Scholarship… [is] where we’re nearest to our humanness. Useless knowledge for its own sake. Useful knowledge is good, too, but it’s for the faint-hearted, an elaboration of the real thing”. 

For those of you who’ve made it through this post, which is admittedly more for my own pondering and peace of mind than anything else, I can only hope that it comes close to Housman’s ideal of such useless knowledge, bringing us to our humanness. 

Across the road from Tofu & Pole Lane.

* I can also recite Aragorn’s poem from The Lord of the Rings. And the second verse of the Australian National Anthem. My talents are, as they say, boundless. 

** Neruda also wrote a variety of odes to delicious things, such as his Ode to Tomatoes, Ode to a Chestnut on the Ground, and Ode to an Artichoke. These, and others, can be found here.

*** Personal gripe: I could not believe my ears at intermission when several Oxford university boys sitting behind me said, first, “This play could only do well in Oxford”, then “Yes, I think you have to know Oxford to appreciate it” and, lastly, I kid you not this is a direct quote oh my lordy pie, “I agree, regular people wouldn’t find this funny”. If I hadn’t been rendered speechless by the tone of pomposity with which these words were uttered, I would have turned around and gone all Crocodile Dundee on their collective behind.

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Golden Days with Fiddler on the Roof, Or Why I Travel

How can I hope to make you understand
Why I do what I do,
Why I must travel to a distant land,
Far from the home I love. 

The song “Far From the Home I Love” has long been one of my favourites from Fiddler on the Roof, yet it was only during my fifth viewing of AIM Management’s production that I realised how apt the lyrics are for travellers like myself. 

Flying into Toronto, en route to London

I’ve been asked many times recently why I’m travelling, and each time I find myself rather flabbergasted because, well, I can’t imagine not wanting to do this. 

Usually, I just say that I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t planning travel; that as soon as I got a job at age 15 I began placing the majority of my earnings into a “travel fund”; and that my trip to Japan at age 19 cemented my exhilaration over exploring other cultures (and other culture’s food). 

Yet after spending four days with the musicians who help make AIM Management’s Fiddler on the Roof so memorable and moving, I have a new explanation for why I, and hopefully others, travel to distant lands: 

Because sometimes, when you take a chance and throw yourself into a new experience, you get gifted with beautiful, uplifting, laughter-filled and friendship-creating days that shimmer above all the jet-lag-induced oven burns*, flight delays, and moments of loneliness, and remind you that not only is life worth living, but you’re worth living it. 

(Yes, I realise this is bordering on Hallmark. I’m not trying to sell anything, though, so bear with me.) 

Motel's sewing machine: You work it with your foot AND your hand!

I watched Fiddler four times in Coral Springs. Consequently, I feel confident stating that this group of performers, musicians, and crew members are more than proficient at what they do. Each performance was as passionate and funny as the last, with the 11-piece orchestra playing a key role in heightening the story through the music. 

(Side note: You know how some fancy restaurants offer Chef’s Tables, whereby patrons can sit in the kitchen and watch the chefs cook the food served to them? I think theatres should start selling premium seats in the orchestra pit. Speaking from experience, there is nothing like being among the musicians as they play. My evening spent in the orchestra may have been my favourite of the lot.) 

Open your door, I'll be your tenant / Don't got much baggage to lay at your feet / But sweet kisses I've got to spare / I'll be your lover and I'll cover you. (It appears the Coral Springs Center for the Arts has hosted other shows before, but we shan't hold that against them.)

Even more fun and happy-making than watching the performances were the moments in between, such as when I chatted to members of the cast (Thesa Loving, one day I’ll make it to Austria and the concert hall you raved about), saw how sets and lights were operated, and brainstormed with the effervescent producer Don Westwood about finding financial backing in Australia for a Fiddler Down Under tour. (I think this will involve me wearing my new Fiddler shirt at opportune moments.) 

After trips to Boca Raton for Guinness, trips to Starbucks for coffee, trips to delis for sandwiches and pickles, and trips to the poolside in the early hours of the morning for post-performance wind-downs, I can say that the musical theatre life is rather a rewarding and superb one (of course, I didn’t have to do any of that “working” bit). 

Last Bit!

And just to close, I have to send a few messages to the musicians with whom I spent the most time… 

To the trombonist: I win. You will never get me inside an Outback Steakhouse. 

To the trumpeter: It only took me four attempts today to turn on my computer with my stick. I’m getting better at this. 

To the accordionist: I promise to relay your message to “the old girl” when I see her – and maybe, one day, you’ll be able to in person. 

To the flautist: Your smile. *hug* 

To the violinist: I wish I could entertain everyone so much simply by referring to petrol stations. 

To the music director: Awed by your talent. And thank you. 

Dibs on the feather-rigged pillow. And the butter churn. I'm rather tired of making my own butter by hand every morning.

* Apparently, one’s reaction time after getting 6 hours of sleep in 48 hours is not so stellar. Apparently, one doesn’t bother to run one’s hand under cold water, much less look for medication, when one gets a nasty burn from pulling a pie out of the oven after getting 6 hours of sleep in 48 hours. Apparently, this results in a rather a lot of hurty later on.

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The Actual Real Big Reveal

Once upon a time, there was a girl who went to Savannah. She had a blog. (And despite what this blog implied on January 3rd, she did not grow up to be some man’s fancy woman.)

Close enough.

In between visiting grocery stores, meandering around River Street, and admiring her tiara (all “once upon a time” stories include tiaras, right?), this girl in Savannah went to see a production of Fiddler on the Roof.

Once upon a time, she blogged about it.

A few days later, as she was tasting a single origin chocolate and watching Mamma Mia on the telly, the show’s conductor commented on the girl’s blog post. This made the girl very happy, so she wrote back.

Didn't amaze me. Bit too tangy for my liking, but then again I like my chocolates like I like my compost - earthy.

Days passed.

Then in Charleston, shortly before the new year began, the girl received an email from said conductor. His name was S.ThorMaestro, and he wanted to be friends. Pen pals, to be exact.

This made the girl even happier.

In amongst being gobsmacked at her luck, amazed at the power of blogging, and excited by the fun of emailing this no-longer-a-stranger, the girl found herself being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Would she, S.ThorMaestro asked, like to come to Florida when Fiddler took up again in Coral Springs, and thereby see how a professional theatre production worked while also moonlighting as his tourist buddy?

The girl considered, said no, then never blogged again.

The end.

Yogurt Aloe Vera drink, anyone? It's like calcium for your sunburn! (...what? Don't mind me...)

Wait, that’s not right. That sounds like our girl several years ago, when she was a teensy bit nervous about life and was perhaps a bit more like a turtle than a go-get-’em alligator.

I love having access to my old US travel photos. This baby alligator was encountered on a bayou tour in New Orleans, and would now be two years older. And likely scarier.

So, rewind: the metaphorically-tiara-wearing-and-brave-gator-esque girl of the story did, in fact, accept S.ThorMaestro’s invitation with glee.

And that, readers, is the real big reveal, and why I’m currently a musical theatre groupie in a hotel room paid for/with a strange older man. Excitement awaits, but never fear – I shall indeed, as new friends have advised, be safe.

After all, I am a lady.

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“Now I Have Everything”: Fiddler on the Roof presented by AIM Management

And if our good fortune never comes,
Here’s to whatever comes,
Drink l’chaim, to life!

Donald Westwood, executive producer of AIM Management’s Fiddler on the Roof introduced the show by thanking us, the audience, for “taking a chance” on the new company. Fiddler on the Roof is AIM Management’s inaugural production, and Westwood informed us we were pioneers with immense power over the future of the theatrical arts in Savannah (and, perhaps, the success of the company itself).

Well, if I do have any such power, I here use it to proclaim that AIM Management’s production of Fiddler on the Roof is entirely brilliant and a delight to watch. The story of Fiddler on the Roof is itself filled with poignancy and humour, yet it takes a passionate and talented cast to bring the tale’s evocation of family, community, human interaction, prejudice, oppression and, above all, love to life. Luckily for AIM Management (and the audiences), its performers, musicians, and stage crew have passion and talent to spare.

The Lucas Theatre

From my centre seat in the front row, I was able to watch both the musicians and the faces of the ensemble cast as well as the main characters, and it was a joy to see how dedicated the performers were and how much fun the musicians were having. I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the musicians (when they weren’t busy playing beautifully, of course) watch the show and laugh along with the audience, despite the fact that they must have seen the show countless times in performances and rehearsals. There seemed to be a real camaraderie amongst the company (or else they’re even better actors than I thought). This not only made me miss my days of playing in a musical ensemble, but ensured I had to fight the urge to sneak on stage during the lyrical and heart-wrenching rendition of “Sunrise, Sunset”, because all I wanted at that moment was to be a part of the music and story.

Bruce Goldman as Tevye perfectly embodied the patriarch whose commitment to “Tradition!” and what “The Good Book says!” can always be adapted to accommodate his love for his family, while Thesa Loving’s talent came across beautifully during (though not only during) “Do You Love Me?” – one of my favourite songs. Joe Byrne’s depiction of the nervous yet optimistic Motel was highly entertaining, and Erin O’Neil, Shayna Albertson, and Nicole Brooke Brancucci’s voices shone as Tevye and Golde’s three eldest daughters. A special shout-out to Albertson, whose rendition of “Far From the Home I Love” (another favourite, along with “Sunrise, Sunset” and “To Life”) was striking.

Honestly, I can’t fault a single performer; even the minor characters were consistently focused, fun to watch, and had fantastic voices. I was able to get a photo with the hilarious Susan E. V. Boland (Yente); surely only good can come from being close to a matchmaker, right? I also chanced upon a photo with the charming Michael Kennan Miller (Fyedka), and must admit: if any man as gorgeous as that ever wants to whisk me off my feet, I too will go against my father’s wishes in order to be so whisked. (Michael, if you ever do get to visit Australia, let me know and I’ll be delighted to show you around… or at the very least give you some pointers so that you don’t make such horrible mistakes as saying “aluminum” instead of “aluminium”.)

Kangaroo. In Australia. (Well, it's not like I could take photos during the performance.)

As someone who’s spent a large portion of her life playing musical intstruments, I thoroughly enjoyed watching the musicians who, though only 11 in number, created such a symphony of sound that one might have guessed them to be twice the size. (As an aside, I got some giggles out of being able to read the conductor’s sheet music. I thereby knew not only when each significant song was being played, but when the music was for “Tevye’s Monologue”, “Final Scene – Underscoring”, or “Bows”. I had a chat with the lovely (and rather cute) conductor, Samuel Clein, who has a spot in my heart for having conducted several Sondheim musicals in the past, including Into the Woods. Samuel, if you ever put on Assassins, can I come and be your page turner? Please? I’ll also bake delicious brownies.

The dancing and choreography were great fun to watch, particularly during “To Life” and the Bottle Dance at Tzeitel and Motel’s wedding. From the kookiness of “The Dream” and the power behind “Tradition” to the joyful “Miracle of Miracles” and the moving strains of “Anatevka”, the performers and musicians gifted the audience with nearly three hours of wonderful song, harmony, laughter and, of course, entertainment.

I had no idea Fiddler on the Roof would be playing in Savannah during my time here, and as the company only put on four shows at The Lucas Theatre, I feel incredibly lucky that it was. Thank you to the ensemble for a wonderful afternoon, and I hope to see you all touring in Australia soon. Remember – delicious brownies.

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Notes to Self

1. Do not pay attention to the usher at Wintuk pointing you to the “quickest exit”. It won’t be the quickest exit when you end up on a strange street and find yourself walking around for a good ten minutes trying to find Penn Station. Of course, Penn Station turns out to be the enormous building you were walking around for these ten minutes, but that’s not much help when the sides you were on have no signs nor any entrance.

Next time, just take the exit that you came from. You’re a woman – you aren’t good at directions.

2. Don’t get so excited by the fact that the new sim in your old American phone enables you to access two-year old messages from your exchange year to the extent that you miss your subway stop and end up walking 8 blocks in “-1 feels like -9C” weather. Especially when you’re eating a candy bar and you start fearing you’ll choke because your face is so cold you can’t even tell if you’re chewing anymore.

3. Write “notes to self” that make you sound a bit more awesome.

4. Learn how to do triple-twirly-springy-flip-twists from a horizontal bendy pole held by two muscled men in colourful lycra. Now that’s a life-skill and a half, Cirque du Soleil.

5. Write a proper blog post. With photos. Which means stop leaving your camera cord locked up in your hostel room.

6. Work out where you’re going next week so you don’t end up, you know, homeless and frozen.

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