Silent films, Streetcars and super exciting sojourns!

I haven't posted here since what I later realised was Valentine's Day (only the coolest of girls spend the ~most romantic day of the year writing blog posts about Shakespeare and fake sheep), because life seems to have SPIRALLED OUT OF CONTROL somewhat, not quite giving me time to get a foothold.

I expected the past fortnight to be a little calmer (not least because the first five days were Reading Week, the euphemistically titled break from studies that encourages most people to piss off on holiday), but with a formative phonetics assignment, several articles to write and subedit for my freelance job* and a smattering of this thing I believe people call a social life, I found myself with less time than ever. Throw in a motherbitch of a cold and the last fortnight pretty much flew by in a glorious, mental blur.

I did, however, manage to take in some culcha, feelings about which will be vomited below, in traditional listy format.

THE ARTIST
Bringing the grand total of main 2012 Best Picture Oscar nominated films I have actually seen to one, I got to see The Artist on Thursday evening. But, to be fair, it was the only one that, on the surface, made me want to watch it (aside from Tinker, Tailor, which I need to get on asap, because god knows I love me some tragic homosexual spies).

While I'm not sure it deserves the utter, unrelenting adoration it has received in every single way (in that, while wonderful, it was flawed), I bloody loved it. The combination of the novel, unique cinemagoing experience, vintage charm of the era, beautiful direction and extreme handsomeness of Jean Dujardin (more on that later) made it an utter delight from start to finish.

The direction was, as I said, beautiful; one shot in particular, in which George Valentin is angstily sitting at a mirrored table, and pours a glass of whiskey over his reflection on the surface, was really just staggeringly well done. The costumes were stunning, and I'm not quite sure who was more adorable, Berenice Bejo or Uggie the dog (utter scene-stealer)**.

While George Valentin was perhaps a tad whiny as a character, Jean Dujardin was heartbreakingly good at both beaming swagger and utter dejection. Also, as Emma has previously put it, his face should really just be pictured adjacent to the 'handsome' entry in the dictionary.

I mean REALLY. That's basically just obnoxiously handsome***.

The music was perfectly lovely, and I loved the experience of seeing a silent film (though I am Team Talkies - sorry George!). I found myself holding my breath in parts, terrified of disturbing the silence, and I admit that other people's rustling becomes that bit more frustrating in this setting, but I wouldn't give up the cinema experience of The Artist for a DVD viewing in a million years.

A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE @ Liverpool Everyman
(once again, I have taken the majority of this review from a shameful email to Rob)

A brilliant, uncomfortably intense production of a play I was utterly unfamiliar with (I do shame myself with my ignorance at times) before Saturday afternoon. Weak in parts, Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton shone in the most painful way.

I admit, I was kind of ruined for at least the first half-hour, because dear lord some of the accents were ATROCIOUS. I'm no expert on the specifics of the New Orleans accent, but the supporting cast were jarringly bad at the start, and it made it very, very difficult to engage with the characters straight from the off. It seemed so pantomime, so distant, if that even makes any sense. Amanda Drew and Sam Troughton were much better, but Matthew Flynn (Mitch) in particular was in and out like a yoyo! Which is such a shame, because his performance was heartbreakingly good.

The stage was three-quarters of a room, which rotated to reveal an outside spiral staircase at the side and occasionally only gave us shots of the action through an open window, which I really liked. You could really feel the stickiness and claustrophobia of the tiny apartment, and how much that must have driven Blanche to distraction, particularly being so close to Stan.

Amanda was undoubtedly the star - she was INCREDIBLE. When we first meet Blanche it was really, really hard for me to see her as a real person; because her extended periods of solo dialogue seem so unnatural and staged, she seems like a written character rather than an actual person, if that makes any sense. She's SO dramatic and SO verbose that she seems ridiculous, but as the play continues and you see that it's just her, and that verbal diarrhoea is her reflex, her being terrified of silence and being alone, a frantic need to talk and talk and have someone listen (which plays off so heartbreakingly well against Mitch's need to have someone talk to him, oh my soul).

AND SAM TROUGHTON. Having only seen Sam as doe-eyed hopeless cases, I was completely unprepared for Stan's swaggering dickishness, but he absolutely killed it. He's basically all chest, and it is MAGNIFICENT. His Polish-American accent was very strong, and he was masterful at that sinister sexiness that absolutely made you understand why Stella fell in love with him in the first place, and remains so entranced by him. He was equal parts menacing and heartbreaking, and filled the stage brilliantly.

Also, and I am toning down the creepy A LOT right now, daaaaaaamn Troughton! Where'd you get them arms? Flex them for me a little more! Grasp that bottle/doorframe/wrist a little harder! Oh God I hate myself, but he was ridiculously attractive, and spent a good 40% of the play changing his shirt.

And this one time he totally poured a bottle of beer all over himself while wearing a vest.
It was awesome.

UNIVERSITY CHALLENGE!!!!111!1!1!!
So on Sunday, in what was basically the pinnacle of my existence, I got to go to Granada Studios in Manchester to watch the filming of University Challenge. Since my darling friend Becky ass-kicked her way into the captain spot, I've been spending an awful lot of time with the team as they've trained (having subsequently come to accept my own extreme intellectual inferiority), and have become disgustingly fond of them all. They're all wonderful, stupidly smart humans, and I was so honoured to have been able to go and watch them.

Of course, as this series is not airing until July, I am strictly verboten from divulging any of the scores or successes, but I can give you a giddy account of the day - which, I'm sure you'll agree, is even better.

I TOOK THIS PICTURE. THAT'S HOW CLOSE I WAS.

Arriving late, I was made to sit on my own at the front, and thus had to contain my ridiculous excitement at being on the University Challenge set oh my godddddd. INSIDER FACT: they hold the nameplates on with sellotape. Oh yeah, no expense spared. I eventually found some people supporting Warwick Uni, who were just as exuberantly hyperactive as I was, and spend a good few hours freaking the fuck out every time we heard the theme tune or Paxman walked past.

SPEAKING OF PAXMAN: there's some feelings I never thought I'd have. He's kind of simultaneously the worst person - really rude and obnoxious, quite stroppy and a little too overly fond of Oxbridge colleges for my liking - but also brilliant - he was fab with the teams, and cracking jokes throughout. Also, the commanding thing? Yeah. Pleasant.

He also may have walked past us on the way out and I may have taken a photo. Just a little bit.

We got to watch four matches, and all of them were brilliant. We also did a lot of scary 'filming the audience applauding' shots, so there's my claim to fame for the next ten years sorted. Basically, it was the best day ever, and the York team are my absolute heroes for dealing with the utterly terrifying prospect that is Jeremy Paxman firing questions at you at speed.

Man, this blogpost got LONG. I'm going to go drink tea with Bri before salsa class. Laterz.

*I write and subedit for publicservice.co.uk, by the by.** HE WORE A FUCKING BOW TIE TO THE OSCARS KILL ME.
*** If you have been intrigued by this ridiculous specimen of handsomehood (if not, have you not eyes?!), then I insist you go here to briefly luxuriate in his extreme handsomeness, and here to see how fucking adorable he is in real life, too.

The Winter's Tale, Propeller Theatre Company - Sheffield Lyceum

I cannot lie, the majority of this review is copy and pasted from a ridiculously lengthy email I sent to Rob, and will thus be ridiculous. However, I have edited it slightly, because gmail is a much safer home for my shamelessness, and this blog must retain at least a little decorum.

(There be spoilers below. Big ones. Do not read on if you want to remain unspoiled for the production. This means you, Emma.)

To summarise, I loved it. I have a soft spot for it having studying it for A-Level, but it cannot be denied that the play itself is bizarre; with its halves in complete opposition, it can leave an audience a little unsettled, I think.

However, I think the best thing about this production was the fact that they completely embraced the juxtaposition of the two halves. Pussyfooting around it can often result in a weird middle ground that doesn't work for either (as has been the case for other productions I've seen), but with Propeller's they had intense, haunting drama in the first half and proper, balls-out ridiculousness in the second, and I loved it. I've never seen such a polarised version of the play, and it was brilliant.

I was originally a little bit unsure about Robert Hands' Leontes, because his character is basically one of the biggest dickbags ever, and his suspicions hit so instantaneously that to play it more subtly kind of makes him seem like even more of a dick? I mean, the one I compare it to is Anthony Sher in the RSC version, who goes properly nuts with the accusations, so at first Hands' more restrained Leontes seemed wrong. BUT, thinking about it more and reading a couple of reviews made me like it, because it was more sinister and calculated - more knowing, maybe. And I like that. But regardless of how the character was interpreted, his delivery was brilliant.

I loved Vince Leigh's Paulina, and his performance in particular highlighted something I loved about the production as a whole: that, in the first half, none of the guys put on funny voices to be the women. It was all in the physicality, but it wasn't pantomime or stereotype. Brilliantly done. Paulina in particular is badass, and Leigh showed that really well.

Mamillius was done really well too, and I LOVED the way he was in the background for a lot of the scenes, witnessing the dissent and reacting to it - the breakdown scene was heartbreaking, and it makes it even more gut-wrenching when he dies.

Richard Dempsey's Hermione was one of the highlights of the show - he holds himself beautifully, and managed to capture the stalwart strength that I love about the character. I don't see her as resigned and passive, I see her as sure in her goodness and wise to the fact that having a fit about it won't make anything better, and he did that beautifully. The trial scene was incredible, with the microphone and us as the jury, augh.

Richard Dempsey as Hermione - credit: Manuel Harlan

The only thing I wasn't so keen on was the reaction to the Oracle - I always see that as the moment Leontes goes too far, to claim to know more than God, and I've always liked it to be properly shocking rather than played for laughs. But that's only a minor niggle.

THE BEAR! I was underwhelmed, but in a good way, I think. I expected ~A SPECTACLE~, because this is Propeller, but I liked the way it was done (particularly because it carried on the theme of the dolls that had been used throughout).

Final note about the first half, and back to the shallow end - THE SUITS. dsjahfgajhsgjhg such beautiful sartorial choices. Everyone looks good in a charcoal grey suit, particularly these guys.

AND THEN THE SECOND HALF.
OHHHH, THE SECOND HALF.

I knew I was in for a treat, having seen some of the production stills, but OH MY GOD. I hardly know where to start!

Everything was magnificent and preposterous and I loved every second. John Dougall as the Old Shepherd was so tenderly done, especially when he finds out about Perdita. Gorgeous. Karl Davies is just too cute for this life; the scene where Autolycus strips him is always one of my stand out favourites in any TWT production, and this one was SO GOOD - the physicality of it is so perfect, and there was a knitted g-string involved, so yeah. I really liked Tony Bell's Autolycus in general, and the decision to play him as a drunken waster rather that a quick-witted rapscallion - like nothing I've seen before. It makes him all the more cringey and ridiculous. 

The bit with the Young Shepherd, his shopping list and the sheep was INSPIRED, and I was howling throughout. The sheep in general were a fantastic addition, and The Bleatles! And Robert Hands' shimmying! Ohhhhh, this cast <3

Karl Davies as the Young Shepherd, and a sheep - credit: Manuel Harlan.

AND THEN
OH SWEET LORD

I can hardly even do coherency about the ballad. If I say the words 'Lloyd from the Demon Headmaster and Peter Pevensie from the BBC's Narnia series performed a Shakespearean ballad to the tune of Beyonce's Single Ladies, with dance routine', you'd think I'd entirely lost the plot, but I can assure you that I haven't. It was absolutely the highlight of the show, without a doubt. Both were balls-out ridiculous with it, which is the only way to be. A magnificent spectacle, and one which I shan't be forgetting in a while.

I absolutely fell in love with Perdita and Florizel. Ben Allen is ADORABLE and I want to see him in more things because his faaaace, but it was all about Finn Hanlon. SO DREAMY. EVEN IN WHITE JEANS. And then he sang and was so in love and kept touching Perdita's waist and sdjhfgajhsdgfaj. I was absolutely dying for them to make out, I cannot lie. But was thwarted, alas.

I loved the Polixenes/Camillo disguises, and the scene with Autolycus tricking the shepherds into thinking he was a gentleman. Even better was the bit where the shepherds get him back, and have the whole speech about being 'gentleman born these four hours' - always brilliant, and Karl Davies was rocking that blazer.

The ending is always a strange one, because you kind of have to suspend your disbelief for it anyway, but it was touching and beautifully staged, and Leontes' metamorphosis was wonderful. However, the stand-out moment of that section (perhaps the whole show, Single Ladies aside), was Vince Leigh's closing moment as Paulina. Every production I've seen has played the Paulina/Camillo thing for laughs and jollity - 'hurrah, everyone is happy now!', etc. - and it was a real punch in the gut to see her so heartbroken at the end, because everyone got everything they lost aside from her, and it's so, so sad. Perfect touch.

A fortnight of firsts!

The last two weeks have been an epoch of elementary experiences (horrendously clumsy and slightly nonsensical alliteration, yeah!), all of which have been quite monumentally delightful, and so I thought a blog post was in order. I'm always up for trying new things, no matter what they may be, and you know how the saying goes - if at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not your sport.

HAGGIS
I was lucky enough to be treated to my first proper Burns supper on the 25th January. I say 'proper Burns supper' - it was a charmingly haphazard affair, orchestrated by our resident Scot (the aptly names Scott), who provided a traditional dinner and some not-so-traditional speeches. The haggis itself was delicious - very strong, and I couldn't eat much of it on its own (much nicer paired with a forkful of neeps and tatties), but peppery and warm and extremely filling. Scott did a wee speech about the enduring relevance of Burns' poetic message and his national importance, which was delightful, and us awful English types subsequently lowered the tone by reciting rude poetry about each other. A cracking night, in all.

YOGA
Last Wednesday saw my first Yoga class. I've never thought twice about it, but some friends were going, and I was looking for new opportunities for exercise, having been a little underwhelmed by the trampolining society up here. It was an absolutely brilliant workout, and I thoroughly enjoyed it - though it was bloody tough. The class was organised so the more difficult, standing postures were tackled first (many of which saw me trembling like a leaf), before the respite of sitting/lying positions. I could really feel the benefit throughout, and while I don't quite sign on to the ~finding your inner core~ namby-pamby-ness, as a strengthening and flexibility exercise, it was brilliant.

The next day, my main feelings were OW OW FUCKETY OW MY ABS WHYYYYY, but I still maintain it was a worthy use of my time.

SALSA
I am writing this in the half-hour before my second salsa class, and the fact that I'm going back for seconds should hopefully indicate how much I loved my first. It was great fun - a little socially awkward, of course, because omg we have to dance with BOYS what if we get COOTIES, etc. But after everyone had settled down, it was a fun hour of partner switching and sashaying.

I blame Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights entirely for my choosing a salsa class, and I am SO glad I did. I danced for eleven years, and didn't realise how much I'd missed it until last week - I felt a real fizz in my bones, an excitement that's been absent for the last five years, one I'm ecstatic to have back. It's a new style for me, and I'm very much looking forward to progressing with it.

edit: This is added after my second salsa class, wherein I stayed for both the beginners and advanced lessons. Oh sweet lord. It was strenuous, and very tough, but I think I managed to hold my own fairly well, despite massive dizziness - so much spinning! Highlight of the night has to be the tall Tom Burke-alike who, upon seeing my Shakespeare t-shirt, proceeded to recite Sonnet 18 as we danced. Swoon!

SHEFFIELD
I spent last weekend in the delightful company of Becky and pals in Sheffield - the main reason for the visit being to see Propeller's The Winter's Tale (which gets its own blog post, spectacular as it was), we nevertheless spent some times exploring what was, to me, a whole new city. And what a charming one it is, with its fountains and fountains and fountains (seriously, so many fountains). I did have a rather embarrassing moment wherein I spotted a restaurant called Bessemer's; I piped up with the thought that it must be named for Henry Bessemer, who invented molten steel (Sheffield being a famous steel town), and when asked how I knew such a factoid, had to respond that I learnt it from yet another Horrible Histories song. Still, at least I knew it, right?

SOUP
My lovely housemate Cath and I made soup for the first time, and naive little me was staggered by how cheap and easy it was. Ours was leek and potato, complete with homemade bread rolls, and we ate so much we could barely move. Excellent stuff.

CARD GAMES
Finally, I spent Sunday night with the superlative Bri and Ali, swapping our favourite card games. I imparted my Slam skills (and subsequently lost - I'm clearly that good a teacher), Bri showed us a collaborative solitaire-like game called Kings in the Corner, and we also played Mao. However, I have chosen to re-christen that one to Mao (Ali is mean), because Ali is MEAN. I say that, she's not actually mean, but the GAME is mean, and the game means that she has to be mean. Basically, you have to figure out the rules for yourself as play continues, and so it resulted in Ali handing me penalty card after penalty card for reasons I could not fathom while I panicked aloud and was subsequently told off for talking. However, it was brilliant fun. (But Ali is mean.)

ALSO IT SNOWED HERE! FINALLY!
If I ever wake up to a blanket of snow outside my window and don't grin like an excited seven-year-old, just shoot me, because I am already dead. Stomping home through the snow at gone midnight on Sunday meant I could happily dance about in the absence of anybody else nearby. And that I did. Glorious.