On the day that M received her first commission (way to fucking go! Yippee! Let the good times roll!)...
Martin McDonagh's play was right up my street. It was a joy to actually enjoy sitting in a theatre for once (although we did have a heavy-breathing critic sitting behind us who insisted on turning over his notepad at a very high rate of decibels and did his best to annoy us). Spoke to Marcus, the director, who was pleased with his lot. He's usually one for loud soundtracks and video projections aplenty but this was something different. The set - an old Irish cottage and a Morris Minor - was a bit distracting. But the dialogue was a real rapido onslaught and there was a fantastic undercurrent of menace. Rumour has it that McDonagh wrote it in eight days after watching back-to-back Tarantino films. A good approach, methinks, if real life experience of guns and blood is out of reach. Also saw Gareth, our old mucker from Hull Truck, who's doing a production of another McDonagh play early next year. He said he'd have liked to have seen more menace, so his version of The Lonseome West promises to pack a big, powerful, nasty, frightening, blood-soaked punch. Had a chat with Gareth about my play this morning. Lots of positive comments sprang forth. Think he likes my twisted take on life.
A letter of complaint has arrived from a fan of The Hollies after I slagged off the 1960s hasbeens in my rubbish column (see how my opinion has changed since yesterday, when it was the bees knees?). At the end of the meaningless gibberish, the writer adds an hilarious 'reminder' to me: "Those who can, do. Those who can't, criticise." Or, perhaps, they write letters?
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