Thursday, May 19, 2005

Play reinforced my thoughts that there needs to be a new kind of theatre - more punk rock than this middle-of-the-road nonsense that keeps getting regurgitated. As sidekick for the night pointed out, it was all a bit old hat and tired. It was a good play, not a great play, but people have been raving about it. "No excuses, see it," says Charlie, pointing out that it's "piercing writing". "There isn't a false note from beginning to end," says JD. An "absorbing production," says Mr Pratt. But if you're bandying this stuff around for something that's ok but, ultimately, nothing more than average, what happens when you see something truly great? I'm not saying that's my play, by the way, just that critics are useless fuckers who don't tell the truth when it's staring at them between the free drinks. I realise, with all this fancy talk about a new kind of theatre, that I've set myself up for a major fall come the end of June (and, I'll admit, there's nothing theatrically radical about the play I've written for performance). Theatre critic turns playwright? Doomed to failure. But then, I'm a bricklayer turned milkman turned debt collector turned graduate turned theatre critic turned journalist turned playwright, so the cards are truly stacked against me. If I do fall on my arse I can always throw my brick trowel at people before informing them that there are four bricks to 300mm and that your average brick measures 215mm x 65mm x 100mm. See, you never lose it, even when you've spent many dull, uninspiring hours with the bullshitting bastards that frequent the world of the performing arts.

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