At the ballet once again, twice in as many weeks! This time in London, with great pal and soon to be ex-Londoner Lorna Vainus.
We're at the London Coliseum for "Her Name Was Carmen" with the St Petersburg Ballet Theatre and the ENO Orchestra.
Principal dancer Irina Kolesnikova, whose visit with refugee camps inspired this new ballet, is breathtaking as Carmen. She probably is breathtaking in any role.
Her legs and arms, her feet and hands mesmerize. Her eloquent body stretches credulity as it morphs from towering Amazon to slithering seductress to the tormented victim twisted like a giant pretzel, totally inert on the floor.
In this ballet, male dancers are not mere catchers and lifters shadowing their female partners to provide dependable support. The two principal male dancers, handsome of face and body, strut up front and centre. They shine.
I have to confess, we were totally disoriented about this Carmen's story, expecting it to be, at the very least, loosely based on the Carmen we're more familiar with.
We could've saved ourselves this confusion if we had done our research. That is, if we hadn't just decided at the last minute to see this particular show! Or if we had arrived early enough to read the program. Or if we had arrived on time!
As it was, we arrived after the curtain had gone up, so we were hustled off to temporary lodgings upstairs where we spent the first half pining for our stall seats!
Never mind. Our lateness actually added to our excitement and it was, after all, an exquisite evening!
I have belatedly realized that I had witnessed this magic before. I saw Kolesnikova last year in La Bayadère on the urging of a ballet enthusiast I had met at the hotel lounge.
Labels: ballet, Irina Kolesnikova, London
We arrived at the
Garrick early, so we crossed over to the
National Portrait Gallery for a quick look at the
sketchbooks of Lucian Freud.
The half hour viewing gave me a precious gift: the realization that my own body of work, (haha I love the sound of that!) is not too bad.
I do have to learn to do it properly though. I guess when I started drawing, it didn't occur to me that there was a method to be learned. I merely thought it was a good idea to draw faces. I drew portraits of several of my grade school classmates. Too bad I gave them away. Those I made of my brothers and sisters and a cousin, I still have. I should do something with them...
Labels: London, Lucian Freud, National Portrait Gallery
The Entertainer is
Kenneth Branagh Theatre Company's
final production in the Plays at the Garrick season.
After my initial shock at seeing a blowsy, frumpy Greta Scacchi- this happens every time I see her now, unable to shake off femme fatale images of her Presumed Innocent and Country Life days- I quickly realized what a truly gifted actress she is, heartbreakingly real as the hurting and equally hurtful Phoebe Rice.
I'm not sure if John Hurt's Billy Rice would've been better but last night's Billy was pretty damn good.
The storyline, set in post- WW II England, is dated. This, despite the production's protestations of it being just as relevant today, with parallels to present post- Brexit England. The dialogue, liberally peppered with pre-PC references to "pansies," "negroes," and (immigrant) "Poles," dates it even more.
Kenneth Branagh onstage can't be anything but great. However, personally, I didn't like seeing him in this role, that of a struggling middle-aged relic of the lost age of vaudeville. I guess a few others in last night's full house didn't either. The guy seated beside me practically cringed every time Branagh did his pathetic music hall hoofer bit.
Of course he had to do John Osborne's The Entertainer. The play was written for Laurence Olivier, reportedly at the great actor's own behest. And Branagh is the acknowledged reincarnation of Olivier. We all know that.
Okay, he can really, really dance! I get that! He of course has to show off in the fabulous opening scene. The segue to present reality is pure perfection.
He's the total package. I get that too. Only Branagh can do dialogue onstage with his back to the audience. Incredible!
The final scene is flamboyantly silent, channeling Chaplin's The Tramp. Kenneth Branagh knows his way around that stage alright.
Labels: Garrick Theatre, Kenneth Branagh, London, The Entertainer
My sister Laura was taking her daughters Eunice and Krissy away on holiday and I suggested Bangkok. My other sister Annette and I joined them. Although I've been there countless times before, I was a bit apprehensive to take on the task of tour guide. Laura has only been once before. In the end, Stuart took pity on us and decided to join the party and take us in hand.
In four days, we managed to do most everything to be done in the city. Temples, palaces, boats, trains, massages, shopping, eating. At least they did, Stuart and the girls. I held out for the massages and eating mostly.
Eunice and Krissy were disappointed that we had no time to go to any of the beach resorts though.
We left Bangkok August 9. The bombs started August 10. In the beach resort towns of Phuket and Hua Hin. Unbelievable!
Labels: Bangkok
