If someone were to ask me if I were a theatre goer my answer would be diffident at best. Now and again, sort of, well no, not really. But, as I waited for the kettle to boil I started to think about it. I went to see a loads of plays when I was at University. At the time I knew a lot of drama students, some of whom were young women, maybe that was one of the attractions. Another was that the Gulbenkian Theatre was on campus and free. It was also really close to the Student's Union. The bar in there was very useful when I thought that I was going to die of boredom whilst watching a Congreve play. It gave me the incentive to get up and walk out; one of the few times in my life when I have walked out of something ostentatiously rather than sneaking away in the interval (and I've done that a few times!). I remember too seeing a play there that was based on Brecht - the actors had David Bowie type face paint and sat on tyres. The kettle still hadn't boiled but things were flooding in now. I remembered lots of Hull Truck productions. No, even further back, when I went to Butlins Holiday Camp as a lad with my family. I must have been about 11 or 12 and I was allowed to wander the complex alone. One of my chosen options was to go to the theatre, of sorts, put on by the Redcoats - I recall a whodunnit and a farce - careful with that axe vicar - sort of thing. Then after to the cafeteria to get a milky coffee, which I drank through a straw, from a Duralex cup. Such hedonism, such innocence.
By now the tea is brewed and I'm thinking about this as blog material. I recall that one of the few things I've ever seen in the West End is a Brian Rix farce. Imagine that, paying good money for innuendo and people called Gerald walking out of one door as Hermione comes in the other. Once I started to think about it lots and lots of theatre came rolling in. Stuff at the Arts Theatre and ADC in Cambridge, at the Key in Peterborough, those outdoor Shakespeare festivals at Tolthorpe and in Huntindgdon, the one man show in Catworth featuring a Weslyan Geologist, the Arts Centre in Spalding. It's like word association now; from one thing to the next. It's a bit like that John Hurt TV version of The Naked Civil Servant where Quentin says he's OK with the programme so long as they put in one particular image of him dancing. Images of my own come to mind, of past plays, past performances and past theatres. A mental hop and I think about being alone, when I was dead young, watching the telly, and being awestruck by something on BBC2, in black and white. It was a play where none of the actors wore shoes and it was about melting people down to make buttons. Google tells me it was probably Peer Gynt which is a bit disappointing. Not obscure enough for the growing hubris of this piece. Maybe my self analysis is wrong. Maybe I've always liked theatre. How strange. Oh, and there was a recording of Waiting for Godot from Elland lending library. I enjoyed it so much the first time that I borrowed it a second time. My dad thought I was decidedly odd listening to Beckett. I went to see the real thing later. Remarkable memories.
We're at a bit of a disadvantage, theatre wise, in Spain. Ibsen and Beckett would probably be hard work in English nowadays and I don't think I'd manage them in Spanish. That's not stopped us though, we've been to lots of plays in Spanish. Sometimes I've nodded off and sometimes I've kept up without problems and even chortled at the jokes. The heavy stuff, Juan Rulfo's Pedro Páramo or Lorca's La Casa de Bernarda Alba, both of which are on locally at the moment, might be a stretch both language wise and maybe attention span wise. Another half forgotten memory just popped up there. A memory to suggest that the language has always been challenging. I think it was in Palma, in Mallorca, in the 1980s when I'd got into the habit of coming to Spain for my holidays. I went to the theatre to see something called La Pepa Trae Cola. I must have wanted to experience a bit of Spanish theatre even then and almost certainly the poster gave me hope that it would be amusing and maybe comprehensible. As I remember it was a sort of farce (again); I've just looked it up and it starred a couple called Tomás Zorí and Fernando Santos. My guess is from a mixture of memory and skimming the Wikipedia article that this was like going to see a sort of Spanish Mike and Bernie Winters, as they flailed around at the end of their careers, heading towards oblivion. It was completely incomprehensible to me.
Maggie's much more realistic than me. She knows where our linguistic limits lie. Every time I thrust a (virtual) theatre programme at her she looks through the things I haven't earmarked and steers me away from the worthy play (or the farce) and suggests the ballet, or the opera or the concert. Things that have elements other than pure language. That's good too. This time though she liked the look of a play and we even booked a bit of feminist musical theatre. It's making me grin again just thinking about it. And we're in a box for one of the events. Lots of the theatres around here are really lovely. Old fashioned with lots of velvet, with gold leaf and with allegorical paintings on the ceiling or above the stage. I always like the boxes. Mind you I like the dress circle too - definitely the best view. Oh, and the Gods can be great. The Spanish name for the Gods is el Paradiso, Paradise. All the fun for a fraction of the price and often with an experience thrown in -this time it's freezing cold, this time it's boiling hot or maybe the rake of the seating makes you fear for your life. I don't particularly care for the stalls - too squashed. Mind you the Covid restrictions mean you can now sprawl when you go to the theatre.
Just one last thing. Recalling all these plays I remembered dragging my old pal Alan to the theatre in Villena to see Darwin's Turtle. My guess is that he didn't capture much of the plot but I don't think I need to apologise. I bet you remember that evening, don't you Mr. C? Memorable stuff going to the theatre.
