On a recent trip to view the new office building, the logo on the safety vests that were one-size-fits-most(truckers) read "Safety First is Second Nature." Perhaps. As I find that safety features are not always apparent in the UK, and I find that...reassuring.
Take for example my trip to Dover. After climbing the Shakespeare's Cliff, stopping along the way to look out over the barricade, I got to the top and turned just in time to see that was no longer a barricade where, arguably, you would most need it. And there was no sign warning you to mind the gap. Speaking of gap, there is just a recording in the tube station. If you happen to fall through, well, it's just Darwinism.
When crossing the street, you can walk when there isn't a car (or bus or bike.) Oh, you can also walk when there is a walk sign, but no one actually waits for that like they do in California. I got so accustomed to waiting, having received a $60 jaywalking ticket for crossing while the walk sign wasn't on, in spite of the fact there wasn't traffic, that it took me a good two months to truly believe I CAN cross here when I decide it's a good idea, not just when the light says so. The trick is knowing when it is a good idea.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Richard III (or tricky Dick)
Possibly the most difficult ticket to get in London these days is Richard III, starring Kevin Spacey. They've been sold out for ages, but as is the practice, you can show up a few hours ahead of the opening time and wait for return tickets. It was a beautiful day in London, so after a quick trip to visit the ever-growing shrine in front of Amy Winehouse's home, I headed down to Waterloo to wait. After an hour, I managed to score a seat with a partial view on the very top of the Lilian Bayliss Circle, or as I know them, the nose-bleeds. Since the returns are handed out minutes before the show, I wasn't able to scoot into my seat until about 20 minutes into the performance, which meant the opening monologue was viewed as a giant shadow cast on the stage right wall. And that was actually really effective. Richard, appearing bigger than he is in a paper crown and party horn, withered hand and hunched back. Ever the villain.
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of Sam Mendes. What started out as a very angry cross between Verbal Kent and Groucho Marx (both playing on the physical limitations of the hunchback) ended as a very well rendered character. One who had dreamed of a blue sky destiny, and sought to make it so in spite of the trail of destruction let behind.
He woos, successfully he boasts, the new widow of his former adversary, whom he has just slain. She agrees to marry him even as the corpse bleeds anew at the very presence of Richard. (Which was visible and pretty cool.) He one by one has all his brothers and his brother's children killed to ensure the throne belongs to him. And in a masterful scene, prompts Buckingham, playing the scene as if a lively Southern Baptist preacher, to sway the crowd who responds, thanks to plants in the audience, with the appropriate boos, yays, and "Tell it, brother!" The un-planted audience soon follows and the crowd cheers the idea of Richard becoming king over the young Prince Edward. Richard is seen on a huge monitor with two accomplices playing monks. We see him in prayer as he morns for his brothers' deaths. He turns to the camera, reacting to Buckingham and the crowd with mock humility, saying he couldn't possibly be king. It's not his place, after all. He isn't kingly enough. And this is where we love Spacey most. For in spite of his mastery of the language and his spirited stage performance, it is the subtlety of his expressions, the tiny curl at the corner of his lip as the crowd begs him to take the throne, that fully demonstrate the mastery of his craft. Soon, the upstage wall is pulled to reveal an even deeper stage, full of doors which are marked with an X as the new King's options become more limited, or those around him die, or are executed. As the last moment of the 2 hours first half, we see Richard take the throne with clear defiance and pride.
In the second half, gone are the Groucho asides (I wasn't kidding about that - he is due to the hunchback bent over in a very Groucho way). Now we see Richard as an increasingly neurotic, screaming character, killing off all his remaining relatives and friends out of sheer paranoia, until in the final battle, he doesn't even have a horse. He even repeatedly stabs the head (which was in a box, but visible from the nose-bleeds) of one of his men with his cane in anger out of what he sees as treason and betrayal. After a really solid dual with broadswords with Richmond, he is slain and hoisted up by his feet so that he hangs in the air as a shell of his tyrannical power.
And curtain call! We see an extremely exhausted Spacey, thanking the crowd and his fellow actors, but just absolutely exhausted.
As I walked out, I heard people talking about how the American accents bothered them. While there were several Americans in the cast, they did the usual effected speech. The English patrons asked each other, "why bother? Just pick one - full English or American."
I made my way to the stage door in an attempt to get some autographs and see Kevin Spacey. I did meet a few of the actors, but after 45 minutes, the stage hand announced that Kevin had left through another exit. And so, I took my leave.
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of Sam Mendes. What started out as a very angry cross between Verbal Kent and Groucho Marx (both playing on the physical limitations of the hunchback) ended as a very well rendered character. One who had dreamed of a blue sky destiny, and sought to make it so in spite of the trail of destruction let behind.
He woos, successfully he boasts, the new widow of his former adversary, whom he has just slain. She agrees to marry him even as the corpse bleeds anew at the very presence of Richard. (Which was visible and pretty cool.) He one by one has all his brothers and his brother's children killed to ensure the throne belongs to him. And in a masterful scene, prompts Buckingham, playing the scene as if a lively Southern Baptist preacher, to sway the crowd who responds, thanks to plants in the audience, with the appropriate boos, yays, and "Tell it, brother!" The un-planted audience soon follows and the crowd cheers the idea of Richard becoming king over the young Prince Edward. Richard is seen on a huge monitor with two accomplices playing monks. We see him in prayer as he morns for his brothers' deaths. He turns to the camera, reacting to Buckingham and the crowd with mock humility, saying he couldn't possibly be king. It's not his place, after all. He isn't kingly enough. And this is where we love Spacey most. For in spite of his mastery of the language and his spirited stage performance, it is the subtlety of his expressions, the tiny curl at the corner of his lip as the crowd begs him to take the throne, that fully demonstrate the mastery of his craft. Soon, the upstage wall is pulled to reveal an even deeper stage, full of doors which are marked with an X as the new King's options become more limited, or those around him die, or are executed. As the last moment of the 2 hours first half, we see Richard take the throne with clear defiance and pride.
In the second half, gone are the Groucho asides (I wasn't kidding about that - he is due to the hunchback bent over in a very Groucho way). Now we see Richard as an increasingly neurotic, screaming character, killing off all his remaining relatives and friends out of sheer paranoia, until in the final battle, he doesn't even have a horse. He even repeatedly stabs the head (which was in a box, but visible from the nose-bleeds) of one of his men with his cane in anger out of what he sees as treason and betrayal. After a really solid dual with broadswords with Richmond, he is slain and hoisted up by his feet so that he hangs in the air as a shell of his tyrannical power.
And curtain call! We see an extremely exhausted Spacey, thanking the crowd and his fellow actors, but just absolutely exhausted.
As I walked out, I heard people talking about how the American accents bothered them. While there were several Americans in the cast, they did the usual effected speech. The English patrons asked each other, "why bother? Just pick one - full English or American."
I made my way to the stage door in an attempt to get some autographs and see Kevin Spacey. I did meet a few of the actors, but after 45 minutes, the stage hand announced that Kevin had left through another exit. And so, I took my leave.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Jury
On a recent business trip to Paris, I discovered a most extraordinary thing about the cultural difference between "Anglo-Saxons," as they called us, and the French.
The purpose of the trip was to visit schools and give artistic feedback to their graduates. And we did. We also sat on a jury, which I imagined would be like a panel on a dais holding up numbers after each competitor showed his work. Sort of like the Olympic judges at the gymnastics events. But instead it was a room full of people with scarves. They watched each piece then were introduced to the team. And then a discussion began. In French.
Pourquoi was asked a lot. And the students looked mostly scared and sometimes horrified.
And I sort of knew what they were talking about but couldn't really speak enough to keep up. So I listened. And after, we had individual times with the students to speak English. Funny, one of the administrators told me later that the French are very used to taking criticism, so they were amused by our constructive and positive advice. "You Anglo-Saxons are so nice!"
That is the first time I have ever been called an Anglo-Saxon.
The purpose of the trip was to visit schools and give artistic feedback to their graduates. And we did. We also sat on a jury, which I imagined would be like a panel on a dais holding up numbers after each competitor showed his work. Sort of like the Olympic judges at the gymnastics events. But instead it was a room full of people with scarves. They watched each piece then were introduced to the team. And then a discussion began. In French.
Pourquoi was asked a lot. And the students looked mostly scared and sometimes horrified.
And I sort of knew what they were talking about but couldn't really speak enough to keep up. So I listened. And after, we had individual times with the students to speak English. Funny, one of the administrators told me later that the French are very used to taking criticism, so they were amused by our constructive and positive advice. "You Anglo-Saxons are so nice!"
That is the first time I have ever been called an Anglo-Saxon.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The pieces you take with you.
Peonies. I love them. But I never knew how much I loved them until recently. Mom used to have one peony in the yard next to a tree. It was lovely and I always anxiously awaited its popping through the Earth every spring. Fragrant and pink and delicate, it was a touch of feminine in an otherwise rough and tumble sloping front yard. At some point after I left home, through bad weather or a thoughtless grass-mower, it met it's floral maker, never to return to the Nashville sun.
They don't really grow in LA, and finding them in flower shops seemed remote. Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough. But that was before I knew I loved them. Here in London (England really) they are quite popular and probably grow in gardens. I wouldn't know since I don't have friends with floral gardens. But having them on my table brings a bit of fragrant, pink and delicate to an otherwise rough and tumble daily grind. The peony is something I think I'd like to have around.
Moving halfway across the world, I tried to keep my personal totems to a minimum since I would have to carry them through Heathrow and I really do prefer to travel light. But there are those things that you like to have with you. Those things that give you hope or happiness or something in between. And those things always end up on that list of Things You Must Have on a Desert Island, often for me before essentials like food or water.
Having the benefit of perspective, I can see that the overabundance of stuff I have in LA obscures the fragrant, pink and delicate. Maybe it's the symptom of being a hoarder, or at least the daughter of a hoarder. But if we find comfort in abundance, how can we appreciate the comfort of the essential?
Of all the things I have in LA, the things I chose to bring with me to London are:
They don't really grow in LA, and finding them in flower shops seemed remote. Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough. But that was before I knew I loved them. Here in London (England really) they are quite popular and probably grow in gardens. I wouldn't know since I don't have friends with floral gardens. But having them on my table brings a bit of fragrant, pink and delicate to an otherwise rough and tumble daily grind. The peony is something I think I'd like to have around.
Moving halfway across the world, I tried to keep my personal totems to a minimum since I would have to carry them through Heathrow and I really do prefer to travel light. But there are those things that you like to have with you. Those things that give you hope or happiness or something in between. And those things always end up on that list of Things You Must Have on a Desert Island, often for me before essentials like food or water.
Having the benefit of perspective, I can see that the overabundance of stuff I have in LA obscures the fragrant, pink and delicate. Maybe it's the symptom of being a hoarder, or at least the daughter of a hoarder. But if we find comfort in abundance, how can we appreciate the comfort of the essential?
Of all the things I have in LA, the things I chose to bring with me to London are:
- my wind-up sushi that I had in my office for years
- photos of James and Mom and Dad
- one really good kitchen knife
- hats - lots of hats
- a sparkly pink pen
- my National Geographic map of England and Ireland, used on all my previous 6 trips to the UK
- a garden gnome
- a really good pink kitchen knife
- a coffee mug with "England" and a picture of Shakespeare
- handmade throw pillows with naughty words
- peonies
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