Having my bag checked as I walked into the theatre, I found myself slightly annoyed. But as I settled into Spilt Milk's Hamlet at the Rosemary Branch, I realized it was all part of the show. Set in a war-torn Elsinore in the early 1990's, the stage was set for one of Shakespeare's better-known tragedies. While saying that, I'll oddly remember this rendition more for the strong comedic moments then the mass slaughter at the end.
Andrew Shepherd stood out in this particular cast and joyfully partook in the roles of 6 characters. Whether he was playing the cocaine addicted, underworld entrenched Guildernstern, the overly camp Voltemand obsessed with the gentlemanly figure of Laertes, or the Player King with only half an arm, Shepherd found the essence of each character (including their own unique hairstyles!). Often set as his partner in crime, Richard Goodwin, also shone as both Laertes and Rosencratz, and I found myself marveling at the physically he used when approaching both roles. Rounding up the men was a very lovely bumbling Jeffry Kaplow as Polonius who more often then not discussed his woes with whatever audience member caught his eye.
When looking outside of the realm of the acting, this production found a lot of strength in both the costume and lighting design. On what I could imagine to be a small budget, designer Anouchka Lefebvre's costumes showed both the military stylings of the old regime in the older court (Polonius, Claudius and Gertrude) and the mix and match style of the younger characters as a reflection of growing up with the scarcities of war. The lighting, designed by Andrew Peregrine, went beyond the standard stage configuration and he ventured into DIY lighting with the use of candles and flashlights to provoke the audience into thinking outside the box.
At only 2.5 hours compared to the normal 4 plus hours that Hamlet runs at, some of the craft is invariably lost in the telling but overall the audience seemed to follow the story on stage. An ambitious undertaking, I am left with a firm seed planted to keep an eye out for this cast in the future. I'm hoping to see them further explore their innate talent for comedy which I know they could pull off eyes closed with a couple forward rolls thrown in.
Tuesday, 2 November 2004
Monday, 23 August 2004
Onion Sprouts
As published in McSweeneys
I thought you would be a good idea. I like your other varieties: alfalfa, bean, broccoli, even fennelgreek. And I don't even know what fennelgreek is. But I know what onions are. I like onions sometimes. They're good on hamburgers and fried with mushrooms. What are stirfries or curries or hamburger hash without the joy of the bulbous onion? But onion spouts, you are a category all to yourself.
You look like you would be good, your springy green lushness overflowing the bounds of your small plastic holding pen. Your price the same as any other package of sprouts on offer, which makes the purchase that much more tempting. Now I have to buy you. Count the last few pennies in my wallet and give them to the spotty teenager who doesn't care if I am about to find enlightenment in your presence. I mean he tries to pack you under a bag of flour. What was he thinking? You could have been crushed.
So with your box safely stowed in its own plastic Safeway bag, I take you home, fully prepared to honour my hunger with your goodness. I load you on my sandwich: a boring boloney accompanied by an uneven tomato slice and plain Jane cheese. I think even the thin layer of mustard coating the insides of my sliced white cannot compare to you.
Now I have learned. Oh. Have. I. Learned.
I cannot breathe without remembering you, my mouth insides burnt by your touch. It's one that was less inspired by hints of onion and more the incarnate of all evil factors of onion packed in the cutest form ever. You are still on my plate. You have even scattered yourself about the countertop, fridge and floor. You have a life of your own and are 10 times the price of a normal onion. You are the devil. I still smell of you. Oh how I curse the day I saw you.
I thought you would be a good idea. I like your other varieties: alfalfa, bean, broccoli, even fennelgreek. And I don't even know what fennelgreek is. But I know what onions are. I like onions sometimes. They're good on hamburgers and fried with mushrooms. What are stirfries or curries or hamburger hash without the joy of the bulbous onion? But onion spouts, you are a category all to yourself.
You look like you would be good, your springy green lushness overflowing the bounds of your small plastic holding pen. Your price the same as any other package of sprouts on offer, which makes the purchase that much more tempting. Now I have to buy you. Count the last few pennies in my wallet and give them to the spotty teenager who doesn't care if I am about to find enlightenment in your presence. I mean he tries to pack you under a bag of flour. What was he thinking? You could have been crushed.
So with your box safely stowed in its own plastic Safeway bag, I take you home, fully prepared to honour my hunger with your goodness. I load you on my sandwich: a boring boloney accompanied by an uneven tomato slice and plain Jane cheese. I think even the thin layer of mustard coating the insides of my sliced white cannot compare to you.
Now I have learned. Oh. Have. I. Learned.
I cannot breathe without remembering you, my mouth insides burnt by your touch. It's one that was less inspired by hints of onion and more the incarnate of all evil factors of onion packed in the cutest form ever. You are still on my plate. You have even scattered yourself about the countertop, fridge and floor. You have a life of your own and are 10 times the price of a normal onion. You are the devil. I still smell of you. Oh how I curse the day I saw you.
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