Sunday, August 01, 2004
I am Spartacus!
Er, actually, I think you'll find he's the guy over there, in the tights.
Yesterday evening was definitely a break from the norm. As a birthday treat for my brother and I, our parents took us to see the ballet. Yes, that sentence does say what you think it says.
I think it started as a whim of my mother's and having two recent birthdays was just a convenient justification.
Once I got past the joy of being in the back of my parents' car, whilst they discover the A3 is closed at the A244 [cue: Where is the 244? Much shouting over maps, and out of date street atlases, we find it's just before Esher. Which means finding an alternative route. My parents turn off, and seek out the old A3. And then argue about whether they're going the right way.
Ok, so they think they've found the right road [Me: but the A3's the A3, so I'm lost without the endless bypasses], now all they need to figure out is where to go on it. How far is the A3 closed beyond Esher? I suggest finding local radio, and get duly ignored. More shouting. My parents are expert at having pointless rows. Knowing my mother spoke to him earlier, I ask what my brother's doing. He's at home. Right, so couldn't you ring him and get him to look up on the AA website to see what's going on? Oh. Cue mobile action.
For some reason I get handed to phone to speak to him [after my mother's squawked about not being able to hear him. Try not pressing the Volume Down button], and have to navigate him through the website [worryingly, I can picture it]. It's closed from the A244 turning. Yes, we know that. Something about Hinchley slip road. I don't know where that is, but it's a slip road, it's not important. And it's closed till the Tolworth Junction? Is that including it or not? Until? Ok.
More shouting. Apparently we're going to the Hinchley place. My father, in an effort to prove he knows where's he's going, picks the name of a road we pass, and says, "we're going to Claygate". Mother claims it's in the wrong direction. My father carries on this bluster, rather than admit he made it up [Hint for next time: pick the name of the road you're on, as you leave a town. Not the name of a side road that leads behind you, as you enter the town]. I suggest turning round back to the main road we were on, so my parents drive on, arguing.
We pass Sandown race course, with my mother and I discussing if it's the one you can see form the train. Cue long thing in Stagecoach livery slipping between the far trees. That'll be a yes then. A couple of miles on, my father sees a viaduct, and seems surprised to know the railway's there. Er, it has been since...oh never mind.
My father predicts we need to turn left up ahead, where that Volvo just came out. We get to it. Oh, not this left. Nor the next one, nor the one after that. And so on until we get into the town centre. We go right.
I'm hopelessly lost in a sprawl of endless towns (there could at least be one token feild to let you know that one has finished, and now it's onto the next one). My parents are in full "Oh it's here. So-and-so used to live....there" mode.
And then suddenly it's out past the incongruous 60s lump (good cracking), and out onto an empty A3. Accelerate. Remember the speed limit and the fact they bother having cameras on this bit. Drive on for a while, and turn off at Morden. And then onto the Park and Ride for London. And because we're late, we don't have to pay for parking.
An endless Northern Line later, complete with drunk people, and having to explain to my mother why changing at Kennington would be good, and we hit Leicester Square. Slight confusion as I try to remember which way is west (for our purposes, the wrong way). And once again my father lapses into his shepherd mode. He's not a particularly good shepherd, he just shouts, and treats people like an errant sheepdog. It has always annoyed me - usually because I know damn well where he and everyone else I need to know about is [and I suspect i have far more of an idea of what's going on than he does: which is probably why he insists on bellowing at me across a crowded hall, when I'm fairly tall, there aren't that many people, and I'm all of 6-feet away].
Following the signs for Covent Garden (where's that name from?), we surface, and being us, go into our streamlined walking-on-a-crowded-path-pavement [streamlined in that my brother, my mother or I lead, the others follow close behind, and my father ambles along in the turbulence]. The key is to give every sign of not having noticed the people ahead [staring over their shoulders at somewhere way off helps], and of having too much momentum to stop in time if they don't move out of the way. Only German tourists seem immune from reacting [until my mother guided one out of the way, using the elbow he stuck in her face. He didn't say anything]. You can see how pickpockets get away with it, as so many people look surprised and confused as everyone else seems to flit past.
So a series of Red Sea moments, and occasional kerb-balancing diversions between street furniture and parked taxis, and once again my father hits the panicked foghorn. Slamming to a halt, he insists we must cross the road. My mother goes over and complains there isn't a sign to Covent Garden on the sign post. My father insists it's this way - we're at a junction with about five or six exits. Continuing further on, he's maintaining it's right, my mother doesn't know, and I'm walking straight on. My father gives in, and comes to catch us up. Only once he's in the middle of the junction does he notice the cycle-lane sign that shows it as straight on. The sign that I'd seen before he started shouting.
We get there, coming out by the underground station. I start to seriously wish the performers would pick one side of the street for them all to perform on, so then the passing traffic doesn't have to go round their respective circles of crowds. My charge at the crowd, and it will part plan doesn't work where I can't go in a straight in, and can't build up sufficient headway.
And then it's play "hunt the brother". Which we start to do. I start to do it the old fashioned way, and my father rings my brother. As he does so he says "I'm at X". When X is a hundred metres back thataway, and he's still walking away. Once again I'm back to being the sheepdog [I hadn't lost them. I've had enough experience of them wandering off because they're talking to someone or seen something, in supermarkets, sailing clubs, fetes and boat shows to know how to keep track of them; or failing that, how to find them], and we go up to where my brother is waiting. Which is right outside the Royal Opera House, which is where we're going.
We go in to collect tickets, and then back out to eat our picnic. Our picnic not being much, but still being more than is ideal given the circumstances. My mother's plan of finding a lawn for a leisurely meal collapsed about the time we learnt about the A244 [and it was dubious before then, as timing has never been this family's strong point]. So after an attempt at perching on gate (with wheels on, hence just the attempt), we stand in a huddle, with my brother clutching things. And then of course, there's the lorry battling through the constantly tinging rickshaws, and stopping by the gate. Half-eaten sandwich in one hand, bags and clothing in the other, we shuffle out of the way.
The lorry driver unlocks the gate, and comes through. It must be a nightmare to deliver to places round here. The driver left the keys for the gate sitting there whilst he moves the lorry, and left the lorry with the engine running (and thus the keys in it) whilst he unlocked and locked the gate. How many times has someone tried to get away with one or the other? Ok, so stealing the lorry would be hard, as there's too many people who would go under the wheels (unless that's your intent), and for sheer nuisance factor, some drunken person would find nicking the lorry's keys funny. And having keys to the gate could come in handy.
Finishing our food, we go in. First through the checking tickets and bags section (they don't really seem to care I have two illicit bottles of water, and pair of binoculars packed with explosives. Maybe it's the M&S Food bag that did it). Either that or they know our seats are so far out that any explosion would only just be heard on stage.
Searching out where we need to go is slightly confusing - there's a myriad of steps, lifts, and kinks in the corridor. This isn't helped by my mother saying it's Auditorium Right we want, when in fact it's Amphitheatre Right. Despite this she still gets a lift that doesn't go to the auditorium, and only when she doesn't see the right button does she check the tickets. To be helpful, the floors in the ROH aren't labelled in any normal way, for example the B is for Bar, or possibly Balcony, neither of which are in the basement. I can't remember what G was, but it wasn't on the level of the ground floor. And I have absolutely no idea what the "Crush Room" is.
We go up, and find our seats, my brother and I deciding that stepping between rows is easier that forcing your way past old women who can't get up. We're right at the back of the amplitheatre, in what one thinks of as the Gods. Because we're so far back, the row behind us finishes midway along, and so there's a handy shelf to dump stuff behind our heads.
And then we realise we didn't get a programme. My brother is duly dispatched to get some (or just the one depending on the price). He reappears with two, there's much clucking about them being £7 each, but for that you do get the first ad being for Rolls-Royce.
Scanning through it, we hit the synopsis bit. Oh, we must in a theatre, there's revision involved. So those who don't know the plot, watch the film. Failing that: Thrace[1] invaded. Spartacus and Phrygia captured. But Spartacus won't go easily into slavery [what a surprise]. The slaves are seperated in the market place into male and female. S and P aren't too keen on this. P mopes. The Orgy - Crassus, leader of the Roman Army, is making merry with Aegina, his mistress. One of the slave performers catches his eye - guess what, it's Phrygia. Mid-orgy, two gladiators are sent for to fight blindfolded [death is such a turn-on]. The victor is revealed to be Spartacus. Spartacus doesn't like having killed someone. He persuades the other gladiators to revolt. Breaking off their chains, they flee.
[1] No, I don't know where. And no jokes based on thrice, splice, mace, thrash, etc.
The band of revolters grows. Spartacus wants freedom and Phrygia. S fins P, never to be separated. They hide from a procession on its way to Crassus's feast. Aegina wants power over Crassus, so she can be a successful social climber. Crassus's feast celebrates him. Spartacus surrounds the palace, Crassus flees. Spartacus happy, victory will soon be his. Crassus taken prisoner, Spartacus duels with him, and wins, but shows mercy and lets him flee.
Aegina needs Crassus to win, so stokes him up. Aegina has a cunning plan. S and P's happiness crumbles when they learn of Crassus's army approaching - much of gladiator army flees. Spartacus foresees his own death, but chooses death in battle over captivity. Aegina brings Spartacus's army "wine and whores". They succumb, and are captured. Crassus needs revenge. Spartacus's army are surrounded and killed, Spartacus dies beleiving in the cause [because it matters once you're dead]. Phrygia finds his body, but knows his bravery has given him immortality.
Yes, that was cribbed out of the programme, and yes, the plot's a bit dodgy, and a bit dappy in places.
Damn, I'm running out of time. Basically it was pretty good. Some of the corps de ballet [bit part-ers], were less good, and couldn't move as well, but that's why they're not the leads. I wondered if they practised it on a bigger stage, as there were several near misses, and occasional actual contact between dancers and set, and sometimes each other. There was also a net used as a curtain, before the black backdrop fell, which may or may not have been going wrong - it was a loop supported at both ends, but it crumpled on the ground, and the hoops holding it onto the ropes were showing, in staggered line across the back.
Comical bits: the goosestepping Romans, who obviously are unaware of the work of John Cleese; The Orgy - the women get lain on the ground, and recline gracefully, whilst the men go into a frenzy of thudding around palm-punching the air and generally looking like they're about to play for the All Blacks, in a Cossacky way - very "you just lie there, and I'll bounce up and down a bit" (of course this was intercourse from a distance of 6 feet); Some of the slave traders had a little problem with their wips (and some were never in time. Once again the Bollywood effect: all action must be from the other side of the stage); the slaves could move awfully well considering they were shackled; one of the Roman standards kept getting tangled as it was twirled; people come on in red sashes - ah 'tis the international symbol for wine and whores; Aegina going literally weak at the knees whilst playing with a man's big pole between her legs during the W&W scene (she also kept raising her leg up to about 45o, and then bending it at the knee slightly, and then straightening it back out. Symbolism anyone?); The bows at the end, and one of the ballerinas dumping her bouquet on the floor, which then caused problems for the tides of people coming back and forth to bow (she still hadn't picked it up by the end); the Irish woman next to me who shook her head every so often (either she saw lots of mistakes, or she was just overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. I don't know which); Me jumping between seating levels, to avoid clambering past immobile old women. I didn't realise it the floor was quite there; the attendant leaving a bit of paper on our stuff, which was behind us, saying "Please do not cause alarm by leaving bags unattended at any time. A free cloakroom is provided". Result: We now know the cloakroom is free, that the woman behind us is going to be confused when the attendants accosted her, and the Royal Opera House very kindly put little paper messages on top of one's bomb thus ensuring no-one moves it.
I generally didn't get the meaning of the monologues (other than mournful), but that's because I haven't studied ballet, and so don't know the language of movement, and pick up the clues [hence when it was one of the girls just milling, I started watching the flautists chatting in the orchestra). I also have an amazing ability to be looking at the wrong person as something special happens.
Wow moments: Spartacus doing huge spinning jumps, which given how far away we were, and how high up we were, must have been pretty impressive [reactions - someone Bravo'd, my mother says she ought to have said that instead of muttering "Blimey", and I think I Woah'd]; A sword being used in a fight is let fall from Crassus's hand - it jams upright in the stage with a wobble, and the man who has to to remove it has difficulty. That's one heavy and sharp sword, to be dancing round with; Spartacus' death, when he is flung up upon a raft of spears (yes we know two of them were carefully crossed, and that at the back there were a couple of guys holding his feet)
Clapping frenzy: increased after the first interval (presumably the effects of the drinks). I tend to be of the opinion there'll be clapping at the end, so can't we just wait? No, is the answer, though I don't think I was the only person who was annoyed by the guy who started clapping mid-difficult bit, and then people carried on for ages whilst the sequence finished. You wait till the break, and the conductor knows how the crowd is reacting and whether a slight pause is needed. One heck of a lot of clapping - during the performance, at every interval (repeatedly), and then at the end (endlessly). Numb digits.
The end result being that I now know ballet isn't as bad as I thought it was (though little girls swanning round in Swan Lake might still be going too far), and is quite fun in a slightly awe-struck, slightly jealous, and slightly pantomimey way. I also know that feet can make a lot of different noises. And that people en point still looks painful.
The way back, via a very hot Charing Cross, was pretty uneventful.
And I suppose if one must go and see the ballet, it may as well be the Bolshoi.
Links: ROH, Bolshoi. And just because: the film (apparently the ballet's from a book).
Sorry, if the part of this that should have been the detailed part is too brief, but I've run out of time, and need to be doing other stuff. I'm also about to disappear for a while, so anything new on here is unlikely till about the 16th (and possibly not then, depending how stuff works out).
Anyhoo,
Er, actually, I think you'll find he's the guy over there, in the tights.
Yesterday evening was definitely a break from the norm. As a birthday treat for my brother and I, our parents took us to see the ballet. Yes, that sentence does say what you think it says.
I think it started as a whim of my mother's and having two recent birthdays was just a convenient justification.
Once I got past the joy of being in the back of my parents' car, whilst they discover the A3 is closed at the A244 [cue: Where is the 244? Much shouting over maps, and out of date street atlases, we find it's just before Esher. Which means finding an alternative route. My parents turn off, and seek out the old A3. And then argue about whether they're going the right way.
Ok, so they think they've found the right road [Me: but the A3's the A3, so I'm lost without the endless bypasses], now all they need to figure out is where to go on it. How far is the A3 closed beyond Esher? I suggest finding local radio, and get duly ignored. More shouting. My parents are expert at having pointless rows. Knowing my mother spoke to him earlier, I ask what my brother's doing. He's at home. Right, so couldn't you ring him and get him to look up on the AA website to see what's going on? Oh. Cue mobile action.
For some reason I get handed to phone to speak to him [after my mother's squawked about not being able to hear him. Try not pressing the Volume Down button], and have to navigate him through the website [worryingly, I can picture it]. It's closed from the A244 turning. Yes, we know that. Something about Hinchley slip road. I don't know where that is, but it's a slip road, it's not important. And it's closed till the Tolworth Junction? Is that including it or not? Until? Ok.
More shouting. Apparently we're going to the Hinchley place. My father, in an effort to prove he knows where's he's going, picks the name of a road we pass, and says, "we're going to Claygate". Mother claims it's in the wrong direction. My father carries on this bluster, rather than admit he made it up [Hint for next time: pick the name of the road you're on, as you leave a town. Not the name of a side road that leads behind you, as you enter the town]. I suggest turning round back to the main road we were on, so my parents drive on, arguing.
We pass Sandown race course, with my mother and I discussing if it's the one you can see form the train. Cue long thing in Stagecoach livery slipping between the far trees. That'll be a yes then. A couple of miles on, my father sees a viaduct, and seems surprised to know the railway's there. Er, it has been since...oh never mind.
My father predicts we need to turn left up ahead, where that Volvo just came out. We get to it. Oh, not this left. Nor the next one, nor the one after that. And so on until we get into the town centre. We go right.
I'm hopelessly lost in a sprawl of endless towns (there could at least be one token feild to let you know that one has finished, and now it's onto the next one). My parents are in full "Oh it's here. So-and-so used to live....there" mode.
And then suddenly it's out past the incongruous 60s lump (good cracking), and out onto an empty A3. Accelerate. Remember the speed limit and the fact they bother having cameras on this bit. Drive on for a while, and turn off at Morden. And then onto the Park and Ride for London. And because we're late, we don't have to pay for parking.
An endless Northern Line later, complete with drunk people, and having to explain to my mother why changing at Kennington would be good, and we hit Leicester Square. Slight confusion as I try to remember which way is west (for our purposes, the wrong way). And once again my father lapses into his shepherd mode. He's not a particularly good shepherd, he just shouts, and treats people like an errant sheepdog. It has always annoyed me - usually because I know damn well where he and everyone else I need to know about is [and I suspect i have far more of an idea of what's going on than he does: which is probably why he insists on bellowing at me across a crowded hall, when I'm fairly tall, there aren't that many people, and I'm all of 6-feet away].
Following the signs for Covent Garden (where's that name from?), we surface, and being us, go into our streamlined walking-on-a-crowded-path-pavement [streamlined in that my brother, my mother or I lead, the others follow close behind, and my father ambles along in the turbulence]. The key is to give every sign of not having noticed the people ahead [staring over their shoulders at somewhere way off helps], and of having too much momentum to stop in time if they don't move out of the way. Only German tourists seem immune from reacting [until my mother guided one out of the way, using the elbow he stuck in her face. He didn't say anything]. You can see how pickpockets get away with it, as so many people look surprised and confused as everyone else seems to flit past.
So a series of Red Sea moments, and occasional kerb-balancing diversions between street furniture and parked taxis, and once again my father hits the panicked foghorn. Slamming to a halt, he insists we must cross the road. My mother goes over and complains there isn't a sign to Covent Garden on the sign post. My father insists it's this way - we're at a junction with about five or six exits. Continuing further on, he's maintaining it's right, my mother doesn't know, and I'm walking straight on. My father gives in, and comes to catch us up. Only once he's in the middle of the junction does he notice the cycle-lane sign that shows it as straight on. The sign that I'd seen before he started shouting.
We get there, coming out by the underground station. I start to seriously wish the performers would pick one side of the street for them all to perform on, so then the passing traffic doesn't have to go round their respective circles of crowds. My charge at the crowd, and it will part plan doesn't work where I can't go in a straight in, and can't build up sufficient headway.
And then it's play "hunt the brother". Which we start to do. I start to do it the old fashioned way, and my father rings my brother. As he does so he says "I'm at X". When X is a hundred metres back thataway, and he's still walking away. Once again I'm back to being the sheepdog [I hadn't lost them. I've had enough experience of them wandering off because they're talking to someone or seen something, in supermarkets, sailing clubs, fetes and boat shows to know how to keep track of them; or failing that, how to find them], and we go up to where my brother is waiting. Which is right outside the Royal Opera House, which is where we're going.
We go in to collect tickets, and then back out to eat our picnic. Our picnic not being much, but still being more than is ideal given the circumstances. My mother's plan of finding a lawn for a leisurely meal collapsed about the time we learnt about the A244 [and it was dubious before then, as timing has never been this family's strong point]. So after an attempt at perching on gate (with wheels on, hence just the attempt), we stand in a huddle, with my brother clutching things. And then of course, there's the lorry battling through the constantly tinging rickshaws, and stopping by the gate. Half-eaten sandwich in one hand, bags and clothing in the other, we shuffle out of the way.
The lorry driver unlocks the gate, and comes through. It must be a nightmare to deliver to places round here. The driver left the keys for the gate sitting there whilst he moves the lorry, and left the lorry with the engine running (and thus the keys in it) whilst he unlocked and locked the gate. How many times has someone tried to get away with one or the other? Ok, so stealing the lorry would be hard, as there's too many people who would go under the wheels (unless that's your intent), and for sheer nuisance factor, some drunken person would find nicking the lorry's keys funny. And having keys to the gate could come in handy.
Finishing our food, we go in. First through the checking tickets and bags section (they don't really seem to care I have two illicit bottles of water, and pair of binoculars packed with explosives. Maybe it's the M&S Food bag that did it). Either that or they know our seats are so far out that any explosion would only just be heard on stage.
Searching out where we need to go is slightly confusing - there's a myriad of steps, lifts, and kinks in the corridor. This isn't helped by my mother saying it's Auditorium Right we want, when in fact it's Amphitheatre Right. Despite this she still gets a lift that doesn't go to the auditorium, and only when she doesn't see the right button does she check the tickets. To be helpful, the floors in the ROH aren't labelled in any normal way, for example the B is for Bar, or possibly Balcony, neither of which are in the basement. I can't remember what G was, but it wasn't on the level of the ground floor. And I have absolutely no idea what the "Crush Room" is.
We go up, and find our seats, my brother and I deciding that stepping between rows is easier that forcing your way past old women who can't get up. We're right at the back of the amplitheatre, in what one thinks of as the Gods. Because we're so far back, the row behind us finishes midway along, and so there's a handy shelf to dump stuff behind our heads.
And then we realise we didn't get a programme. My brother is duly dispatched to get some (or just the one depending on the price). He reappears with two, there's much clucking about them being £7 each, but for that you do get the first ad being for Rolls-Royce.
Scanning through it, we hit the synopsis bit. Oh, we must in a theatre, there's revision involved. So those who don't know the plot, watch the film. Failing that: Thrace[1] invaded. Spartacus and Phrygia captured. But Spartacus won't go easily into slavery [what a surprise]. The slaves are seperated in the market place into male and female. S and P aren't too keen on this. P mopes. The Orgy - Crassus, leader of the Roman Army, is making merry with Aegina, his mistress. One of the slave performers catches his eye - guess what, it's Phrygia. Mid-orgy, two gladiators are sent for to fight blindfolded [death is such a turn-on]. The victor is revealed to be Spartacus. Spartacus doesn't like having killed someone. He persuades the other gladiators to revolt. Breaking off their chains, they flee.
[1] No, I don't know where. And no jokes based on thrice, splice, mace, thrash, etc.
The band of revolters grows. Spartacus wants freedom and Phrygia. S fins P, never to be separated. They hide from a procession on its way to Crassus's feast. Aegina wants power over Crassus, so she can be a successful social climber. Crassus's feast celebrates him. Spartacus surrounds the palace, Crassus flees. Spartacus happy, victory will soon be his. Crassus taken prisoner, Spartacus duels with him, and wins, but shows mercy and lets him flee.
Aegina needs Crassus to win, so stokes him up. Aegina has a cunning plan. S and P's happiness crumbles when they learn of Crassus's army approaching - much of gladiator army flees. Spartacus foresees his own death, but chooses death in battle over captivity. Aegina brings Spartacus's army "wine and whores". They succumb, and are captured. Crassus needs revenge. Spartacus's army are surrounded and killed, Spartacus dies beleiving in the cause [because it matters once you're dead]. Phrygia finds his body, but knows his bravery has given him immortality.
Yes, that was cribbed out of the programme, and yes, the plot's a bit dodgy, and a bit dappy in places.
Damn, I'm running out of time. Basically it was pretty good. Some of the corps de ballet [bit part-ers], were less good, and couldn't move as well, but that's why they're not the leads. I wondered if they practised it on a bigger stage, as there were several near misses, and occasional actual contact between dancers and set, and sometimes each other. There was also a net used as a curtain, before the black backdrop fell, which may or may not have been going wrong - it was a loop supported at both ends, but it crumpled on the ground, and the hoops holding it onto the ropes were showing, in staggered line across the back.
Comical bits: the goosestepping Romans, who obviously are unaware of the work of John Cleese; The Orgy - the women get lain on the ground, and recline gracefully, whilst the men go into a frenzy of thudding around palm-punching the air and generally looking like they're about to play for the All Blacks, in a Cossacky way - very "you just lie there, and I'll bounce up and down a bit" (of course this was intercourse from a distance of 6 feet); Some of the slave traders had a little problem with their wips (and some were never in time. Once again the Bollywood effect: all action must be from the other side of the stage); the slaves could move awfully well considering they were shackled; one of the Roman standards kept getting tangled as it was twirled; people come on in red sashes - ah 'tis the international symbol for wine and whores; Aegina going literally weak at the knees whilst playing with a man's big pole between her legs during the W&W scene (she also kept raising her leg up to about 45o, and then bending it at the knee slightly, and then straightening it back out. Symbolism anyone?); The bows at the end, and one of the ballerinas dumping her bouquet on the floor, which then caused problems for the tides of people coming back and forth to bow (she still hadn't picked it up by the end); the Irish woman next to me who shook her head every so often (either she saw lots of mistakes, or she was just overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. I don't know which); Me jumping between seating levels, to avoid clambering past immobile old women. I didn't realise it the floor was quite there; the attendant leaving a bit of paper on our stuff, which was behind us, saying "Please do not cause alarm by leaving bags unattended at any time. A free cloakroom is provided". Result: We now know the cloakroom is free, that the woman behind us is going to be confused when the attendants accosted her, and the Royal Opera House very kindly put little paper messages on top of one's bomb thus ensuring no-one moves it.
I generally didn't get the meaning of the monologues (other than mournful), but that's because I haven't studied ballet, and so don't know the language of movement, and pick up the clues [hence when it was one of the girls just milling, I started watching the flautists chatting in the orchestra). I also have an amazing ability to be looking at the wrong person as something special happens.
Wow moments: Spartacus doing huge spinning jumps, which given how far away we were, and how high up we were, must have been pretty impressive [reactions - someone Bravo'd, my mother says she ought to have said that instead of muttering "Blimey", and I think I Woah'd]; A sword being used in a fight is let fall from Crassus's hand - it jams upright in the stage with a wobble, and the man who has to to remove it has difficulty. That's one heavy and sharp sword, to be dancing round with; Spartacus' death, when he is flung up upon a raft of spears (yes we know two of them were carefully crossed, and that at the back there were a couple of guys holding his feet)
Clapping frenzy: increased after the first interval (presumably the effects of the drinks). I tend to be of the opinion there'll be clapping at the end, so can't we just wait? No, is the answer, though I don't think I was the only person who was annoyed by the guy who started clapping mid-difficult bit, and then people carried on for ages whilst the sequence finished. You wait till the break, and the conductor knows how the crowd is reacting and whether a slight pause is needed. One heck of a lot of clapping - during the performance, at every interval (repeatedly), and then at the end (endlessly). Numb digits.
The end result being that I now know ballet isn't as bad as I thought it was (though little girls swanning round in Swan Lake might still be going too far), and is quite fun in a slightly awe-struck, slightly jealous, and slightly pantomimey way. I also know that feet can make a lot of different noises. And that people en point still looks painful.
The way back, via a very hot Charing Cross, was pretty uneventful.
And I suppose if one must go and see the ballet, it may as well be the Bolshoi.
Links: ROH, Bolshoi. And just because: the film (apparently the ballet's from a book).
Sorry, if the part of this that should have been the detailed part is too brief, but I've run out of time, and need to be doing other stuff. I'm also about to disappear for a while, so anything new on here is unlikely till about the 16th (and possibly not then, depending how stuff works out).
Anyhoo,
