March 14th, 2011

[theatre] bright young things

don't make demands; i don't take none

Oh sweet Jesus I just saw the worst production of Streetcar Named Desire: deconstructed and experimental and set in Blanche's psyche and EXTRAORDINARILY OBVIOUS IN ALL POSSIBLE WAYS. Awkward nontouching giggly pseudosaucy tango between Blanche and Mitch with Blanche purring "Whitmannnnn...Poe" into his face and flicking him with a red carnation? THAT IS A THING THAT HAPPENED.

I caaaan't. College theater, why on earth do you do what you do.

So I came home and listened to audio of Coast of Utopia in performance to wash away the flavor of that nonsense. And—even at the real production, no one laughs at "transcendental idealism over oysters!" COME ON, WORLD. For my part, I was lying on my couch, smothering my incoherent flaily giggles into a pillow, but in the background of the scene proper: radio silence. Whyyyyyy, I am so giggly, I am so emotionally attached, it is my favorite, I mean, I just:

MICHAEL: I do think you're pretty, Natalie. Something must be holding me back.
NATALIE: How many girls have you kissed?
MICHAEL: Four. Oh, you mean not counting my sisters?
Natalie impulsively kisses him passionately on the mouth.
NATALIE: There!
MICHAEL: Different.
NATALIE: Your sisters are frustrating your natural, vigorous...you know.
MICHAEL: How?
NATALIE: They've made you see yourself as they see you—only as a girl's brother.
MICHAEL: Really?
NATALIE: It's because of their limited progress in transcending their objective reality.
MICHAEL: (enlightened) Well, no wonder!
NATALIE BEYER, YOU ARE MY FAVORITE.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SCENE IS HILARIOUS TO ME FOREVER AND ALWAYS.

(COAST OF UTOPIA AUDIENCE, SHAPE UP.)

So—I am home. I have a headache and spent the better part of my evening glaring at tiny children + drinking sherry because this family will make me into Lucille Bluth before my time, and I can already tell this week is going to go by more quickly than I'll know what to do with. I should be asleep. So, in lieu of wording more—well, wording autonomously is Not Going Well anyway right now (though here's hoping my tear through Stacy Schiff's Cleopatra bio will make me less inclined to sob and tear out my hair every time I try to deal with a Classical setting; THERE IS NO REASON I SHOULD BE THIS ANXIOUS, I HAVE BEEN STANNING GRECO-ROMAN LIFE FROM A V.V. YOUNG AGE, WHAT IS MY DAMAGE), so: time to rectify. Shallowly. Distractedly. By which I mean, memetime!

Ask me about a pairing (or character) I have written (or haven't and you think I should write) and I will give you five facts about them or a ficlet or a song that is CLEARLY THEIR SONG or what they order from the Chinese place down the street, etc, etc.

Any and all things welcome. Have at me.