Still wrecked from seeing Helen McCrory in the screening of NT Live’s Deep Blue Sea yesterday. I love Helen McCrory, she always rips me apart, even playing Aunt Polly on Peaky Blinders.
There’s no way I should have been seeing a play about a suicidal woman, but I did, and I’m glad I did. It was the most, raw, real, honest and truthful play I’ve ever seen. Most plays are by the privileged classes whose idea of a disaster is an imperfect macchiato, but this was real. I recognised the truth in this, apparently written by a playwright who knew what he was writing about. And he did. The egg sandwich was mocked by middle-class monsters leaving the theatre. They didn’t get it. They’ve never been there. I was screaming at Hester to eat the damn sandwich, knowing if she could make it through the sandwich, she’d make it through the night. Because it’s like that.
That was the most real moment I have ever seen on stage or screen. I’m still a wreck. What can I say, I’ve had a few darkest night toast slices myself. My life has not been kind (doesn’t matter whose fault it was, you feel, it’s real).
So there was that. Otherwise I spent all weekend trying to kill someone. To borrow from that ancient Jimmy and the Boys song, ‘I’m not like everybody else’. Heh, not by a long shot. Agatha Christie makes it look so easy – and no-one ever comments on the plain fact that this woman seems to have spent most of her time on dig sites and the like thinking of ways to kill people, as in, oh, look at that plinth, pushy, pushy, or that ornamental hairpin, stabby, stabby.
So, yeah, I was thinking of playing with Holmes/Watson tropes, and what do I get? Poirot and Hastings and the Orient Express, in space. That last bit should be said ala Matt Smith. I just love his delivery on ‘…in space’, every time. It’s all gee whizz plastic spacemen in a cornflakes box, put in by writers my age, but young Matt manages to nail the delivery every time despite being born long, long after plastic spacemen ceased to be cool. He makes them cool again, or tries to (never brought back bowties, either, but it was a damn fine try).
So, yeah, wallowing in the McKirk, big time. This is a big thing, jumping ship after a lifetime’s OTP, worse, re-watching TOS with McKirk coloured glasses (start with ‘plum’ and continue on). It was the problem with the Kelvin-verse, they keep trying to push the tradition, but it just wasn’t there, barely a civil word, an extraordinarily unearned Khan set piece. Nope. They made it an AU, they should embrace it, and the McKirk just pops on-screen. If all the bitching and grabby hands doesn’t convince you, or the old married couple matching outfits, how about the wait-until-he-smiles moment at the birthday party. Aw. Totally.
Well, like I said, I wasn’t well, upset and drugged when I was watching it and it hit me, in a dazzling aura (that’d be the hospital drugs). I’m just stuck on it, but I’m having fun and unreality is at least getting me away from frightful reality (housework never done, too long hours at work on projects that go nowhere, dreadful neighbours, everything in the area being knocked down and concreted over). Trying times.
So sorry (not sorry). Have a new fandom, but not. It’s all very something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. I’ve got something to preoccupy me, which is the main thing, because, as I think we’re all agreed, this is proving a particularly difficult year.