on tuesday i saw krapps last tape at york theatre royal.
kenneth alan taylor is wonderfully fragile in the role.
on wednesday we were at the lowry to see slung low's betond the front line.
some nice and, relatively, exciting stuff here.
friday we popped to the west yorkshire playhouse for caucasian chalk circle.
pleased to see some accessible and enjoybale, non-preachy, brecht.
saturday, however, probably changed the world.
went down to royal court to see time crouch's the author. now i am already a massive fan of tim crouch's work, so was in eager anticipation. but, of all the things i have thoughts, written and learnt about his previous work, these have been subsume, consumed, flipped on their and our heads.
there is, over a long period of time, a contract drawn between the audience and the actor, each mixed within one another in their banks of seating; a contract of trust, interest and safety. there are, during these times, moments of joy, of sorrow, of lust, awkwardness and of genuine friendliness. this all ends with crouch, the man with his name on and in the text; the real and the fictional. this is, i think, one of the greatest acts of betrayel i have felt in the theatre. so simply, so perfectly crafted and utterly destroying.
there are ways and rules between the actor, the performer and the audience. these are, by and large, adhered to: not one if us is hurt, physically touched, personally abused. but i think probably all leave winded. get out clauses are set up, but few use them. we all sit, and listen and hate every word of the text, spoken from the authors mouth.
i think crouch is right. i don't doubt that some people may not forgive him.
a genuinley brutal and, theatrically, beautiful betrayal.