"Though Patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod"

Good old Bill. He knew what he was talking about.

My mare is seriously being put to the test at the moment. Life is a very hectic business, and I sometimes wonder if birth should have a disclaimer attached. "WARNING: Life may become seriously complicated, and could prove harmful to your wellbeing!"

At some point during September 2009, I told myself I would have an easy, no-nonsense, focussed year, and finish university in perfect balance. What folly! I've ended my time an unstable, overworked, under-nourished, nervous wreck. And there's still one month to go!

On the 28th of May 2010, I will take my last ever writen exam. On the 25th of June, I will receive the results of all of the year's assessments, and discover which class of degree I have worked for. Finally, on the 23rd of July, I will (hopefully) graduate from the University of Sussex with a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and Spanish. It will be all over.

The plan was simple. Do no plays. Get a job, work minimum shifts in order to prop up my shakey finances, and study bloody hard. The plan was simple. Life, on the other hand, is not. I did plays and even applied for drama school, with all its associated stress. I found one (dreadful) job, which paid peanuts, and lasted a week. I've studied, but not "bloody hard". How could I have done so?

I think I have an obssessive compulsion for making my life more complicated, and taking more on than I can handle. I haven't learnt my lesson from the last eight months; oh no. I've gone and done it again. Even now, with two-and-a-half weeks to hand in 10,000 words on English Renaissance theatre, and a month to revise about as much on 20th Century Spanish Culture and History as is possible, I have decided to do yet another play; and I am still in the thick of the audition process with quite a few drama schools (discretion - and a cheeky penchant for suspense - forbids me to disclose which). What the hell is wrong with me! As my actress friend said to me on the phone, the other month, it's all a bit "f@*king insane!"

But I love it. I'm a masochist, you see. Not in the sexual sense (although never say never), but in the original sense. I take pleasure in having so much to do merely because it enables me to engage in a sport for which the British would surely win Olympic Gold if it existed: moaning. Although, in my case, I genuinely love doing everything that I'm doing. The intensity of it all is keeping me going. Added to that is the perverse pleasure of arriving home at 11pm (which frequently happens) and whingeing about how long my day has been, how tired I am, and how I wish I had fewer responsibilities and more free time on my hands. Except I don't. I love to say these things. It makes me feel like there is actually a life to complain about. I am, after all, hoping to become an actor, and actors usually spend long periods of time unemployed. I should be pleased I'm this busy at all. I'm just going to keep on at it. It's only another couple of months.

Come on Patience, get plodding...

In Their Own Words

I have to wait to be asked to do something; think if it's a good idea; and then I have to wait to be asked to be told how to do it; and then I don't know if it's any good afterwards. And then I'm sad when it's over.

 Dame Judi Dench, British Actress, born 1934

Reseña - El asombroso viaje de Pomponio Flato

El misterio histórico no es mi género preferido. Me parece extremadamente aburrido, tópico y egocéntrico. Elogia a sí mismo por haber logrado la meta de mezclar un relato y personajes ficticios con la historia verdadera como si a nadie más se le ocurriera esta idea. Normalmente, paso de ese tipo de novela por ser una mala parodia tanto de la literatura como de los sucesos históricos.

Hace unos meses, sin embargo, un amigo - que por supuesto no estudia filología sino publicidad y no sabe mis gustos literarios - me prestó El asombroso viaje de Pomponio Flato. Gracias a la ingenuidad del amigo, me quedé con el gracioso cuento de un filósofo y sabio viajante y comentador del Imperio Romano que pasa por las tierras de Israel y conoce al infante Jesús y a su familia. La ironía de la situación prometía una atenuante diferencia de las otras novelas que la Facultad me obligaba a leer, y resultaba ser una novela verdaderamente graciosa.

La representación de los personajes principales es el mejor toque distintivo del autor, Eduardo Mendoza, que ha escrito la obra a través de los ojos del viajante titular. El mismo Pomponio encarna la referencia latina de su nombre por su estilo de relatar sus experiencias; mientras que las circunstancias en las que se encuentra varias veces son ignominiosas y afrontan a su dignidad. Dicho esto, es imposible que no caiga bien el pomposo, quizás porque esté escrito en primera persona. A pesar del uso de largas palabras y la lógica fría no puede con las maravillas que el pueblo judío está tan dispuesto a temer. Para Pomponio, el misterio tiene una raíz, y se siente obligado a ayudar al niño raro que se lo pide. Como un comentario sobre el percibido choque entre la fé monoteísta y el proto-ateísmo del culto romano, Mendoza señala la hipocresía de un poder colonial sin comentar de la naturaleza de la fé individual. Aunque al principio Pomponio considera el mito romano como una metáfora de la existencia humana y rechaza la idea de un Mesías como una ridiculez, al final recibe una visitación del dios greco-romano Apolo, y el racionalista es incapaz de decidir si era una visión verdadera o el fruto de la imaginación sobreproductiva.

Igualmente, las presentaciones favorables tanto de romanos como de judíos bíblicos es un éxito. Desde el gobernador romano local, Apio Pulcro, hasta Lázaro el mendigo leproso, cualquier lector con un conocimiento general del evangelio reconocerá los personajes que rodean al joven Cristo. Lo más divertido es que mientras sigue fiel al testimonio de los apóstoles, las creaciones de Mendoza son definitivamente humanas - personajes caprichosos, distintos y muchas veces equivocados. Reverencia a lo divino es un obstáculo y la novela decide a concentrarse más en cuestiones de la fé en vez de la veracidad del Nuevo Testamento. Una elección justa y probablemente muy sabia por parte de Mendoza.

No me dispondré a arruinar la trama aquí, porque tal acción no tiene sentido. Una lectura divertida e inteligente, le recomiendo la novela a cualquier persona que está buscando algo distinto pero cómodamente parecida a la visión moderna del pasado y de temas metafísicas.

In Their Own Words

You have to be alive to the changes, and prepared to compromise in some way, I think. And I always have thought the theatre is really a great compromise. I mean, in every production, you have to compromise in some way: you never get the absolutely perfect cast. You've got to compromise with the author, with the director, with the lighting man; the whole thing is a compromise, and it's a kind of miracle when it comes together, like good cooking. And if it happens to be that you have the right ingredients, and they all come to the boil at the right moment, you have a success. But it is an extraordinary profession, in that way. I think there's more luck in it, more hazard, perhaps, than any of the other artistic professions.

Sir John Gielgud, British Actor, 1904-2000

Why I Love Doctor Who

Deep, deep down, I knew I would have to write this post. I say that as if I were dreading it, and in a way, I am. How does one express their sheer unadulterated love for a television programme? It's pathetic. Or is it?

I remember it being late at night (so, around 6pm for the child me), and there was something on the television. My dad said I should sit and watch it with him. Something very strange indeed was happening. A creature was walking slowly towards the screen. It was made of plastic, tall, and looked like a man. But I knew it wasn't a man. It moved towards the screen, looming menacingly, before the camera cut to another face. A man who seemed to have all the authority of the universe was shocked. Terrified. As the camera zoomed in on him, a loud, screamlike music interrupted, and that was it. I had seen my first Doctor Who cliffhanger.

Everything about it had captivated me. The theme music, the psychedelic visuals, the creature - I later discovered was called an Auton - and the man of authority who displayed both courage and fear all in one: The Doctor.

Of course, as I grew older, I learnt more facts about the programme. It was about a man who lived and explored in a telephone box. Except that it wasn't a telephone box, but a spaceship - the TARDIS - and in that ship the man travelled through space and time. I also learnt that this man could change his appearance. He wouldn't always be exactly the same Doctor, but one thing was certain: wherever there was danger, wherever life was threatened, and wherever anything seemed a little out of the ordinary, he would be there, putting things right. Fighting our corner against the big bad monsters, and sometimes against ourselves. He would save the world and us humans over and over again, and when he was done, he would pop into his TARDIS for yet more adventures in time and space. How could that not captivate a ten-year-old boy?

I could litter this post with a myraid facts about the series and its mythology; I could launch into a critical treatise into the effects of the programme as integral to British culture; I could even list the big names which have been associated with the show since the very beginning, and its influences on so many people's lives and careers. I could do all that, but I won't. Over the course of forty seven years, Doctor Who has created an entire universe of its own, and none of that really matters. What really matters is that in 1963, the BBC took a chance on the premise that "a thing that looks like a police box, standing in a junkyard: it can go anywhere in time and space". With the endless possibilities for storytelling which that statement from the very first episode of the programme held, the concept of Doctor Who is indelible, delightful, and so wonderfully life-affirming. After all this time, the Doctor has survived, and even after 16 years off the air the programme has proven its capacity to regenerate. Doctor Who will last forever, and will forever bring joy to me and countless other ten-year-olds-at-heart.

That's why I Love Doctor Who.

A Most Disturbing Realisation

I haven't been to the theatre or the cinema for a ridiculously long time!

I've just sifted through my usual London theatre haunts, and highlights include: -

Women Beware Women, by Thomas Middleton
The National Theatre, 20th April - 8th June

In the Italian court, where wealth secures power and power serves lust, the lascivious Duke can play wherever he chooses. He catches the eye of another’s exquisite bride, Bianca. Can a glance secure her fate, a bribe appease her husband?

It’s a witty age,
Never were finer snares for women’s honesties
Than are devis’d in these days; no spider’s web
Made of a daintier thread than are now practis’d.

Isabella’s father would marry her off to a rich young idiot, while Hippolito has won her trust and desires her truly. But he’s her uncle. These are her choices. If twice-widowed Livia conspires against her sex to gain a little clout, she’s only fighting to survive.

O the deadly snares
That women set for women, without pity
Either to soul or honour!

Corruption will not go unpunished in Thomas Middleton’s blackly funny, fast and ferocious tragedy.

Sin tastes, at the first draught,
like wormwood water
But, drunk again, ’tis nectar ever after.

Jerusalem, by Jez Butterworth
The Apollo Shaftesbury Avenue, until 24th April

A comic, contemporary vision of rural life in our green and pleasant land, Jez Butterworth’s epic new play is wildly original. In part a lament about the erosion of country life, and in part a rebuff to the antiseptic modern world, it features a landmark central performance from Mark Rylance as hellraiser Johnny Byron, ‘a performance so charismatic, so mercurial, so complete and compelling that it doesn’t look like acting’ (ES), and a superb ensemble cast including Mackenzie Crook who 'excels' as Johnny’s sidekick Ginger.

On St George’s Day, the morning of the local county fair, Johnny Byron is a wanted man. The council officials want to serve him an eviction notice, his son wants his dad to take him to the fair, and a motley crew of mates want his ample supply of drugs and alcohol.

King Lear, by William Shakespeare
The Donmar Warehouse, from 3rd December

An ageing monarch. A kingdom divided. A child’s love rejected. As Lear’s world descends into chaos, all that he once believed is brought into question. One of the greatest works in western literature, King Lear explores the very nature of human existence: love and duty, power and loss, good and evil.

With DEREK JACOBI!!!

Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, by William Shakespeare
The Globe, 6th June - 3rd October

Part 1
Prince Hal, son of Henry IV, seems to be squandering his life among the whores, boozers and petty rogues of Eastcheap. And the greatest of these rogues is the fat knight, Sir John Falstaff, a liar, glutton, lecher, cheat, braggart, fool and sponger who also possesses wit, warmth, intelligence and a gigantic sense of fun. But beside these scenes of glorious misrule gathers a nationwide rebellion led by the Duke of Northumberland and his charismatic son, Hotspur.

The first instalment of Shakespeare's gripping account of the rise of Hal from idle barfly to monarch-in-waiting combines compelling power politics with the hilarious antics of Falstaff, Shakespeare's greatest comic creation.

Part 2
Hotspur is dead and Prince Hal has proved his mettle on the battlefield, but Henry IV lies dying and the rebels, though scattered, show no sign of declaring their allegiance to the Crown. Even Falstaff is forced out of the taverns to raise a scratch militia in the country. But will his attachment to the rising Hal be rewarded with promotion and the life of ease he feels sure he deserves?

At least the equal of Part 1, Henry IV Part 2 includes some of the greatest moments in Shakespeare: the deathbed scene of the old King, when Hal contemplates the crown; the reunion of Falstaff with his old boon companion, Justice Shallow; and Hal's devastating rejection of Falstaff himself.

With Roger Allam! Recently in La Cage aux Folles in the West End, and winner the 2002 Olivier Award for Privates on Parade at the Donmar.

Any suggestions for big screen outings...?

Review - Carreteras secundarias (Back Roads)

The father-son relationship is so very complex. I should know, having spent the larger part of my childhood being brought up by my father alone (a little slice of my personal history, there). Ignacio Martínez de Pisón's novel (and screenplay) deals with the most complex sort of this relationship.

It's clear from the beginning of the story that Felipe, the teenage protagonist through whose eyes we see Spain nearing the end of the Franco dictatorship in the mid 1970s, resents his father for being a fake. Their existence consists of travelling around the coast of the country in a 1974 black Citröen DS, his father attempting to sell various contraband products under the guise of a respectable entrepreneur while Felipe drifts in and out of school getting into fighs and being contracted by his father as free labour. Underneath all of Felipe's bubbling fury, though, there is a genuine love, as Felipe comes to realise that although their life is far from conventional, he wouldn't have it any other way. Their journey is a metaphor for their literal position as marginal, preripheral members of Spanish society. From this position, both Felipe and his father are able to observe and comment of the state of the country, although never really able to integrate.

Felipe's voice is probably one of the most engaging first-person narratives I have ever encountered. At once reminiscent of JD Salinger's Holden Caulfield in Catcher in the Rye, Felipe has a gift at picking out the hypocrisy of adult behaviour. Among the people he and his father meet are his father's idiotic girlfriends - the latest of which is a self-centred singer of canción española, considered by many Spaniards as a particularly unattractive and tacky genre - and his barely reputable friends, all of whom are scammers. Even the supposedly respectable people are cruel, unresponsive or even oppositional to Felipe's individuality. The only people Felipe considers positvely are Paquita - his father's only decent girlfriend, a hippy who doesn't consider theft for the sake of food a crime - and Miranda, a black texan girl who stays with her father in an American military base near where one of Felipe's father's schemes is based. Felipe feels an immediate affinity to those who are not accepted into the mainstream: most notably making an idol of Patricia Hearst, for having rebelled against her father.

After his father spends a brief spell in prison, though, Felipe comes to realise that there is a certain nobility in his father's actions - the story of how his parents met, and how far his father was prepared to go in order to defend his love from the attacks of his disapproving, upper-class family is a little too romantic, but very effective in the context of the narrative. Furthermore, when Felipe realises that his father has constantly maintained his devotion to bringing Felipe up "correctly", despite their harsh circumstances, the narrator describes in a strikingly eloquent passage just how similar he and his father are. One gets the sense that the older Felipe narrator is looking back wistfully and maybe even with nostalgia at the strained, yet extremely close relationship he had with his father, suggesting that the latter's death may have been an inspirtation for him to write the memoir.

Of course, the real author is Martínez de Pisón, who translates the novel to a screenplay effortlessly, and with only a few minor changes to the details of the story. Most significantly, Felipe's father is given a name - Antonio - and the explanation given for the latter's feud with his family is less clear, perhaps hinting that Antonio is still far from perfect. I suspect the shift from first-person narration to objective third-person camera is the main motivation for these shifts, and the film is probably better off for them. My highest praise if for the actors, especially Fernando Ramallo, who plays a suitably angry Felipe, yet sweet during the moments in which he meets Paquita and Miranda. Ramallo's energy on screen, mixed with his youth and vibrancy prove he was well cast, and his portrayal earned him a nomination at the Goya awards (Spanish Oscars) for Best Newcomer. Antonio Resines gives a fantastic performance as his fictional namessake, carrying an air of loveable pomposity and roguishness, making him a far more likeable character than in the novel. Again, one suspects the change of narrative angle was a focal point in this interpretation. Finally, Maribel Verdú - possibly the most versatile Spanish actress of her generation - pops up once again, as Paquita, playing it suitably kooky, but with an overt sexuality which is both playful and predatory.

As far as I know, there is not English translation of Martínez de Pisón's work, but the film is available on DVD - in Region 1 only, which is odd, considering it is a Spanish release - with English subtitles. I recommend it to all in either medium.

El hombre nuevo

As the first third of the year slips through the node of 2010's hourglass, I sit up and think about everything which has happened thus far, and what awaits. The clocks have gone forward an hour, British Summer Time has arrived, along with all the paradoxically ironic implications such a notion could entail. From whence have I come? Whither will I go?

I've been in a bit of a strange mood for the past two weeks. The Spring term of university ended and a week of intensive auditions awaited me in the first week of the supposed break. I found this pretty symbolic: an event to mark of the end of one stage of my life and the beginning of another. From Formal Education to Professional Training in a career. The Rat Race had begun. I both loved and hated it.

Very little is as enjoyable as a day of intensive workshops. From 9am until 6pm, with one hour's lunch break, I had a taste of what life would be like if I were accepted into the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. I loved the experience, even though by the end of the day I was suffering from a headache and aching limbs due to what purported to be a movement class, but what was in fact a sadistic wish-fulfillment for an aged yet lithe ex-acrobat desperate to make young actors cry. No pain, no gain, I suppose. The day before had been far less rewarding. After arriving at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art over an hour early, sitting around for another two hours, before being granted fifteen minutes to show two industry professionals and a current student that I had the talent and the intuition to walk through their doors on a regular basis, I was not only drained from the physical and pychological stress, but emotionally wrecked. I gave middling performances of my two prepared speeches, and seriously fluffed my third "backup" speech. Walking down Tottenham Court Road, blubbing down the phone to an actress friend of mine was not a high point of my life.

Although Rosie made many salient points during our chat, one struck the most resonant chord. I knew what I was going in to do, and I knew it would be stressful, and the mistakes were not actually that bad, so why did I care so much? Actors want nothing more than to be liked. Not loved, not adored, not told what artistic geniuses they are; they simply want to walk out onto the stage, say a few things, do a few things, walk off, and not feel hatred radiating from the stalls. It may even seem pervesly paradoxical, but we just want to blend in, not stick out as the one who was not believable, or who looked like they didn't want to be there, or who was clearly nervous, or who fluffed his lines. No one wants to be singled out as the bad one. It's a mania which grips all performers, I think, but none more so than the actor. Musicians, artists, even dancers can display their art from behind the sound, visuals or choreography. Actors have no such luxury. Other artists may be able to display their personalities through some (meta)physical transmission, but an actor is right there in front of you, showing his body as well as his art - for the one is the only means by which the other can be expressed. How much more crushing, then, when an actor realises both are out of sync.

The bad audition was tipped completely by the good audition, and the other two recall auditions for the Summer Season of plays produced by the National Youth Theatre of Great Britian were very good downers. Then I came crashing back down to the grim truth of the here and now; the knowledge that I have just under two months to write ten thousand words about English Renaissance theatre, as well as remember crucial arguments regarding literary production during Franco's Spain, and not forget how to interpret an imagined scenario between two acquaintaces discussing the finer points of the Woman's place in Modern Spain. Two months to make the last four years of my life - and, by extension, the previous fifteen years of my education - seem like it was worth it.

Part of me sometimes regrets not at least trying for Drama School when I was 18. I'm pretty certain I wasn't emotionally ready, but I never gave myself the chance. Then, I look at things with my more mature eyes and realise that, despite the crushing self-doubt and worry about worldly matters, what I did was absoluetely the right thing to do. I studied, I came into contact with political, philosophical and critical ideas which have confirmed some of my views and altered many others. I met a vast array of people from all over the world. I travelled, I learned to cook, I learned to love, and I learned the knack of online discounted train booking (a skill which is often overlooked). Now, I can bring that life experience to my performances. I can use all the learning I am supposed to have accumulated and apply it to my everyday experience, as opposed to it just being my everyday experience.

Two more months, and then the world will be my oyster. I will emerge a new man.