Wow. In the immortal (texted) words of New Girl: "And that script writer, whatisiname, Shakespeare, he's done some pretty good work."
A while ago, out of the blue, I got a phone call from my friend Lost in Translation, telling me that she was moving to Perth to teach at UWA. While we were enthusing over the phone about our imminent reunion she suggested that we go to see the Sydney Theatre Company's production of War of the Roses. In a fit of madness I agreed, bought the tickets and then started to dread the fast-approaching date. Eight plays in eight hours. Plus a two hour break to eat dinner and stay on your feet as much as possible.
But it was, like, totally FAB. I loved it. It was heaps of fun and utterly enthralling. Cate Blachett was good as Richard II but Pamela Rabe knocked everyone dead as Richard III. [Well, she couldn't help it. The script compelled her to.] Okay, I did briefly fall asleep during the last part, twice, and woke up with a start when I realised I was dreaming. Luckily it was dark and no one could see if I'd drooled.
But I'd never do it again. Not ever never. My bum still hasn't properly recovered. I wondered if I'd end up with some theatrical version of bed sores. I've spent half the day at my desk standing up. Which is good - someone walking past my office and seeing me leaning over to type would assume I'm just finishing a bit of work before I dash off to something important.