25 November 2012

Oz

Theatres are intimate.

No big screen to make you forget, dark but not dark enough. You can be absorbed in the performance, yet conscious of your neighbour's mirth at the same time.

And there is unity in frequent applause.

I watched Wicked last night. The Apollo Victoria was green on the outside, red on the inside. After collecting my ticket and being told to have a nice evening, I settled into my plush seat at the very back of the dress circle, complete with a pair of binoculars-for-hire for £1 (I did not get my coin back, thieves). The next three hours were spent laughing with G(a)linda, being inspired by Elphaba, and admiring the sheer genius of the cast and the spectacular stage. They came down in bubbles, they flew up in swirls of black, they roared with robotic lion machines, monkeys had wings. They made up words ("confusified", "hideodious", "congratulotions!"). A standing ovation.

And I listened to Louise Dearman's "Defying Gravity" about 20 times on repeat.

Oz was fun.


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