Sitting in the house, while an oddly masculine woman plans her debutant daughter’s party, as her husband schemes homicide.
Now: Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre interrogate our hero.
…There are only two people on the stage.
It’s a long one, (as far as they go in this show full of French scene madness.)
…Six and a half pages.
The finale of Act One.
Psychotic Nazis, world overthrow, frenetic gun brandishing, top secret-secrets, maniacal laughing, rampant crossdressing, murder, peepshows, and self-propelled seating.
Six pages.
…Oop! Back to beginners, I’m up!
***
Later: Just back from Scotland. Baking accidentally phallic bread loafs, tucking in murderers for a good night’s sleep, and watching a lover escape into the night, through the “rear window.”
…It’s been a full night already, and we’ve been at it less than an hour.
First, came an “underware parade,” for instance.
…This is how you know I’m in a show, cuz in real life, I haven’t worn so little as a one piece swimming suite in public in over a decade. Yet tonight began, trying on high heels and period underwear, while the costumer and everyone watched me parade around, flop about, and mock die, so they could talk function, light, and color notes.
…Like every other prop on stage.
…And now they’ve moved on.
…Via a slow motion chase scene.
***
Next: an assembly hall, featuring the oldest man in the world, and a fuck-all political speech that would make Aaron Sorkin sit up and take notice. Mostly cuz it’s so long and terrible.
…In all the good ways.
***
Nexter: Invisible car ride through the moores, followed by erotic ballet by handcuff.
…I’m telling you, this show has freakin’ everything!
And more.
~D