I've not been to the theatre - not counting my Southwark things - since Under The Black Flag on August 15th. Time was when I'd go six months between shows but since shaking off my black dog I've been a regular playhouse creature, so a six week hiatus feels weird. I'm supposed to be going up to Leeds next week for a two-day thing with 'The 50', masterclasses and whatnot, including a visit to the West Yorkshire Playhouse to see Colin Teevan's new play. But my Dad-in-law the retired GP says it's a trip too far for someone post-viral, and I should probably listen to him. But I've booked for the Maly Theatre's King Lear (click on play titles for some glorious production images), and will of course be heading to my local, the Arcola, to see pm's production of Robin Hooper's Not The Love I Cry For. And in spite of Richard Herring's hilarious preview, I'm interested in the version of Metamorphosis starting up at the Lyric.
Meanwhile though, I'm showing up to the page. Have almost finished reworking the last scene of The May Queen (all twenty-seven pages of it) and will be rethinking earlier scenes in the light, or should I say gloom, of the now pretty damn pitiless ending. Saying nothing of its quality - I've worryingly little clue as to whether or not it's plain rubbish - in terms of classification the piece has shifted from an experimental, mixed-genre type thing, influenced by late Euripides (Ion, Orestes) and medieval fables, to the harsher landscapes of Sophocles and the Elizabethan tragedians. God that sounds grand. All I mean is it's got a lot darker.