Really enjoyed The Conspiracy Files the other night on the Beeb, first in a series and it was a beautifully judged, fascinated look along some of the wilder shores of the so-called "9/11 Truth Movement". Particularly gripping was the moment when Dylan Avery, the 23 years young director of Loose Change
and the enfant terrible of the conspiracy world, realised that the crew from England's BBC had not, after all, come to pay homage and play along, but had come armed to the teeth with balloon-bursting logic.
On a lighter note, did you know that the KLF invented Pete Doherty?
Had the most horrendous head-cold over the weekend, and insomnia to boot, so it's all been a bit dazed and confused. Sunday I just about managed to get myself down to the Old Operating Theatre in London Bridge to a pilot reading of Ellen Hughes's two new plays, one an adaptation of RL Stevenson's The Body Snatcher, the other a contemporary piece called The Gift. There's good strong writing in both and very impressive for what E herself calls her 'first plays for grown-ups'.
Then last night B and I beetled down to the Donmar for a preview of John Gabriel Borkman, Ibsen's late play in David Eldridge's new version. What can I say but that it was a great evening in the theatre, marred only by some f***ing idiot who decided to wait till the transcendently peaceful, graveyard stillness of Borkman's farewell right at the end before coughing his guts up. Yes it was me, and I was sitting right in front of David, who afterward took it all in good part, but had it been press night he would've had every right to kick my ass.
I actually fled the auditorium and watched the dying moments of the play on a telly in the bar, through rheumy eyes. This reminded me of the evening last year when a full bladder forced me out of Motortown, and I had to watch the terrible murder scene on a screen in the foyer. That was a very unsettling thing. I was allowed back into the theatre as the company cleared the blood from the stage ritualistically, to the sound of an aria from I think it was Dido and Aeneas. Anyway uncannily enough - or not, perhaps it was to do with the properties of that great play - David told me he had a similar experience, only his was written up in the papers - Charles Spencer mistook his loo-dash for the action of a revolted punter.
Thinking about David's work on the play and Michael Grandage's direction, and the work of Ian McDiarmid, Deborah Findlay, Penelope Wilton, Rafe Spall, Lolita Chakrabarti, David Burke... This is embarrassing but I could only be reminded of aphorisms, tenets, cliches, from the world of football, specifically, the chestnuts about doing the simple things, creating time and space, showing great awareness , and creativity in the final third.