Friday, 4 December 2009

Hot Tin Cats and Celebrity Stalkers

So, I was lucky enough to see and review the star-studded Cat on a Hot Tin Roof at the Novello on Wednesday.

It was very good, but never really pitched over into great: at least, that's what I tried to get across in my londonist review.

I rather wished they'd cut it, to be honest. It's not easy for anyone (the stars involved included) to keep the level of excellence / tension / interest / sparkle up for that length of time.

On the other hand, that Tennessee Williams knows a thing or two about writing plays, doesn't he?! They don't hand out those Pulitzer Prizes for peanuts. (Once again I'm aghast at the narrow-but-deep structure to Eng Lit at school / uni which means I can tell you about the different ways ol' MacB can say "Is this a dagger I see before me" and the suggestions behind Sir Toby's "A plague o' these pickled-herring..." but doesn't know the plot of any single Tennessee Williams play. And don't get me started on Chekhov, Brecht or any of the others...)

As well as an amazing front-row-of-the-circle seat, there was other excitement for the evening.

Leaning out over the stalls (no vertigo for me here), I spotted a familiar cream puffa jacket. Yes, Miranda Sawyer is stalking me. She might've come in a long time after me to distract attention from the fact that she is following me to the same cultural engagements, but it's no use. She clearly wants to *be* me. (Ahem.)

Alongside the celebs on stage (Richard Blackwood?!), and the celebs in the audience (there was someone else on my row I really should've recognised, but can't work out who it was: singer? presenter? Ah, well), I rather thought I'd had enough "spotting" for one night.

Then, at London Bridge, who should appear but the lovely Clive Rowe! With a soft black hat pulled firmly down over his eyes (and ears), and his collar up against the rain, he looked a million miles away from the character he must've finished prancing around as in the Hackney Empire just an hour earlier: Widow Twanky.

Poor Clive really wasn't sure which train he needed to get on. Everyone was rushing about in that "last train of the evening" kind of way. I was very close to going to help him out. On the other hand, I was impressed / couldn't believe that London's finest Dame is taking public transport all the way across London every night. I wanted to help... But the Londoner in me took over, and I just watched rather than going to say hello. I tell you, they're all stalking me ;-)

I wonder what he would've made of Cat. He would certainly have made a great Big Daddy, I'm sure.

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