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.

Spotted: Miranda Sawyer

When: last night
Where: Ritzy, Brixton

Last night when I went to see An Education with CT and CB, Miranda Sawyer, ace journo and all-round brilliant person was seeing the same film.

I refrained from running up to her and shouting "I think you're fab" in her face, instead, pointed her out to the others. Short-sighted CB said she wasn't sure she knew what she looked like, altho she recognised the name. Some people just don't know their Smash Hits / Select / Time Out / Mixmag history. Cuh.

Miranda was on the Culture Show tonight, interviewing a frankly terrifying-seeming author from the States. I thought she did it all brilliantly as usual. It's all the more satisfying that she seems to live within walking distance of the Ritzy in Brixton, cos she and her blokey set off past my bus stop on their way home. Hurrah for this pocket of South London.

An Education was good, but not amazing, I guess. I liked it, but I didn't love it. It was a great snapshot of that moment, in that year (1962), definitely the 60s, but a pre-Beatles 60s. Dominic and Ros Pike were cool as the two mates of the slightly creepy David, and I think newbie Carey Mulligan was really good.

But there were a few things that jarred for me. I wasn't sure about the timeliness of cigarettes with filters (actually, a little research shows they are correct), Jenny's suddenly pierced ears, the flatness of Jenny's schoolmates - were none of them clever or interesting (I was horrified that bloody Ellie Kendrick might be in it a whole lot more), her caricature father played by Alfred Molina, and the English department of Oxford (?!) offering her a place...

And the final song? Man, as far as I'm aware, there were some pretty cool tunes recorded in the 60s, right? Some of them were even by women. And some of them were about being hurt by sleazy men. So why on earth, after all that period accuracy of cars, dresses, hats, sunglasses, tea-sets and the rest, did we have to listen to Duffy at the end? Please.

But it wasn't bad, and it was certainly nice going to the cinema again after all this time. (The torturous Disney's A Christmas Carol 3D effort really doesn't count.)