piccadilly kim

(originally from september 23, 2006)

Twice in my life I've regretted not waiting like a crazed teenage girl outside the dingy actor's exit of a theatre. One of those times was tonight.

I just saw Mary Poppins and it was fantastic. Mary herself was excellent and probably worth writing home about, but Bert was absolutely phenomenal. His facial expressions, characterization and reactions were outstanding, but it was his energy that convinced me he was brilliant. (Funny, I tend to be drawn to people with energy. I tend to see energy as a commodity to be highly prized. I also tend to be slightly energetic myself, or so my friends tell me discreetly in moments of grave confidence. Go figure.)

At any rate, after the final curtain call, the woman in front of me commented on my bravery standing up and asked if I knew Gavin. I was honored to suddenly be a on first-name basis with Bert's actor but had to admit that no, I just thought he was good. Well, turns out that this lady was the mum of the girl playing Jane Banks and she was friendly and showed my friend and I to The Door from whence would come the actors. We met her daughter Roxy (who signed my program with the dignified air of one who has signed many a program) and saw several others emerge. It was then that we realized none of them looked remotely like they did on stage. We waited around a few minutes more, but, feeling awkward and a smidge out of place, departed. Strike two.

Which brings us back to strike one (we seem to be progressing anachronistically tonight, which is complemented by the fact that I wrote the final side note first ...), which was in 2004 when, with the Calvin group, I saw Hamlet at the Old Vic directed by Trevor Nunn. It was also, at risk of overusing as word I particularly abhor others overusing (especially in psychology textbooks), phenomenal. A particular friend who will remain nameless and I toyed with the idea of staying to get cast signatures (particularly from Hamlet himself, who had done a tremendous job), but she (and I am not being malevolent, I am simply stating the facts) squirmed out of it and I, being unable to return alone (as I'd been forced to do when the same lovely friend ditched me at Phantom upon finding out that the tickets were 20 pounds ...) was forced to return as well. Within weeks, Ben Wishaw's name was being touted like crazy, and both of us were very sorry indeed that we had not stayed to meet him before he was famous. (And, dear friend, if you read this note, I do forgive you entirely ... and also trust very greatly that your sense of humor is still operating with the alacrity it was two years ago ...) Strike one.

As a side note, I give standing ovations when standing ovations are due. I don't give them when they're not. In general, this practice (or practise, if we're being British about it) means the rest of the audience and I are at rather physically evident odds with one another. When I sit, it's only those around me who think I'm socially awkward. When I stand, well, everyone does. (Either that or terribly courageous. I tend to prefer the latter.) Tonight was a night for standing. And did I mention I was in the second row?