Stoppard the Press!

I just finished reading Conversations with Stoppard by Mel Gussow.  That would be Tom Stoppard he’s referring to:

Tom Stoppard. Keep smoking, old man - one less fish in the playwright sea when you die of cancer!

I saw the Sydney Theatre Company’s production of Travesties recently (one of Stoppard’s plays) – thoroughly enjoyable, except for a person in the back row who laughed after virtually every single line, including the “this is a serious moment” lines.  Slightly annoying.  Although if you define the quality of the play by a laughter-to-money ratio, that back-row pest would come out on top.  The only major problem I had with the play was that it was very good – not leaving much room for a budding playwright to stick their theatrical foot through the stage door.  He is 71 though, so, assuming no accidents, I have quite a few more years than he does.  Oh, and the Romanian Tristan Tzara character (one of the founders of the Dada movement – that will be a post in itself later on), who was speaking with a French-cum-Romanian-cum-confused-memory accent (it will make sense if you know the play) let slip an Australian accent every now and then.  (“Oh, the horror!” you exclaim.  I know, I know.)  Not that I found it particularly undesirable, but I do like to nitpick.  And having never had head lice, I have to search for other ways…

(Criticising the actors is the easiest way to get into theatre, right?  I can’t help but feel there’s a fatal flaw somewhere.)

I recently read an article that David Williamson, a famous and renowned Australian playwright, had retired, leaving a huge hole in Australian theatre that would be hard to fill.  “Great!” I thought, “this is just the opportunity I need.  Finally there is some breathing room at the top!”  Cut to two months later and I hear on the radio that one of the presenters is going to see the “new Williamson play, Let the Sunshine.”  Needless to say, it seems some people don’t know when they’re not wanted, yes?  And needless to say, I will be going to see it, hoping that some of the genius will rub off on me (in a completely non-swine-flu-passing way).

What do I need?  I need to finish writing my play.  What else?  I need hope.  I decided to provide myself with some:

Willy Shakespeare - dead

Sammy Beckett - six feet under

Anton Chekhov - far, far away (but not in another galaxy)

Ha!  Let’s see you write from the grave!  What’s that?  Your bodies have been digested by worms?  What.  A.  *censored*.  Shame.

A tea party for dead writers in Hades – now there’s an idea for a play.

On a different note, I’ve committed myself to blogging for a few posts about nothing.  These posts are in the pipeline and will be coming to a computer screen near you soon!  (It takes awhile to get enough material to blog about nothing, you see.)