While in the area, took in a screening of the National Theatre production of a play adapted from an early 19th century story called 'Frankenstein' by Mary Wollstonecraft. Started off badly, thinking that the cinema (Clapham Playhouse) would be more or less empty this early in the day, by sitting in the wrong seats and then having to move just before the off. Which turned out not to be the off at all as we were treated to a double beard: first a beard talking about the 50th anniversary of the National Theatre and second a beard talking about the production we were about to see. Deep stuff from pseuds' corner. Eventually we get to the production itself.
Which turns out to be more of a spectacle than a play, perhaps the result of the Olympics having gone to the creator's (Danny Boyle) head. Huge amount of noise and bright flashing lights, all most unpleasant. All wrapping up a fairly thin play, although to be fair the chap playing the new model man needed to be something of an athlete. New model woman had a much easier job, little more than a little standing about with very little on. Luckily the seats were sufficiently comfortable that I was able to nod through a good part of it all; odd that one can so easily snooze against so much son et lumière.
There was a serious point to it all: would it be proper to fabricate a human being? What rights would such a being have once created, even supposing that the creation had gone a bit wrong? Serious, as I think that in the not too distant future we will be able to do such things, at least inside a computer and at least near enough for there to be a moral difficulty. Why is it not OK to do such a thing in silica when it is OK to do it the organic way, an organic way which often has disastrous results? But not serious points that the play offered much guidance on.
Quite a lot of young people present, not just your midday pensioners. One of whom found the show riveting, one found it good and one thought it rubbish. I was with the rubbish.
On the tube back to Tooting, entertained by the sight of a chap whose idea of reading the 'Times' was to glance at a page and if it looked a bit naff to discard the entire page onto the seat beside him, and so onto the next page. When he got to his stop, he neatly folded up what was left of his 'Times', popped it into his briefcase and left, leaving a small but untidy heap of discarded pages behind him. I remember the days when someone who read the 'Times' would know better.
Back along the western side of Garratt Lane, to find that it was an excellent place to play aeroplanes. Scored several twos - the first for a while - and even managed a three before I got to Earlsfield Station. Nearly scored a three from the platform there, and did score a three from Wimbledon platform. Being frustrated on the way by the tendency of the brain to blot out small objects on a bright, sky blue ground unless you were focused on them. This meant that an aeroplane which should be in view had a tendency to pop in and out of view. Which meant that I lost what should have been the first of two threes at Wimbledon. And I would probably have made a rare four if I had thought to take some binoculars on the expedition.
Not the first time that I have come across the blotting out business. My first memory of it is sitting outside a pub in Slapton (Devon) in the early evening and watching the swifts swing around the church tower. They seemed to pop in and out of view just like the aeroplanes yesterday. Perhaps one could train one's brain not to be so lazy and to properly compute the whole of the visual field, rather than guessing most of it.
No comments:
Post a Comment