Last night I did a dash from work (literally unplugged the headset, ran to my desk, threw on a fab dress and grabbed a taxi in the pouring rain) to the Kings Theatre.
I had booked tickets for us to The Bacchae. Classic greek tragedy with a camp Alan Cumming - it sounded exactly our cup of tea (or mixed cocktail as such).
And as the gold lame kilted queen decended from the ceiling I had high hopes for a drama of decadence and retribution to be swift, sharp and slick.
But as the gospel choir of vegas showgirls glittered through the sloppy choreography and Alan was little more than panto tongue-in-cheek with little investment and less sympathy, I wondered exactly what Euripedes had to do with this.
When the bloody violence of act three rolls around, the raging, guilt ridden angst of grief and pain fell flat against a minimalist set and feather boaed crowd. And I must say, most of the audience was sniggering at the out of place melodrama in the otherwise flippant glitzy show that could have been good fun, if only they'd chosen another script.
A good laugh, a decent spectacle, but at the end of the day it wasn't much of a performance. I was a bit disappointed, but that said, we had a lovely evening out (beautiful dress, hansome partner, post-show mind blowing sex) and I'm happy.
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