DurAnorak (duranorak) wrote,

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...Mrs. Worthington.

The wonderful notintheseheels and I went to see The History Boys at the National on Saturday. I haven't been to the theatre in quite a while, and it was a salutory reminder of just why I don't go all that often.

Oh, the play is amazing - Alan Bennet's words plus Richard Griffiths' acting plus schoolboys plus the unexpected explosion of Duran Duran's 'Rio' all over the stage...I can't complain about any of that. It was brilliant, and I'm delighted to see it's been made into a film - it should translate rather well.

But, argh. When I go to the theatre I really must remember that I come out absolutely desperately unhappy. It's either seven hours of 'why can't I be on the stage? WHY?' and shaking my fist at the gods before drowning my sorrows in caffeine and acting out Shakespeare in front of the television, or it's being so furious I can hardly speak and wanting to destroy the entire human race, or at least those of it directly in front of me at that moment. Why? Well, doctor, it's these plays where bad things happen. Now, I know bad things happen in plays otherwise people wouldn't go and see them, but something happens to me when I come out of a play in which someone has died or something has gone wrong or someone has said something I violently disagree with and I just...lose it with the world. Bad things happen out here all the time; why would you want to go and watch them happening somewhere else? The other thing is that because it's a play, I know they'll act out the same bad thing tomorrow and I can't do anything to stop them - it's not like a film where it's only shot once, on stage they perpetuate the misery, going over it again and again until it becomes part of the fabric of their lives.

I know this is ridiculous, because the theatre thrives on misery and while I'm actually watching the play they can throw anything at me and I'll be fine, it's only on leaving the building that the hysteria sets in. But it happens every time, it doesn't matter what I'm seeing - my chest of drawers upstairs still bears witness to that in the form of an angry message dug into its cheap wood with a sharp pencil : I HATE LIFE. I WANT TO DIE. I was twelve, and we'd just seen Peter Pan.

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