Alan Bennett. Or, as my sister more forthrightly puts it 'Alan fucking Bennett.'
We drove to another country to see this last night, which I say as an Australian would say that. Let me use a kids' word...it was a cool thing to do.
But I have to admit as time goes on and I age and Alan F. Bennett does too, he no longer does it for me. Maybe he never did. Maybe if people didn't act like he was important I'd like him more. To me he's like David Williamson. Entertaining, deals with safe issues that WERE controversial but aren't now. Polished, slick. But his plays will die with him.
And, yes, I've done the talking heads thing and I still think that. Sorry.
Alan fucking Bennett. I just want you to know that me and my sister (sic) are a bit sick of it. Well, no. My sister, to be perfectly frank 'can't fucking stand it, can't be in the same fucking room as it'.
Okay...those of you who know me will be wanting to ask this? Did I sleep through it? My friend Harry was impressed that I got up to double figures. That's measured in minutes, in case you are wondering. So, I have to confess that this review is based on the impressions of a sleeping person and a slightly grumpy one at that because WH Auden kept shouting all the time. I was right up the front. Why did he have to do that? I kept waking up thinking maybe something was happening, but it wasn't. Did Auden really shout like that? I can't believe a person could talk in a manner so different from his poetry. But don't you have dramatic license, AFB? Could you not have made him quietly spoken even if that weren't the case? Or was it that Benjamin Britten was quiet and therefore Auden had to shout?
Has anybody else seen this? If so, please explain what I missed. Please.