Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.
Tennessee Williams is one of those figures who has something of a hold over my mind. Thanks to extemporanea, it's possible to reconstruct that the last time - and the main previous time - that I experienced him with particular sharpness was a good seven years ago; but in the perpetual netflix of my unconscious, he's always flickeringly there on distant rotation.
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.
Having re-read the text just before seeing the Malthouse's current production (Eamon Flack), including Williams' extended production notes, I was well primed for what turned out to be a faithful staging, with the addition of the 'screen device' that is written into the play text working well with play's themes and feeling, as well as being very of the moment (in fact the last play I saw, the current Miss Julie, used video and projection in a similar way although to different effect), and Tom's presumed homosexuality much more clearly suggested than in the subtext of the play as written.
The play is memory. Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental, it is not realistic. In memory everything seems to happen to music. That explains the fiddle in the wings.
Good set, lighting, acting (Harry Greenwood, Luke Mullins, Pamela Rabe, Rose Riley - all contriving to look of the period). It didn't quite catch fire but still, pretty darn fine.
"I don't suppose you remember me at all."
(w/ Ash)
Tennessee Williams is one of those figures who has something of a hold over my mind. Thanks to extemporanea, it's possible to reconstruct that the last time - and the main previous time - that I experienced him with particular sharpness was a good seven years ago; but in the perpetual netflix of my unconscious, he's always flickeringly there on distant rotation.
Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.
Having re-read the text just before seeing the Malthouse's current production (Eamon Flack), including Williams' extended production notes, I was well primed for what turned out to be a faithful staging, with the addition of the 'screen device' that is written into the play text working well with play's themes and feeling, as well as being very of the moment (in fact the last play I saw, the current Miss Julie, used video and projection in a similar way although to different effect), and Tom's presumed homosexuality much more clearly suggested than in the subtext of the play as written.
The play is memory. Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental, it is not realistic. In memory everything seems to happen to music. That explains the fiddle in the wings.
Good set, lighting, acting (Harry Greenwood, Luke Mullins, Pamela Rabe, Rose Riley - all contriving to look of the period). It didn't quite catch fire but still, pretty darn fine.
"I don't suppose you remember me at all."
(w/ Ash)
