Tuesday, February 28, 2012
I dropped down on the stage play, Knock Knock, which I mentioned in the last post. It has been running in town for the last couple of decades now, the same performance that is. It’s a play that is so long it doesn’t finish until it is brought to an end by circumstance; a theatre fire or the building being condemned or something like that. The piece has to be that long because it is all about existence. At least, I think it is. You can never be sure. You just write the words really and they fall in a certain order that may or may not mean something.
I was pleased to see that none of the audience had walked out. One died of a congenital condition and was wheeled away on a gurney but that’s not the same as a walk out. Everyone is seeing this performance through to the end. I appreciate their commitment to new forms of theatre. Well, when I say ‘new’ I mean it was new when the audience took their seats. When the curtain rose my play was avant-garde. By the time the curtain falls it will be passé.
I’m impressed by the few fatalities and incidents of ill-health that have occurred during the performance. It must be down to the medical check-ups that are given between acts. These check-ups were included in the price of the ticket. I’d say the play’s audience is kept in better condition than the rest of us. One ageing audience member told me that he intends to survive the play. ‘Otherwise I’ll never find out what the fuck is going on’, he said as his blood pressure was taken.
I found it quite touching to see audience members reunited with relatives and loved ones during the intermission. It was all tears and hugs. I’m glad to have facilitated such a thing. Although, it’s hard to see them part when the usher announces the next act and says that it’s time for everyone to retake their seats. It’s like watching young lovers say goodbye at an airport.
Well, everyone seems interested enough to stay the course but I’m still a little nervous. Not just because of the prolonged first night jitters I’ve been suffering these last decades but also because a reviewer from the Irish Times is in attendance. I hope the paper hasn’t folded by the time the performance ends. It would be great to get a write up. Well, as long as it’s a good write up. During the intermission I braced myself and asked the critic what he thought of the show so far. He described the performance as trojan. ‘Trojan’, he said to me, his eyes weary and bloodshot, his hair matted and face unshaven. ‘Trojan’, he repeated as he was guided back to his seat, head bowed. ‘Trojan’, hmmmm. I think that means he likes it.