Defending Tom Hiddleston Fangirls From Intellectual Snobs

I admit it - in the past I have been guilty of having a go at Tom Hiddleston’s fangirls.  The whole “chasing him down the street and getting the after-show signings cancelled” thing was quite embarrassing, for example, and I did complain at the time.  It made us all look bad, quite frankly.

However, for once, I actually feel the need to DEFEND the Hiddleston fangirls.

Last night, Coriolanus was broadcast live in cinemas across the world as part of NT Live.  This means a lot more people got the chance to watch it, which is brilliant.  I went to see the play at the Donmar Warehouse last week and loved it – great performances, impressive but simple staging, and surprisingly moving.

The problem came when I logged on to Tumblr today, as it often does, and saw a few posts from people complaining about the same things.  Things like:

“Oh my god, during the shower scene the fangirls were giggling and squealing”

“That scene was NOT erotic, but the Hiddleston fangirls were so embarrassing”

“The kiss between Coriolanus and Aufidius was not supposed to be sexy but the fangirls are fixated on it”

“It’s so annoying for people like me who just wanted to see the play and love Shakespeare”

They’re all variations on the same complaints made when the tickets went on sale last year:

“I just wanted to watch some quality actors perform Shakespeare, but the seats have all gone to fangirls!”

The problem with all of this is it implies the fangirls are not capable of enjoying a play like Coriolanus, and are not deserving of the chance to see it.  It is intellectual snobbery of the highest order, and incredibly insulting to boot.

Okay, first of all – the shower scene.  No, watching a man wash blood from his wounds and cry in agony is clearly not sexy.  However, let’s not be shy  – Tom Hiddleston is.  I know when my friend and I saw the play in the Donmar, we turned to each other and exclaimed “HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THAT MAN” (or words to that effect). 

Appreciating physical beauty does not mean you can’t appreciate anything else.  And my word is Tom Hiddleston beautiful.    Yes, perhaps the fangirls did react to the shower scene with giggling and general flailing of limbs.  When I saw the play there was only one fangirl who was visibly having a moment in the stalls, but obviously there’s a different atmosphere in a cinema than in a West End theatre.

And let’s not forget, the shower scene was specifically added to this production.  I am sure the intention with this was not to get people’s motors going.  But do you honestly believe that nobody in the entire production team realised casting a handsome, physically fit actor and getting him half naked and showering on stage would have an effect on certain members of the audience?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m as guilty of showing off my education as much as any other intellectual snob.  However I’m not going to pretend I’m some pious gentlewoman whose ability to appreciate hot actors gets switched off when I enter the theatre.

It’s the same with the, quite frankly, OBVIOUS homoeroticism in this production of Coriolanus.  Again, I am sure the intention was not to get fangirls writing Coriolanus/Aufidius slash fic and “shipping” them in fanvideos across YouTube (though that will surely happen).  But really, the fangirls are not the only people to notice this aspect of the play – broadsheet theatre critics have picked up on it too.  Hell, there are dead deafblind people who probably picked up on it.  Director Josie Rourke and the actors she cast knew exactly what they were doing, don’t doubt that for a second.

The fact is, the people making these complaints are clearly under the impression the Hiddleston fangirls aren’t as deserving of their seats as they are.  They’re like those men at sci-fi conventions who seem to think the young women present aren’t really sci-fans, not like them, and unless they’re willing to put on a skimpy Wonder Woman costume what’s the point anyway?

Who cares if many of the seats went to fangirls?  Why is that a bad thing?  These are people who actively paid out their money to go to a little theatre and watch one of Shakespeare’s more difficult plays – that’s fantastic!  How do you know none of those girls went out the next day and bought the Complete Works of Shakespeare?  How do you know it didn’t affect them more than just firing up their loins?

Yes, perhaps hearing them giggling and squealing in the cinema last night was annoying.  When I went to see August, Osage County the other night, a group of middle aged women chatted their way through the opening scenes and took selfies mid-way through the movie.  Annoying. To the extreme. I get it.  But I don’t know if you noticed, Coriolanus is one hell of dark play.  I’m sure nobody was giggling and squealing by the final scene.

Obviously, invading an actor’s personal space is appalling, as is being rude to the staff at the Donmar, and behaviour like that can’t be accepted.  But getting a bit hot under the collar when Tom Hiddleston takes his shirt off isn’t quite the same thing, and it doesn’t mean the rest of the play went over anybody’s head.  It may have temporarily annoyed you, but life is annoying.  Suck it up.

I had never read or seen Coriolanus before I bought my tickets last year.  I went because I wanted to see Tom Hiddleston and Mark Gatiss act together, in a good production in a good theatre.  The fact is, I got to see a Shakespearean play I had no previous knowledge of AND I got to see Tom Hiddleston take his shirt off.  If you think it’s impossible to celebrate both of those things, you’re not really the sort of person I want to sit in a darkened room with.

Fish Are Jumping, Cotton Is High

If it’s Friday, it must be Ben Whishaw.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.  You spend months planning out how you’re going to That London to see three plays in three nights, and before you know it you’re taking your seats for the final play.

Unexpectedly, I found myself more excited about going to see the revival of Jez Butterworth’s Mojo than either of the previous plays.  This may have been due to the presence of Ben Whishaw.  Or, it may have been down to the fact I had an ice cream sundae the size of Mount Doom for breakfast, and half a bottle of wine at dinner. 

Either way, I arrived at the Harold Pinter theatre full of excitement.  Which quickly evaporated when faced with a sea of people pushing and shoving each other in the lobby.  And then vanished some more when I took to my seat in the Royal Circle and realised just how poor a view it offered a Hobbit like me.   Once the man seated next to me knocked over my drink as he sat down, my good mood finally shrivelled up and died.

The play itself is a defiantly male affair, set in a seedy nightclub in 1950s London.  Club owner Ezra has discovered a rising star in the form of singer Silver Johnny, and is keen to protect his young protégé from the advances of his rival, a gangster called Sam Ross.  Club workers Potts and Sweets, meanwhile, sit in the back office dreaming about the easy life Silver Johnny surely has in store for them now – “The fish are jumping and the cotton is high”, Potts declares.

However, the following morning Ezra is discovered sawn in half by his second-in-command, Mickey, and Silver Johnny has gone missing.  Ezra’s psychotic son Baby takes the news of his father’s murder in a daydream-like manner, and as his mental stability begins to crack even further the men grow increasingly fearful for their future.

Mojo gets off to a great start – Silver Johnny silently gearing himself up for the evening’s performance, the sound of his female fans screaming in the distance.  But other than that, the first half of the play tends to drag a bit.  It’s definitely funny – Daniel Mays in particular steals the show with his portrayal of Potts, all zinging dialogue and nervous energy.  And the news of Ezra’s death offers some wonderfully dark humour.  When club doorman Skinny questions Mickey if he’s absolutely sure their boss is dead, Mickey shouts: “He’s fucking cut in half.  He’s in two bins!”

I had some problems with Rupert Grint’s performance as Sweets, mainly the fact I found it so hard to figure out what he was saying half of the time.  To be fair to Grint, it’s his stage debut, and when I could actually understand him I thought he delivered a good performance.  As Sweets essentially forms a comedy double act in the play with Potts, it would be hard for anyone to match up to Daniel Mays, nevermind an actor with considerably less experience.

My main issue with the first half of the play is that it’s all talk and very little action (though I’m sure both halves of Ezra would disagree with that).  At times, it all reminded me of the episode of Rock Profiles where Matt Lucas portrayed mockney Cockney Damon Albarn: “So I went up the apples and pears stairs and sat on an apple and pear chair and got an autograph from apples and pear Lionel Blair...”

The action doesn’t really get going until the first act comes to an end, when Baby – played with a real sense of unhinged menace by Ben Whishaw – dons Silver Johnny’s silver jacket and performs a dance routine that’s as menacing as a dance routine accompanied by silver glitter possibly can be.

The second act is much more interesting, right down to the set change as we go from the back office to the sequinned interior of the Atlantic club, where the two bins containing the dearly departed Ezra have been brought.  As Baby’s mental state continues to deteriorate and Whishaw is given more to do, the play gets more engrossing. 

Whishaw is excellent as Baby, going from a dreamy, trance-like state to an overtly sexual and genuinely threatening menace in the blink of an eye.  He also turns out to be an excellent singer and not necessarily as slight and willowy in the flesh as you might expect.  Whishaw also handles the black comedy of the play very well – after Baby has tracked down Silver Johnny, he describes his revenge upon Mr Ross: “he's got his yellow hair parted right down between his eyes...if he is coming he's going to need a jolly good lie down first”.

At heart, Mojo is a play about male relationships.  Baby’s decidedly fucked up relationship with the never-seen Ezra is just one example.  In the second act, we learn that Baby has been the victim of sexual abuse.  Later on, Baby talks about a childhood memory in which his father took him for a drive in the country and he noticed a bag of knives in front seat.  Convinced his father is going to kill him, he eventually finds out that Ezra actually plans for them to kill and cut up a cow, leaving Baby covered in blood.

The character of Skinny, played by Colin Morgan, is another interesting one.  With no father at home – just an “uncle” – he hero worships Baby, copying his hairstyle and dress sense with a barely disguised sexual tension simmering between them.  And when I say “barely disguised”, what I mean is Baby demanding that Skinny “kiss my pegs” before grinding up against him on the jukebox.  Considering the cheekbones and sharp hips on both actors, it’s a wonder the front row doesn’t walk away with paper cuts.

Another aspect of the play I really enjoyed was the real sense of claustrophobia that sets in once the Atlantic club goes into lockdown following Ezra’s death.  Daytime beckons and punters begin to gather outside waiting to be let in, but the club has become a makeshift prison for the men inside, with daylight only breaking in once as Mickey briefly opens a window.

Even if it’s not a perfect play, it certainly is an interesting one, perhaps more interesting once you’ve actually had time to sit down and think about what you’ve just seen.  Compared to the previous two plays we had seen, it may not have always held our attention to begin with, but once it got going it was very hard to look away.

Once the play ended, we decided that as it was our final night, we would carry on our tradition of being stood up by pretty-boy actors.  We arrived at the stage door just as the security man began removing the barrier, explaining that as it was raining and the actors had two performances the following day there would no be signings that night.  Failure, again!

As we were about to walk away before the pouring rain gave us pneumonia, a fellow theatregoer appeared behind me and happily exclaimed “I just got Whishaw – he’s over there”, pointing across the street.  Once I determined this wasn’t just some middle aged man toying with a fangirl’s emotions, I ran off down the street , arms flailing, Whishaw bound.

Despite the appalling weather he held court with his small army of admirers, signing whatever was put in front of him and posing for all photo requests (my own included).  A girl breathlessly explained that she had travelled all the way from China for the play.  I got overexcited and offered “We came from Belfast!”  Because, yes, travelling from Belfast to London is every bit as impressive as travelling from China.  Whishaw’s pen stopped working in the rain and I offered him my own, which he took – I am now considering designating the pen as a holy object and starting a religious order based around it.

My friend, clearly the only person gathered who wasn’t an oversexed fangirl, became Whishaw’s semi-official photographer, snapping both my picture and a picture for one of the Chinese fans.  “You were very good tonight” she said, like the friend of a proud parent who has been dragged along to the school nativity.  “You were BRILLIANT” I cried, still overexcited.

And so our final night of theatre ended.  As Potts himself put it, the fish were jumping and the cotton was high.  And most of all, the fangirls were flailing.

There's Nowt So Queer as Coriolanus

Staging a production of one of Shakespeare’s more difficult plays?  Unsure of how to make it more accessible to a modern audience?  Handsome men rolling around the stage together – it’s the answer to everything.

Of course, we were lucky to make it to the Donmar’s production of Coriolanus at all, considering we got lost on our way to the theatre.  We got there eventually, after calling into a nearby hotel to ask for directions – although even the receptionist had to Google the place for us.

After sitting down in our vaguely uncomfortable seats, our eyes were immediately drawn to the bare stage, with just a ladder and some plastic chairs making up the set decoration.  Well, I say ‘immediately’....I was also keeping my eyes peeled for Hiddleston fangirls on the prowl.  After reports of performances being disturbed, Hiddleston being chased down the street on his way home and post-show signings actually being cancelled, I was curious to see if any of the scarier elements of his fanbase had turned up.

The play itself is a fantastic production and does a great job of portraying one of the least tragic of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes.  We see him as a wounded war hero, washing off his blood in a shower scene that surely left most of the audience ever so slightly aroused.  As Hiddleston walked off the stage, wet and half naked, I could clearly see a happy theatregoer give her friend the thumbs up when he walked past her.

But he’s also a proud snob, and the scene where Coriolanus puts on the “gown of humility” in an attempt to gain the people’s trust (while at the same time being downright sarcastic to their faces) is handled with a lightness of touch that still gets across the sheer contempt with which he holds the plebs.

I also loved the transformation of Brutus and Sicinius into Brutus and Sicinia, a bitchy power couple who snipe from the sidelines in their attempts at bringing Coriolanus down a peg.  If I thought Elliot Levey was more successful as Brutus than Helen Schlesinger was as Sicinia, that’s probably just because I fancied Levey something rotten.  It was definitely a nice touch portraying Brutus as a slight, quietly spoken henpecked husband, considering the role he plays in the downfall of the buff Coriolanus.

And then of course, there’s the homoerotica.  Ah, yes, the homoerotica....If it’s fair to say the production rather overplays this aspect of the play, please understand this really is not a complaint on my part.

The scene in which Coriolanus fights the rough, Northern-accented Aufidius (Hadley Fraser) begins with swords and impressive acrobatics, but descends into what is essentially two well-defined men rolling around the stage together, panting heavily, grasping on to each other’s shoulders.  When Coriolanus offers up his assistance to his former enemy, Aufidius has him get down on his knees before (what can only be described as) caressing his chest with his...well, with his big sword.

Considering that Aufidius goes on to compare Coriolanus more favourably to the “maid I married”, and details dreams in which “we have been down together in my sleep / unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat”....well, I don’t think you need to have a particularly dirty mind to see what we’re going for here.

To be fair, Coriolanus might be unpopular with the common man, but Aufidius isn’t the only person who appears to want a bit of hot Roman action.  Witty patrician Menenius (played brilliantly by Mark Gatiss) displays an avuncular affection for Coriolanus that occasionally borders on the lovestruck.  And the mother – let’s not forget the mother.

The play ramps up the vaguely incestuous nature of Coriolanus’s relationship with Volumnia, his mother – made all the more awkward by the presence of his wife Virgilia.  If Virgilia is a character with not a lot to do in the course of the play, she at least signposts the sheer weirdness of the mother-son relationship, frequently standing on the side of the stage making barely disguised faces of disgust at what she sees.

The bare stage also serves the play well – the battle scene is conveyed surprisingly effectively with nothing more than well placed chairs and the odd flash of fire in the background.

I was less impressed with the costumes – a weird mix of traditional Roman battle wear and modern threads.  Virgilia in particular had to wear an especially ugly dress, paired with some nasty vagina-flapped boots that I’m sure stylish Roman women weren’t sporting at the time.

Performance-wise, I can’t really fault any of the cast, but it’s Hiddleston’s show and he delivers a commanding performance.  When he starts shouting in the Senate-house you genuinely feel the need to sit down and be shouted at.  Similarly, when he cries real tears in accepting his fate at the end of the play, it’s a properly moving moment.  As he takes Volumnia’s hand and sighs “mother, mother – what have you done?” you really sense this is man experiencing an actual emotion other than pride or battle-lust for the first time in his life.

And without wanting to give too much away – spoilers, sweetie (as much as you actually can spoil a Shakespearean tragedy) – the plays ends with a pleasingly gory death and one last shot at good, old fashioned homoeroticism.  All I’ll say is ‘Aufidius’ and ‘full facial’.  I’ll let you imagine the rest.

Once again, we hotfooted it to the front of house post-play to attempt some actor bothering.  We already knew Hiddleston wouldn’t show – the crazy fangirls, remember?- but we thought we should at least try for some Gatiss appreciation.  This was clearly a common thread of thought amongst the stage-door masses.  As the security guard explained why he wouldn’t be bringing Hiddleston out, a woman could be heard asking her friend “should we stay for Gatiss then?”.

We waited, and waited, and waited....”Thank you! We love you all!” a man shouted to the crowd.  It was a drunk on the way home from the pub.  The Donmar staff turned off the lights and locked the doors.  Life’s like that.

I Have To Return Some Videotapes

I can honestly say I have never read American Psycho and thought: “Ooh, that murder would be an excellent moment for Patrick Bateman to do a song-and-dance routine”.

 I was therefore a bit apprehensive about how Bret Easton Ellis’s cult novel could be turned into “a new musical thriller”.  Fortunately I had other things to occupy my mind before the show began – such as passing by a pub called The Famous Cock on our way to the Almeida Theatre.  Yes, we had to stop for a photo.  We are easily amused.

We arrived at the theatre with plenty of time for wine, and some chatting with the front of house staff about where to find Matt Smith post-play.  The lobby was buzzing with young men who appeared to have taken the American Psycho theme to heart, sporting suits and haircuts to impress Patrick Bateman himself.  Hopefully the trail of innocent victims they left on their way had been well disposed of before they arrived.

Wine downed, we took to our seats and I was quickly joined by an eager Matt Smith fangirl who was there to see the play for the third time.  “You won’t be disappointed!” she assured me happily, before we started comparing notes on what actors we had successfully bothered in our time. 

We noticed the theatre seemed to be partly occupied by uniformed schoolchildren, which seemed like a much better school outing than the time my English class got taken to a matinee showing of Pride and Prejudice – the Musical.  Then when two schoolboys started openly fondling each other...well, that also seemed like a much better school outing than I was used to.

The musical began with a jump, as trench coat-decked cast members starting singing at us and Matt Smith appeared wearing only a pair of tight white underpants.  The fangirl was right – I wasn’t disappointed.  We got straight into Patrick Bateman’s metrosexual inner dialogue, as he detailed his morning beauty regime to the audience while getting dressed. 

We were then introduced to Bateman’s social circle.  The scene in which he and his yuppie pals try to one-up each other with their business cards was brilliantly turned into a musical number – possibly the only musical number you’ll ever see that discusses fonts and paper stock to a dance routine.  Bateman’s girlfriend Evelyn and mistress Courtney were introduced to us by way of a ridiculously catchy eighties pop number called You Are What You Wear, in which every possible designer is present and correct: “I will not touch a drop of red wine, don't wanna ruin the Calvin Klein / Chanel, Gaultier, or Giorgio Armani / Moschino, Alaïa or Norma Kamali / Should I rock the Betsey Johnson, or stick with classic Comme des Garçons?”.

But of course, it’s pretty easy to transfer a tale of well dressed New Yorkers from page to stage – the real question is, how do you make a musical out of a serial killer?

As Bateman’s killing spree is seen to be a reaction to the blank, consumerist lifestyle around him, the production mixes his violence with scenes of rich twentysomethings enjoying their Christmas parties and hip restaurants.  Bateman’s first killing of a homeless man gives way to a scene of neon-clad business men following their hardbody aerobics instructor in the gym and later on, Bateman and Evelyn’s idyllic trip to the Hamptons is immediately followed by a genuinely horrible scene where Bateman is chatting to two blood-splattered prostitutes he has recently toyed with, their bodies still twitching.

Not everything in the musical is entirely successful – the actress playing Bateman’s secretary Jean seemed to struggle with her American accent to the extent I wondered if she had actually given up trying at one point.  And though she was a terrific singer, she was given some of the show’s most uninspired songs to sing in which she insipidly fantasised about settling down with Bateman.  Jean doesn’t do much more than that in the novel, but putting it to music doesn’t make things more interesting.  Admittedly, Jean’s misguided love for her boss does lead to one of the more delicate scenes in the play, in which Bateman spares her from becoming another victim.

The play also changes the scene where Bateman phones his attorney to confess, so that he now phones Detective Kimball – which is fine, but it’s highly unlikely that Kimball and Bateman would ever have a chance encounter in a fashionable nightclub, which is where they meet again in the play and where Kimball laughs off the confession.

And while the play doesn’t descend into the hallucinations and fantastical scenes towards the end of the novel, it does accurately portray Bateman as a highly unreliable narrator, leaving you questioning just how much of what you’ve seen actually happened.

Unsurprisingly, Matt Smith is the star of the show.  His newly buff physique and clean cut image are ideally suited to the image obsessed Patrick Bateman, while he also does a great job of portraying the  dead-behind-the-eyes blankness of the character at the same time.  Though not the best singer you’ll ever hear, he holds a tune nicely and if anything, his limited vocal range actually works very well for the emotionless character he’s playing.  You might never exactly sympathise with Bateman, but he still seems like a much better person to hang out with than his friends, with their conversations about different types of water and what shoes to wear with what suit.

I would also imagine any younger fangirls only familiar with Smith from Doctor Who will have got quite an education from watching him strip down to his underwear and fuck a giant pink teddy bear.  There may have been some debate about whether or not he was wearing a cup for the underwear scenes...I’m choosing to believe he’s just naturally blessed.  Very well blessed indeed.

Play finished, we skipped off to the lobby where we had been told Smith would appear if he was signing autographs.  We waited, and we waited, and the rest of the cast wandered off completely ignored by the assembled masses before the announcement was made that Matt had gone home.  Alas, there would be no Bateman bothering that night. General opinion is that his no-show may have been due to his win at the NTAs that night – I found out he won during the interval when my new fangirl friend showed me his acceptance speech on her phone.  “He’s SO CUTE!!!” she sighed, as he ruffled his hair.

In many ways, it was a fitting end to the evening – as Bateman says himself, “I simply am not there”.

Theatre Adventures in That London

So tomorrow, I’m heading off to That London for a theatre-binge-that-was-never-meant-to-be-a-theatre-binge-but-sort-of-turned-out-that-way type thing. 

Honestly, I only intended to go see Tom Hiddleston flexing his theatrical muscles in Coriolanus, then have a quiet wonder around the city for the first time in two years.  But other plays got announced, my credit card got unleashed, and now I’ve got three plays booked for the three nights I’m there.

On Wednesday I will (provided the transport gods are kind to me and don’t mess up my plans) be watching former Time Lord Matt Smith play Patrick Bateman in a musical production of American Psycho.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I have lost count of the amount of times I have thought American Psycho needed some killer song and dance numbers.  Will there be a catchy number to accompany Bateman running around with a prostitute’s decapitated head on his cock?  This blogger certainly hopes so.

Matt Smith is currently top of my laminated list of People I Desire To Do All The Things with, so I admit the prospect of watching him take his shirt off live on stage is highly exciting to me.  Not that I approve of objectifying people like that, so it is also highly exciting to be there to see my most favourite of Doctors move on to his first post-Gallifreyan project.  But mostly the shirtless thing.  I’m really shallow.

Come Thursday, we have the original purpose of my trip – Coriolanus.  I admit, Coriolanus isn’t exactly my favourite of Shakespeare’s plays.  But, oh my, isn’t that funny, there’s another pretty shirtless man involved in this production (I honestly didn’t realise quite how shallow I was until this point).  To be honest, Hiddleston, as lovely and fragrant and I’m sure he is, wasn’t the big draw for me here – Mark Gatiss as Menenius on the other hand, I’m all over that.  Since booking I’ve also discovered we get the added bonus of Hadley Fraser as Aufidius and good lord, we have ourselves a Shakespearean party.

Now, I understand there has been some bother at the Donmar Warehouse with this particular play.  Up until Friday, Hiddleston had been doing a spot of Meet & Greet with the fans afterwards, who subsequently ran onto Tumblr screaming “OH MY GOD I MET LOKI I MET LOKI” and so forth.  However, some over-enthusiastic fangirls chasing Hiddles down the street on his way to the tube and generally invading his personal space has resulted in the Meet & Greets being cancelled for the rest of the run.  Which is obviously a bit of a downer.  But it’s not often I go to see an actor pretty much on top of his game do some Serious Theatre Business, so there’s still plenty to enjoy.

And if it’s Friday night it must be Ben Whishaw, or more specifically Whishaw’s latest play, Mojo.  I admit, my knowledge of Jez Butterworth’s play comes from a not-entirely-brilliant film adaptation back in 1997 but again, the prospect of seeing Whishaw acting on stage was too good to miss.  Yes, yes, there are shallow forces at work here, he is after all the prettiest little deer in the enchanted forest.  But he is also generally agreed to be one best actors around at the moment, and watching him play a character whose mental stability basically disappears completely by the end of the play ought to be a treat.  In the weird sort of way that watching an actor’s mental state crumble on stage can be considered a treat.

The production appears to be geared towards a younger female audience if the rest of the cast list is anything to go by – Colin Morgan (you might recognise him as Merlin) and Rupert Grint (Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter films) help make up the numbers, not to mention the terribly pretty Tom Rhys Harries.  Not that this is a bad thing of course, provided the intended audience can behave themselves in the same way the Coriolanus audiences perhaps haven’t been.

And that’s the rest of my week.  Throw in a Heston Blumenthal lunch and a trendy Saturday brunch, and gosh, it’s hard to be me.

The Devil Drops In

So, last night the QFT held it's first ever Horror All-Night-a-Thon.  Not just any horror, oh no.  The Devil Drops In was all about the Prince of Darkness, and some of his exploits on screen.  A night spent in a darkened room with a bunch of horror fans watching Satan cut loose might not be everyone's idea of good time.  But I went along for the ride and, by god, I survived.  I survived!

Nine hours of horror and countless cups of free coffee later, my memory of the night is somewhat...hazy?  But in the interests of intrepid journalism, let's attempt to walk through the evening's terror.

The Devil Rides Out

The campiest romp of camp romps.  A Hammer horror starring Christopher Lee (of course) based on the novel of the same name by Dennis Wheatley.  Lee plays the Duc de Richleau who discovers the son of a friend is involved in all things Satanic.  Attempting to rescue Simon from the Devil's clutches, the film takes in not-entirely-high-speed car chases through the English countryside in which nobody actually appears to be driving, and an unintentionally hilarious cast of supporting characters including a cross eyed Duchess and the Devil himself.  Fortunately, Satan (a half man, half goat type being) appears to be easily defeated by some car headlights, so that's the end of that.  The film basically ends with one great big deus ex machina and some God praising - God bless us, everyone!

Invocation of My Demon Brother

Nope.  No idea what was going on here.  Kenneth Anger's short film is full of psychedelic '60s mysticism which therefore means it made no sense whatsoever.
What I can remember - there were some evil cats.  There was a man wearing some fabulous glittery robes.  There was an Albino doing some serious thinking.  There were quite a lot of penises.  There was a bored looking dog.  I understood how the dog felt.
The film also boasted a soundtrack by Mick Jagger.  I say soundtrack - it was basically Jagger hitting the same key on a Moog over and over again until I thought I was in Guantanamo Bay and confessed to some acts of terrorism I had never actually committed.

The Blood on Satan's Claw

Or, Lark Rise to Hellfire.  Some '70s folk-horror that involves a witch with one hell of a Scouse brow wreaking havoc on some simple folk in the countryside.
I think my favourite character in the movie was the chap I christened Stumpy (it was a long night, I can't expected to remember names).  He had some fabulous long hair and a stump for a hand after the Devil - a hairy chap himself - charmed Stumpy into chopping off his digits.  Although the Roger Daltrey-a-like who spent the movie running around in a sleeveless vest and pedal pushers while failing to save anybody's life whatsoever was a close runner up.
For all the witchcraft, the most disturbing scene was probably Frank Spencer's wife having an orgasm.  As I understand it, the film ends with the Honey Monster doing an erotic dance for a fat man with a sword and a fabulous taste in robes and headwear.  I may not understand it very well.

Lucifer Rising

Some more Kenneth Anger occultism.  Apparently, the film takes in a ritual summoning the angel Lucifer.  This ritual seems to involve women shaking their breasts at the sun, men with technicolour dreamcoats and perms staring at soft furnishings and Marianne Faithfull getting upset about some ruined leggings.




Prince of Darkness

John Carpenter's 1987 sci-fi inspired horror in which Satan - or the Anti-God - appears to be an extraterrestrial goo living in a lava lamp.  Featuring double denim, handlebar moustaches and and mullets galore, the film couldn't be more Eighties unless it had a neon sigh flashing throughout saying "I WAS MADE IN THE EIGHTIES, BY THE WAY".
There is also some light racism thrown in for good measure, what with the uptight Asian girl scientist, Jewish mother jokes ("I said RICH doctor!"), and a black man, infected with Satan goo, singing Amazing Grace as he climbs the stairs.  And, hey, it's the Eighties, so there's some Aids metaphors thrown in for good measure as the Anti-God makes his way through the world via the sharing of bodily fluids.
Of course by this point it was very early in the morning, and I confess that the grainy video dream sequence repeated throughout the movie was enjoyably unsettling.  It was all very Nigel Kneale, but to be honest, it just made me want to watch Doctor Who two-parter The Impossible Planet/The Satan Pit which covered pretty much the same storyline much better.

The Exorcist

Oh, you've all seen The Exorcist.  Even if you haven't, you know the plot, so there's no need for me to explain it.  Which is just as well, as I'm afraid I didn't quite manage to stay awake throughout the entire thing.
Still, I woke up for the end of the movie, and the end of the horror-a-thon.  And in time for breakfast!  God knows, after watching Linda Blair spit up pea soup, I often feel the need to eat bacon sandwiches and bagels.


And that was that!  We survived the night of terror and wandered off into the morning light, yawning and cowering away from the sun.  And then sleep, for those who had no fear of the Prince of Darkness wandering into our dreams anyway.

Introducing The Band

It's a very odd thing, being in the crowd for a band you're not entirely familiar with.  Well, it is for me anyway.

I'm more used to being one of the die-hards, clutching the barrier while singing along at the top of my voice, surrounded by familiar faces, like I'm at some sort of evangelical gathering.  Which is why going to see Suede play the Dublin Olympia last night was such an unusual event.

Don't get me wrong, I've always 'liked' Suede, but that was as far as it went.  They were never a band that grabbed me by the throat and forced me to listen.  My quota of androgynous glamour was pretty much filled by a host of other mid-nineties bands with snaked hipped singers and impressive fringes, thanks.  But when I saw Suede play the Belsonic festival this summer, I had a Damascene conversion caused by Brett Anderson leaning across the barrier and grabbing the hands of his assembled disciples - a conversion that led to my arrival at the Olympia.

Unfamiliar ground or not, old habits are hard to kick and I found myself anxiously grabbing my spot on the barrier.  Of course, this leads to a new set of problems - being on the barrier but not knowing all the song lyrics?  Shameful!  But when the band, or specifically when Brett and the sharp cheekboned Neil Codling took to the stage I quickly realised I was in the right place.

The main attraction to Suede, for me at least, has to be the drama.  The stirring orchestra playing over the speakers as they arrived was just the start.  Anderson gave a performance Judy Garland herself would be proud of: acting out the song lyrics, sitting on the steps to the stage crooning lustily into the microphone, getting emotional and batting away his tears with a fey flick of the wrist.

And the gyrating - my god, the gyrating.  Not even Dita Von Teese could put on such a shameless display of burlesque as this 46 year old Englishman.  Anderson straddled the barrier with his arms outstretched like some sort of oversexed messiah.  Throughout the course of the gig I must have had about 85% of his sweat-soaked anatomy in my face.  No matter how attractive you find a singer, it's still hard to know where to look when they've bent over the barrier next to you and are wiggling their bony backside in your face.  And let's not even start on Anderson's fondness for getting down on all fours...

Of course, I have to give credit to the previously mentioned Neil Codling - keyboards, guitar, cheekbones, hair, poses.  Fabulous poses.  He seems to spend most of his time on stage concentrating on his pout, which is fine by me as it's essentially the best pout in the business.  Anderson's white shirt was as good as see-through by the end of the night but Codling - Dorian Gray with a Korg - remained as cool as ice.  If it wasn't for Anderson whipping his microphone cord around his waist centre stage, watching Neil Codling pose would be a perfectly fine way to spend an evening.

Note to self: pointing at Neil Codling during the chorus of The Beautiful Ones may result in an icy cold stare of death from said band member.

And in the end, even if I didn't know every song lyric it was still an incredible gig.  Brett thanked the familiar faces and the unfamiliar faces alike, and we all left the venue sweaty, smiling dopily and thoroughly satisfied.  "We like to play strange, old songs" Brett told the audience at one point, "because we're a strange, old band".  Thank goodness for strange, old bands.