DIARY OF A SOMEBODY: A Review

DIARY OF A SOMEBODY: JOHN LAHR 

UNC-Chapel Hill. January 28^th 2012. 8pm – 10pm

If you read his diaries, all will be explained.

Room 102 of Chapel Hill’s Centre for Dramatic Art is a punitive, white-washed room in a very big building. Yet, in the diminutive space, the LAB!Theatre presents a simplistic stage – two walls covered by six heavily postered panels in an ‘L’ shape, a multi-use table covered by a sheet and a single desk with chair in the corner of the ‘L’. The audience enters as the cast face the panels, lightly touching the photos and words plastered there, occasionally shuffling close together and making lascivious faces at one another. Finally, two split away from the wall, one sits at the desk, the other coming forward to the table and opening his mouth to speak. This is Jack Utrata, playing Joe Orton, his first lines taken straight from the diaries of a dead man.

Based on the last few months before Kenneth Halliwell murdered his lover, British playwright Joe Orton, in 1967, the play was directed by Glasgow exchange student, John May, for the UNC-Chapel Hill LAB!Theatre. ‘Diary of a Somebody’ was a controversial performance to choose for the first LAB! show of the year, polarising audience opinions from its opening night.

May admitted that this was one of the things that he aimed to do, ‘North Carolina is terribly conservative, I wanted to force them to face something that would make them uncomfortable.’

As promiscuous as he was promising, Joe Ortan’s life allows the play to confront contemporary issues as well as those from the origins of the 1960s sexual revolution. At UNC, this is particularly poignant with the ever-looming threat of Amendment One. However, May insisted that his desire to put on the play was also to do with the fact that it was the first time the play would be performed in America in thirty years.

Indeed, it is hard to tell how much of the effect of the play is Lahr and how much is direction. With five cast members, three of whom play thirty different roles, the performance accentuates the idea that this play written from the diaries of a playwright does not come from the perspective of the playwright. These ‘thirty others’ are faceless, sometimes nameless and unimportant to the true narrator behind the play, notably suggested by their costumes: half one outfit, half another. The  room, as small as it is, emphasises the intimacy of the two primary characters as well as juxtaposing the privacy of the diary form with the publicity of the stage. As all the elements are drawn together: the setting, the characters, the action – we realise that the play is a murderer’s excuse. Even as Halliwell’s repeated plea becomes a desperate  rage, Lahr’s writing becomes a confession, the audience his jury.

This is comedy at its darkest, character acting at its finest and LAB! living up to their reputation. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

An American Thanksgiving

An American Thanksgiving

A Tale of Games and Turkey and Mountains
Belated.

Thanksgiving, that renown tradition that everyone in Britain's heard of but no one really knows anything about.  It's all about family and, unsurprisingly, about 'giving thanks' for all those things that you might otherwise take for granted. From what I can tell, it's pretty much an early Christmas (or another excuse to eat far too much and gain some turkey weight). It has a strange set of traditions because of the blend of Native American and European influences but as hinted - it focuses on copious amounts of food, especially the bird. 

Having gone home with the Harts to their beautiful house in Hickory (no matter what Mrs Hart says about the place 'falling apart' you really mustn't believe her because it's such a gorgeous home with such a wonderful warmth to it), I found myself not exactly knowing what to expect. For one I know that that Americans, particularly down South have a slightly different sense of politeness and decorum to us Brits, so how to act? to dress? to talk? to address the effervescent Margaret Hart, her affable husband or the charismatic Dr Bob? What about the rest of the Harts and the extended family? Would I impose too much on what films claim as the time of closest family and friends? All these worries when I first left the safety of Chapel Hill... 

..... and what silly worries they were to hold!! 

Perhaps some of the most generous and lovely people I've ever met, none of the concerns that my over-thinking had conjured up were even fleetingly part of my consciousness for the rest of the duration. Well... at least not once Dr Hart revealed the cider in the fridge and we compared the Carolinan to British. The boardgames helped too. And so did the creole spices and the champagne/prosecco/sparkling wine etcetc. 

There are probably three key things other than the EPIC MEAL TIME that stand out. When we went to 'The Farm' (aka Harts Square) which was unbelievable, when we went to that mexican place that no one could agree the name of and of course when we headed up into the mountains-proper and then... attempted to climb one. 

The Farm lies up above Hickory in a place called Plateau (pronounced Plat-ahhh). I don't think there's anything quite like Harts Square and although I utterly failed to take any pictures, forgetting my diana in the car, there's a giant book that I want to bring home although it is about the same weight as Rebecca. 

And yes, this is me in gaol. Don't worry Bex gots my bail.

Bob Hart started back in the late 1960s when he thought that purchasing the land now known as Hart's Square could become a wildlife park. Now it's the home of over 73 log cabins that he painstakingly sought out, bought, took down, rebuilt and restored over the last fifty or so years. There's an original working cotton gin, a pottery kiln, an amazing printing press, a prison, a beautiful bridge, a barge, two exquisite chapels and an 'indian village'. You'd need a little more time than we had to really explore all 73 of them but just wandering around gives you the most amazing sense of history. The place feels removed from the rest of the world, distant as it is from anywhere else, but it's also timeless. It's not actually open to the public most of the time (only once a year in October) but being taken around by Robert, Rebecca and Abby and of course Bob with every fact under the sun and his love of rose-head nails.


And we did try some sneaky moonshine. Lovely lovely stuff.


NB. Did you know that 'sleep tight' refers to the strings that were tightened on a bed?? You'd use this weird contraption that looks like a shoehorn to make the strings taut before sleeping. 


The Mexican... I don't think any of us really knew what it was called. But we did manage to have a seriously strong margaritas and then return home with tubs and tubs of strawberry sorbet which we promptly turned into even stronger margarita/daiquiri type drinks in front of the basketball.


The Moutains are extraordinary.

This is the view from a wee bit down Grandfather Mountain, which we attempted to climb only to be met with insane winds and a face full of cloud.


You can tell why they're call the Blue Ridge Mountains though.


We drove up along the 'most beautiful road in America' (sic Top Gear) the Blue Ridge Parkway, via a quaint little town called Blowing Rock where we attempted to see a parade but decided the crowds were too intimidating. We also went to the nearby outlet stores where I managed to get a ton of my Christmas shopping done which was rather brilliant (albeit constituted a lot of my luggage weight for going home). Oddly enough, a lot of the accents sound scottish and a lot of the buildings remind me of Swiss chalets. The same went for the Hart's house on the golf course. It was incredibly reminiscent of Morzine. We went on a lovely walk around the course, saw a massive bear paw and I discovered just how amazingly well trained Annabelle is as a hunting dog.

Now I probably ought to confess that I am not exactly accustomed to 'hiking'. When people say hiking in the UK I feel we envision pickaxes and snow-covered glaciers... or something along the lines of the DofE ie. steep hills, panoramic views of green fields and grazing sheep, perhaps the odd stile to hop over. We don't generally think of ludicrously tall mountains where people have fallen to their deaths. Nor do we imagine craggy rock surfaces up which one has to scale, minus rope and safety net. Yet this is exactly what we set off to do. I don't know how they put up with me - I promptly fell on my bum and looked bewildered from the top of my bolder.


However, I am quite determined that by the time I next hit up the Blue Ridge Mountains I will have learnt to be less fretful about the whole thing. I will be a confidant post-Tarzan Jane, scrambling up the cracked mountainside without acting like a complete ninny. Maybe I'm being a little harsh, it was howling a gale and slippery as our bedroom floor in Horton because the whole peak was sunk within the clouds. Not exactly prime 'novice' weather. But I stand by what I said: I will go Hiking. And I will enjoy it!!!


If only because next time I'll remember my actual camera and take photos that are 1000% better than these which I took on my phone.


Of course, what is Thanksgiving without a mention of the actual Thanksgiving???

Here I am, surrounded by the Harts girls, feeling exceptionally short and ever so thankful that I didn't wear a tighter dress. Recall that I mentioned that it's like a preemptive Christmas dinner and you'll understand why. The Food:


Turkey with stuffing is a MUST. Succulent and delicious, you can't scrimp on the turkey and Rebecca's grandmother cooked it to perfection.


Sweet Potato Mash with Marshmallow. Now Nigella Lawson has a view tips to making this but the art is in the addition of something a little tangy to offset the inevitable sweetness of the combination. Add orange or lemon juice and a wee sprinkle of nutmeg to bring the mash to a nice rich flavour. Then, in the last five minutes or so, add a layer of marshmallows and bake them. They'll melt on the inside and crisp on the outside, just like roasting them on a stick in a fire. NOM.


Macaroni. Yup, you heard me, macaroni cheese with your turkey and gravy and sweet potato. Not exactly what most of us Brits would commonly put with our roast dinner but a wonderful addition that cannot be missed from the list.


Vegetables - such an array that I think I managed to make up for all the missed greens over the months of Rams and ADPi Fried Fridays (love those adpi fridays mmmmm).


Red Velvet Cake. So moist. So scrumptious. Amazing. And of course that's not the box it came in. Not at all.


As you can imagine was high on our list of priorities. Mrs Hart really was amazing too because she even managed to find me soy-free bread from a health food shop. I didn't have anything with anything I can't eat in for a whole week. Miracle. She also makes a wicked butternut-squash soup. I think I've actually had dreams about it.

The Mile High Bridge.
 Can you see it Swaying in the Wind?

The end of Thanksgiving was less spectacular - I lost my One Card (also my debit card), my driving license and my student card for Edinburgh. They were in this black and white wallet and I can't believe it's survived two years in Edinburgh and now it decides to go missing. It could have been lost at Wendy's although I'm 80% certain that I had it and my phone in my hand when we left or it could be mixed in with everyone's luggage...  I'm giving it until tomorrow to turn up because it might be in Rebecca's car having fallen somewhere obscure... but I'm not keeping my hopes up. I'm not too worried but it is a bit frustrating. Other than that I just wish it was time to go home properly - I'm in the mood for some more friendly faces. I guess I'm a little bit down because I didn't even know my room mate was here until she appeared through the bathroom having been next door.  Oh dear the ups and downs of 'Living With People'.

I suppose now all that's left to say is THREE WEEKS. I can't wait for Christmas, especially now I'm on route with present buying.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER