wordwhacker

I went to see No Exit last night. I went in fully expecting to want to throw myself in front of a car when I walked out of the theatre, so I was pleasantly surprised that the play's subject matter didn't depress me overly much. What can be bad about a baby-killing lady and a cheeky femme fatale who wants her? And a cowardly journalist just to round things out. Love triangles don't usually do much for me but I have to appreciate one that turns the tables a little, y'know?

There wasn't much in the line of sets to talk about, so I'll talk about shoes instead. When in doubt for where to look, I looked at the shoes. Did they not rock? Seriously. I would want a pair of Dr. J's shoes if I wore that kind of thing. (As it is, I'll settle for wanting the kind of lady who would wear 'em. Rrrowr.)

It was... weird... that the lights weren't working right. Usually I feel snug and safe in theatres, because I am in one of two positions: either EVERYBODY is looking at me (if I'm on stage), or NOBODY is looking at me. But with the house lights on I felt all naked or something. It was especially strange in the first play, Wild Abandon, when for a good long time I sustained actual eye-contact with the actor. Weird! Creepy! Not normal!

But then again, I can't imagine how strange it was for the actors, who can usually rely on that foggy blackness to shroud the audience and make them a little less... right there staring at you.