Easter Madness

According to a BusinessWeek article on London's fabulous new architecture, "more is going on now than at any time since the Victorians". The article is short, but interesting, covering the various new commercial and residential projects that abound throughout the city. The population is rising, for the first time in decades, and is expected to exceed 8 million by 2016.

Lots of people also means lots of things to do, and that sums up this busy last two weeks. I caught one of the last performances of Arthur Miller's penultimate play Resurrection Blues. On paper, the Old Vic production seemed like a sure bet, written by the incomparable Miller, directed by Robert Altman, and starring Matthew Modine and Neve Campbell, in addition to many more competent actors (whose names may not sell tickets quite like Modine and Campbell). The story concerns the ruling elite in a corrupt third-world nation, visited by an American television crew who wish to film the government-ordered crucifixion of a local man who claims to be the son of God. The performances were good, the script (unexpectedly) funny, and yet something didn't quite gel. I was totally let down by the third act, but that's been happening a lot of late. I thought it was just me, but I've since learnt there is an old saying in the theatre, according to Joan Collins, at least, that "there are no good third acts". She cites herself as an exception!

Last night I took the Thameslink to Croydon (cue: shudder), to see Joan Collins' one-woman show. When telling friends about the show, I joked that poor Joan, at 73, can no longer book a central London theatre. Her performance made me eat every last word. Within minutes of arriving on stage, she announced that she learnt to do the splits at age 6, and can still do it. Did we want to see? Yes, we cheered... and so she did, dropping to the floor within seconds, legs akimbo like a Barbie doll that's about to snap. I was gob-smacked. I can't do the splits at 31... then again, my legs haven't had quite as much leg-opening practice. The format of the show was a personal tour through Ms Collins' fabulous, hard-working, and mostly-charmed life. She has remarkable comic ability, which I think rarely shows in her body of film and television work. When given a humorour line, the context often comes off as camp or clever, or perhaps just a little too clever, rather than just bloody funny, as she was in person. And who would have thought that she is such a competent impressionist? I was in hysterics for most of the night. Like when she recounted how, on the occasion of Joan's fourth divorce, Elizabeth Taylor sent a note which read "I'm still ahead by three!".

During my brief stay in her (distant) presence, it seemed to me that the private Joan Collins is a far more complex person than the public persona we see. My primary evidence is the her non-verbal communication with someone waiting off-stage, in the wings (presumably, husband Percy). These quick asides followed the risky jokes that paid off, especially when Collins obviously strayed from the script, and provided the production with a warm and earthy feel. And then there were the discreet notes, sitting on a lectern, almost never referred to, but always there, just in case. These vulnerable and down-to-earth touches made the show a delight, because the persona of "Joan Collins" became more real, and more accessible to me. In the space of a few hours, I was won over, and am now a confirmed fan.

Not far removed from the glamour and quick wit of Ms Collins is one of my oldest - yet youngest - friends from Brisbane, Tony. He arrived on Easter Saturday for one whirlwind week in London. We crammed so much into that week that it seemed like Tony had been here for weeks (or months), but in a good way, of course! I met some of Tony's friends, one of whom very generously took us to some fab restaurants: the Gordon Ramsay group's Maze (tapas delight, and quite affordable) and Hakkasan (for outstanding Chinese). And in between we managed to hit some bars and clubs to do more than enough damage for some time... at least until this weekend's bank holiday. ;-)

Aloha Honolulu

I received very exciting news today... Murder's a Drag was accepted for the 17th Annual Honolulu Rainbow Film Festival scheduled May 25th - 28th, 2006!

Who is Number One?

Most of Patrick McGoohan's cult 60s television show The Prisoner was filmed on location at Portmeirion in Wales. But there was some London location shooting, most notably the opening credits of each episode depicting Number 6 resigning from his government job.

On Sunday I took part in the The Prisoner London Locations Walking Tour, run by The Unmutual website. It was a fun day, despite the downpour and icy wind that threatened proceedings. The 3.5 mile walking tour started at Marble Arch. We walked down Park Lane (visiting the car park underneath) to Hyde Park Gate, then down Constitution Hill to Buckingham Palace, followed by Trafalgar Square, the Embankment, and the Houses of Parliament, before arriving at 1 Buckingham Place, which appears in the series as Number 6's house. My photos from the tour are here. The Unmutual team's own photographs of Sunday's tour, featuring more of the tour group, are here.

Blog of the Day

I'm sending a special hello to Metro and Travel Rants readers. Both of those sites have linked to me as their "blog of the day". How exciting!

Tick Tick Tock, It's a Quarter to Two

According to one of the poets of our age, time goes by, so slowly, for those who wait, when you're hung up, and hesitate. I've had a miserable two weeks here in Londinium. It all started when I fell sick with the flu, bed-ridden for most of a week, feeling sorry for myself, and seriously light-deprived. Let there be no doubt about the veracity of SAD as a legitimate illness. I felt the city, and especially my gloomy flat, closing in on me, threatening my sanity like Roman Polanski in The Tenant. Then the stress of finding a new flat reached a peak when I started to hesitate about where I wanted to live, missing out on a choice flat in the Barbican (1,2), and generally freaking out at the absurd cost of rent in this city. And finally, my spirits sailed through the floor with the belated realisation that my relationship with Paul is well and truly over. It hit me at work, inducing a mini-breakdown that peaked with me blurting my heart out to my boss. Dear me!!

I've had no better friend than Paul for the last five years, and in times of stress it was always him that I turned to for love and support. When you're in love, nothing else matters, and no problem seems insurmountable. It's been hellish to not have his love and support in these stressful times. On top of that, I consider myself very independent, and I hate feeling so damned needy. On the positive side, it's been a great opportunity to realise, once again, the strong base of love and support that I have from my family and friends, who are helping me immensely, and make every day a little bit easier to deal with, and thus easier than the last. When I think about it, I've had a pretty easy run in my short time in London, and my present predicament will not last forever. It's just so bloody frustrating that when good times turn to bad, everything f*cks up at once. It's like the synopsis for a trite reality show, When Things Go Wrong. But I'm determined to get through this nightmare, and move on, even if it (seriously) brings me down to think that things may not improve for some weeks yet.

I'm trying to distract myself with work and film stuff, but I'm not fond of my job, so I spend a great deal of the day looking for flats. (Of course, due to that unexplainable paradox, my boss thinks I'm most productive, generally wonderful, and a trooper for carrying on without letting it "affect my work"). I've done some minor re-edit work on Murder's a Drag, for submission in some North American film festivals. I know I have a perfectionist streak that is best to keep under tabs, but there were a few things that really annoyed me about the film that I needed to fix. I'm sure no-one else has even picked up on them, but when you've seen the film as often as I have, you can't ignore it. Figuring I'm stuck with the film for life, it's better to tweak it now and be done with it!! This is not a director's cut, or a special edition... this is the version. I liken it to Kubrick changing the end of The Shining, one week after it was released to cinemas, except of course, I'm not Kubrick, and the film is not The Shining.

Despite my depression, I had a wonderfully busy weekend. It started with dinner with the End End gang (Mark B, Greg, Howard and Barnaby, Martin, and his new beau, Luke) in Shoreditch on Friday night. Howard chose Song Que, an Indonesian restaurant on Kingsland Road. We ate until we were stuffed, and drank a never-ending supply of Asahi, and yet managed to only spend £20/head.

The next day, Saturday, I played with my friend Troy, whose boyfriend coincidentally broke up with him the week before. We consoled each other with lunch at the Spaghetti House in Knightsbridge, location of the 1976 Spaghetti House Siege, followed by a wander through Harvey Nichols and Harrods, afternoon tea at Cafe Richoux, and a lovely walk through Hyde Park. London is ablaze in a burst of colour, as spring-time flowers bloom. And since British Summer Time officially started on 27 March, the sun rises at 7am and doesn't set until 7:30pm. Such a magnificient contrast to the dead of winter, only a few short months ago. I cannot over-emphasize how London changes overnight as soon as the clocks go forward. It's not just the flora that's blooming, as people in the street seem cheerier than usual, especially when they stand on the footpath outside London's many pubs, for after-work drinks.

My day with Troy day ended with a viewing of Eli Roth's latest horror film, Hostel. I really enjoyed Cabin Fever, but hated the unnecessarily violent and sickening Hostel. I applaud Roth's courage to make a truly horrific horror film, which is not an easy task considering that the horror of America in Iraq is beamed nightly into our living rooms. But Hostel ultimately fails for the very reason that too much effort is placed on the shock and gore. There's nothing else to it, and certainly not the social allegory of George Romero's Dawn of the Dead, or a Cronenberg film, which is a shame. There is a half-hearted attempt to comment on retribution for American brutality abroad, but who cares when the rest of film is so unrepentantly misogynistic and homophobic, the latter being curious given my suspicions about Mr Roth.

I also saw Basic Instinct 2 this week, and I loved it for all its glossy trashiness. Don't listen to the critics, and just go and see it... though you might want to expect very little, as I did, in order to be pleasantly surprised. In the sequel, Catherine Trammell relocates to London (like everyone, right now), to live in a a fab duplex apartment (I'm channeling £2500/week in rent), and continue her "research" for new murder mysteries. Ms Trammell, as the trailer suggests, has a risk addiction, meaning she likes to wear short skirts, drive fast cars, and have rough sex. She's also cold, manipulative, and on heat. We learn this in the first five minutes, when a detective enquires if she's upset by her husband's death. She replies "Of course I am, I may never come again". The dialogue is camp and bitchy, and the plot quite silly, but who can ignore a film where Stone drops howlers like "even Oedipus didn't see his mother coming". Basic Instinct 2 IS this decade's Showgirls, and is a must-see for that very reason. The other great thing about Basic Instinct 2 is all the London locations, which include Berwick Street in the heart of gay Soho, the Gherkin, the Limehouse Link Tunnel, and Canary Wharf. Doubling for the Old Bailey is the Freemasons Hall (pictured at right) in Great Queen Street, home to the oldest Grand Lodge, and just around the corner from my flat.

This post started with a reference to Madonna's Hung Up, so it's fitting that I end with another. A few weeks back, I visited the fabulous Borough Market, where I saw all manner of fresh food produce, including some very expensive rockmelons. Just nearby is Redcross Way, pictured at right, which appears in Hung Up as the location where the black cab drops off the L.A. teenagers.