In order to stop me from going quite mad with worry and over-speculation in the coming days, I’ve decided to employ a series of diversionary tactics, which I’m then going to relate to you lot to further distance my thoughts from the subject during the day time.
Last night’s effort, coinciding with it being the birthday of someone rather special, involved a fine dinner at Manna on Bath St, followed by a trip to the Kings to see the touring production of The Producers. I always have misgivings about adaptations, and being an enormous admirer of the Mostel/Wilder combination that created Bialystock and Bloom in the original movie had approached the musical remake movie with trepidation, but Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick were great, so I had an easier time of it tripping along to see it now on stage. Even if it involved the talents of Joe Pasquale. But you know what? The show is so good, so rib-hurtingly funny, that old Mr Squeaky is just carried along as one more oddball component of the whole affair. It’s got everything you want from The Producers: “That’s our Hitler”, swastika-shaped kicklines of stormtroopers, gaggles of lovelorn little old ladies, and more camp than the hinterlands of T-in-the-Park. Cory English brings proper bo Broadway bravura to Bialystock, and a special mention for Allen Stuart’s butch/camp cocktail portrayal of Roger DeBris (‘Heil Me!’).
Brilliant fun. And a successful evening of diversion.
Only three days to go.