After the faux-drama of the fiery prawns, I've not had much to say, have I?
In the spirit of useless theatre reviews, I went to see Death of a Salesman on Friday night. It closed on Saturday, sorry! So this really is a useless review, unless you count maundering on the themes valuable entertainment.*
P took me and poor old P, he hadn't realised that it was a dark sort of a play. We found it massively relevant, hence incredibly depressing. For me it was the theme of self-delusion that echoed as we walked home afterwards; in a pinterest/bloggy type world where many of us work hard at giving the impression of a life of value and substance, do we really achieve it? Or are we merely full of hot air, deluding ourselves that we've built something fabulous and worthwhile, missing the real value of what's before us? Actually that's pretty awful. I'd rather not think on it too hard.
George Henare was beyond. Actually, the entire ensemble were pretty amazing and I thought the whole production wonderful. Now, isn't that insightful commentary?
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In other news, I ate brunch here. Do it, if you're in Auckland. Dutch pancakes are the business (I've written about them before...)
*This constant need to excuse and justify my writing is getting old. So WHY can't I stop it? I can't work out exactly what I'm trying to achieve by it (probably comes across as false criticism). Eugh.
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