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Archive for the ‘Dance’ Category

One of the defining features of reality is weight. Fantasies have all the gravity-defying pleasure of an oxygen deprived high, but trying to recreate them in life evokes the spine-shrinkingly horrible sensation of throwing a piece of paper as hard as you can. Maybe it’s why fashion models are parchment light, as epitomised in Arthur [...]

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“It is amazing how complete is the delusion”, wondered Count Tolstoy, no doubt blinking in the cruel glare bouncing off a harlot’s milk-white bosom, “that beauty is goodness”. In Leo veritas. Beauty is more reliably bad-ass, and too much of it can kill.

It’s a truism beautifully told in Hedda, Lucy Kirkwood’s updated version of Ibsen’s [...]

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I hesitate to add to the omnipresent blogblurb about the Edinburgh Fringe, which begs for a online filter similar to Crunky’s anti-Olympics app. But ‘most everyone is wrong, predictably. The much-discussed provocative political set-pieces were sour, shouty and grim: Gordon Brown in a gimp mask. Moving in a sort of instinctive, inevitable way, they nonetheless [...]

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I have found Jesus.
He has the face of an angel and the voice of a prophet, and he plays the fiddle like a devil with a carpenter’s arms. The second coming is an understatement; Robert Powell was a nice looking fella, but it’s a touch of cosmic genius to have made Messiah 2.0 from James [...]

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The downy, milk-scented, chunky-knit cardigan of Habit is always in fashion. Earl Grey at three, Kir Royale for tea, and a good rogering by a Duke in the morning; heaven is a reclusive roost called Routine. Hence my softly sighing satisfaction at discovering Pandora Radio: enter a song or artist and it’s Music Genome Project [...]

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Through a haze of Hoyo de Monterrey Double Corona smoke, passionate polemic and ribald humour ring out to the rhythm of tin mugs of rum slamming the scored wooden table and worn-heeled boots drumming the sawdust-strewn floor. As wan dawn waxes, the band of ragged strangers dissolve into the light, unlikely to meet again yet [...]

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Who wouldn’t love an ‘audience’ with the profligately procreative PollyPocket powerhouse that is Prince? However, preferring as I do the rumbustious companionship of a slap-up Shakespeare skit peformed by after-hours theatrical greats in a sawdust-strewn drinking den in Soho to the cavernous corporate queue-fest that nowadays constitutes a ‘big gig’, the royal one’s shindig at [...]

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