September 1st, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: London, England

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: A Spare Theatrical Thought…in dialogue.

The Deep Blue Sea by Terence Rattigan @ The National Theatre

Well, the truth is…I can’t give an objective review of “The Deep Blue Sea” at The National Theatre because I had a major fight with a member of the company immediately after the performance…

It’s true!

Terence Rattigan appeared to me in a dream. 

Before I could say a thing, T. Rattigan said, “Well, Sharon, my sweet little macaroon, it’s obvious that you’re only keeping a travelogue blog to review my play!”

Sharon Fulton: “Well, no, I…”

TR: “Haven’t I taught you a lot about women’s feelings?”

SF: “Well, I…”

TR: “Women, you know… Suicides whenever their lovers walk out.”

SF: “I’m not sure that's tr…”

TR: “Hester! Hester, my most famous heroine. What a love. An everywoman, isn’t she?”

SF: “Aren’t you talking about your ex-boyfriend?”

TR, taking a long breath during a pregnant pause, “You’re rather callous to bring up my, my…” whispering, “my boyfriend.”

SF: “Yes, but you just said…”

TR: “Let’s get back to the point.”

SF: “The point?”

TR: “There’s no reason you would write anything other to review my play," with his lip beginning to tremble, "is there?”

SF: “Well, I have lots to say about…”

TR: “Is there?”

SF: “Well, Terry…”

TR: “DON’T CALL ME TERRY!”

SF: “Uh. Don't take this the wrong way, but do you need an antidepressant?”

TR: “What’s an antidepressant?”

SF: “Or therapy?”

TR: “Wha…?”

SF: “Or both?”

TR, starting to cry, “You’re confusing me…”

SF: “It’s just that,” trying to sound non-confrontational, “women don’t necessarily commit suicide every time a man behaves like a dickhead, Terry.”

TR: Still weeping convulsively and unable to say anything.

SF, soldiering on despite her own disinclination to say anything hurtful, “Because men…Well, men often act like selfish, self-centered schmucks, Terry.”

TR, now wailing, “I KNOW! Sharon, I know,” now weeping on my shoulder, “You don’t need to tell me, Sharon, what compulsive, uncaring, narcissistic, heartless, dick-headed prats men can be.”

SF, patting Terence Rattigan on the back, “I know you know, Terry. I know you know. But maybe…”

TR, beginning to get hold of himself and looking up from my shoulder, “Ye…Yes?”

SF: “Well, just maybe you could write about your suicidal boyfriend next time…instead of turning him into a woman?”

TR: “But I’m,” whispering, “gay. It’s illegal, my dear.”

SF: “It isn’t anymore, Terry.”

TR, looking up in disbelief, “It isn’t?”

SF: “No.”

TR: “Not even in England?”

SF: “Not even in England! Ian McKellen and Derek Jacobi marched in New York’s gay pride parade last year."

TR: “Who are they?”

SF: “I’ll explain later. My point is that being gay isn’t illegal anymore. In fact, most people with any taste prefer the cultural contributions of gay people.”

TR: “By George!”

SF: “Exactly.”

TR: “In that case, I will never make blanket statements or inaccurate dramatizations about women again.”

SF: “Oh goo…”

TR: “Or their suicidal tendencies whenever their lovers leave!”

SF: “Oh great… Um, thanks Terry. That’s…”

TR: “No, you’re right. My experience as a gay man mustn’t necessarily be exactly the same as your experience as a nubile woman.”

SF: “Oh, cool...” encouraging this revelation with a little pat on the back, “Good! But I don’t think gay men necessarily commit suicide either…”

TR: Begins to look confused again.

SF, changing the subject, “And we’re still definitely best friends?”

TR: “Of course, we’re best friends!”

SF: “And Terry,” wondering if she’s going too far, “You will look into those antidepressants, won’t you?”

TR: “What are antidepressants? Are they like gin?”

SF: “Oh, Terry…”

TR: “Or Scotch?”