El 6 de febrer de l'any 2007 la Nina Stemme ens va fer un recital al Liceu d'aquells que deixen un record inoblidable.

La Stemme va estar acompanyada al piano ni més ni menys per uns dels directors d'orquestra que més m'agraden, Antonio Pappano, el director musical de la ROH Covent Garden de Londres i antic mestre assistent del Liceu. L'acompanyament de Pappano va ser en tot moment modèlic, prenent el protagonisme necessari per fer el suport a la veu, però mai volen ser més que ella.

A la primera part la Stemme ens va cantar 6 cançons de Edvard Grieg i els Wessendonck-Lieder. A la segona, amb un teatre absolutament entregat va cantar, cinc cançons de Jan Sibelius i 6 cançons de Rakhmáninov.
L’emociona’t públic li va demanar més i ella va oferir tres bisos, una cançó de Sibelius, el Surabaya Johny més dramàtic que he escoltat jo mai i el t'estimo de Edvard Grieg.

Ara us proposo escoltar aquell Surabaya Johnny i ja us aviso, tal com deia la Margo Chaning a All about Eve, "estrenyeu-se els cinturons que aquesta nit hi haurà turmenta".

Surabaya Johnny pertany a la comèdia musical en tres actes Happy End, de Kurt Weill, Elisabeth Hauptmann i Bertolt Brecht, estrenada a Berlín el 2 de setembre de 1929.

Elisabeth Hauptmann va escriure la història sota el pseudònim de Dorothy Lane. L'obra a la seva estrena va obtenir un fracàs total i es va representar durant tan sols 7 dies. Va ser titllada de comunista.

L'obra es va reposar a Munic a l'any 1956 i ja no han deixat de fer-se. La trama és molt simple i en certs aspectes recorda la de Guys and Dolls.

L'obra conté dos números que han tingut una ressonància més enllà de la pròpia obra, aquest Surabaya Johnny en el tercer acte i que avui ens canta la Stemme i "Bilbao Song" al inici del primer acte.
[audio http://ximo.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/surabaya-johnny_nina-stemme.mp3]

Ich war jung, Gott, erst sechzehn Jahre.
Du kamest von Burma herauf.
Du sagtest, ich solle mit dir gehen,
du kämest für alles auf.
Ich fragte nach deiner Stellung.
Du sagtest so wahr ich steh':
du hättest zu tun mit der Eisenbahn
und nichts zu tun mit der See.

Du sagtest viel, Johnny, kein Wort war wahr, Johnny.
Du hast mich betrogen, Johnny, zur ersten Stund!
Ich hasse dich so, Johnny,
wie du dastehst und grinst, Johnny.
Nimm doch die Pfeife aus dem Maul, du Hund!

Surabaya Johnny, warum bist du so roh?
Surabaya Johnny, mein Gott und ich liebe dich so!
Surabaya Johnny, warum bin ich nicht froh?
Du hast kein Herz Johnny, und ich liebe dich so!

Zuerst war es immer Sonntag.
Das war, bis ich mitging mit dir.
Aber dann, schon nach zwei Wochen,
war dir nichts mehr recht an mir.

Hinauf und hinab durch den Pandschab,
den Fluß entlang bir zur See:
ich seh schon aus im Spiegel
wie eine Vierzigjährige.

Du wolltest nicht Liebe, Johnny,
du wolltest Geld, Johnny
aber sah, Johnny, nur auf deinen Mund.
Du verlangtest alles, Johnny.
Ich gab dir mehr, Johnny.
Nimm doch die Pfeife aus dem Maul, du Hund!

Surabaya Johnny, warum bist du so roh?
Surabaya Johnny, mein Gott und ich liebe dich so!
Surabaya Johnny, warum bin ich nicht froh?
Du hast kein Herz Johnny, und ich liebe dich so!

Ich habe es nicht beachtet
warum du den Namen hast.
Doch an der ganzen langen Küste
warst du ein bekannter Gast.

Eines Morgens in einem Six-Pence-Bett,
werd' ich donnern hören die See;
und du gehst ohne etwas zu sagen,
und ein Schiff liegt unten am Kai.

Du hast kein Herz, Johnny,
Du bist ein Schuft, Johnny.
Du gehst jetzt weg, Johnny,
sag mir den Grund!
Ich liebe dich doch, Johnny,
wie am ersten Tag, Johnny.
Nimm doch die Pfeife aus dem Maul, du Hund!

Surabaya Johnny, warum bist du so roh?
Surabaya Johnny, mein Gott und ich liebe dich so!
Surabaya Johnny, warum bin ich nicht froh?
Du hast kein Herz Johnny, und ich liebe dich so!

traducció al anglés:

I had just turned sixteen that season
when you came up from Burma to sty.
And you told me I ought to travel with you,
you were sure it would be okay.
When I asked how you earn'd your living
I can still hear you say to me:
you had some kind of job with the railway
and had nothing to do with the sea.

You said a lot, Johnny, all one big lie, Johnny.
You cheated me blind, Johnny from the minute we met.
I hate you so, Johnny,
when you stand there grinning Johnny.
Take that damn pipe out of your mouth, you rat!

Surabaya Johnny, no one's meaner than you.
Surabaya Johnny, my God, and I still love you so!
Surabaya Johnny, why'm I feeling so blue?
You have no heart, Johnny, and I still love you so!

At the start ev'ry day was Sunday,
till we went on our way one fine night.
And before two more weeks were over,
you thought nothing I did was right.

Some trekked up and down through the Punjab,
from the source of the river to the sea:
When I look at my face in the mirror,
there's an old woman staring back at me.

You didn't want love, Johnny,
you wanted cash, Johnny,but I saw your lips, Johnny
and that was that.

You wanted it all, Johnny,
I gave you more, Johnny.
Take that damn pipe out of your mouth, you rat!

Surabaya Johnny, no one's meaner than you.
Surabaya Johnny, my God, and I still love you so!
Surabaya Johnny, why'm I feeling so blue?
You have no heart, Johnny, and I still love you so!

I would never have thought of asking
where you got that peculiar name,
but from one end of the coast to the other
you were known everywhere we came.

And one day in a two-bit flop-house,
I'll wake up to the roar of the sea;
and you'll leave without one word of warning,
on the ship waiting down at the key.

You have no heart, Johnny,
you're just a louse, Johnny.
How can you go, Johnny,
and leave me flat!
You're still my love, Johnny,
like the day we met, Johnny.
Take that damn pipe out of your mouth, you rat!

Surabaya Johnny, no one's meaner than you.
Surabaya Johnny, my God, and I still love you so!
Surabaya Johnny, why'm I feeling so blue?
You have no heart, Johnny, and I still love you so!

Donnerstag ist immer der längste Tag der Woche, doch mit zwei Freistunden ist das okay.
Ich habe in diesen kleinen Pausen damit weitergemacht, mein Geschichte-Buch zum Dritten Reich weiter "gelb zu lesen", wie Herr Hagen immer sagt: Lesen und das in unseren Augen Wichtiste gelb markieren. Dummerweise haben wir im Unterricht die letzten beiden Kapitel, also #10 und #11, behandelt, ich aber von vorne das Markieren begonnen und nur bis zum Kapitel #8 gekommen. Hieß für mich: Die ganze Arbeit war bislang für den Ar..., weil die Kapitel, die wir im Unterricht besprachen, extra von mir gelesen wurden.
Ansonsten war das Highlight des Tages ganz klar Volleyball, wo die ersten beiden Sätze wirklich gut klappten. Gut gespielt, wirklich kombiniert und geschlagen, hat richtig Spaß gemacht, da zuzuschauen (wir hatten immer einen Auswechselspieler, also konnte man sich eine Minute lang das Spiel in Ruhe ansehen und beurteilen). Naja, und als 6er ein paar härtere Bälle von Herrn Urkiaga anzunehmen und einigermaßen zu verteilen, das bringt schon ein verdammt gutes Gefühl...

Heute abend werde ich hoffentlich noch dazu kommen, mich in den Garten zu legen und Herr Lehmann weiterzulesen. Mal schauen...

i learned this neato concept as i chose to stay awake in my culture class- the lesson not being to stay awake but rather that we, as a collective world, have no idea what feminism is.

this, of course being because the femininity that we are acquainted with has been constructed by men in a patriarchal society, and the American revolution of androgyny results in a neutered masculinity instead of a true femininity.

it actually gets kind of creepy once you get into it because you realize how much of a fucking asshole Aristotle was and how much his misguided philosophies have dominated western society. I suppose that, in general, his teachings positively propelled society but then again so did Jesus and I fucking hate that kid. I would have rather we stayed primitive and innocent for a few centuries until a better genius came along.

Aristotle learnt from Plato who learnt from Socrates, none of whom admit that before Socrates came a lady named Diotima. Aristotle once famously told the world

" the courage of a man lies in commanding, a woman's lies in obeying; that "matter yearns for form, as the female for the male and the ugly for the beautiful;" that women have fewer teeth than men; that a female is an incomplete male or "as it were, a deformity": which contributes only matter and not form to the generation of offspring; that in general "a woman is perhaps an inferior being"; that female characters in a tragedy will be inappropriate if they are too brave or too clever"(Freeland 1994: 145-46).

anyways there are millions of implications to this train of thought and most of them can be sumed up based on how you answer this fun, easy, three question survey!

which of the following do you consider to be the results of biological nature, and which are results of society's nurture? Pick one only pleazeeee.

Sex.

Gender.

Sexual Object. (That's apparently how sociologists refer to 'sexual orientation')

okay. so basically... the last one is just for fun and since no one in 2008 seems to deny that sex is the result of DNA, basically it comes down to whether or not you think gender, not sexual objectivity, is nature or nurture. I am supposed to relay that neither makes you an evil person but all ima gunna say is that the pope thinks that this a matter of nature and any rational, loving, human would probably say nurture.

That is probably why the pope's church is withering painfully and slowly and will no longer exist in 500 years except maybe in China where its just catching on. Or atleast, i really fucking hope that the days of female obligation are over since that's just a fucking silly concept. The male and female are perhaps compliments, but certainly not mirrors and never opposites. Apparently, the fact that vaginae can't erect has really screwed you guys over. Isn't that what it kind of boils down to really? The fact that women can be, and often are, put in a situation where they must unwilling accept the huge scary penis while the opposite seems to be physically impossible.

Ya ni escucho la Ser, las últimas semanas de la Cuatro y la rojigualda tienen mucho delito, de la prensa escrita quizá pudiera salvarse a Público, debido al buen hacer de Rafael Reig, Javier Ortiz y Manolo Saco, que no suelen decepcionar, aunque a veces no sea fácil comulgar con sus ideas, el resto es un erial, no hay por donde los coger, despiden un fedor insoportable. Es que ofenden cada vez que abren la boca o escriben una palabra, deben ser los años que hacen que me convierta de día en día en más y más radical. Cada vez soporto menos la desvergüenza y las mentiras, es una temeridad manejar el mando de la tele o el dial, en cuanto te descuidas te salen hasta sarpullidos. Lo simpático es que presumen de democracia, de libertad de información, de prensa independiente y se les ve el plumero a la legua. Es vomitivo, un burdo engaño orquestado. Solo nos queda Internet si logras aprender a escoger y guiarte en la inmensa jungla. En Europa claramente y sin tapujos vamos por los emigrantes, en Italia conducidos por el rey de la brillantina y la mafia, transitan un paso por delante, hasta les hacen ficha policial a los gitanos. Estos comportamientos me recuerda muy mucho el poema atribuido a Bertolt Brecht (parece ser que no es de él)

“Cuando los nazis vinieron a buscar a los comunistas,
guardé silencio,
porque yo no era comunista.

Cuando encarcelaron a los socialdemócratas,
guardé silencio,
porque yo no era socialdemócrata.

Cuando vinieron a buscar a los sindicalistas,
no protesté,
porque yo no era sindicalista.

Cuando vinieron a buscar a los judíos,
no protesté,
porque yo no era judío.

Cuando vinieron a buscarme,
no había nadie más que pudiera protestar“.

Y como de resultas de aquel criminal consentimiento, complicidad o como diríamos ahora “pasotismo” condujo al posterior desaguisado con millones de muertos por obra y gracia del fascio, que es el dragón que acecha y maneja desde atrás los hilos de los continuadores del Fhurer que proliferan como hongos y salen hasta debajo de las piedras.

Hay quien ha actualizado la poesía, así:

Cuando los neocons y sus aliados vinieron a por los extranjeros,

guardé silencio,

porque yo no era extranjero.

Cuando encerraron a los sin papeles,

guardé silencio,

porque yo tenía documentación.

Cuando vinieron a buscar a los activistas,

no protesté,

porque yo no era activista.

Cuando vinieron a buscar a los gitanos, a los negros, a los moros y los latinos,

no protesté,

porque yo no era gitano, ni negro, ni moro, ni latino.

Cuando vinieron a buscarme,

no había nadie más que pudiera protestar.

Esto si es del gran poeta alemán:

“Hay hombres que luchan un día y son buenos,

otros luchan un año y son mejores,

hay quienes luchan muchos años y son muy buenos,

pero están los que luchan toda la vida,

y esos son los imprescindibles”.

La gota que colmó el vaso es la insistente y machacona propaganda de los falsimedios, en este irreal reinado del colorado por el tintorro –que no rojo- Borbón, en difundir la tesis de que las FARC y el narcotráfico son lo mismo. Es como cuando trataban de convencernos que a los negros les salía la rebeldía por causa de la cocaína, que los chinos se querían tirar a las blancas por causa del opio, o que los mexicanos se ponían violentos por efecto de la marihuana. Nada que ver con las condiciones deshumanas a que son sometidos a los desheredados. Los motivos de la guerra contra los pobres son muy otros, se esconden, y a la gran masa sin más –cual insistente gota- nos van trepanando el cráneo con tamañas mentiras.

Ahora aplauden como el gobierno colombiano va a despejar su territorio de los malos, con la inestimable ayuda de los gringos, un rescate prodigioso que deja en evidencia que las FARC están poco menos que derrotadas, cuando ya se sabe que estaba apalabrada la liberación. Entonces, destruidas las FARC, el pueblo habrá de tener nuevamente la paz soñada. ¡Montañas de mentiras!

Jaque amañado, embaucos pretendidos a los que se suman ufanos el ultramontano Ansar y el ahora centraliego Rajoy

Jamás nos contarán como las FARC y el ELN sólo nacieron por causa de la violencia del Estado, ni que esas gentes sólo siguen luchando por que no tienen otra salida ya que la violencia gubernamental sigue creciendo y un día que se les ocurrió dejar las armas y concurrir a unas elecciones fueron masacrados como conejos. Que el malvado plan Colombia ha desalojado y desarraigado a millones de familias, que esos mismos parias vagan por el territorio colombiano sin lugar, sin casa, sin tierras, sin nada. Ni que el mismo plan de supuesta liberación con sus fumigaciones destruye la tierra, las plantaciones y la posibilidad de una vida mejor para los campesinos.

El libro de hoy es del gigante ruso León Tolstoi.

Ana Karenina. Por León Tolstoi

]]> http://swaggernotstyle.wordpress.com/?p=389 Tue, 24 Jun 2008 20:17:42 +0000 Chris http://swaggernotstyle.wordpress.com/?p=389

John Walter's brilliant documentary, reviewed for DCist.

UPDATE 6/26/08: I got a nice e-mail about the review from Theatre of War director/editor John Walter, who reports that he is shopping the film around for a distributor. Best of luck to you, John! It's a great documentary, and it deserves as wide a release as it can get.

John also sent this cool one-sheet image:

Seamos solidarios con nuestros semejantes, la vida es cíclica, lo que hoy está arriba, mañana puede estar abajo; así, tal como dice la sabiduría popular:  “hoy por ti y mañana por mí”.

Condizione sempre più diffusa, anche in chi non è milionario, e pericolosa aggiungerei. L'attività più praticata di chi non sa niente è quella di cercare di non far sapere niente, perché vuole solo suoi pari che non abbiano intorno ottimi suggeritori.

Ho sentito che non volete imparare niente.
Deduco: siete milionari.
Il vostro futuro è assicurato - esso è
Davanti a voi in piena luce. I vostri genitori
Hanno fatto sì che i vostri piedi
Non urtino nessuna pietra. Allora non devi
Imparare niente. Così come sei
Puoi rimanere.

E se, nonostante ciò, ci sono delle difficoltà, dato che i tempi,
Come ho sentito, sono insicuri
Hai i tuoi capi che ti dicono esattamente
Ciò che devi fare affinché stiate bene.
Essi hanno letto i libri di quelli
Che sanno le verità
Che hanno validità in tutti i tempi
E le ricette che aiutano sempre.

Dato che ci sono così tanti che pensano per te
Non devi muovere un dito.
Però, se non fosse così
Allora dovresti studiare.

Bertolt Brecht

Bertolt Brecht

O Analfabeto Político
Bertolt Brecht

O pior analfabeto é o analfabeto político.
Ele não ouve, não fala, nem participa dos acontecimentos políticos.
Ele não sabe o custo de vida, o preço do feijão, do peixe, da farinha, do aluguel, do sapato e do remédio dependem das decisões políticas.

O analfabeto político é tão burro que se orgulha e estufa o peito dizendo que odeia a política.
Não sabe o imbecil que, da sua ignorância política, nasce a prostituta, o menor abandonado, e o pior de todos os bandidos, que é o político vigarista, pilantra, corrupto e lacaio das empresas nacionais e multinacionais.

"What do you mean, 'That was nice?' That was art. Art isn't nice."
-- Macheath (Mack the Knife) in the Threepenny Opera

I'm in a mood. Humor me. If you can't come and buy me a drink somewhere, at least sit back and vid this while I consider the consequences of pouring out a tumbler of the amber rambler. Just be glad I spared you the Marilyn Manson version.

On second thought, don't come buy me a drink tonight. Buy me one tomorrow at the Rock N Bowl for Renard Poche's show at 11.

Murke : Il a un oeuf dans la tête

Kragler : Qu'il sorte !

Et le kangourou saoul pleure.

Ah, noi che volevamo preparare
il terreno per la gentilezza.
Noi non potevano essere gentili.
(Bertolt Brecht)

Now, don't worry if you don't know what "downtown music scene" means. It's an umbrella term for a lot of different music and performance art, from Yoko Ono to Bang on a Can. If I had to summarize it in just a few words, I'd say it's experimental, iconoclastic and embarrassingly easy to parody. :P You can learn more than you could possibly want to know from this Wikipedia entry. But that's not so important here, because the interview features his latest CD, which is a collection of music theater songs.

Huh?

If you find that combination of musical interests unusual, you're not alone; here's how Fresh Air host Terry Gross opens the broadcast:

There's not a lot of people who love show tunes and avant-garde music -- even fewer who can perform both well. So let me introduce you to Theo Bleckmann, who's full of vocal surprises."

I suppose what she says is true, although I've met many others who belong to that narrow category she describes -- heck, I belong to it myself! Oh well... my arms stay nice and strong, what with all that swimming upstream! ;)

Anyway, the juxtaposition is less surprising when you consider the particular show tunes we're talking about here. The CD is titled Berlin: Songs Of Love & War, Peace & Exile -- High School Musical it ain't. Think something more like... Cabaret maybe? But darker and more political, with music by composers Hanns Eisler and Kurt Weill and lyrics by Bertolt Brecht.

The Fresh Air interview is really worth listening to for several reasons -- it covers the gamut from The King and I to Tuvan throat singing. Oh, and there's a wonderful Mondegreen moment, when Bleckmann talks about listening to American records while growing up in Germany:

I wish I was a porno star
and wake up where the clouds are far..."

:D

What I was most drawn to, though, was Bleckmann's performance of the Brecht/Weill song "Surabaya Johnny." Or, as Terry Gross puts it, "such a really good version of Surabaya Johnny." :) I used to play this song with a singer friend of mine, so it has a special place in my heart. In its original context, it's sung by a female character, so hearing it sung by a man is a fascinating experience. But the really wonderful thing about it, as far as I'm concerned, is what Bleckmann accomplishes with the German language. The stereotype is that German is angular and harsh, and that anyone speaking it automatically sounds angry. Bleckmann gives the lie to that with his haunting performance, which alternates between achingly lyrical singing and a hurried, urgent sprechstimme -- he makes the language sound positively velvety, like dark chocolate melting in your mouth. You can hear the first half of the song right at the beginning of the Fresh Air interview. Go listen to it, and stay for the rest of the interview while you're at it!

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gli zingari e fui contento perchè

rubacchiavano.

Poi vennero a prendere gli ebrei e

stetti zitto perchè mi stavano

antipatici.

Poi vennero a prendere gli

omosessuali e fui sollevato perché

mi erano fastidiosi.

Poi vennero a prendere i comunisti

ed io non dissi niente perchè non

ero comunista.

Un giorno vennero a prendere me

e non c’era rimasto nessuno a

protestare

(Bertolt Brecht)

Poi vennero a prendere gli ebrei,
e stetti zitto, perché mi stavano antipatici.

Poi vennero a prendere gli omosessuali,
e fui sollevato, perché mi erano fastidiosi.

Poi vennero a prendere i comunisti,
e io non dissi niente, perché non ero comunista.

Un giorno vennero a prendere me,
e non c'era rimasto nessuno a protestare.

Bertolt Brecht

Send me a leaf, but from a bush
That grows at least one half hour
Away from your house, then
You must go and will be strong, and I
Thank you for the pretty leaf.

~Bertolt Brecht~

¡Escríbeme qué llevas puesto! ¿Es cálido?
¡Escríbeme en qué duermes! ¿Es también blando?
¡Escríbeme qué aspecto tienes! ¿Sigue siendo el mismo?
¡Escríbeme qué echas de menos! ¿Mi brazo?
¡Escríbeme cómo te va! ¿Te respetan?
¡Escríbeme qué andan haciendo! ¿Tienes bastante valor?
¡Escríbeme qué haces tú! ¿Sigue siendo bueno?
¡Escríbeme en qué piensas! ¿En mí?
¡La verdad es que sólo tengo preguntas para ti!
¡Y espero con ansiedad la respuesta!
Cuando tú estás cansada, nada puedo llevarte.
Si pasas hambre, no puedo darte de comer.
Así que estoy como fuera del mundo,
perdido, como si te hubiese olvidado.

Bertolt Bretch

Picture it. A school in some forgotten corner of rural England many, many years ago.

A fresh-faced, young boy takes his first tentative steps into the spotlight. A green one, as it happens.

He is thrilled. He is wearing a dress. He is a god.

To be specific, he is Third God (there is no fourth) in Bertolt Brecht's The Good Soul of Szechuan.

That young boy - hard as it is to picture looking at him now - was Phil.

It was splendid. On each of his entrances he was bathed in a green spotlight (no jokes please Andrew) and he and his colleagues had the audience on the edge of their seats slumped across their seats for an extraordinarily bum-numbing three and a half hours.

Could The Good Soul of Szechuan at the Young Vic possibly outshine that definitive high school production (In those days called The Good Person of Sichuan*) and could it possibly provide a challenge to Phil's school play's place in the Guinness Book of Records as the most painfully drawn out version of a Bertolt Brecht play ever?

To be fair, Szechuan had not been the first choice for Phil's teacher/director - he had wanted to do Sweet Charity but the headmaster vetoed it because Sweet Charity is about a prostitute.

So what is TGSOS about? Well it's about a prostitute. Presumably Brechtian hookers are acceptable whereas all-singing, all-taxi-dancing ones are not. It was Phil's introduction to irony. Phil wasn't bitter but has always regretted that his temporary apotheosis denied him an opportunity to perform the Rich Man's Frug.

So, back to the Young Vic.

Things were looking good: the audience enters the theatre across the stage among the actors who are busying themselves as Chinese workers in a cement factory. Whilst it's all very exciting it ultimately works against the experience as the first thing you get to see is an actor's-eye view of how few unoccupied seats are left - the Whingers and their party of 11 stood no chance of sitting together.

Yes, sadly The Young Vic continues - despite our repeated instructions to cease and desist - to operate the Whingers' bête noir: an unreserved seating policy (or "general admission" as it now tends to be called). The result? The party was split into two and everyone had a rubbish sightline.

This apart, the Whingers loved the set (Miriam Buether). The entire auditorium has been converted into an "environment" of a Chinese cement works with lots of cheap pale wood and strip lighting. It certainly creates an atmosphere and feels a bit like sitting in a giant packing case (Phil's equivalent of the naughty step that he makes Andrew sit on sometimes).

Bags of cement are piled up and apparently at earlier previews some of the audience had been required to sit on some of them. Sadly they (the audience members, not the bags) complained so vociferously that the idea was dropped which is a shame as the Whingers do love an opportunity to grumble. Still, the school hall plastic chairs were pretty uncomfortable and a letter is in the post.

Anyway, Shen Te (Jane Horrocks, Bubble Does Brecht!) is the aforementioned prostitute who is the only soul in the desperately poor area good enough to take in three tired Gods visiting earth in search of a person who is not greedy, evil and selfishness like the people they have already encountered.

Rewarding her with money for her act of charity she buys a tobacco shop but is then beset by townspeople and relatives who all want a slice of her relative wealth. The only way she can deal with deal with them is to adopt the disguise of a tough cousin, Shui Ta.

Of course Brecht isn't meant to be taken too literally, but how the people of Szechuan didn't see through Shen Te's disguise when she only puts on a suit and hat to appear as her male cousin is anyone's guess. Superman/Clark Kent's quiff/glasses transformation is more believable than this.

There was quite a bit of squabbling between the Whingers after the show about how good it was. Andrew had been dreading it - having hoped he would never have to sit through another lehrstück in his life - and so his expectations were readily exceeded. Phil was more downbeat about the whole thing although that may have been something to do with professional jealousy - after all, his performance was so long ago he practically created the role of Third God (remember - there is no fourth).

It got somewhat fractious and the Whingers had a bit of a ding-dong over Wang the water-seller (Adam Gillen). Phil found him intensely annoying ("like someone you wouldn't want sitting next to you on a bus") whereas Andrew liked him (probably as he could relate to the character more than Phil) and so did the rest of the audience as he got the biggest cheer of the evening at the curtain call (Phil thought he had not cared for him before in something. He had).

Less controversial was Shen Te's confidante Mrs Shin (Linda Dobell) who was a hit with both Whingers. Wearing a range of expressions from disdain to extreme disgust the corners of her mouth must have had invisible weights attached to them. Phil was reminded of the look on Andrew's visage the last time Phil suggested they go and see a Pinter.

Horrocks was great and there were many other performances to enjoy too. In fact there were oodles of things to write down: great wigs, a lot of cigarette smoking, rain, wonderful props and signage and even some more on-stage piano playing.

Ah, yes, the songs. What's a Brecht play without a few dreadful songs? Well an agreeably shorter evening, presumably. With "numbers" such as "Pigs Will Fly" you can rest assured the Whingers won't be rushing out to buy the cast album.

Top marks for The Vic for being so quick off the mark with a charity collection for the Sichuan earthquake - so quick that some of the audience hadn't yet heard about it.

Brecht, assuming he had a sense of humour (though there was little in evidence last night) would probably have laughed as one punter passed the collection bucket claiming not to have any change, an appropriate gesture given Brecht's take that there are few good souls out there (if, indeed, that was what it was about. Who knows)?

As Phil made his own nifty dash to avoid said buckets (thwarted unfortunately) he was stopped by an usher who informed him to wait for "the actors to clear the corridor first". Phil tried reassuring her that he "didn't mind actors", but whilst the Vic positively encouraged civilians to mix with them on stage at the outset there was to be no such fraternising at the end.

Still, lehrstück and verfremdung notwithstanding, it was a good evening out thanks principally to the excellent company - Oliver, Mark, Helen, Lauren, WebCowGirl + 1, newcomer J. Arnott, Helen of Troy and - for reasons that are still not entirely clear - Observer food critic Jay Rayner who kept asking the Whingers impertinent questions and writing things down in his pad (once he had managed to borrow a pen from someone). He was a good sport, but then he comes from a house filled with love.

So, an enjoyable evening despite the play rather than because of it and Phil concluded that it's a much more entertaining play to appear in than to watch, but that's probably the case with most theatre.

The Whingers' equity applications are in the post.

Footnotes

It came in at about 2 hours 40 minutes so Phil's school's record still stands.

* If you really want to know about the change of name (but you really would have to be desperate) then you can watch this: