Autumn in Oxford

Today feels exquisitely like fall.  The sunlight filtering through the crisp coolness of autumn mist, and the city's austere beauty beginning to soften with the glimmer of Christmas lights and lighthearted holiday shoppers.  Add in a toffee nut latte, and the only thing missing is space at a coffee shop to actually sit and study.

But alas, the influx of tourists and shoppers means that back to college I must go, and sit in the dark basement room of the MCR to do my reading.  We'll see how long I last.  

Punk Rock

I went to a play this past Wednesday, almost a week ago now.  The Oxford Playhouse was running a special offer: a night of free theatre to those under 26, so I took them up on it.  I was not overly impressed.

The set was gorgeous.  Desks in the center of a library, with shelves reaching up into the recesses of a cavernous, Oxford-like dome.

But from the first line, the acting was off.  Not horribly so, but the lines were rushed, mechanic.  Spewed at a desperate pace.  And I'm still a little unsure why.  I mean, I understand why the actors were struggling to connect (when you're trying to jump on a cue without leaving pause for a breath, it's hard to make thought process believable), but I'm not sure why the objective was crazed-pace dialog.  I thought perhaps it was a significant aspect of the characters' personalities, but the manic energy wasn't upheld with enough consistency to be believable.

And though the actors warmed up as the night progressed, they never truly recovered from the beginning's recitation.  Because the audience failed to see the thoughts behind the lines during those first crucial moments, it was impossible to get a true read on the characters and their objectives.  Almost no one is stable in this play, so each mood shift requires more, not less, intentionality from the actors.  Otherwise it seems that all we're watching is a loosely sequential series of random actions, dialog, and tragedy.

And while this seems to be a play aiming to frighten with ambiguity -- with the questions it leaves unanswered -- I in no way believe the goal to be leaving the audience uninterested in answers that were never there to begin with.

There were also some issues with blocking, the milder of which I can forgive, but you can't hold a gun within reach of a boy twice your size, recite a monologue, and expect me to believe that he wouldn't have tackled you senseless.  He thinks he's going to die, for crying out loud.

Having said all that, there were some fantastic supporting roles, including one chap who looked (and acted) exactly like Jude Law in Wilde.

C.S. Lewis's godson and I

I just spent an hour and a half listening to Laurence Harwood remember his godfather, C.S. Lewis.  His father, Cecil Harwood, was one of Lewis's best friends, walking companions, and debate partners: a man C.S. Lewis literally rolled on the floor with, choked by laughter.  For those of you who've read Surprised by Joy, Cecil is the friend described as a Horatio in an age of Hamlets.

Laurence shared his personal correspondences with Lewis.  Showed us the pictures his godfather had drawn in the margins.  Pictures of Magdalen (the place "like a castle" where Lewis lived), bears and angels from That Hideous Strength, Lewis in baggy trousers that made him "look like a sailor," and the brown bunny he'd been watching from his window.

Talked of his memories of Lewis's visits to his family's home.  The boom of his voice in the mornings; the sound of his bellyflops in the pond. Shared letters written to his mother on the topic of love (and being a good godfather), to his father when his mother grew sick with cancer, to himself when he failed his Christ Church exams.

And always, always, that sense of someone wholly present.  His childlike joy.  Throwing himself onto the floor to play games with Laurence and his siblings, not patronizingly, but for the sheer delight of knowing what children were enjoying, and enjoying it himself.  The ability to be all things to all people, even children.

And, may I say, Tolkien's reputation as a walker may have been unjustly tarnished.  According to Cecil, on walking tours, Lewis's enjoyment of nature vied only with one thing: his enjoyment of conversation, most of which he carried on himself.  So much for his reputation as a "serious" walker. =)