A Small Mind At The Theatre

Seven hundred and forty-two days ago (it is on my medical record), I last witnessed Spymonkey and suffered a hallucinating experience of the most extreme kind, I was back for more last night and I relapsed so seriously that I was seeing clowns and bubbles. This was probably just me? Maybe. Another significant number on offer yesterday was one hundred and thirty-two. These were the years to the very day that the Royal Theatre had opened its doors with a performance of Twelfth Night. So what better for an evening of seventy-five (no more numbers now) corpses on the Royal stage courtesy of the mad collective known as Spymonkey to celebrate the Bard of Avon's collection of work? When entering the auditorium things are already afoot, we have cast members Petra Massey and Stephen Kreiss doing things with a fly on a stick, some a little repulsive, and wielding a camera to show the gory details on a vast back screen. To the left we have a slightly miserable lady doing her knitting and ...

I tweeted during the interval of Every Last Trick that I thought I was tripping while watching the show. After having then seen the second act, I think I can certainly confirm that they were some pretty high end drugs. All this in the positive respect. by the way. Every Last Trick for me acted very much like a legal high (plant food if anyone asks), with some of the most bizarre incidents possible. A cast of four and an elephant provided a riotous show lead by head clown Aitor Basauri as Juan, he from Barcelona, well maybe not, but you get the gist. A heavy accent, a bit of conveniently mispronounced English. That sort of thing. A magical performance in every sense, down to his handling on the performance I saw, of the loosened belt audience member. Beware the front rows! Juan's short suffering wife, played by Sophie Russell was also a delight. The perfect flapper crossed with a liberal dose of insanity. Who was equally impressive being manhandled around the stage unconscious...