This is the world's largest teapot, according to the Bramah Tea and Coffee Museum, which is home to this monstrosity. Pictures were forbidden so I had to sneak a quick shot, unfortunately the focus is so close to the pot that you can't really comprehend how large it is. It's the same height as my mum, I swear. What's more interesting and confusing, though is why the Museum felt the pot needed to be under such tight security that they couldn't authorize photos... Posted by Hello

"Heil You-Know-Who"

I went to see The Producers tonight at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. I heard a few weeks ago that Richard Dreyfuss was pulling out of the show and that Nathan Lane, who created the role of Max Biyalistock on Broadway, was filling in for a few months. I rushed down to Leicester Square to buy a ticket-I didn't care if anyone came with me, I HAD to get tickets to see him before it was too late.

Tonight was the previews, Opening Night isn't until November 9th. I entered the theatre around 7:15 through the door marked "Balcony," which is down the street from the glamorous and glittering front entrance-it's an architectural signal to those of us in the nosebleed seats that maybe we don't deserve such a grand entrance. After climbing what seemed like endless cement stairs (no carpet for us cheapies), I emerged on the balcony (this is above the stalls and three other balconies called 'Circles') and had to hold onto the handrail for dear life as vertigo set in. I swear, I'd never been so high up in a theatre before, and there was very little railing to save me if I happened to topple over on my way up the steep staircase. I actually thought for a split second that I wasn't going to be able to make the climb to my seat, but I quickly found my nerve, grabbed that handrail and inched my way up. Once I was seated, I was okay. There was a nice couple from Sussex sitting beside me who showed me how to "hire" the opera classes stashed in the seat in front of me (50 pence) and we chatted. I'd tell you what the theatre was like inside, but honestly I was still recovering from the overwhelming fear of falling right off the cliff face/balcony that I really wasn't looking.

The show itself was fabulous-maybe one of the best shows I've ever seen. It has lots of flash, high-end dance numbers and spectacles that you would expect from the Golden Age of Broadway, but with a sarcastic Mel Brooks twist...dancing girls fly out of accountants' filing cabinets, there is a large dance number featuring little old ladies with silver walkers, there is a song sung by a number of characters who are "in the theatre", of questionable sexuality and who resemble the Village People called "Keep it Gay" (keep it HAPPY, people. Where are your brains? In the gutter?) The whole show had me belly laughing.

For those of you who haven't seen the original movie on which this musical is based, it's about a down-on-his-luck theatre producer, Max Biyalistock (Nathan Lane), whose last show, "Funny Boy," a musical about Hamlet, had closed in one day. His mild-mannered accountant, Leo Bloom (played on Broadway by Matthew Broderick, played here by Lee Evans, a famous British comedian who North Americans will remember as the guy who pretended to be crippled to date Cameron Diaz in 'There's Something About Mary'), comes to do the books and remarks that Max could probably make more money with a show that was a flop and some fancy number-crunching. Max thinks this is a great idea, convinces Leo to take a chance on his dream of being a Broadway producer, and join him in this latest venture-Max is the loverboy of many the rich old lady who would be more than happy to put up money for their flop (hence the musical number called "Little Old Lady Land").

So, Max and Leo set out to find the worst show ever, directed by the worse director ever, with the worst cast...they want a show that will flop in a day, so that they can keep all the investments. The show they eventually produce is called "Springtime for Hitler." The director, however, wants to do something musical and upbeat, so they fudge history a little and Hitler wins the war, after a tap dance-off with Stalin, Churchill and a wheelchair bound FDR. We are actually treated to a performance-within-a-performance of "Springtime for Hitler" which was definitely the best part of the show: a very gay dancing Hitler, dancing Nazis, Eva Braun in a showgirl's outfit, and parachuters in the finale. The show is SO unpolitically correct, but if you stop to think about it, you miss the point. It's good natured humor. The whole cast was very very funny...and apparently alot of them are famous British personalities because people applauded wildly at the entrances of some characters and I had to whisper to the English couple next to me to find out who they were. Lee Evans as Leo was possibly the most BENDY person I'd ever seen-it's really hard to describe his physical comedy but it always looks like one leg might be shorter than the other, or that he's about to trip, or that he might lose control of his arms and let them flail wildly. He was hilarious if a little tentative as a singer, and of course, Nathan Lane stole the show anyway.

Aaaaaah, Nathan. He was magnifique. It was so surreal to be watching him through my little opera glasses and realize, "He's right there! Nathan Lane is right there!" I resisted the urge to wave at him, and firmly told myself that NO, he probably wouldn't invite me backstage to meet the cast and/or possibly audition of I could just make eye contact. The show is definitely his and although he's probably performed it thousands of times, it still felt fresh and ad-libbed. His comedic timing is incredible. He and Matthew Broderick are going to the "The Producers" as a movie next-I will definitely go to see it to watch him again!

I was in a happy theatre-bubble all the way home on the bus, and I skipped down the street to my flat humming "Springtime for Hitler". My flatmate Jim's mom had mailed us a huge box of brownies and chocolate chip cookies so I splurged on a brownie as my flatmates let me rattle on and on about how great the show was.

I really think I might be addicted to London theatre now. I can't wait for my next show! I'm already thinking about RSC's Hamlet and when I'm going to go see it. Don't worry, I won't turn this into a Dani's-Theatre-Review-Blog, I'll try and do other exciting things (I DID visit the Bramah Tea and Coffee Museum this week, and the world's largest teapot), but I am just so in awe of what's literally right outside my door in terms of theatre and the arts...it's worth coming to London just to see shows, and especially this one...

I Did It My Way

Tonight was my first night out at the theatre in London. My friend Geoff and I went to see "The Rat Pack: Live from Las Vegas," which is a tribute show to Frank, Dean and Sammy playing at the Strand. The first question was deciding what to wear. I decided to go all out, because if you can't dress up to go to the theatre in LONDON, where can you? So the LBD (little black dress) came out of the closet along with my most fabulous suede jacket, courtesy of my personal stylist, Auntie Bev. I tucked my leopard gloves (courtesy same Auntie Bev) into my purse and away I went. And I looked fabulous if I do say so myself. And I do. Did I mention I looked fabulous?

It was also fabulous that I had tucked my umbrella into my purse as My First Night at the Theatre also turned into The First Night It Rained Really Really Hard. I stood shivering at the bus stop for 15 minutes going to the theatre and coming home, thanking the fashion gods that my purse was big enough to carry my umbrella.

But now, onto the show. Our seats were fabulous, because we picked them up at a discount ticket booth right before the show. We were sitting maybe 8 rows back from the stage, and we could see everything, including the ornate gold leaf decor of the old theatre. The conceit of the performance was that this was one of the informal shows the Rat Pack put on at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas while they were filming the original Ocean's 11. There was a great live big band and the curtain opened to reveal Frank, in the spotlight, singing "The Lady is a Tramp." From the first note, I was hooked. Chris Mann, who played Sinatra, was note-perfect. If you closed your eyes, it was really Frank. He looked enough like Frank to make it really convincing and he had all of the mannerisms and stage presence of Sinatra. Geoff and I both agreed we could have watched him alone all night, and I nearly laughed out loud, I was so happy, when he launched into "I've Got You Under My Skin." David Hayes played Sammy Davis Jr., and from the program notes it was evident that this guy has made a career out of being Sammy. He was certainly a fantastic performer, but I haven't seen or heard enough of the REAL Sammy to tell you whether this guy was an accurate portrayal. Michael Neilson played a very very drunk Dean Martin. I was actually offended at how drunk he played him (I have a soft spot for Dino), until I read in the program that Dino really played the drunk in his live performances. Then I just felt misinformed. Neilson did a great job at "Volare," and "Ain't That A Kick in the Head." The onstage banter between the three felt like it was completely ad-libbed, which made the whole re-creation a little eerie, because it was so accurate. They really captured the Rat Pack camraderie that you see in movies like Ocean's 11, and the jokes (and the cocktails) flew fast and furious. The trio were joined by the obligatory dancing girls, but we noticed that by the end of the night, "the Berelli sisters" had lost sister #3. She never re-appeared, even for the curtain call. A Rat Pack mystery. Sinatra brought the house down in the encore with "My Way" and I even got a little weepy.

So, my first night at the theatre exceeded all my expectations. Geoff and I both felt that we were participating in something very English when we bought our little cups of ice cream that were sold at intermission, and gawped at the opulence of the theatre. The Strand, which is next to the Waldorf Hotel, was build in 1905 and has a gorgeous Louis XIV-style interior. When we walked in, I felt like I was stepping back in time, except for when the security guard frisked us and rifled through my purse. You just can't escape the war on terrorism, I guess...ain't THAT a kick in the head?

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Last Saturday night there was a fire in the flat above mine, and we were all rushed out into the street at three o'clock in the morning while the fire department put it out. It turned out that the people upstairs had been smoking some "water filled device," according the the fire officials, which had promptly ignited and lit the nearby garbage can on fire. Our flat smelled vaguely of barbecued plastic for the rest of the week.

The interesting outcome of the fire is that we in Flat 16 found out we had a sixth roommate. Five of us had been living together for about a month with what we thought was an empty bedroom waiting to be occupied. We were all dumbstruck when the door to her room flew open when the fire alarm sounded, and "Number 6" rushed outside. Awkward introductions were done in our pajamas in the street. Apparently Number 6 had been living with us for the better part of the week. We had never seen her in our kitchen, living room or bathrooms. She had not occupied any cupboard space in the kitchen or storage closet. She told us she had been leaving very early in the morning and returning very, very late at night. I think if there hadn't been a fire, we wouldn't have ever known she was there, and she would have been happy with that. And we would never have known that she was responsible for the smell of cigarette smoke that had invaded our apartment for the better part of a week.

"Are you a smoker?" Giertrud asked her bluntly.

"Yes," Number 6 replied sweetly.

"Well, uh, this is a non-smoking flat and we don't like smoking."

Number 6 looked alarmed.

"But I requested a smoking flat."

Number 6 couldn't get her head around the concept that she had been brought in as a replacement and hadn't found her ideal living situation, but reluctantly agreed to stop smoking in the flat, which made me very relieved as my allergies were back in full force and I was congested and coughing up a storm, which was what happened to me when I was a kid and my parents still smoked in the house (they didn't know any better. She does). We thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn't. Number 6 (and yes all of us call her Number 6) has been smoking in her tiny closet of a room and then spraying perfume to cover it up and thinks we don't notice. We do notice, and also marvel at how she survives in her room with the smell. So now we are in the midst of making an official complaint to building administration. The manager put up a "Thank you for not smoking sign" on her door last night, which she promptly ripped down before closing the door to her room and lighting up. Meanwhile I'm taking cough syrup for "tickly coughs" (apparently the only two kinds of cough syrup available here are for either "tickly coughs" or "chesty coughs." It actually says that on the bottle) and keeping my windows wide open.

I can't believe how many people in London smoke. And not in a "I'll-just-step-outside-and-have-a-smoke-so-I-don't-bother-anyone" kind of way. No, no. In restaurants. In grocery stores. At the bar. At school. Waiting for the bus. Walking down the street. Smoking culture is alive and well and a total shock. I find myself getting offended when someone lights up without asking in my presence and I have to remind myself that I'm not in Kansas anymore. I think if they tried to implement a public place smoking ban the way we have in B.C., the people would riot in the streets. It would be worse than when New York City implemented its ban. The anti-tobacco lobby isn't here yet, which can't be surprising in a city that hasn't figured out how to recycle yet, either.

On Thursday night I was waiting at the bus stop, to go across the river to meet some friends at a bar. There was a group of kids, about 13 years old, right between my two youngest cousins in age, waiting with me. The only girl in the group reached into her pocket at one point, pulled out a cigarette, which she had obviously nicked from her parents, and lit up. She looked ridiculous. The cigarette looked huge in her tiny hand and she was grinning from ear-to-ear, obviously feeling like a grown-up and very pleased with herself. I felt so sad looking at her (Brooke, Kendall, if you smoke, I'm gonna kill you. Period). Her friends shouted to me, "Hey lady, can you arrest her for smoking, she's too young." One of her supporters pointed out that she could only get arrested for buying cigarettes, not smoking them, which was true. I looked at this girl and told her she looked stupid and that she'd look even worse in 20 years if she kept smoking. She looked at me like I was from another planet, flipped me the bird, and hopped on the bus, cigarette a-flamin'. My lungs ache for her just thinking about it.

Anyways, me, my clothes and my respiratory tract will never get used to how prevalent smoking is here. Interesting dirty London tidbit: walking down the Strand, a busy London artery near the LSE, apparently exposes you to the air-pollution equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes. Given that I walk down the Strand every day, I should probably stop complaining. I'm practically a smoker already.