I love this photo of me, taken after a brutal Crossfit workout. And I’m flattered that the photographer likes it enough to consider putting in his book, The Face of Fitness. But there was something about it that bothered me. The pose and expression reminded me of someone else but I couldn’t think who.

This afternoon I was going through a load of books that we shoved into a cupboard when we first moved in. I thought I’d take some of them to Half Price Books. Because that $2.50 will really help my finances. Anyway, I came across my copy of The Profession of Violence, an excellent book about the Kray Twins.

The Kray Twins for those not in the know, were proper legit villains. They were the Sopranos of their day and ruled the East End as far as extortion, killing and torture goes. But they were of course good-hearted gangsters. They only dismembered their own kind and cor blimey, they loved their dear old mum.

I was a big Kray Twins fan in the 80′s, 20 years after they’d been locked up. I have no idea why I was so fascinated by them and I suppose it would harm my defence to say that I was equally obsessed with Moors Murderers Ian Brady and Myra Hinckley. And I also read Marxism Today. Yep, I was a bundle of laughs in my early 20s.

Anyway, when I picked up the book this afternoon, I realized of course that it was Reggie Kray that I looked like. There’s no doubt, just look at it — same tilt of the head, same ears, same mouth, same ready for a fight face.

And then that got me thinking.

As an adoptee, the question of who my real father is has plagued me for years. My birth mother spun some old yarn about it being a French bloke but I now have my doubts. Was she actually shagging a Kray? I’ve always had so many unanswered questions about my father. Do I look like him? Does he have the same sticky outy ears as me? What about our personalities? Does he sometimes want to kill people too?

Today I think have my answers. So thanks Reg, or should I say, dad?

The fuck it was. That is of course complete and utter wank, the only rumbling came from the central heating boiler that hasn’t worked properly since the mid 80s.

There was no dramatic ending and why should there have been? 9 Ham Lane and I had never cared that much for each other and truthfully I’m glad to be shot of it. And anyway the house wasn’t even bare when I left. A mix-up by the clearance people on dates means that it won’t be stripped until this coming week.

That pissed me off more than anything. I wanted to see it all cleared, if for no other purpose than discovering what the hell happened to my green card, lost 4 years ago during a visit and replaced for the outrageous sum of $800. I know it’s in there.

I wouldn’t mind finding some cash too, but the proper spendable stuff not old coinage with King George or Queen Victoria on it. Yes, I’ve become bloody tired of finding antiques. We’ve come across too many things in drawers or the bottom of bags and because of my stupid personality, I’ve turned it into a competition with Miles as to who finds the most valuable, unexpected item. He of course has been leading for months due to being there more often, thus placing extra pressure on me this trip. I knew he wouldn’t look in her underwear drawer and had high hopes for some ancient pendant stuffed inside a big pair of knickers. Oh well.

The harder part of the trip was visiting my mum in the crazy home every day, all the while knowing that we were pulling off this deception. It was tough not mentioning the house for fear that it might spur some hideous moment of clarity about where she was, and where she wasn’t.

Deception abounds in the care home. You have to tread carefully between confirming to one resident that this is where they now live and telling another that they are simply on holiday for a few days. ‘She just popped out for some milk’ is one of the standard excuses given to agitated residents when their family member leaves. At one point a woman called out ‘well tell her to get me some fags too’.

And whenever there’s a lull in the activity program, you can guarantee there’ll be a singalong. Much as I enjoy seeing my mum smiling and joining in, I shudder every time they start ‘Doing the Lambeth Walk’. And there are no filters in that place. If old people can be rude, then old people with dementia can say what the hell they want. Unlike some of the other residents, my mum doesn’t swear or yell. But she did call one of the rather plump staff members a heffalump. She has also taken against the two Scottish women who live there and identifies them as ‘that creature’ and ‘that other creature’.

One of the staff members reassured me by saying that dementia can often change a personality and make them do things they never did before. Being judgemental (and rude) about others is one of the ways a person can change, she said. Yes, it’s so unlike her I agreed, while remembering years of derogatory comments about my friends, visitors, passers-by, the vicar, other people’s dogs, children, the Labour Government and Tony Blair’s hair in particular.

But she’s happy. Blissful ignorance is a good thing.

Oh and one other thing, did you know that the Olympics will be in London this summer. Isn’t that exciting.

But in bigger news, the Queen will be celebrating her diamond jubilee in June, marking 60 years as Queen. Naturally, every Brit will be having a street party as part of the nation’s timewarp back to 1945. And we’re also hoping that Prince Phillip will mark the occasion with a hilariously offensive joke, perhaps about how he fancies a stiff one. And he doesn’t mean knobbing the Queen Mum.

Over the last year I’ve radically changed my diet (Erik calls it drinking the Kool-Aid, though of course that’s totally non-Paleo). I’ve managed to overcome most of my fear about handstands, which was primarily about cracking my head open or breaking my back and I can now do pull-ups which makes me feel like a badass. Though I still pronounce this as bad arse which I fear limits its cool.

I can jump on and off a 20 inch box, which will be handy if I ever get bored of getting into a chair the traditional way. I’ve also become better pals with a barbell loaded with plates, though it’s not so happy when I try to throw it over my head. Mind you, in fairness nor is my dog.

I actually tried Crossfit five years ago when they first started. I loved working with Jeremy and Carey but I was also still in triathlon mood  and thought Crossfit would just supplement that. Actually Advocare pills are Crossfit supplements but that’s another thing.

I stopped going after we were doing deadlifts a couple of months in and the coach told me I was using baby weights and should go up. This was nonsense of course because everyone knows that babies are podgy, weak and have no muscle definition. So who looks like an idiot now?

Anyway, I went back to bootcamp and running and yoga until I hit 45 and saw the flotation device around my stomach. Though better than a seat cushion in the event of emergency, it also signaled muffin top jeans. So I swallowed my pride and some Advocare supplements and signed up again.

One year on and I’m going to Crossfit classes three times a week and Lean Lifting twice a week. I’m not running, though I was recently the Masters winner in a 5k so thank goodness for old women slower than me. I still try to fit in a day or two of yoga so that I can stare at my abs in the mirror for 90 minutes and wince when I have to lift my arms above my head.

I now look forward to my workouts with a keen sense of dread. I’m often reminded of my old school reports that would usually say ‘Margaret tries hard and sometimes this pays off’. These days it’s paying off more than it used to.

So yes, I admit it, I’m addicted. I have the best coach in the gym. I’m surrounded by a group of amazing, supportive and strong women and at 46 I’m in better shape than I’ve ever been.

Unfortunately though, so are most of the other 45-49 year old women in my Crossfit region. My division ranking in the Crossfit Sectionals competition was 848 when I last looked. Bloody hell.

Anyway, cheers to Carey, Jeremy and Jen and by the way, I’m now deadlifting 210 pounds and going up. Baby got strong.

But not wishing to sound too syrupy, we’re also selling her home, and de facto mine too.

When I went back last time, I told myself I was there to help Miles clear the house. But really I was there to reminisce. The loft was full of our stuff: school diaries; Blue Peter Annuals; second-tier toys that I left behind when I moved out. And the Liverpool FC club poster with Kenny Dalgleish’s face cut out because I put it in my purse and told people it was a photo of my boyfriend. But there was also my parents old stuff, left in musty trunks and stuffed into the carrier bags of stores that closed 40 years ago. Some of it junk, some of it obviously kept for sentimental reasons. Eight yellowing copies of the Yorkshire Post with their wedding photo on the front page. A silk christening gown with matching booties and a bonnet – creepy and cute in equal measure. All of it stored there I suppose because they had no other place for it but couldn’t bring themselves to throw it away.

That was the fun trip.

I don’t leave for another couple of weeks, but I feel like I’m already there, roaming around every inch of the house, opening cupboards, drawers and wardrobes like some benign poltergeist. I get flooded by mundane memories while Madonna’s ‘This Used to be My Playground’ runs through my head, though ‘Like a Virgin’ would be more apt for the 18 years I spent there. Frankly it’s distracting. I don’t want to see my sad 14 year old self sitting on the sofa watching Antiques Roadshow on a rainy Sunday, when I’m in the Crossfit gym trying to throw a 75 pound barbell over my head. There’s only so many times you can pass tears off as sweat.

Miles and I have already started the ‘what do you want to take’ game. Fortunately I’m limited by space and distance. Instead of furniture, my inheritance will include a set of three milk jugs (always handy), some of those blue stripey kitchen jars that I’m sure Mrs Bridges had in Upstairs Downstairs and a delicate girly tea service that is unlikely to ever be bothered by tea.

But how do we divide up the photo albums that chronicled our every day trip, holiday, dog, party and new school year. I think I’d like the years 1965-1971 when I was sort of cute. I’ll happily skip the lank hair and the too embarrassed to live years.

Then there’s the stuff that I don’t really want but don’t want to chuck either. Envelopes full of cards that Miles and I made — Easter, Christmas, Mothering Sunday and in his case ‘I’m very very sorry mummy’ cards. All of them a bit crap because neither of us are much cop at arts and crafts. But also the letters my dad sent home when he was away on business, that started ‘My darling Audrey..’

It’s hard to see your parents as anything other than your parents. I would look at photos of them as children, as teenagers, in their early 20s and feel this disconnect to the people I lived with. As wrong as it feels to be going through their stuff, I think I know them better or at least have a greater appreciation for their life. I’ve started to see 9 Ham Lane through their eyes. The excitement of a new 4 bedroom house in a pretty village, surrounded by strawberry fields, and as yet, untainted by yobs and plebs.

I wish I could impress her with my remarkable new insights, do a bit of a “This is Your Life’ on her. But the silver lining of Alzheimers is that she will never know that we’re selling the house from under her.

Guilt is great for changing your perspective. I’m getting misty-eyed about a house that I’ve never liked very much. About possessions that I never cared much about. About a lineage that isn’t even mine. But I’m still a little emotional about seeing it all go. More visions of myself surface, but this time I’ve strapped myself  to the aeriel, singing ‘this used to be my childhood dream’ and refusing to leave.

Like most people here and in England, I’m not all that bothered about your wedding. When Diana (sorry to bring her up – is the whole wearing your dead mother-in-law’s ring thing a bit weird?) got married, she seemed to want the carriage, puffy sleeve dress, flag-waving northerners and all that palava. But you seem a bit embarrassed by it all and that makes the rest of us uncomfortable. Frankly you’re a bit too ordinary. I know you’re a commoner like me, but I worked in PR with people posher than you. I get more glitz and glamour from an episode of the Real Housewives (except for the bints of New Jersey).

Plus, no matter how big and royal your wedding is, it will never top mine. Especially as you’ve chosen to spend your last night before becoming Diana at the Goring Hotel. Sorry, but we did that 12 years and 5 days ago.

When I say we, it was actually just me plus two pregnant bridesmaids in a junior suite. Erik stayed at our flat 2 miles away, thus saving us a year’s salary in hotel charges.

In fact we went a step further than you and had our whole wedding reception at the Goring AND spent our honeymoon night there. Tons better than Buckingham Palace as it’s a shorter walk to the Orange Brewery where we ended up after the wedding reception. From there it was an easy stumble back to the hotel, pausing only for Erik to pee in the bushes. Which I’m strictly not allowed to mention.

But I admire your similar taste, as the Goring is a fantastic hotel. Loads of famous people have stayed there. I read that your grandmother-in-law, the Queen Mother went there on one of her last outings before death. They say you can sometimes get the waft of gin and Werthers Originals down the third floor hallway.

Do you know about the Goring Hotel sheep? Very famous for them. Old man Goring collected stuffed sheep and put them in the guest and public rooms. In our brochure it said that Mr Goring used to go around the rooms fluffing up the sheep. I’m not sure if sheep-fluffing would be as acceptable today as it once was. Perhaps at Balmoral.

So is the Goring going to start charging ridiculous money to sleep in your room? Will scores of Japanese tourists be asking for the Kate suite? Here’s where I wish you were a bit more boozy/trashy/Fergie-like so the chambermaids could make some money from your morning-after room. Are we allowed to call them chambermaids anymore?  I’ll freely admit that my pre-wedding night with two preggo bridesmaids was pretty sedate. Hot tea and lots of peeing.

And one final tip, if you need a drink to steady your nerves, the Goring Hotel bar is excellent, lots of leather chairs and more sheep. And the best cheese straws you’ll ever have. And they’re free!

Anyway, that’s it really. Just wanted to let you know why I won’t be watching you on BBC America, starting at 3am Eastern time. And I’m attaching a few photos from our bash at the Goring,  just in case you want to see what 5 thousand quid used to buy you.

Anyway, good luck with the whole not-being-Diana thing

MG

Click on photo to see full image.

Sundays in England are of course heinous with or without church. Songs of Praise and Antiques Roadshow kick off the evening’s TV viewing even though we could have watched live lambing on BBC2. Comedic relief was provided by my mother’s commentary on the news as delivered by the Daily Telegraph. Regular outbursts of ‘disgraceful’ were followed by the occasional ‘what are they messing around at?’. Mainly directed at the Japanese.

Today being Mothering Sunday, Lenham church was fuller than usual. Must have been at least 50 people in the congregation, so about the size of the average American church clergy. Fortunately it wasn’t a communion service so I didn’t have to awkwardly lurk in the pew during the bread and wine bit. In its place was a Family service which meant an influx of ginger-haired churchy children, all girls, with home-school haircuts and party dresses with over-sized bows.

As a special treat, the Lenham primary school choir would apparently be performing a few songs. However, the vicar’s wife explained, it would only be half the choir as the other half had all gone to a birthday party. This seemed highly unlikely at 11am on Mothering Sunday and raised the question of why the remainder of the choir didn’t go as well. Were they not invited? Well, who really wants a ginger with an extreme fringe/bangs spoiling their party?

But wait a sec, there’s an extra treat. The Lenham recorder group would also be performing. There was an audible groan, though perhaps only from me. Recorders are the children’s equivalent of the bagpipes. Skill level doesn’t matter, it’s still going to sound shrill and annoying.

Indeed it did. I have no idea what the first song was due to the piercing horror of the recorder. But the second song was helpfully pre-announced as ‘God Made A Boomerang And Called It Love (and then he threw it away)’. My chin was already wobbling with an impending giggling fit and only made worse by the demo of the physical actions we were encouraged to perform. Fifty people gesturing the throwing of a boomerang in unison gave the proceedings the feel of a Nuremburg Rally. 

Apart from that, I take issue with the general premise of the song. In this context, god is either an idiot for not realising the boomerang would come back or a narcissist who was a bit too much into self love. And the fact that he made it and then threw it away suggests he wasn’t particularly happy with his efforts. Perhaps he was trying to create a Love Spear but got distracted? 

After this treat I was hoping we might continue the g’day-god theme with other Aussie classics such as ‘Stuck Up A Gum Tree With Jesus’ or ‘God Made The Wallaby So He Can’t Be All Bad’.

Instead we got a rousing chorus of ‘He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands’ with more of the hand gesturing, though this time it was less nazi and more Village People. In case the Stepford children felt underused or perhaps to take their mind off the party they hadn’t been invited to, they were given various instruments of percussion/torture. They happily played along to the beats that didn’t exist in the melody. More ill-disguised giggling as coughing.

Finally, saving the best till last, we had the saying of the peace. This is a modern invention which should only be inflicted by churches with rock bands and jumbotrons. It  involves the hideous practice of giving those around you the sign of the peace – not the Churchillian V sign but the limp shaking of the hand of those around you while mumbling ‘peace be with you’ or just ‘peace’ if you’re feeling lazy. It’s an entirely awkward process with no formal rules, though I’ll admit that shaking hands with my mother did feel oddly appropriate and reassuring that, despite her illness, some things in our relationship hadn’t changed.

London Calling is a great album to listen to when you’re in a pissed off, angry, self-destructive mood and want to go back to the days of 1979 when you first heard The Clash. Or at least would have heard, had you not been playing Fat Bottomed Girls and Bicycle Race on constant repeat.

I did own a pirated copy of London’s Calling on cassette tape when I was in college. ‘Working for the Clampdown’ is a great student song, all about the perils of capitalism and fighting the status quo — the societal norm, not the Rick Parfitt/ Frances Rossi duo. I’m sure I would have agreed, had I not recently seen Wall Street at the cinema and found ‘greed is good’ to be a bit more of a catchy soundbite. Always the trouble with the socialists, from Marx on they’ve been long-winded and media unfriendly.

But I do remember the line from the Clash that ‘anger can be power’ and it came back to me today so I had to look it up, which then led to playing the album which then led to not doing the things I was supposed to, which then forced me to lie in bed and start writing which I’ve been meaning to do for ages, which then energized me for the rest of the day. So yes, angry = power = doing stuff.

Unnecessary long way of saying that I have finally started a new script for a play that has already premiered in my head to incredible critical acclaim, thus ensuring that anything I write will not match up to this standard.

I’ve wanted to write something about aging and old people and nursing homes and death and destruction for quite some time. Less of the destruction perhaps, but it’s still going on the show poster so I can draw in a younger crowd. Having worked in a nursing home for over a year I’ve got plenty of material. I’ve experienced things that have made me laugh my arse off, made me cry, made me shudder and made me kick a brick wall, which pissed me off because it hurt like a bugger and scuffed my shoe.

So my play will be an amalgamation of all those things, maybe without the scuffing. It will certainly have teeth — unlike most of the old people, ha ha, just a sample of the incredible writing you can expect. Erik and I went to see a play at Fronterafest this year about ‘Seniors’ and it was complete wank. Full of stereotyped characters who had trouble reading things or hearing properly. Apparently hilarious to everyone but us. I have too much to say to squander an opportunity onstage like that. Not that I want to get on my soapbox either and bang on about how badly we treat the elderly. I mean we do, but the elderly can be mean old bastards sometimes too.

And talking of mean old bastards, there’s always god. I was looking up ‘Anger is Power’ on google and there was a link to some line in the bible that says ‘Who knoweth the power of thine anger; for your wrath is as great as the fear that is due to you’. According to the handy translation this means:

‘the cutting down of whole generations of people – of nations – of hundreds of million of human beings – of the great, the powerful, the mighty, as well as the weak and the feeble, is an amazing exhibition of the “power” – of the might – of God’.

Well I guess that’s one way to justify  the crap in the world. Some twat pissed god off and now we all have to pay. I guess Pat Robertson is even closer to god than we knew. Looks like Haiti really did bring it on themselves. See, thanks to god I’m now getting angry again. But unlike god, I shall use it only for my own personal gain and glory.

I now await my smiting.

Almost every building here seems to have been converted from something else, in most cases an old gas station or grain store. And the gas stations that still look like gas stations can’t be entirely trusted. You have to peer inside first, just in case you’re bumbling into some modern art installation that everyone but you knows about it.

And that’s how Marfa feels to me. Like everyone knows but nobody tells. It’s a cool town but with a real ‘take or leave me’ vibe. There’s few concessions made to tourism – the restaurants, if you can find them, don’t post any business hours and when they do, there’s a good chance they’ll have been changed. ‘Open on sundays? Yeah we used to, but now it’s just the first sunday of any month starting with a J’

I blame James Dean. This is the town where Giant was filmed and the whole cast and crew stayed at the Paisano Hotel. Clearly James Dean set the tone for Marfa and instead of selling tacky souvenirs to commemorate him, the Marfians chose attitude. It wouldn’t have happened if they’d shot some dorky film like National Lampoons Vacation. Nobody would come here just to stay in the same bed as the Griswolds or drive around looking for the exact spot where the family had the hilarious encounter with the hitchhiking pig.**

After James Dean came Donald Judd, minimalist artist who pretty much seemed to own the town as his name is on virtually every building. Not being a big fan of the whole modern art scene (preferring a nice bit of IKEA circa 1990 myself) we skipped the Chinati foundation and the Prada store and found our own incongruity in a dive bar with old pinball and Atari games, that also served fantastic food.

Judd came to Marfa from New York and obviously inspired other New Yorkers to do the same. The restaurant Cochineal is listed as a must for dinner. The owners’ former restaurant in New York earned a Michelin star but Cochineal has yet to receive one, perhaps due to its unwillingness to post hours or employ staff that dare to make eye contact.

But for all this, I’m fascinated by Marfa. The architecture is amazing and we spent the morning wandering around taking photos of nearly every building we passed. The streets are incredibly wide and there’s little traffic or noise. We did laundry this afternoon in the least depressing laundrette I’ve ever been in, which is also attached to a coffee shop serving Bluebell ice-cream. I rather like the fact that we can’t quite figure the place out. I even like my inability to come up with a suitably witty rhyming word for Marfa. I may also have to watch Giant again.

Our next stop is Guadalupe State Park for a bit of camping. Our original plan was Big Bend but we’re a bit concerned about the high temperatures. When I write high temperatures, I really mean Mexican bandits. Being kidnapped and/or shot is my new fear, ranking second only to having my ear ripped off by a bear. Most likely my right one, due to it’s protrusive nature.

**That may or may not have happened in the film as I’ve never made it through the whole thing. And I know you may have that loved that movie, but it inspired ‘RV’ with Robin Williams, so shut it.

I somehow made a non-verbal agreement that would allow me to love a dog completely and unconditionally for just over 9 years, blotting out any thought of her passing. In return, on her sudden death, I would experience pain and sadness at a depth I never truly expected and which couldn’t be bypassed or speeded up. Wish I’d just agreed to trade my soul,

Quite what the devil gets from this I don’t know. I thought devils made you do bad but fun things like eat cake or do coke or call in sick while watching Bravo reruns. When did the devil become all schadenfreude-nistic? Over the last few years I’ve had entirely logical conversations with friends about the short lives of dogs. I’ve talked about the trips Erik and I would take after Storm was gone. I’ve berated Erik when he’s talked about how devastated he’d be without Storm and how it’s something we need to anticipate and plan for.

But thanks to my devilish agreement, I never really believed it would happen. Storm didn’t slow down, she didn’t show any signs of aging apart from getting the clowny white face that all Goldens get. She was a little more needy in recent months, a little more sensitive if one of us swore or cried or she sensed any tension between us. But the nights when she sat on the sofa between us as we watched TV were some of the best moments we three spent together. No matter whether I ended up with her head or her butt in my lap.

I realise that I had no true comprehension of grief. When my father died it was a shock, but also a relief. He was no longer the man he wanted to be and there were few cherished sofa memories, save for him snoring into the pillow after a hefty sunday lunch while Antiques Roadshow bleated on in the background. When any of our childhood dogs died, my parents took them on their last car ride to the vet, came home, put away the food bowls and the bedding and never said another word about them.

But I loved Storm so much. There it is, in simple language. I don’t know why it was so hard to say publicly when she was alive. It’s ok to say you love your kids, or (if you’re not British) your parents. But to say you really love your dog sounds a little weird and more in the realm of spinsters and cats. Erik and I would sometimes have those moments where we’d look at Storm and marvel that we had an animal living with us in the house. Was she a child substitute? Maybe, but not really because that would suggest I ever wanted children and most people know my feelings on that. Thank god/Faust that I didn’t make the pact where I lose a dog and gain a baby.

So was it worth it? Of course it was. I told Storm every day that I loved her, but words didn’t matter to her, actions did. Love me? Prove it – give me an ice cube/pork treat/almond. Play tug with my rope/hedgehog/bear. But all that time, from when she was a bundle of fur at 7 weeks old, that bastard was just sitting there, gleefully, saying ‘enjoy her now because when you least expect it…’

I’ve never been a fan of those sappy posts that circulate around Facebook or forwarded emails that tell some sorrowful tale of a mother/sister/friend that has cancer or some other insidious disease and urges you at the end to call a family member and tell them you love them, before it’s too late. If I can’t muster the compassion to do that on my own, then some random urging alongside a picture of a polar bear cuddling an orphaned penguin isn’t going to work. But seeing people out with their dogs today made me angry and jealous. Dogs dragged away from some great sniffing opportunity; dogs forced to keep up with their owner running on the trail in the heat. A dog left to amuse itself at the park while the owner sat in his car talking on the phone.

Kids, cats, dogs or other beloveds. We’ve all made some kind of pact. You may just not realise it yet.

It’s not a bad review, in fact it’s a pretty decent and fair one, especially in the first half. He ignores a lot of the opening night mishaps and has given me plenty to think about if I decide to restage the show. Plus he uses words like ‘brave’ and ‘delightful’ and calls it an ‘impressive solo performance’, which of course will feature heavily in any future Gallant promotions, regardless of the activity.

Most important to me, he calls it a ‘clever and affecting script’ and that pretty much sums up my original aim. I admit that I’m not a performer at heart. For me it’s always secondary to the writing process and my commitment to acting, in terms of taking classes and improving my ‘craft’, is pretty weak. If I could get audience members to pay to come and sit in the theatre and read my script while drinking wine, I happily would. But maybe that’s not entirely true. There’s a part of me that relishes being onstage and having everyone look at me and listen to me. If only the rather pathetically insecure 13 year old me had known that. Just kidding, who would I be without my angst-ridden solo shows?

Here’s the review:

Review: Don’t Stop Me Now at City Theater

Maggie Gallant knows that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who understand their favorite band as a spiritual force that communicates important things about life to those listeners who are truly prepared to hear them, and those who don’t know anything about anything.

Don’t Stop Me Now, Gallant’s one-woman show, is a tribute to the former group. And, of course, to Queen.

Delivered as both a series of soliloquies to Freddie Mercury (and occasionally Roger Taylor) and as a handful of short scenes in which Gallant portrays every character, Don’t Stop Me Now is the story of Sonya Moore, “the number one Queen fan in the universe.” We follow her through early adolescence in the mid-70′s until the 2002 opening of We Will Rock You, the London stage musical based on the band’s music.

It’s a brave performance by Gallant, who’s unafraid to leap from character to character and scene to scene, with little in the way of exposition. She jumps from bedroom to classroom to a shopping trip with her mother, expecting the audience to follow along as she does little more than move a few feet, adjust her posture, and shift an octave in her voice as she switches from Sonya, to her class bully, to her mother. It’s a rewarding experience for an audience that might have otherwise been underestimated—the play wastes little time exploring the different facets of Sonya’s adolescence.

Gallant is subtle and insightful as she explores that adolescence as well. She intuitively transitions Sonya from a 13-year-old who wishes that Freddie Mercury was her father, to a 16-year-old with a crush on Roger Taylor, keeping the focus ostensibly on Queen, but functionally on growing up. And she’s delightful as she portrays the teenage Sonya, who’s charming, lost, and fun to watch.

It’s as Sonya grows up that the play loses momentum, and, as is the inherent risk of the one person performance, once that’s gone, there’s not really any way to bring it back. As Sonya reaches college age and justifies farting through life because Freddie Mercury was a slacker until his mid-twenties, the show starts to become a drag.

It’s clear that Gallant was a lot less confident in the latter part of the show, because the scattershot storytelling approach that made the first half so much fun is abandoned in favor of “Oh, Freddie!”-style monologues where she simply narrates how much her life has become a disappointment, rather than using the characters she’d proven so adept at creating to show us. As the show drags and becomes so focused on telling, it doesn’t play into Gallant’s strengths as a performer. It becomes frustrating to watch her pass natural ending point after natural ending point (Sonya’s graduation, Queen’s Live Aid performance, Freddie Mercury’s death, etc) in pursuit of a resolution that the lack of tension in the script never leaves the audience craving.

The Summer Acts festival at City Theater is a place to try new work, and Gallant can certainly be forgiven for putting on a show that’s conceptually strong, and a powerhouse for its first 45 minutes, but that doesn’t so much end as it farts out. At an hour, Don’t Stop Me Now might effectively highlight Gallant’s clever and affecting script and impressive solo performance, driving home its point of Sonya’s one-sided relationship with the band before it becomes exhausting. As it is, it’s not a bad play—just one in need of a radio edit.

The Summer Acts festival runs through July 19th at City Theater.