Stanley stiffens his quiff with a last blast of spray and steps out onto the floor. Glenda is waiting for him, leaning on the banister at the foot of the spiral staircase and looking across expectantly in his direction. He glides over, stomach slightly tensed, and reaches for her hand. She very gently places hers in his.
They briefly take each other in.
She rests her other hand on his shoulder. They are now in hold and will not exchange eye contact again for the duration of the dance.
A pause, then the music kicks in and the pair sweep away, painting precise patterns on the floor, swirling in Viennese circles, looping and looping and looping their way around the perimeter of the room, slicing through the areas where an audience might be. They fleckerl and spin on the spot, wrapping themselves in a imaginary coil, ravelling and unravelling and setting off again.
Stanley smiles blankly, no sign of the familiar excitement which is whisking itself up within him. Glenda's smile is serene, unflinching, unrevealing.
They need not communicate anything more. This is their dance. This is how they will remember each other.
Monday 10 January 2011
Thursday 6 January 2011
The Foxes' Orchestra
The foxes are tuning up on Hampstead Heath; their rehearsal is about to begin.
Reginald is the first violinist. He is extravagantly talented, not to mention very popular with the vixens.
He sits on his chair, tail poking out of the hole in the back, and bashes out a quick arpeggio.
He flexes his paws and looks around, peering back into the mass of assembled musicians. Wesley is there on the timpani and Jerome on the euphonium. Reginald waves hello. Possible post-rehearsal drinking buddies, those two - always up for a trip down to the pond after practice.
Reginald is distracted from these thoughts by the chatter of the choir assembling, choristers greeting each other warmly before going through their complex personalised warm-up routines.
The rehearsal will soon be underway so Reginald settles himself and waits for the conductor, Augustine, to appear.
Tonight, the foxes will play Gustav Mahler's Eighth Symphony in its entirety. It will be note-perfect and exquisitely phrased. Reginald will lead the orchestra with distinction. He always does.
Reginald is the first violinist. He is extravagantly talented, not to mention very popular with the vixens.
He sits on his chair, tail poking out of the hole in the back, and bashes out a quick arpeggio.
He flexes his paws and looks around, peering back into the mass of assembled musicians. Wesley is there on the timpani and Jerome on the euphonium. Reginald waves hello. Possible post-rehearsal drinking buddies, those two - always up for a trip down to the pond after practice.
Reginald is distracted from these thoughts by the chatter of the choir assembling, choristers greeting each other warmly before going through their complex personalised warm-up routines.
The rehearsal will soon be underway so Reginald settles himself and waits for the conductor, Augustine, to appear.
Tonight, the foxes will play Gustav Mahler's Eighth Symphony in its entirety. It will be note-perfect and exquisitely phrased. Reginald will lead the orchestra with distinction. He always does.
The Supporting Cast
I am not the main character in this movie; I am in the background of every shot, loitering blurrily, out of focus but always in the picture.
Everywhere I go, so too does the camera, filming Maxwell Dandy's every move in crystalline close-up; every hair, every pore is meticulously explored.
In the café, as I sip my cappucino quietly, I look up and into the lens. Maxwell Dandy is at the next table, delivering a devastatingly honest and crushingly moving monologue, soliloquising like a tragic hero with his unfeasibly well-defined jawline and his Roman nose and his sensational rhetoric. He improvises most of his lines, you know.
They are filming him now, and me, as I type. He's crying. He's lighting a cigarette. He's looking around. He's looking at me. The camera is rolling still. I'm going to have to stop now. He's walking over. He's calling my name. He's shouting. Maybe my part is bigger than I'd thought.
Everywhere I go, so too does the camera, filming Maxwell Dandy's every move in crystalline close-up; every hair, every pore is meticulously explored.
In the café, as I sip my cappucino quietly, I look up and into the lens. Maxwell Dandy is at the next table, delivering a devastatingly honest and crushingly moving monologue, soliloquising like a tragic hero with his unfeasibly well-defined jawline and his Roman nose and his sensational rhetoric. He improvises most of his lines, you know.
They are filming him now, and me, as I type. He's crying. He's lighting a cigarette. He's looking around. He's looking at me. The camera is rolling still. I'm going to have to stop now. He's walking over. He's calling my name. He's shouting. Maybe my part is bigger than I'd thought.
Tuesday 4 January 2011
Jasper's Eyebrows
Jasper sat down, crossed his legs and propped the mirror up against his bare calves. He picked up the tweezers, leaned in towards his reflection and started to pluck at the thick hairy streaks which rested sullenly above his eyes. He had really let himself go over the last year, let himself become fat and unhealthy and unnecessarily hirsute. It was time for some discipline, he thought, as he tweezered his first target.
The process was excruciating, each hair stubbornly refusing to budge unless and until the necessary explosive aggression was applied. The pain was shocking at first, but, once he had become accustomed to it, Jasper enjoyed the associations which it evoked. He thought back two years to the last time he had rededicated himself to personal presentation, to the familiar pain of the plucking and to the burst in self-esteem which he knew would result from the rigorous application of the regime.
He finished the first brow, put down the tweezers and looked inquisitively into the mirror. The left side of his face was jaded, worn out by months of failure, but the right glowed in cocky acknowledgement of a successful new era to come.
Jasper smiled. The right side of his face winked back. 2011 was going to be his year.
The process was excruciating, each hair stubbornly refusing to budge unless and until the necessary explosive aggression was applied. The pain was shocking at first, but, once he had become accustomed to it, Jasper enjoyed the associations which it evoked. He thought back two years to the last time he had rededicated himself to personal presentation, to the familiar pain of the plucking and to the burst in self-esteem which he knew would result from the rigorous application of the regime.
He finished the first brow, put down the tweezers and looked inquisitively into the mirror. The left side of his face was jaded, worn out by months of failure, but the right glowed in cocky acknowledgement of a successful new era to come.
Jasper smiled. The right side of his face winked back. 2011 was going to be his year.
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