Proudly presenting this man to Bangalore's um, discerning theatre audiences. India's best English-language actor. Best. BEST. Ladies and gentlemen, Rehaan Engineer!
Burst of applause, swooning ladies (etc.)...
No dissent, no argument, no debate will be tolerated on this topic. He is, quite simply, superior.
(Yes, I'm Hitler. Yes, I'm a fundamentalist. But hell, have you seen that face?)
--- On tonight at The Park.
Update: So, how was it? Well, unlikely. A Chateau Indage evening which means, presumably, that everybody was plied with wine and delicate bits of cheese before Rehaan began. Sort of, but not quite, supper theatre. So you'd expect (typically) something funny. Or ribald. Or both.
Instead this was 2 hours 20 minutes of a monologue. The real life story "of seven Soviet POWs abandoned in a cellar by the Germany army in 1944. Two of them survive by killing and devouring their companions. They are discovered in a crazed state by the Red Army". In Collins' version, one stays sane and tells his story.
It was an intense monologue and it was brilliant, but since I'm not reviewing I'll just say it was funny to not be thinking what I would later say in the review. Instead I could wander off into the sidelights.
Such as dozing audiences. A monologue with one actor describing how his fellow soldiers ate each other to stay alive in a cell is not like to have everyone on the edge of their seats and soon, mid way through, swish connoisseurs in their lovely clothes speaking in politely hushed tones just minutes ago, were quietly dozing. It was sort of undignified though. Completely destroyed their earlier poise, making them look vulnerable and even distorted.
Sleep does strange things to faces. It elongates cheeks, enlargens and shrinks eyes, twists mouths and plays tugging games with people's heads as they bob up and down before gently lolling over to one side or helplessly searching for a stationary shoulder to rest on.
A photographer came in loudly in the middle, and not just did he click and flash loudly but his phone rang obtrusively in a gimmicky tune within that tiny dead silent place as well. Instead of turning it off, he answered it, not once, but twice. The Hindu critic seated next to me would have none of the quiet disapproving looks other people were giving him.
"F***!" she hissed at him. "B******! Get out, get out!"
And so he got out. I strongly recommend all audiences resort to the same tactic. It worked wonders and it was far more effective than clucking noises or disapproving head-shakes.
