For me, the last week in October was largely spent dressed in black, navigating with the aid of blue lights.  In other words, it was spent backstage, specifically as a stage manager for Herne Bay Operatic Society’s compilation show Thoroughly Modern Musicals, the first time I’ve performed that particular function for a show (though I have played the character of a stage manager before).  I thought this was a rather crazy move on the part of the Society’s committee, and was fearing I would manage to do something truly disastrous.  As it turned out, I  didn’t cause a calamity, but the day of the tech and the days afterwards were still remarkably scary and exhilarating.  After all, the stage manager is in charge once the show is up and running – the thought that it was all my responsibility was positively terrifying.

As an actor, you know that the technical rehearsal is really all about the technical side of things – lights, sound, traffic control, set, stage management, props etc.  But from the other side of the line, you know that almost all of these things involve the actors in some way – where they stand, how loud they talk or sing, what they do or what they have in their hands.  In the amateur world, you have a very short period of time to sort everything out – how a particular moment will be lit, how sound equipment will be used, where all the props should be, and so on.  This, being my first attempt at stage management, was theoretically a simple show, with only one set, no costume changes and minimal props.  However, as I found myself alone backstage, with between 2 and 3 people in the lighting booth to control lights, sound and the spotlight, I found myself involved with everything: putting the set up, rigging and focussing lights, managing the props, passing the microphones to the right people, rounding people up and, in the end, providing some off-stage narration.  As a consequence, there were some periods of the show when I had very little to do, and other periods when I was running around like a headless chicken (though hopefully with the appearance of being in control).

I found that the key was lists.  Or rather one list, but with three copies scattered around my backstage domain.  This list included the running order of the show, which props were needed at a given time, who needed microphones, when I was supposed to be narrating (and what I was supposed to be saying) and so forth.  I wrote in exactly when to get each item ready, so that it would be where it was needed when it was needed, and hoped I had everything covered.  Sometimes I needed to be ready in the stage left wing to grab a hand-held mic from a cast member who’d just done a solo and was about to be involved in a dance routine.  Sometimes I was needed in the stage right wing to hand a stool over or collect a half-full wine bottle (half full of grape juice, of course…).  I spent a *lot* of time listening under the platform which housed the band to check that the soloists could be heard loud and clear over the foldback, as the balance between foldback and feedback was very fine indeed.

And, happily, I loved it.  It took until the third performance for us all to feel that we knew what we were doing, I think.  The cast adapted readily to several changes in what became known as the microphone relay race and I eventually worked out the optimum timing for a lighting cue which needed to fade over fifteen seconds at the end of the overture.  I learned a lot about lighting and discovered that stage managers should be sent on people management courses, as there were a few personality conflicts which I felt powerless to resolve.  I learned to appear calm and in control even when I really wasn’t (though this was something I could have done with learning before the week began, so that I could have seemed in control at the technical rehearsal rather than assuming this during performances).  This is something I will definitely do again, though probably for another small-scale show or two before I dare tackle a full-scale musical.

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Related posts:

• The joy of techs
• Finding my light
• At the theatre, all in black
• Can someone strike the stage left flat?

Last night, I headed over to the Whitstable Playhouse to watch The Female of the Species, in a production by the Lindley Players.  This is a play by Joanna Murray-Smith, inspired by an incident when Germaine Greer’s home was invaded by an upset student.  As it is a very new play, I wasn’t really sure what to expect, having only vaguely heard of it.  Luckily, it proved to be very good indeed.  The script is surprisingly funny, the direction was strong and the cast interpreted their varied characters well.  Certainly £9 well spent, I thought.

Central to the play is the character of Margot Mason, a feminist thinker/celebrity/writer/intellectual, who is supposed to be writing her next bestseller, but isn’t doing too well.  Her attempt at work is interrupted by a former student, who blames Mason for her problems then holds her captive at gunpoint and threatened to kill her.  As you do.  The situation is complicated by the arrival of a series of other characters - Margot’s daughter and son-in-law, a taxi driver and Margot’s publisher, who complicate an already delicate situation in a variety of unexpected ways.  Each new arrival brings a fresh perspective on the character of Margot Mason and on the positives and negatives of the feminist movement over the last several decades.  However, the play is not a debate about feminism as such, even though the characters spend a lot of time debating feminism and its effects.  It is also about relationships (particularly between mothers and daughters and between husbands and wives) and about intellectualism and academia in general.  Above all, though, it is very, very funny.

There are aspects of the plot which are absolutely preposterous (not least a final revelation which is simultaneously ridiculous, disappointing and predictable), but it doesn’t really matter.  Once you accept that Margot Mason is chained to her desk and nobody’s going to let her go, then events and characters merrily sweep you along.  I found that my sympathies switched several times (though I never managed to find myself on the same ’side’ as Molly, the girl with the gun) as characters revealed further depths or further shallows, and was intrigued to find myself agreeing with very different viewpoints as the play progressed.  What do I feel about the place of women in today’s society, about the changing face of feminism and about the responsibilities or otherwise of academia and the intelligentsia?  I’m not sure, as I felt and thought so many different things about each issue.  I do remember noticing a few points when I laughed but nobody else did, which I suspect was a result of working in higher education – certain observations about students, academics and university life struck a chord with me yet would mean very little to most members of the audience.

The six characters were very distinctive and each was played very well, but I particularly enjoyed the performance by the actor playing Bryan, the son-in-law.  A few sandwiches short of a picnic, but not unintelligent, he was very charming in a sweet and somewhat useless sort of way.  He had many of the funniest lines, and the performance made me really warm to the character as soon as he appeared, even if none of the other characters actually thought much of him at first.

It does me good to see a non-musical play from time to time (and it really should happen more often) and this was well worth the trip.  Intelligent, funny and well-performed.  Magic.

The technical rehearsal is one of the milestones of production week, a sign that if you don’t know your lines/steps/harmonies by now, it’s too darned late. It’s a run-through of the show in the show’s location (as most likely, rehearsals prior to the tech will have been held somewhere other than the theatre), which is essentially for the benefit of all the crew, the army of people dressed in black who make the show happen – lights, sound, set changes, props, wardrobe etc. A tech run is a slow old process, as it is the only chance you have to make that complicated set transformation work, or sort out the levels on the microphones or ensure that the soloist is slap bang in the middle of their spotlight. It is when the cast learn how to negotiate stairs and doors which have previously been imaginary, and when you find out just far you have to run in order to complete a quick change in your dressing room. It is when everyone gets very, very stressed, as they are either very busy or sitting around doing nothing, both of which can be equally irritating. It’s a time for getting a bit of an electric buzz as you step onto the stage, and a time for tearing your hair out because a dance number has to be re-blocked to accommodate the set.

I have enjoyed and endured many techs over the years, both on stage and backstage. Hopefully one day I’ll experience one from the other side of the footlights as a director, as well. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a perfect tech, and there’s never been one that keeps everyone happy. Sometimes, scenes have to be skipped because nothing happens in them from the tech point of view, and this can upset the actors. Sometimes, a particular technical issue can’t be fully resolved as it’s taking too much time and this puts the crew on edge. Sometimes, the atmosphere could be cut with a knife and you can sense everyone tiptoeing around each other. But for all their frustrations, techs are great – it’s the first time you get an inkling about the set, the sound and the lights, the first time you get the sense that the show is really happening very soon indeed and it’s an excellent chance to get to know the people in your dressing room or your fellow crew members a bit better. It’s the Fame tech tonight. Joy!

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• Tosca tantrums
• At the theatre, all in black
• Dido and Aeneas costume dramas

Fame flyer

So I’m back rehearsing with Phoenix Performing Arts.  And it’s good.  This time, the implausibly talented young performers are doing Fame, which makes my head hurt sometimes – I’m rehearsing a scene about a rehearsal, with a group of trainee actors and dancers playing a group of performing arts students…  As in West Side Story, when I doubled up as Doc and Officer Krupke, I am an imported adult, playing the drama teacher Mr Myers.  This is very much a supporting role, giving the student characters someone to react to in various scenes (indeed, someone to be cross with for quite a bit of the show), but is good fun.  Myers does not sing, so it’s another chance to concentrate on the acting side of things, and PPA always make sure that I pay proper attention to this – I do more character work with them on my minor roles than I do with anyone else on larger roles.

Working on the character side of things is interesting.  Last year, I spent some time chasing the director around Whitstable Castle to discover that Officer Krupke was a gorilla.  This year, it has been decided that Myers has elephantine characteristics (I’m still working on the walk), I’ve passed shoes around to demonstrate the balance of power in a classroom and I’ve growled at the actresses playing Carmen in order to…  Actually, I forget why I had to growl, but I’m sure there was a good reason.  Unlike the rest of the class, my character is English (former RSC, we think) and he is truly passionate about acting and about communication this passion.  Unfortunately, we’re not sure he’s a very good teacher, bless him, and he certainly makes some odd choices.

All the student roles are double cast, and there is certainly enough talent to go around, with some of the cast being equally talented in acting, singing and dancing, true triple-threat performers.  If they weren’t also nice people, I would be spending rehearsal periods feeling very jealous and loathing them with every fibre of my being.  Since they are, the moments when Myers is watching his students and feeling quietly proud will be no trouble at all to act.  I am proud to work alongside them and proud that they welcome me as part of their family.

Fame runs from 9th to 12th September at the Gulbenkian Theatre, Canterbury.  The choreography is stunning, the energy levels will be through the roof and the young talent on display is inspiring.

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Related posts:

• Rehearsals are odd: Cartoon cats, gorillas and diving boards
• Singing librarian flashback: Trying to make an entrance

Last week, I headed to the picturesque surroundings of St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury to see a play.  I have attended a number of Shakespeare productions there before, including a particularly good version of Much Ado About Nothing, and it has proved to be an atmospheric location for an evening of outdoor theatre.  The play on this occasion was Heartbreak Productions‘ adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma.  Before I discuss the play, though, there is one thing I need to address.  It rained.  A lot.

From a few spots of rain as the programmes were being sold,the weather really set in as the play began, and continued to show us just how much water there is in the sky throughout the first act.  At first just a bit of drizzle, it became a steady fall of rain with a few minutes when it really was pouring down.  Through it all, the actors continued, ad libbing from time to time to make reference to the meteorological conditions, and having to project more than ever to carry over the sound of the water drumming down on a collection of anoraks, tarpaulins, rain hats and umbrellas.  As the love lives of Emma and her friends became steadily more complex, a few audience members abandoned ship and headed for dry ground, but most of us made it to the interval.  At this point, while the actors came and greeted the “mad, mad people” who were watching them, over half of the audience retreated.  The rest of us, reasoning that the show was going to go on whether we were there to bear witness or not, and that we couldn’t possibly get any wetter than we already were, moved closer to the stage and stayed for the second act.  By the time of the ball and the picnic, the two most famous scenes from the book, the weather had cleared.  The sky was still overcast, but we could enjoy the rest of the evening’s entertainment without hiding under our umbrellas or trying to stop the rain dripping down our necks.

There was a wonderfully British feel to the evening.  Would inhabitants of other nations sit there, getting cold and wet, watching other cold and wet people act out a version of one of their great novels.  Perhaps they would, but it seemed a peculiarly British way to pass the time.  It was a special shared experience in which the cast and audience bonded far more than would have been the case on a lovely sunny evening, such as one might reasonably expect at the end of July.  Somehow the story of Emma seemed to contain more references to the weather than I remember from other adaptations and these never failed to make the audience laugh, whether it was a fairly normal aside or Mr Elton’s decision to read a particular passage in church (“and it rained for forty days and forty nights” of course).  At one point, this trend nearly derailed the play.  Moving to the ‘harpsichord’, which was a little damp, Frank Churchill remarked on how wet it was and suggested “the boiler must have broken upstairs”.  We chuckled, but Mr Knightley quite rightly asked “What’s a boiler?”  For a few moments it seemed all was lost, and I knew I’d have been struggling to fend off a fit of the giggles had I been performing, but one of the ladies, probably Mrs Weston, said “oh, young Mr Churchill always knows about the newest trends” in a tone of voice that suggested something along the lines of “let’s get on with the scene, shall we, before we get so waterlogged we can no longer move.”

Much entertainment was derived after the play had ended in trying to fold up very wet chairs and in observing that denim had been a particularly poor choice of attire – I’m sure my jeans weighed twice as much on the way home as they had on the way there.

Anyway.  Apart from that, Mr Librarian, did you enjoy the play?  Very much so.  It was engaging, theatrically interesting and very funny, even without the weather-related additions to the script.  The five actors (James Merry, Holly Beth Morgan, Erika Sanderson,Duncan Wigman and Kimberley Wintle) were all excellent, portraying thirteen of Austen’s characters between them as well as each playing an artist, discussing (or rather arguing about) romanticism as they explored the story.  The art class was a framing device which allowed them to introduce each character by ‘painting a portrait’ of them, instantly filling us in on the details of what we needed to know.  Landscapes and wedding paintings also played their part, and literal portraits of the characters came in very handy in those scenes where more than five of the characters were present.

Moving between the two world was not at all jarring.  Indeed, the reactions of the artists to the story they were telling added another layer of fun to the proceedings.  Simple changes of costume accessories allowed characters to be switched at speed, and those of the company who were called on to play the smaller roles demonstrated great versatility.  James Merry was most frequently seen as Mr Knightley, but his scene as the elderly and very, very deaf Mrs Bates was most excellent.  Erika Sanderson cropped up as all sorts of different people, but made a particular impression as the awful Mrs Elton, booming away with unwanted advice and ill-considered observations.

Jane Austen had a talent for writing extremely well observed social satire and for drawing wonderul, enduring characters.  These characters were brilliantly brought to life by Heartbreak Productions, and I would definitely recommend catching one of their remaining performances (in venues across Great Britain) if you can.  The talent, hard work and endurance of the actors was a marvel to behold, and the adaptation has a wit and charm all its own.  If possible, catch it on a slightly drier day, but whatever the weather, it really is a great evening out.

Theatre does not exist without an audience.  Live performance of any kind is only really performance if it is being watched – if not, then it might as well be a rehearsal, a game or a private jam session.  This is not simply due to the ego of those acting, singing or dancing, but it is a result of the vital role that audiences play. 

At any theatrical performance, the audience can enhance or detract from the production on offer.  Mobile phones, flash photography and random talking can be distracting (sometimes dangerous) for the cast and irritating for fellow theatregoers.  A badly timed noise can break the spell in a tense or moving moment, puncturing the suspension of disbelief that has been built up and reminding everyone that they are, after all, watching people pretending to be other people in a small, dark, warm building with mildly uncomfortable seats. 

For the actor, the response of the audience can be vital.  In a comedy, a few laughs here and there help the cast know that they’re doing their job, or if they are particularly skilled comics, then they can see which lines and gags are hitting home the best and try to tailor their performance to the particular audience to a small degree.  In a straight play, then the actor can draw energy from a hushed auditorium fully engaged with their every word and movement.  When the audience is on your side, you can practically reach out and touch it, so palpable is the sense of common purpose and shared engagement in the moment.  Performance can create a symbiosis where those on the stage and those watching begin to feed off each other – the more the audience enters in, the more drive the actor or musician has to create their music, or character, or whatever they’re creating, and this drives the audience – and so forth.  The right audience can somehow lift a performance from ‘good’ to ‘great’ (sadly, a mediocre performance is hard to rescue under any circumstances, with even the most favourable audience behind it).

Although this is always true, it is something that I noticed more acutely during my Aladdin experience earlier in the year, as the audience is essentially one of the characters in pantomime – they have lines to say and a crucial part to play in the proceedings.  The villain must be booed and hissed.  The dame and the audience friend must be laughed at.  The puns must be groaned at.  At the appropriate moments, phrases such as “it’s behind you”, “oh no, he shouldn’t” and (in the case of Aladdin) “rub the lamp!” really must be shouted, otherwise the characters will have no idea what to do…  Well, they’d get there eventually, but part of the joy of panto is audience investment in the situation.  When the audience really throws itself into a pantomime, it becomes a joyous collaboration, and those people who play characters which interact with the ‘boys and girls’ step their energy levels up further and further, carried along by the enthusiasm in the auditorium, investing a level of energy that is simply impossible to sustain if nothing is flowing back towards the stage.  Even in shows where the audience isn’t directly involved, a good response can create an electric atmosphere that is utterly intoxicating for all involved.

Sometimes it’s hard.  I have definitely been to see shows where I’m the only one laughing at the jokes, and that gradually saps my ability to enter into the spirit of things.  The audience is composed of individuals, but as one of the characters in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Me and Juliet points out, they become a ‘Big Black Giant’ defined by the mood of the majority of the audience:

A big black giant who looks and listens
With thousands of eyes and ears,
A big black mass of love and pity
And troubles and hopes and fears,
And ev’ry night the mixture’s diff’rent,
Altho’ it may look the same.
To feel his way with ev’ry mixture
Is part of the actor’s game.

One night it’s a laughing giant;
Another night a weeping giant.
One night it’s a coughing giant;
Another night a sleeping giant.

If there are a few enthusiastic people, but most are tired, then the tiredness will overcome the enthusiasm, and give the actors the impression that nobody is really out there in the dark.  By the end of the show, the best thing the formerly-enthusiastic theatregoers can do is applaud particularly loudly, as if to prove that there were some people who cared, who enjoyed it, even if the rest of those spoilsports smothered them.

Whether or not audiences have specific functions to perform, they truly are vital.  Just as I wouldn’t want to attend the theatre without their being any actors, I wouldn’t want to act without an audience.  The collaboration between audience and actor creates a special kind of shared magic that you can’t match anywhere else.

Ev’ry night you fight the giant
And maybe if you win,
You send him out a nicer giant,
Than he was when he came in…

And maybe, just maybe, the big black giant can change the actors as well.  Whatever the nature of the interaction, audiences really are a vital ingredient, and its easy to forget that sometimes.  Which, when you think about it, is odd.

Sometimes you find the most surprising things in the book return box.  First thing on a Thursday morning, this is one of my tasks, carried out as part of the routine of getting the temporary library up and running for the day.  Gone is the hideous wooden thing lurking in the corner, replaced by a much older, but more aesthetically pleasing blue metal drop box.  Given previous form and stories of drop boxes across the world, you might expect to find bacon rashers, dead squirrels, old underwear or hastily stashed contraband in there.  However, the only item I’ve found in there so far which wasn’t part of library stock was much more unexpected.  This:

How to bribe a librarian...

A box of chocolates.  With a handwritten note.  One of the most unexpected occurrences in my career, and that includes the day the library flooded, and the fact that anyone wanted to employ me in the first place (the Library of Doom was the only place that offered me an interview).  The label might not be too easy to read, but it says:

To the library staff, Just to say thank you for all your help over this ‘change over’ time.  It’s really appreciated! Very best wishes from ‘a grateful student.’

Somehow it was made more special by the fact that it was left anonymously, not handed over to us.  They didn’t want our appreciation, just to thank us.  Thanks are s rare, particularly thanks that come with a sugar hit.  Rest assured that we were a very happy bunch of library people when these were shown around, and even more so when we ate them.  Thank you, anonymous grateful student, you really made our day.

Last week, I was struck by a moment during the first of Torchwood’s five episodes.  Gwen Cooper, Torchwood agent, was talking to Doctor Rupesh Patanjali, someone who could potentially be brought in as a new member of their team.  His explanation of his interest in alien life was intriguing:

The past few years, suicide rates have doubled and that’s ever since the first alien.  My first case… my first… death, was a suicide.  D’you know why she did it?  ‘Cause… she’d written all these letters, been a Christian all her life, and then alien life appears.  She wrote this bit, she said “It’s like science has won.” [Gwen comments 'Lost her faith?'] More than that.  She said she saw her place in the universe.  And it was tiny.  She died because she thought she was nothing.

Leaving aside the fact that we can’t necessarily trust what the charming Dr Patanjali was saying, as his motives in the conversation were not quite as Gwen or the audience believed, this is an intriguing statement, and I suspect it may reflect the views of the scriptwriter (for Day One, Russell T. Davies) to some extent – that the existence of alien life would terrify some, amaze others, and cause believers to lose faith and hope.  I wonder – is this true?  If alien life were to make itself known somehow, whether in peace, war or otherwise, would faith suddenly become meaningless?

As an evangelical Christian, I believe in a creator God.  I don’t know how creation took place, but I do believe that through some means, God is responsible for the very existence of the universe and for life itself.  The books I have read explaining the sciences in ways that make sense to the common man fill me with a greater than ever wonder at the universe, but do not in any way dissuade me from the belief that the God I trust in brought it in to being.  The potential existence of alien life makes not one iota of difference to that – why would He only be capable of creating one planet that sustains life?  A different set of conditions, therefore a different evolutionary path (evolution by natural selection is not inherently in opposition to Christianity, despite what purveyors of really bad pamphlets might have you believe), and probably very different forms of life would be likely.  The God I believe in is infinite, omnipotent, omnipresent.  I do not know whether there is life on other planets, but I know that if He has the power to create it on one world, there is no argument that would suggest he couldn’t or didn’t create other life, sentient or otherwise, elsewhere.

Clearly then, I think the idea of extra-terrestrial intelligence meaning that ’science has won’ is absurd.  I’m more intrigued by the end of the good(?) doctor’s little speech.  The idea that our place in the universe becomes insignificant in the face of life ‘out there’.  The universe is already vast.  Perhaps not infinite, if I understand the current state of astronomical theory correctly, but very, very, very large indeed.  Earth takes up a tiny amount of space in the universe, and there are billions of human beings on its surface, none of them any less important than another.  So, yes, my individual place in the universe is tiny, but I don’t need any Slitheen or Daleks or 456 to suggest that to me.  On a universal scale I am a mote of dust.  If the universe is a diamond, I am a single carbon atom, or maybe even just an electron.  But I am still a part of it, and no less significant than any other mote or electron.

As a Christian, my place in the universe should arguably be defined by how God sees me, not how I see myself (which can vary from day to day).  He loves me.  He knows everything about me, down to the intricacies of my DNA and the complexities or otherwise of my personality, and loves me.  That He loves others (many, many others) does not diminish from the fact that He loves me.  To a believer, that is the truth of a person’s place in the universe, and regardless of the state of life or otherwise on other worlds, that is a very powerful thing.  My place in the universe is tiny, my understanding of that universe minuscule - no matter how much of either science or theology I read – yet somehow this is cause for hope rather than despair.  All things considered, if science wins, I’d be very surprised, as I’ve yet to work out what the battle is.

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Related posts:

• Torchwood: Children of Earth
• Boundaries of ignorance

Torchwood, the adult spin-off from Doctor Who, has had its ups and downs.  Some excellent episodes and some truly awful ones, and a steady progress from its beginnings on BBC3 to last week’s special storyline in prime time on BBC1.  A week-long series, one episode per night, which told a five-hour storyline which is surely the show’s best output yet, but may also be its last.  Yes, I enjoyed it an awful lot, and yes, spoilers follow below.

So, what was this story, ‘Children of Earth’, about?  It was about a government cover-up.  It was about moral dilemmas.  It was about people refusing to let their elected representatives do something terrible, and suffering awful consequences for their refusal.  It was about what people can be driven to in stressful situations.  It was about how we feel about our children.  Oh, and there was an alien in it, along with a man who can’t die.

In other words, this story did what the best science fiction does – it used the devices of the genre to tell a very human story, used an alien menace to create and explore drama on a magnified scale.  There was quite a bit of running around, shooting things and blowing things up, there was a half-glimpsed alien creature, there was a man who survived being blown up, shot, poisoned and encased in concrete.  But at the heart of it there were people, decisions and emotions.  When science fiction is done well, with good writing and (crucially) excellent acting, then it can be more powerful than any kitchen sink drama.  If the characters react in a believable way, then the extraordinary events somehow become believable within the world of the story.  In this case, the quality of writing did vary somewhat, but the performances of key actors were absolutely riveting.  Gareth David-Lloyd as Ianto Jones has been one of the series’ biggest assets since day one, and he continued his brilliance here – as I remarked half way through episode 4, you can really see what he’s thinking and follow his thoughts without him necessarily having to say a word.  Peter Capaldi is predictably convincing as John Frobisher, a civil servant who is utterly devoted to his job but ultimately put in a terrible position.  And Susan Brown deserves special mention as Frobisher’s personal assistant Bridget Spears.  The subtlety of her acting is amazing.  Although the character is utterly controlled, extraordinarily calm, she included tiny moments that showed how this woman truly felt.

So, the acting was sublime – how was the story?  The story was horrific, in the truest sense of the word – there were moments that made me feel sick.  It wasn’t the physicality of the alien being, which we only glimpsed, that provided the horror, but the nature of its demands and the way in which the politicians reacted that were the source of horror.  It demanded 10 per cent of Earth’s children, because children produce chemicals that make its race feel good – they get high on children.  This was a horrible enough revelation, but then the fictional cabinet began to discuss how to meet its demands – which children should be taken?  I thought that the discussion of this question would be the height of the horror, but when children began to be bussed away, and when one character was ordered to sacrifice his own family, episode 5 became almost unbearably horrible.  I can’t begin to imagine how hard that must have been to watch for parents of young children.  The idea that the government could sanction such actions, and the nagging thought that perhaps they were right to do so, was much more horrific than any chainsaw-wielding maniac or rampaging vampire could ever be.

On a personal note, I was very sad to see the end of Ianto Jones.  A great character, played by a very talented actor.  For me, Ianto was the heart of Torchwood, not Gwen Cooper.  His dry one-liners, the way he cared about his coffee and his immaculate wardrobe were aspects of a character that felt very real.  This story even hinted at further depths that we will never get to see, with various suggestions about his past and personality coming through in scenes with his previously unseen sister.  His death was utterly unnecessary and not at all heroic, which is how death really tends to be.  It moved me, and I’m not really a very easy person to move.

The ideas of this story, and specifics of it, will stay with me for quite some time.  The moment when the sweet but stupid PC Andy joined the fight against the army in a futile heroic gesture.  Frobisher’s children demanding a pony.  Rhys finding out about Gwen’s pregnancy.  But most of all, those scenes where a group of cabinet ministers work out how to select 325,000 children to be turned into long-lived narcotics.  Brilliant, but horrible.  Awful and amazing.

Will they continue with Torchwood?  It seems rather difficult.  Having killed off two main characters at the end of the last series and another in this storyline. they are left with only two survivors.  One, having lost his lover and been forced to sacrifice his own grandchild, has left Earth.  The other is heavily pregnant.  Of course, they can recruit more, and their fictional universe already contains some likely candidates, but would they want to?  And do I want them to?  Part of me wants to see more Torchwood, but part of me wants them to leave things as they are, on a high note.  If they leave things now, they end on a triumph, with a story that showed the best of what science fiction can do, and showed that ‘adult’ means more than sex, violence and four-letter words.  Whichever decision they make, the BBC should be proud of ‘Children of Earth’ as a brilliant bit of television.

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The world will always welcome lovers? Or Torchwood and the gay agenda

The 21st century’s when everything changes

So, on the day of the penultimate Hot Mikado performance, we closed the doors of the Library of Doom for the very last time.  Since then, most of our stock has gone into storage, while the merry band of librarians and library assistants have been scattered to the winds, dispersed across five different buildings on the university campus.  My team is based in a Temporary Library in an examinations hall, and we are all waiting out the summer, in anticipation of the grand opening of our big new, shiny learning centre.  Each day, as we go about our business, we can see the old library building being gutted, as teams of builders prepare it for a new life as a collection of teaching labs. 

It was hardly a perfect building. It leaked, sometimes causing large chunks of paint to fall from the ceiling.  It flooded once, which was rather exciting as an old storm drain suddenly made its presence felt in the foyer.  A shelf once came loose and made a valiant attempt at decapitating me.  The carpet tiles made endless attempts to trip people up.  The building was always either too cold or too hot.  The book return box was an eyesore.  It had slopes in inconvenient places which made it difficult to wheel the trolleys around.  Some of the light switches were behind shelves of music books.  The layout didn’t make sense, even after nearly nine years of working there.  There was never enough space for the books.  It had wheelchair access issues and a frightening lift.

I miss it, though.  I was the final member of staff to go through the closing-up routine and even as I passed the dodgy shelves, switched off the inconvenient lights, wrestled with the complicated doors on the first floor and took in each of the building’s faults, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss as each room was plunged into darkness and sealed away from marauding students.  I locked the Group Study Room and remembered the Children in Need fundraiser event, S Club Library.  I chuckled as I saw a few videos which reminded me of our Easter Egg Hunt (bags of mini eggs were hidden inside some of the video cases).  I passed the office with the hideous yellow shelves and remembered the student who came in there and asked for photographs of the Great Fire of London.  Almost eight years is a long time to work in one building, and had clearly allowed many memories to build up.  The different areas we’d sealed off with hazard tape from time to time.  The hysteria I’d shared with a colleague when the shelf tried to kill me.  The desk where I was sitting when I got the email asking me to perform in Aladdin.  The secluded part of the Open Access Area (computer lab) where I’d done some of the assignments for my librarianship qualification.  And more, of course.

All gone, now.  But the stock remains (and believe me, some of the books, DVDs and equipment have memories attached to them) and more importantly, my colleagues are still around as well.  I couldn’t hope for a better group of peers.  We share a lot of laughs and the odd tear now and then.  Whole shelves of librarians turn out to watch my shows, and we have regular trips to the local noodle bar and other eating and drinking establishments.  Frustrations are shared, ideas are passed to and fro and we seem to cope with anything, from the complete loss of our library management software (otherwise known as The Month We Do Not Speak Of) to unspeakably rude library patrons, and from yet another brood of ducklings in the garden to malfunctioning exit doors. 

So in a strange way I miss the nasty old Library of Doom, even as I look forward to the new building.  Whatever the environment’s like, I know we’ll be forging some new memories there.  I just hope it never becomes the Shiny Learning Centre of Doom…