The Second Time Around

The Second Time Around

Come on with the rain! Again.

There are only a handful of shows I have seen more than once. Blood Brothers (3), We Will Rock You (3), Footloose (On and off West End), Frankenstein (both ways) and now Singing in the Rain (2). My mother recently had a birthday and she is rather difficult to buy for. Like me, the rest of my family are big fans of musicals. I had commented that I liked Singing in the Rain upon seeing it the first time and she said she would also like to see it. In short, I’m amazing daughter and took my mother to Singing in the Rain, for me, the second time. Was it just as good the second time around?

It was fine. This is such a middle of the road statement but it’s true. I’ve seen the rain, I’ve seen the dancing; the only thing I hadn’t seen was Jennifer Ellison’s tits. Excuse my language, but they were fucking massive. I’m sure they’ve not always been that big. May be it was the angle of my seat. Anyway, I was familiar with what I was seeing but I still craved that feeling, that atmosphere that only theatre goers will understand. But I got to be honest, I didn’t get it.

Every time I see a show again, it’s because I’ve hyped it up to someone else or Benedict Cumberbatch. I’ve always walked away underwhelmed and hoping that the shows meet the expectations I set. This worked with Blood Brothers and We Will Rock You; the other shows, I feel people may have been too polite to say otherwise. It’s difficult to capture that first time; it’s never quite the same. The quality is the same but the anticipation can never be reclaimed.

But with my little free time and littler money, I should be seeing things I haven’t seen. There are still a lot of musicals I haven’t seen and some I will never see. Seriously Thriller, no more. I haven’t been to the theatre as much as I have in the past which is why this blog is going downhill. I must see more and do more. I’m forever turning new corners, I think I’m lost.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald * * * * *
A modern tragedy of spoilt pretty young things. A witty poke at the American dream.

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