Comforting words, aren't they? Not merely issued by old ladies. Or vicars. We never offer anyone anything less. My father would occasionally pass back the cup, if it had been brewed insufficiently and say in Welsh, "Parson's piss.." So when my dearest husband said, way back in March, "Nice Fish?" on a mobile phone with bad reception, I said,"Sure, why not?"but failed to hear the italics. When the grilled fish did not arrive with his homecoming on the Friday evening, the conversation was re-constructed (and fishfingers came to the rescue).
Last Saturday was the evening for which tickets to see Mark Rylance in Nice Fish had been bought.
I had read nothing about it, so had no expectations. Other than, of course, a sense of pleasure at seeing Mark Rylance on stage again. We had enjoyed Farinelli and the King very much, earlier in the year.
The show comes to London after a sell-out in New York. It is written by Rylance and Louis Jenkins, and directed by Rylance's wife, Claire van Kampen.
The play is set on a frozen lake in Minnesota. Delightful miniature marionettes set the scene which brings us to two larger than life characters, who are fishing on the ice. Comparisons with "Waiting for Godot" are inevitable, or as one critic said, "Waiting for Codot". Not as lyrical, not as funny, but a quiet, compelling masterclass in meaningful inactivity.
Be wary. Ninety minutes and no interval (rightly so). For me, with a full bladder, it was also mind over Minnesota.
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| Photo by Teddy Woolfe |
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