The trouble with not acting your age

A few years ago, I used to be an amateur actress. I even took part in a huge production. The day we opened, we did it in front of 500 people. I knew my lines, wore the heavy 18th century dress, petticoat and all, and walked out on stage. Leading the rest of the cast, I attempted to close a parasol I carried. Not only did I fail at closing it, I sent the damn thing flying. It slipped right out of my hands, launching into the air and falling right at the edge of the stage. I heard the gasps and the giggles, and my heart sank. Panicking and breaking a sweat, all I could do was pick up my parasol and say my lines. The show went on.

People may have laughed at me, they may have thought I screwed up my performance, who knows. I didn’t have the world’s media watching me, or millions of people tuning in to an online stream. Twitter didn’t exist back then, and I wasn’t a 56-year-old professional performer. I wasn’t Madonna, falling at the Brits. 

Last night Madonna fell from a raised part of her stage, to the floor a metre down, while almost choking on an Armani cape that refused to unhook. It was not a light tumble. The entire world gasped, a lot of us cringed, and due to today’s technology, we all got to see Madonna’s look of horror. Appearing to be sore, she missed a couple of her lines but went on with her performance, singing live and dancing in frightfully high heels.

The first thing I thought after her fall was the sheer amount of negative remarks it was going to generate. Not negative as in “your performance was not the best” or “what a disappointment”. The ones that troubled me were those that, for the last years, talk about a 56-year-old in need of a retirement plan. The headlines that call Madge an oldie that should cover up or behave appropriately. The comments on social media that express disgust or wonder about her children’s wellbeing whenever she choses to “not act her age”. 

A number suddenly becomes such an important matter, warranting discussion and heavy criticism if it dares go over 50. Apparently once you reach that amount, you’re done.

I wonder about those who cringe at Madonna flashing her bum, or talking about sex… are they grown up? Are they ignorant teenagers who think it’s cool to live fast and die young? Are they women over 50 who abandoned their own dreams and can’t stand to see others doing it differently? Is it men who are throwing the nasty remarks? Being over 50 and being Madonna…how is that a bad thing? Why does it bother some so much?

When I was fifteen, a few years before my parasol fiasco, I lost one of my closest friends. She died of cancer. She never got to experience what turning 18 meant, she never grew up to reach 40 married or unmarried, who cares. She never made it pass 15.

Last year, gorgeous Averi, a wonderful girl I met through my sister, died at age 17. Cancer too. 

Reaching 50 is no easy task. The people that turn that age and continue to celebrate birthdays, have earned their right to be on this planet through survival, hard work and resisting the rubbish life throws at them. 

One of the ladies I admire the most, my aunt and best friend S., she’s around Madonna’s age and like the blonde pop star, still wears lipstick, still is a hell of a sexy kitten channeling Susan Sarandon. Should she dress differently?

C, another lady in my inner circle, separated from her husband when she was around Madonna’s age. She lives alone by the Mediterranean sea. She goes to parties, she does Yoga and now has re-discovered her singing voice, performing stunning solos to numerous audiences. Should she be dressing in black, covering her ankles? Is she not entitled to fall in love again? 

I’m certainly not acting my age. I’m not 25 anymore – I keep telling everyone I’m 28, you can guess whether that is true or not. I certainly don’t behave the accepted “standard” way. I’m not married, I don’t have children, I still rent, and I have no plans of doing what is expected of me. I never have. I’ve been judged, crucified, told I’m unbalanced for not “settling down”. I never will. My gender, the way I wear my hair, my job, and certainly my age, do not define me or my life. 

Age is a blessing, a massive gift. Women over 50 are not going to shrivel up and die. Give up the hate, Daily Mail and other tabloids, trolls and ageist idiots.

Madonna got up, she sang her lines, she nailed her performance. Even non-fans are praising the levels of professionalism of the biggest icon in music. Unlike many of her peers, she’s still here.

Life is to be celebrated, end of. If all you throw at the universe is your negativity and nasty thoughts don’t be ofended when I ignore the hell out of you, and dream to grow “old” like Madonna.

Pictures: BRITS, Fashion Limbo

The complexity behind the smile

I don’t know what it is… but working in the creative arts often comes at a price. Whether it’s deep-seeded insomnia from an over-working mind, panic attacks stemming from insecurities, or months spent paralysed fearing failure or God knows what. Actors have it, writers have it, musicians suffer from it. Even comedians fail at “laughing off” such demons.

I once met a guy who was great at making everyone around him smile. He wasn’t a close friend of mine, but I know he was a devoted husband and a loving father. What made him take his life no one will ever know, but what is certain is that it was no easy choice, or a quick way out. It was something that came from desperation.

A few years back I remember admiring Alexander McQueen’s work, thinking of him as a national treasure, someone that added to Britain’s creative greatness. He too, took his own life. I remember telling my boss at the time about the sad news, to which she replied “What a selfish thing to do. I have no respect for anyone that commits suicide”. Back then, I lacked the words and courage to jeopardise my job and tell her how shallow and mistaken her words were.

Two weeks ago, I opened my eyes to a very cold bedroom. Instead of braving it and jumping out of bed, I stayed under the duvet for a short while. While I don’t like to check any social media or emails first thing in the morning, I chose to look at my Instagram, and the third picture I saw was one of Robin Williams, a fan lamenting his death. I felt a sudden pain in my chest, and got out of bed.

I never met Robin Williams, but his work, especially his stand-up comedy routines, hold a very special place in my heart. They remind me of a beautiful time of my life when I fell in love with a man and everything that was connected to him. Some of Williams’ films take me back to my childhood, afternoons at the cinema, with sugary gum sweets that stuck to my fingers. 

As I said, I never made his acquaintance, but that morning, after hearing the news of his passing I found it hard to stop crying. I still well up when I see any of the beautiful tributes that have popped up over the last days. 

We will never really know all of the reasons, everything that troubled him, the facts that had him turn to suicide. He was incredibly talented and it is no secret that a lot of his comedy was propelled as some sort of automatic response to cover his own demons. 

I never knew him, but I know he was a wonderful man, just like many more that we lose to suicide, that fall victims of depression. Emotional issues don’t come from a lack of intelligence, like I was once told. I’ve heard “get over it” way too many times. While it can be difficult to find the “right” things to say, there are also many wrong things to say. No one seeks to suffer this much, it’s not a conscious, or selfish choice.

Sometimes it’s not the circumstances you live, or things you can change. Sometimes it’s rooted deep within. Sometimes it comes with being so connected to your emotions, that you can be a comedian, or write, draw, perform, create things with such intensity, they touch strangers, hundreds of thousands of miles away.

I really don’t know what it is…

What I do know is that after his death, Robin Williams continues to live. His contribution to this world is too great, too beautiful and too powerful to simply disappear.

When Gaga ditched R. Kelly

The first time I heard Do What U Want by Lady Gaga, I fell in love with the throbbing beats at the start and how her near-perfect vocals work towards the chorus. I enjoyed the lyrics, understood what Gaga was trying to communicate. Then as the song developed into its second half, I found one problem: R.Kelly. There aren’t enough good beats, sublime vocals, and powerful lyrics that will make me like anything by this individual. I am not going to bore you with my reasons, but if you are curious, you can read about it here and here.

Back to the song, I was disappointed. I’m not a huge Gaga fan, but I do enjoy her music and I do feel that we need more pop artists like her, pushing buttons, making people think, very much like Madonna used to do. I still found myself loving the song, but felt uncomfortable playing it on Spotify. I saw Gaga performing  solo on The Graham Norton Show, confirming my initial thoughts: R. Kelly adds nothing to Do What U Want. If anyone reading this believes I say this because I cannot look pass certain aspects of this man’s life, you are right, I can’t. For me, music is more than just some good notes masterfully placed, or a great guitar solo, or a stunning voice. Music means more to me, so, yes, I am biased, and that’s what music is for, to be biased and choose what inspires you, what moves you and what not.

I’m not in the music industry so maybe something escapes me? I don’t understand how an intelligent woman like Gaga would want to collaborate with R. Kelly. There is something I must be missing.

A few weeks back,  Gaga performed this song live on The Voice US, with Christina Aguilera. I was not the only one praising the performance. Both women have powerful voices that are amazing to see/hear live, and the song came alive.

To mark the New Year, Gaga released a studio version of Do What U Want featuring Aguilera. It’s brilliant. It’s sheer pop perfection, and it should have been the original version we all got of the song. What do you think?

Picture: Vogue

Eddie Izzard in Avignon, in French

Last night I went to see Eddie Izzard at Le Palace in Avignon. He is performing there for five days (July 13-17th) as apart of the local festival, and I was lucky – and also mad – enough to convince some of my loved ones to drive there and watch the show. It was an unmissable chance to see him extremely close in a tiny venue. Now a Hollywood film and TV star (Ocean’s Twelve and Thirteen, Valkyrie, United States of Tara, The Riches to name a few), an English speaking comedic icon, an inspiring runner and an activist, this courageous man has decided to re-work his Stripped show for French audiences, so it is all in the language of Balzac.

He performs in a a small room that barely fits over 100 people, and with Madonna’s Hung Up, Eddie makes his appearance on stage. I am sitting on the first row, and as he is barely a couple of metres away I spot his beautifully manicured nails, in deep shiny burgundy red, very much the shade of  a good Merlot, with his ring finger dressed with the Union Jack colours.

Does the show work in French? Speaking with fellow Eddie Izzard fans just before the show, discussing wether his gags could actually be translated, we all admired his determination, but wondered what the final product would be like. And it really isn’t a disappointment, more accurately, it’s quite a brilliant performance.

The best gags from Stripped work perfectly in French, mainly because Eddie’s humour is very visual, and extremely surreal, making it timeless – you can watch his former shows on DVDs and YouTube and they never get old – but also lacking geographic boundaries . He may be talking about the differences between a Mac and a PC, or digressing over the differences between dinosaurs: it’s absurd, funny, both in English and in French.

And also I am playing the Avignon Festival in France in July. Et aussi je joue au Festival d’Avignon en France en ju… http://t.co/VkCLYHqulv

— Eddie Izzard (@eddieizzard) June 15, 2013

 

In French, his stream-of-consciousness, free association technique, his ramblings, when closely watched, look like extremely hard work. You see Eddie squinting his eyes, touching his temple with his fingertips, his mind quickly working under the heat of the stage lights, tying gags together, pushing it a bit further, all in a foreign language. All of this is, including his now famous hand gesture of taking notes for future performances, acquire an extra touch of charm, humour, and brazenness that enrich the original English act, and that the audience during that opening night seemed to lap up.

What comes across when you watch the show is the sheer determination to make it all work: to make up your mind about learning a language and then, present yourself in the countries in which this language is spoken, and attempt to make people laugh. I spoke to a comedian who was promoting his gig outside of the theatre, and to him, what Eddie was doing was madness, “you can’t translate everything, it doesn’t work” he told me. Eddie Izzard seems to differ, and his style of comedy appears to be the perfect vehicle to pull it all off.

When the show finished, it wasn’t the end of Eddie Izzard for me. I have a stubborn boyfriend named Rob who was determined I talked to Eddie after the show. I’m not one to approach celebrities, I’m always worrying about bothering them, but Rob was determined we congratulated him on the gig, so we waited for 20 minutes and that’s when Mr Izzard made his way out.

Extremely scared I stood behind him and called his name, he turned around, shook my hand and when I told him I came from Barcelona, his eyes widened and he said “wow, thank you!”. We then proceeded to briefly chat about him doing his work next in German, then Spanish, and then we discussed linguistics politics for a bit. He was soon ushered to move on to other people. But I got to look him straight into the eye and thanked him for a great show.

I never got to tell him how much he has changed the way I look at life. I didn’t manage to explain to him how his film Believe made me question everything I had done, made me accept the misfit that I am, and pushed me to want to strive to become the version of myself only I wanted to be, pursuing a career in writing.

I didn’t bore him with an account on how after watching him running 43 marathons in 51 days for Sport Relief, with tears of admiration and also frustration, I grew determined to find a remedy to end my nasty back injury and be able to run again. I didn’t get to explain how every time I complete my modest 2km runs, when I feel like my insides are going to disintegrate, when tendinitis flares up and my injured back and muscles force me to stop, I think of him fighting during those Mandela marathons, and then I remember that, like him, I am a runner already. That, in my brain, I have already ran the London marathon, or done the Iron Man challenge, it’s only my body that needs to catch up.

If you have the chance, go to Avignon. Si vous pouvez, allez á Avignon , ca vaudra la peine.

PS: I also never got to offer my services as experienced University teacher and language expert, so Eddie, if your brother needs a hand with the lessons, let me know 😉

To buy tickets: http://www.billetreduc.com/91561/evt.htm
Eddie´s Twitter page: @eddieizzard

Picture: Fashion Limbo, Eddie’s Twitter page