I can promise that Rob was incredible as always. He was his usual professional self, creating an entirely fleshed out character he could disappear into and who commanded the stage every time he was on (and not just because he's the only moving character). It was a joy to watch Clov go from resigned servant to rebelling against his master to making the decision to abandon him and find freedom. It's a comedy but Rob managed to find a good middle-ground between getting laughs and portraying Clov's desperation (but not in a Klaus way, it was entirely different). And the physicality mentioned in a few reviews deserves all the praise in the world, I absolutely bought Rob as a "cripple" for lack of a less ableist word. Also, the poor lad was sweating buckets under those stage lights, and that combined with the fact that chair Frankie is in is so unwieldy and he has to run up and down a ladder 5000 times with a lame leg really adds to the suffering of Clov.
The problem with the play is that it is the ”Hamm doing monologues hour” so there are long stretches of time where Clov isn't on stage, and I found those quite boring because Frankie played Hamm in a very subdued manner (usually the character is much more in your face). I remember Rob commenting on his out of the box choices after the first Zoom read-throughs they had while he was in Toronto, so at least we know this was on purpose. But I am really surprised so many critics focus on him so much. Maybe it's because it's his debut? Like, they expected the quality of acting they got from Rob, Sean and Gina, but Frankie was who everyone was curious about?
Thank you so much Nonny.
Worth Reading ☝️
This commentary is the following adjectives and other kinds of words:
Engaging and insightful. I devoured every word.
Detailed and descriptive. I felt like I was there seeing through your eyes.
Lucky, you lovely bastard. You got to see it and I’m beyond jealous. (Therefore, I resort to name-calling)
Happy-making. It’s Rob-centric and positive, from somebody who was actually there. Thank you.
Side note to Nonny: I do think a lot about Frankie’s involvement, audience response, and what it’s felt like being inside Hamm. I wish I could have been sitting in Frankie’s head when: Rob pitched the idea, and talked him into giving acting a try for the first time at 49 years old. In a theatre production no less. And then when he decided to say yes. When he received the script and saw the monologues on a printed page. And when rehearsals started and he realized in concrete terms that he was The Lead Character. Did he feel that the weight of the the production rested on his shoulders? Opening night, cuz there’s no feeling like it in the world. And the differences between standing on a stage spouting your own words, and standing onstage spouting somebody else’s words.
whip: ‘ just a couple of stitches. ’ whip u got shot that’s not
@thymocosm / send memes
for fourteen hours, michael didn’t know whether whip was alive or dead.
after leaving him with his father, after framing jacob, the arrival of the authorities, sitting in an interrogation room, letting the authorities drag it all out as long as they always do, waiting for the receipt or denial of his own identity, he refused to let himself think about it. the sticky, hot smells of iron and gunpowder, the unsettling, bizarre experience of being as worried as t-bag was, of being worried about anything t-bag worries about, of trusting t-bag when he said i got him were resolutely pushed not just to the back but out of michael’s mind, forcing himself to be uncomfortable, empty, sterile, but - ultimately calm.
fourteen hours is a long time to hold all of that in. the calm snaps like a rubber band pulled one too many times once the cia gets what they consider to be all the important things - including a fucking job offer - out of the way. it wasn’t panic. not quite. he couldn’t panic until he knew if he was going to the hospital to visit the mortuary or the ward. he had no interest in listening to the sheer disinterest of the agents if he asked how whip was - and no interest in them asking who whip was, in hearing them say ‘ the kid? ’ - so he waited, made it outside into the cooling air, called sara, asked how she was, how their son was, how his brother was, and then, ‘ do you know - ? ’
‘ last linc heard, david was in surgery. ’ then, so softly that michael could hear the apology in sara’s voice. ‘ we’re not at the hospital, michael. ’
‘ it’s okay. you and mike need to be at home. ’ it was michael’s turn for his voice to be writ full of apology, so thick that it came heavy in his tone; i’m sorry that i’m not coming home to you, my wife, to our son. i’m sorry that i’ve put you through so much. i’m sorry, but i have to see him, alive or dead. i have to know. ‘ i have to go to the hospital. ’
‘ i know. go. ’
the calm has snapped but it doesn’t immediately translate into panic; it’s more of a creeping, gradual feeling, it’s acid rain eating away at stone, making it porous, weakening the structure. it was clogging up michael’s lungs and throat by the time he got to the hospital, by the time he ignored reception and started looking for the cops. they’d know better than the admin.
turns out the first law enforcement he found weren’t cops at all, but federal agents, one sitting either side of theodore in a waiting area. he’d clearly found someone sympathetic to the plight of the father, even with snapped necks considered; michael slowed to a stop at the sight of him and t-bag lifted his hands in answer, jerked wrists in handcuffs and gave a little sardonic wave. it was only this that alerted the agents to michael’s presence, and one of them moved to stand and speak, but t-bag cut through the pre-noise and drawled: ‘ boy’s alive. ’ michael’s exhale was so blatantly relieved that he barely heard t-bag’s snide, ‘and i will be well on my way back to the good old clink ‘fore long, you shall be pleased to know. ’
’ where is he ? ’
‘ mm. in there. ’ head jerking.
michael considered that this might be the closest to a truce he would ever be willing to reach with t-bag; the acknowledgement that they both cared about whip, albeit in vastly different ways. this didn’t prompt him to say goodbye or impart any words of thanks or kindness to t-bag; he’d never done so before and had no intention of starting now. it didn’t even cross his mind, not when he was busy pushing his way into the room. the only thing that really crossed his mind in the blank seconds before he saw whip in the bed was that he was happy whip wasn’t on a ward.
michael had thought about being angry, during the drive to the hopsital. furious that whip had disobeyed him and gotten shot as a result. that whip had nearly, very nearly, died because he couldn’t keep his shit in line for once. and on some level he was angry, but - not really with whip. it was hard to articulate. he didn’t know. but by the time he was dragging a chair over so he could sit next to whip’s bed, the screech of wood on linoleum waking the bleary whip up from a morphine stupor, michael was just - glad to see him blinking groggily over at him. even so, before whip could speak, he said: ‘ hey, david. ’
‘ uff. ’ michael didn’t firstname him a lot and they both knew it. ‘ hey. i’m in trouble, huh. ’
‘ so much trouble. ’ it didn’t really carry any weight, though, especially not when michael’s voice scraped into a weak, huffing laugh at the tail end of the sentence. ’ i’m sorry i wasn’t here sooner. ’
’ you went home ? ’
michael’s blink was slow and then his expression turned scrutinising, looking whip over. he knew there was a long list of lies and half-truths he had told whip, and there was going to be a period of adjustment. to sharing, being shared. but he could at least make it clear that he wasn’t going to abandon whip, not after this long. he leaned back in the chair, one ankle bracing over the opposite knee and saying, ‘ no. i was with the authorities. i came straight here after they let me go. i had to see you. and i’m not going anywhere. ’
whip seemed kinda like he wasn’t sure if he was happy or if he didn’t actually know how he felt about that. he waved his bandaged hand and opted for, ‘ s'just a few stitches. ’
firmly: ‘ you were shot. twice. you had surgery. you could’ve died, you probably almost did. i’ll find out from your doctor. ’
‘ yea, and guess what? they closed it all up with a few stitches. ’
he says it in a so there tone of voice that michael doesn’t buy. that, even if whip bought it, he wouldn’t. whip looks exhausted; absolutely alive, but thoroughly immobilised by his wounds, confined in a way that stray dog types like whip never like to be. michael sighs, and his hand reaches out across the gap between chair and bed, curls around whip’s wrist. between the embedded iv drip and the injury to his hand, michael is reluctant to try and tangle whip’s fingers in his own as he’d really like.
‘ let me worry about you. you’ve done enough. ’
maybe it’s the lack of fight in michael’s voice, or the morphine, or the fact he’s here at all, but whip seemed to think about it for a while before murmuring, arm pushing up into michael’s hand, ‘ okay. ’
Holycrap this latest orc boy story has got out of hand. It’s 3600+ words long already, and I’ve just had the first real orc boy x reader conversation. This might be a two part story, anon who requested an orc boy x female reader... hang in there!
