Sunday, March 24, 2013




On Sunday Rebecca and I went to see the last performance of writer, director, producer and set designer Andy Thompson’s Broken Sex Doll at the Vancouver East Cultural Centre. I had previously read Vancouver Courier Jo Ledingham’s glowing review of this musical which contains lots of four letter words and variants thereof.

We sat next to a very serious, late middle-aged couple who whispered so slightly that I could not decide if they were Persian or Latin. They seemed to me to be visiting psychologists either slumming or researching on how subtlety is a word that has lost its meaning. Rebecca whispered, “They are really cold, and I know that your Rosemary is not that much warmer but you are certainly not a cold fish.”

I was right and this foul play did make me laugh and it did help to bring back my wayward teenage-from-hell granddaughter a bit back into my fold. She knew that nobody in her family would have brought her to see this play.

The music was composed by a an actor I photographed last year, Anton Lipovetsky, a young nerdish, warm and quiet spoken man who I would have never guessed had it in him to write such songs as I Can’t Get it Up (perhaps director Thompson can claim credit for the lyrics as there is no mention in the program as to who did). The music, stayed with me, and the dancing full of unsubtle simulated sex moves that would have left La Pavlova in a cardiac arrest, kept the interest of Rebecca who was as happy as I have seen her in weeks.

When I purchased my tickets (the Cultch and the Arts Club Theatre Company have both divested themselves of the Ticketmaster Mafia, thank God!) I pointed out that my granddaughter was 16 (I lied as she is really 15) but they told me there was no problem.

I wonder (theatres are so lucky) and I am glad that they do not have to cope with our Province’s odd code for film. Both the Pacific Cinematheque and the VanCity Cinema Centre will not ever allow minors (except in rare occasions) because of the outdated code.

Lauren Stewart & Benjamin Elliott

The play while being set about 30 years into the future was very contemporary in exploiting social media even to the funny use of the Skype call sound when our malfunctioning robot (a beautiful woman at that) became a virtual computer/telephone connection.

The tall and gangly Benjamin Elliott played the aw-shucks type of protagonist who happens to, without prior knowledge (his memory was erased) to pull a Lazarus courtesy of the malfunctioning robot played by Gili Roskies. It is this Mr. Elliott who in several situations wore one of those codpieces that wrap around so that when he turned around his lovely buttocks were there for all of us to either gloat in admiration (my Rebecca being one of them) or squirm in shock (yours truly) who sang that one song I Can’t Get it Up.

I bring that up because you will see here a picture of Elliott with my other granddaughter, Lauren after the performance of the children’s play Munscha Mia (Carousel Theatre) at the Waterfront Theatre back in March of 2011.

This fact set me to thinking. In the past several organizations who have wanted to link to my blog, they change their mind when they notice that I sometimes post photographs that they find questionable even though I make it a point to self-censor so you rarely see bits and pieces. Today’s blog features a glorious rear end. I hope I will be forgiven as much as I hope many forget that the tall, gangly and pleasant Benjamin Elliott did sing “I Can’t Get it Up,” to many, successful and packed performances of Broken Sex Dolls.

Rebecca Stewart

Kudos to the Cultch and to Heather Redfern for taking the chance with this play. While subtlety was not in the audience on Sunday, Broken Sex Doll did serve me well in getting me together with my granddaughter. Sushi at The Clubhouse Japanese Restaurant completed a satisfying evening.

In the car Rebecca asked me about that orange dress "that made it possible for my mother to be born."  In a trip to Ottawa, when Rosemary and I were living in Mexico City (we had one daughter, Ale) Rosemary must have told her mother that things weren't all that well back at the Waterhouse-Hayward manor. It would seem that my mother-in-law of strict and religious Scottish heritage gave Rosemary very good advice. When I picked Rosemary up at Benito Juarez Airport I noticed she was wearing a very tight and very short orange dress. When we arrived home Hilary was conceived. At the time I did not have Benjamin Elliott's problem.