And the Music Was Ace!

Let's hear it for the boys — and the orchestra too — because both bring a vibrant and intriguing air to Tom Stoppard's provocative drama spectacular, Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, which recently finished its run at the National. Maintaining a delicate balancing act between frail enlightenment and overwhelming darkness is not the production's only feat — its flair for provoking bleak laughter while questioning society's beliefs about what is normal and the audience's perceptions of insanity and sanity makes the show truly impossible to ignore.

Set in Soviet Russia, the play follows political dissident Alexander Ivanov (played by Joseph Millson), who is imprisoned in a mental institution for voicing his beliefs. In a classic sardonic Stoppard twist, his cellmate shares Alexander's name, but not his belief that sane people are locked up in mental institutions. Rather, Ivanov (Toby Jones) stubbornly insists that he is the conductor of his own orchestra — fully deployed on-stage, but invisible and inaudible to every other character.

Not only do the musicians play André Previn's sweeping compositions masterfully, but they also interact with the cast — at one point thrusting themselves and their instruments headfirst into a surprisingly satisfying quasi-interpretive dance/fight sequence — and serve as a central symbolic character in this dark, vexing comedy. The orchestra's on-stage presence also adds an air of extravagant opulence that compliments the scenic and lighting design style flawlessly.

Even the title fits in with everything — ‘Every Good Boy Deserves Favour’ (or Fudge, as my 5th grade band director said) is a popular mnemonic device for remembering the notes that appear on the lines of the treble clef: E, G, B, D, F. But Stoppard’s cleverness doesn’t end there. When Alexander describes to us what happened to his other dissident friends, he names them after musical notes: A, B, C, D, E, F and G.

Millson's performance is truly one of the best I've seen so far in London. He makes evoking deeply unsettling thoughts and emotions seem effortless. Opposite his wide-eyed son Sacha (played by actress, yes actress, Bryony Hannah), Millson's Alexander is harsh and stern, but remains an inspiring character because of his firm assertions. At one point, the psychiatrist (also a member of the orchestra) explains to Alexander that he can be released if he admits that his beliefs are false.

Your opinions are your symptoms.
Your disease is dissent.

But Alexander refuses to yield to the powers-that-be. But while Millson's performance is profoundly weighty, Jones has no trouble providing a comic relief with his obscure, yet compelling wit. Oh, and did I mention he also happens to be another Harry Potter film alum? He voices Dobby in the series. I'm beginning to see a trend here: HP actors go straight back to their roots in the London theatre when they're not busy shooting the cult flicks.

Though I didn't leave the theatre humming Previn's melodies, they did strike an emotional chord (no pun intended) with me, as did Stoppard's message, despite it being masked beneath a thick layer of his disparaging, comic dialogue. Soviet Russia may be a faint memory of the past, but the themes still hold relevance in today's world. Many countries still cling to the theory of 'arrest now, ask questions later', imprisoning dissenters for expressing beliefs that are, for the moment, unpopular (at least among those in power).

It's a shame that the show isn't playing anymore (it closed Feb. 25) and that it will unlikely be performed anywhere else in the near future. The difficulty of finding, blocking and rehearsing a play with a full-sized orchestra is both a financial and logistical nightmare for most theatres to wrap their heads around. Nonetheless, the full-theatre experience was spectacular and unforgettable.

Catching Some Zeds

It's 1:30pm on a Friday and I just woke up (I know, I know, Dad, 'lazy bum', right?). But after a production week at Peace News, a grueling week of classes and homework and trying to finalize plans for Spring Break (more on that in a later entry), I've barely caught any zeds this week.

On top of all that, Brittany, Kara and I went to a concert on Monday, followed by a trip to a club. The concert, which featured newly signed artist Tallulah Rendall, was held in a small, artsy club. I'd never heard her music before, but she turned out to be pretty good. After that, we went to a dance club called Tiger Tiger (don't ask me, I can't make these names up) because it was student night. Great mix of music, cool atmosphere and lots of dancing — a great night overall (even though I had to get up early for class the next day).

I thought New York was the city that never slept, but London gives it a pretty good run for its money!

Not Too Parky!

Bitter cold temperatures, several feet of snow on the ground, school cancellations — these are the kinds of things that usually compose my winters (with the possible exception of the latter — my superintendent didn't believe in snow days). Between growing up in Rochester and going to school in Ithaca, I've seen some of the coldest and snowiest winters every year.

Until now. Over the past week or so, the temperature here in London has been at least 45-50 degrees Fahrenheit. I'm already busting out some of my spring clothes. The only snow we've seen was the "blizzard" a few weeks ago, and I'm starting to see why the Brits had a tough time coping with it.

Not that I'm complaining — trust me, it's a nice change of pace — it's just a little bizarre for me. I have to keep reminding myself that it's February. Horses for courses, I guess.

We Are QPR! We Are QPR!

Nearly six weeks after setting foot in London, I finally managed to do something I've been dying to do since I got here: attend a football match (that's soccer for my American readers). It was Queen Park Rangers, better known as QPR for obvious reasons, against Ipswich, nicknamed the Tractor Boys because the town of Ipswich is mostly rural. It wasn't a typical match either. It may not have been a Premier League game, but the outcome determined which team would advance to the premiership. Needless to say there was a full stadium and a lot at stake.

The game was pretty good. QPR scored within the first few minutes and Ipswich caught up to tie the game by the half. Even though the Rangers had a strong start, they lost it after that. QPR was plagued by a sloppy defense, haphazard passes that ended up in the wrong places and a few shoddy calls in the second half. The game was loud and fascinating to watch, but even more so were the fans. Supporters here are hard-core, like nothing I've seen regularly in the states. It starts with wearing team colors to the match and ends with intense shouting and cheering matches between fans.

Nothing got out of control, but swarms of coppers in orange vests were ready if anything did happen. It's not uncommon for fights to erupt between fans following intense football matches. We lucked out and things ended calmly, but there was a group of fans sitting in front of us we had a bit of fun silently teasing for their constant chants of 'We are QPR, We are QPR!'.

If you ever get the chance to visit the UK, Football is definitely a must-see. It's a huge part of the culture and loads of fun to watch.

I'm Absolutely Gobsmacked!

Land of the rising sun. Land where the old meets the new. Land with delicacies of raw fish and seaweed. Japan has given us many things, but unexpectedly dropped an intriguing new theatrical spectacular, 'Shun Kin', on London earlier this year that has played to packed audiences nearly every night. Based on Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's prolific novel, A Portrait of Shun Kin, the show is performed by experimental acting troupe Complicite and tells the story of the blind shamisen prodigy Shun Kin and her sadomasochistic relationship with her willing servant and lover Sasuke.

The story is bizarre and couldn't keep my attention for most of the production. Then again, it was two and a half hours long with no intermission, so the odds were against it. It also jumped around constantly and lacked any coherent line of thought. And, since my Japanese is a bit rusty, a good portion of my time was spent reading the English subtitles — poorly placed on the extreme left and right of the stage — while simultaneously trying watch what was happening on stage.

Only slightly more dizzying than trying to keep up with the dubious subtitles was the way the story was framed: on one side of the stage, a modern-day women sits in a recording studio dictating Tanizaki's tale for a radio show, as we watch Tanizaki investigate the stories he found in Sasuke's journal several years before, while the actual 1800s-era story of Sasuke and Shun Kin unfolds in front of our eyes. Confused? So was I. It does, however, amply demonstrate the concept of what the British call 'Chinese Whispers' or the way a story gets changed as is passes from one person to the next. What Americans would characterize as the 'Telephone game' concept I suppose.

Despite these setbacks, 'Shun Kin' shines as an intriguing and different type of production than London's West End is used to. The staging and theatrics of the production were masterfully and beautifully choreographed. Rarely have sex and violence been so unusually tame and graceful to watch. It's a far cry from the generally intense and gratuitous images we see in movies and television, and, though many critics disagree, I have to applaud Complicite's unique interpretation. Additionally, Shun Kin's transformation from puppet, (masterfully controlled by two on-stage assistants called Kurogo), to live actress harmoniously shadows her progression as a character.

And, in the true spirit of all things Japanese, the production blends the old traditions with the most modern trends. The show utilizes Kabuki and Noh theatre techniques, like the use of Kurogo, and cleverly shifting bamboo sticks to represent a series of different doors, passages and hallways, and blends them effortlessly with dazzling new theatrical technology, particularly through the use of projections to emphasize particularly beautiful or painful moments. Accompanying the entire production is a gorgeous set of melodies played on the shamisen, a three-stringed Japanese instrument similar to the banjo. Here's an example, courtesy of Youtube:



Definitely a show worth seeing — probably twice so you can ignore the subtitles and dull storyline the second time around and appreciate the beauty of choreography and truly stunning theatrical techniques.

Photo: Production still taken from the 'Time Out London' Website.

It's Been a Hard Day's Night

If you've ever seen my iTunes, you'll know I have a rather eclectic taste in music. Naturally this means I love the classics, so my play list would be incomplete without the Beatles. And even though I wasn't alive for Beatlemania, I've always been a big fan of the Fab Four and I jumped at the chance to visit their hometown of Liverpool this past weekend.

I woke up at an ungodly hour (here came the sun through my window at 6am, so I dragged myself out of bed. Give me a break — it's not like I'm used to getting up that early eight days a week). After sitting on a bus for about four hours, it was a good day, sunshine as we finally made it to the hostel. Bill took us on another one of his infamous walks before we went on the Magical Mystery Tour, which gave us a glimpse at a day in the life of the boys. We saw the birthplaces and homes of Ringo, George, John & Paul, the church where the group would come together, Penny Lane (the infamous long and winding road), Strawberry Fields (which went on forever), the cemetery where Eleanor Rigby was buried, the Hard Day's Night hotel (the only Beatles-themed hotel in the world) and even the Cavern Club (where the group played countless times). It was really interesting and we really lucked out with the weather too — it didn't rain at all!

When we got home to the hostel, we freshened up and took a quick power nap before heading out to Her Majesty's Philharmonic, a pub that the Beatles frequented. We had to wait for a table, but it was well worth it. I had trouble deciding on something, but I finally settled on a glass of white wine and the chicken and mushroom risotto, which was fantastic! Because we were only there one night and it's not like you get to go to Liverpool any time at all, we decided to head back to the Cavern Club for some drinks and dancing. We got a bit lost, but with a little help from our friends, we eventually found the club.

The night just kept getting better, as the music and atmosphere of the club didn't let me down. While we were listening to the band's guitars gently weep, we met some local Liverpudlians (seriously — that's what they're called!) and sang along to some classics like 'I am the Walrus', 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds' and 'Hey Jude'. I'm a loser, so I knew every word to all the songs, but it was loads of fun. When he took a break, we kept chatting with the locals, but we needed help deciphering every little thing they said, as they had really thick accents. It wasn't long before the next band got up to play and with a devil in our hearts, we decided to act naturally and dance! We stayed for a while, but soon it was 1am and though it had only been a short while since we said 'Hello', goodbyes were in order. When we got home, we promptly crashed in our bunkbeds at the hostel. Not too much monkey business, but overall, we had fun and it was a good night.

Our alarms greeted us with a good morning, good morning around 7:30 and, after we fought for the shower (eight girls, one shower is a bad combination any way you slice it), we met Bill to walk to the Beatles Story museum. After a lengthy walk to the Albert Docks, we went inside and were each handed an audio set for a self-guided tour. There was a ton of memorabilia and some really interesting stories, including those of the two former Beatles: drummer Pete Best and bass player Stuart Sutcliffe. And do you want to know a secret? Even though I'm a big Beatles fan, I never knew about Sutcliffe before. The exhibit was complete with a huge yellow submarine, a life-size cut out of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band cover and a tribute to Lennon: his picture and glasses on a white piano with the lyrics to 'Let it Be' written on the wall.


Afterwards, a group of us went exploring around Liverpool: the Albert Docks, back to the Cavern Club and Pub (we wanted to get some photos) and stopped at a great panini place for lunch (the name of it is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't think of it right now). By 3pm, we had reached the end of our time in Liverpool and hopped back on the bus for the journey home. I listened to the Beatles the whole way home and even watched 'Across the Universe' yesterday just for kicks. But after all that and writing this entry, I'm pretty much all Beatlemania-ed out. And I'm guessing you are too.*

Cheers,
Kathy


*If you're not all Beatle-ed out, see if you can find all the Beatles song titles in the entry. I had fun trying to fit in as many as I could. (Hint: there are 45 total)
**Photos in this entry:
Top: The infamous Strawberry Fields in Liverpool.
Middle: The Cavern Club, where the Beatles played countless times.
Bottom: From left to right, Sara, Celia, Me and Randi at Penny Lane.

A Load of Codswallop!

I added two more shows to my list this week: 'Private Lives' and 'Othello', and based on my two previous experiences with the London Theatre, I expected them to be quite good. As you might have guessed from the title of the entry, they were anything but.

I'll start with 'Private Lives', Noël Coward's tale of 1930s divorcees Elyot and Amanda, who meet on their subsequent honeymoons and whose fatal attraction drives them to run off with each other to France. Reading the plot to this play alone had me intrigued — it sounded like it had a lot of potential to be interesting, fun and quite comical. Unfortunately, the actors didn't seem to think so, and proceeded to over-act the entire show. Accompanied by clumsy and distracting underscoring, costumes that didn't fit the time period and sets that felt lack-luster for the glamorous upper-class lives the characters were supposed to be leading, it wasn't worth my time. I think if I had seen it on my own, I probably would have walked out at the interval (intermission to those of you state-side).

The other show I saw, 'Othello', wasn't on the bill for my drama class, but they had extra student tickets for only £10 and it's one of my favourite Shakespeare plays. Plus London is known for its fantastic productions of Shakespeare works (mainly Stratford, but still), so I thought there was no way I could go wrong. How wrong I was. After a long, crowded journey there on the tube/overground, we found our seats in the first balcony level towards house right. There were a few other Ithaca College students near us, but the group was pretty scattered throughout the theatre.

At the start of the production, the director came out to inform us that the role of Iago would be played by the understudy and, therefore, Cassio would also be played by an understudy. I was slightly bummed by the news, but decided to give the production a chance anyways. Starting off with underscoring that had touches of African drumming, Othello and Desdemona sang their first few lines beautifully, giving me the hope that the production would be much better than the show I saw earlier in the week.

But as the production continued, Patrice Naiambana (Othello) was all over the place — light and comical, then quickly depressed and right back to cheerful. Not the Othello I had found so fascinating when reading the original work. Natalie Tena (who many of my classmates recognized as Tonks from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix) as Desdemona was elegantly charming, but did not manage to evoke the depth of pity for which I'd packed the tissues. Understudy Alex Hassle was memorable in the role of Iago, but for all the wrong reasons. He was no more sinister or cunning than Spongebob Squarepants and managed to flub at least one line in practically every scene. I know he was the understudy, but it was unfortunately clear why. The benefit of him playing Iago was his understudy, Robert Vernon, really shined in the role of Cassio — I walked away with a whole new appreciation for that character.

But the production was still riddled with technical goofs — the flash on a camera didn't go off when it was supposed to, a piece of cloth hung for a scene was ripped in half by a cast member, and during the final scene, the candle was knocked over, which a spare cast member came on stage to pick up mid-scene. Between that and the pitiful performances, it was not the 'tragedy' I imagined I would see.

Hopefully this week should be better. Only one show on the bill: Shun Kin, which is based on several Japanese short stories. I don't know how the rest of my classmates will enjoy the performance, but I'm particularly intrigued already, mostly because of my trip to Japan a few years ago. It'll be interesting to compare the two.

It's getting late and, even though I'd like to write about my weekend in Liverpool, I really should get to bed. You'll have to wait until tomorrow!

Cheers,
Kathy

PHOTOS (from top to bottom):
'Private Lives' production still, taken from The Evening Standard's Website
'Othello' production still, taken from the RSC's Website

Street Where the Riches of Ages Are Stowed

One of my favourite movies growing up was always Bedknobs and Broomsticks (if you haven't seen it, go rent it. It's a Disney classic in my book). It juxtaposes witchcraft, catchy songs and animated characters interacting with Angela Lansbury and David Tomlinson with the backdrop of WWII England, all while maintaining a light, comedic and entertaining tone.

Aspiring witch Miss Price (Lansbury), her conman "professor" Emelius Brown (Tomlinson) and orphan children Carrie, Charlie and Paul set off in search of the other half of a magic book at the Portobello Road Market, and, like in any great Disney flick, there's even a song and dance number to go with it. Get nostalgic with me and watch the scene (thank you Youtube!):



Anyways, for the longest time, I convinced myself Portobello Road was an imaginary place made up for the movie. I had no idea it actually existed! I couldn't wait to go check it out once I arrived in London.

My friend Anne, who was equally eager to visit the market, and I planned a trip to the infamous street with our friends Jackie and Clara on Friday. Aside from taking lots of pictures and humming the song the whole time, I picked up lots of inexpensive souvenirs for my family and friends and a few new outfits. Though it wasn't exactly like it was in the movie, we still had lots of fun browsing the little boutiques, antique shops and street carts filled with colorful fruits, elaborate jewelry and even old books.

Photo: From left to right, Jackie, Anne & I with the Portobello Road street sign

Stiff Upper Lip

Earlier this week, my politics class made the trek from the London Center to Westminster to watch a session of the House of Commons. Held in the Palace of Westminster (seen at left), the members of each party sit facing each other in pews with green cushions — Labour Party on the left and the Conservative Party on the right. When we arrived, one of the conservatives was at the podium criticizing his liberal opponents and posing questions for Speaker of the House Harriet Harman (Labour). When Harman got up, she began addressing the schedule of topical debates for the next week — military operations, road and building repairs, the credit crunch — and answering her opponent's questions.

They then moved on to business questions, which involved a everyone who wanted to speak standing up, either being called on or not, and sitting back down. I was amazed how cordial everyone was when talking about proposals made by other members. They would always use phrases like "my esteemed colleague" and "the dear gentleman or lady", which truly surprised me. You'd never see something like that in American politics.

What I expected to see was what one Scottish representative brought: a bit more of an attitude. He criticized the House for ignoring the needs of Scotland and went so far as to call certain members 'gits' and 'clowns'. When he got yelled at by the moderator, he apologized ... sort of.

"My apologies, Mister Secretary," he said. "My esteemed colleague is a complete twat."

Majority of that session consisted of each member getting up and discussing issues specific to their constituents, many of whom were concerned with TFL's inability to cope with the snowfall of the past week. On a side note, I love British humour. Completely blunt, and very tongue-and-cheek. So many of the House members had great comic wit.

Then, David Miliband (pictured at right), Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, got up to discuss the recent news about the case of Binyam Mohamed, a UK resident who claims he was tortured in Guantanamo Bay. Problems arose when it was revealed that the British High Courts suppressed information regarding the case. The U.S. then threatened to stop sharing information about terrorist threats with the U.K. if the courts did not hand over the information (more details in this story from The Daily Telegraph here). I wish we could have stayed, but we had to leave, as many of us needed to get back to the London Center in time for afternoon classes. It was definitely an interesting and worthwhile trip nonetheless.

Back in Black

Last week I saw a play that revolves around misogyny, murder and mommy issues — must be a serious drama, right? Wrong. Joe Orton's "Entertaining Mr. Sloane" is just that: downright entertaining. As an outspoken rebel playwright in the 1960s, you'd think Orton's outrageous black comedies would have played remarkably well to a free-loving hippie audience, but it took 45 years for this particular work to reach the London stage without being censored. And I couldn't be more pleased that it finally did.

The West End production stars Matthew Horne, a big television star over here, as the bottle-blond deviously manipulative, yet charming Mr. Sloane. Forty-something landlady Kath, a marvelously hilarious Imelda Staunton (who I instantly recognized as Professor Umbridge from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix) is immediately smitten with her new tenant Sloane, who seems to be hiding something from the very start. Adding to the cast of already outrageously bizarre and seriously psychologically disturbed characters are Kath's — ahem — bachelor brother Ed (comic genius Simon Paisley Day) and their senile father, Kemp (a hysterical and touching Richard Bremmer).

Set in the living room of a house that stands alone next to a rubbish dump, the bubble-like atmosphere fuels the neurotic chaos that ensues: Kath shamelessly throws herself at Sloane (at one point in a completely sheer nightgown that leaves nothing to the imagination); brisk, buttoned up Ed reveals his enthusiastic admiration for the male physique and wastes no time hiring Sloane as his chauffeur and decking him out in a dinky, kinky leather uniform, and Kemp recognizes Sloane as the murderer of his former boss.

The unscrupulous tale, which was Orton's way of offering a giant 'screw you' to society for being too close minded, is reminiscent of Harold Pinter's earlier work and is hilariously entertaining and uncomfortably twisted at the same time. It is a truly amoral piece — wild, witty and utterly heartless.

The small cast was one of the best I've seen in a long time. Staunton, Paisely Day and Bremmer are all veterans of the London stage and it shows. Each of them got the quirky nuances that make their characters so oddly entertaining and fascinating to watch. However, casting Horne may have been a bit of a misstep. His lack of experience with stage acting was even more apparent next to the rest of the well-trained cast and made his character seem less complex than Orton's script called for.

Nonetheless, my first taste of British black comedy was memorable and enjoyable. Next week's show is Private Lives. I also snagged extra tix to Othello, so look for mini-reviews of those next week.

Cheers!
Kathy

PS: Brace yourselves for a slew of entries — this blog is in desperate need of updating.

"What do you mean 'shovel'?"

Something incredible happened in London today. Something unusual. Something absolutely unheard of.

It snowed! … A lot, actually.

More than 6 inches of fluffy, white snow fell last night and blanketed the entire city, causing utter confusion and panic among most Londoners and sheer excitement among others (namely me and my roommates … well, most of them anyways).

Aside from my family and friends, snow is one of the things I’ve missed most so far on this international adventure, so I was thrilled when I saw flakes falling outside my window and realized they were actually sticking. Kristin, her friend Molly and I bundled up and ran outside for a few minutes to take photos and frolic in the snow last night in the midst of the ‘storm’ (I use quotes because by Rochestarian standards, it’s not much of a storm at all). Apparently it was enough of one to get us on ABC News though.

It’s been amusing watching the Londoners try to cope with the new phenomenon. Since they don’t typically get very much (if any) snow, the city’s not equipped to deal with it. I didn’t see a single snowplow and the closest thing people could find to shovels were brooms. And practically everyone I passed was complaining at how cold it was. Wimps.

I wandered around the park at Kennsington Gardens just down the street from my flat and found that half of London had taken a snow day. They busted out their goulashes and umbrellas — it’s the closest thing they have to snow gear — and built snowmen and took pictures in the park. Some started spontaneous snowball fights, which seemed to break out everywhere, while others just looked in awe at the snow-covered trees, bushes and pond.

Here's a video I took while in Hyde Park of the festivities:



On my way home from the park, I decided to stop at Tesco’s (the grocery store) to pick up a few things for dinner and found the other half of the city inside in full-on crisis mode, stocking up on canned goods and water. Seriously. I can’t make this stuff up, I’m not that good. Practically every tube line was down, if not severely delayed and the buses couldn’t handle the unplowed streets.

So while Londoners try to cope with the winter weather in whatever way they choose, I’m just enjoying a little reminder of home.

Photo included in this entry: A snowman built in the park. There were literally hundreds of them everywhere!

The Universal Language

If you know me, it’s no secret I love to dance — anytime, anywhere. If I hear music, I can’t resist grooving along to the beat (you can ask my parents, they used to catch me choreographing Broadway routines in our living room or tap dancing ‘round the kitchen all the time).

And unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past few weeks, you’ve undoubtedly seen the T-Mobile commercial that involves hundreds of hired dancers randomly bursting out into choreography to a mix of great tunes in the middle of the Liverpool Street tube station (if you haven’t seen it, check it out below).



Anyways, the commercial, which somehow relates to cell phones, (can someone explain that to me, please? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller …?), was filmed only two weeks ago, meaning I was in London when it happened. Was I fortunate enough to be in Liverpool station when the quasi-spontaneous dance party broke out? No. But I’d love to be involved in something like that (similar things have been done before — check out “Frozen Grand Central” below).



We did manage to make it to Liverpool station today (en route to our shopping trip at the Up Market and the Petticoat Lane Market), and there were video screens strewn about the walls of the entire station. They usually serve as additional advertising space, but at that station, they were all playing the T-Mobile commercial. Most people rushed past, running to catch trains and make connections, but two kids, both about 7 years old, stood transfixed in front of the screen. They broke their hypnotic trance a few seconds later only to start dancing along with the commercial. A small crowd gathered to watch the toe-tapping twosome before their mother eventually guided them off to their train.

Bottom line, there’s really only one absolutely universal language: dance (because trust me, American English and British English — not the same thing!)