OMG, you guys.
So, clearly I should be writing a melodramatic entry about how I am done my undergrad (which, yay!) and I will miss everyone and (most of) everything terribly and how I saw the (undeniably fantastic) Trews a bit back but seriously... Doctor WhoWhy did I only just start watching this now
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Why, yes. I can!
Darren: "I need-- more black. MORE. BLACK."
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Darren would find some alien race who adore him for his lack of soul. He'd become ruler and stage crazy plays.
(... I think we just found the director for our hockey opera on ice.)
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Darren: I want this opera to be STIFF. COLD. RIGID. You must skate like marrionettes; like clockwork figures; like silly toy soldiers. I want to expose the mindless, self-destructive relationship between fans and players, the soul-sucking superficiality of the Stanley Cup. I want the audience to see the futility of it all. There must be more craven violence! Less joy! A communal feeling of desperate desolation! All together now...
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A solitary figure on skates, long hair flowing in the wind (see: high-power wind machine) is silhouetted on the ice as the orchestra of percussion and high strings plays a harsh, stilted, twelve-tone overture. There is no frivolity. The overture ends as soon as all twelve tones have been stated.
An elaborate display of pyrotechnics signifies the beginning of the action, flames shooting every which way. The chorus skaters cower in the corners of this oddly pentagonal ice rink. The man in the middle of the ice stand tall and proud. Without emotion.
Smyth, as the man is known, removes his helmet, hurls it across the ice.
SMYTH: (translated from russian)
Here I am, it is I!
Defender of the sacred sport,
all things that are good
and true.
We shall prevail,
this team of unsuspected heroes.
Yes, we shall prevaiiiiiil.
How do you like THEM apples?
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