![]() ![]() We drove back east along the Niagara River and passed the Rainbow Bridge that spans the gorge between Canada and the USA. I could not agree with Oscar on this one though – the Falls were indeed a breath-taking sight. ‘ Every American bride is taken there and the sight of that stupendous waterfall must be the earliest, if not the keenest, disappointment in American married life.’Īs a Canadian commentator added: “He probably only saw it from the American side”. He was correct technically in that the Falls do fall to the west while the river then coils back to flow to its eventual eastern outlet on the St Lawrence. Niagara Falls seemed to me to be simply a vast unnecessary amount of water going the wrong way and then falling over unnecessary rocks.’ There was bulk there but no beauty, except the beauty inherent in bulk itself. They told me that so many millions of gallons of water tumbled over the falls in a minute. ![]() Most people must be disappointed with Niagara. Oscar had not been impressed with the natural pageant played out before him. We parked on the promenade in a spot facing the Horseshoe Falls just in front of the (now demolished) Prospect Hotel where Wilde had stayed in 1882. The city of Niagara has a large summer population installed in its array of hotels and casinos but in January and with the snow falling, we had the place to ourselves. No ‘noir’ could hope to survive when faced with these two majestic natural phenomena. The camera had been constantly lured away to follow either one or the other. I think that the director Henry Hathaway had set out to create a classic film noir but he had been constantly distracted firstly by the Falls themselves, and secondly by Marilyn Monroe’s bottom. I’d found it to be a rather sad little film starring Joseph Cotton and Marilyn Monroe in full lip quiver. My only previous acquaintance with this world famous spectacle had been through the 1953 movie ‘Niagara’. We lifted our glasses and drank a toast to the Red Sandcastle and to Oscar.ĭuring the previous fortnight’s run Rosemary had provided a break in the routine by driving me down to see Niagara Falls. But it was also the site of the hotel where Wilde had stayed 135 years previously. It was a luxurious (and luxuriously priced) establishment and not normally a place I would deliberately seek out for a drink. The Fairmount Royal York Hotel was a vast skyscraper standing on Front Street and housing an establishment called the Library Bar. Eventually, more by luck than judgement, we reached our final destination. However, we were not the only victims even Jennifer, born and bred in the city, was reduced to begging directions from passers-by. Without the open sky to position us or much signage to guide us, we became part of Toronto’s Number One visitor experience – getting lost in the Path. The Path is the largest underground mall in the world and stretches and spirals, twists and turns, for over nineteen miles. After an initial round at the National Club we descended into the famous subterranean pedestrian precinct known as the Path. In celebration, we took the Red Sandcastle crew out for drinks downtown. The evening show went well, while the final performance at the Sunday matinee was the best one of the run. So it proved – his very presence seemed to smooth trouble. The Roy Bar – Jennifer, two friends, Rosemary, Sandy, Sean He’d been the rock behind three Wilde trips already – through the frozen winter tour in the Netherlands and the boiling summer tour in Central America, and had braved the Al Qaeda bomb attacks during the tour of Jordan. Sean, my six foot three son, with a wry and experienced eye for the foibles of dramatics and foreign lands, and the only travelling support I’ve ever had or needed. NJT on stage at the Red Sandcastle Theatre, Torontoįortunately that was about to change – Sean arrived from London. Sod it! It was also a stark reminder of the drawbacks of being a one-man show. But this was the first time in 38 years that I’d ever totally blown it for no reason whatsoever, except a malfunctioning wristwatch. I’ve closed a show because of no audience (Stratford-on-Avon), and I’ve been forced offstage in mid show by illness (Delhi). An embarrassing and completely unforeseen cock-up. What!!! Total incomprehension? My head spun – what on earth? It turned out that my watch somehow had stopped overnight then re-started. “Neil, the audience has left – you’re an hour late.” Rosemary looked up from her lighting desk as I walked in. I spent a leisurely morning of reading and sipping coffee, then strolled along to the Red Sandcastle with thirty minutes to spare before the 1pm matinee. The last Saturday of the run turned out to be a sunny, warm day of only minus three Celsius. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |