If you don’t know English, stay at home and watch Rachkov
Snobbish up to the neck and above
I didn’t have to give 400 or 50 BGN to be disgusted. To abhor servility, theatrical overexcitement, sudden calls to art. Social media gives you everything in a silver spoon, describes every moment, bruises what they saw or heard. John Malkovich’s Aman, however, is exactly what is sung in these media. Complainers, judges, critics, reviewers.
Under the fractional line of everything, a Bulgarian defeat settles through the admiration of someone for whom this is a job. Being a famous artist you have to put up with an ignorant audience, and an ignorant audience has every right to be that way and fill the halls. Maybe we’re stupid for admiring Leonardo DiCaprio or Tom Cruise when he was sexy. Everyone makes the mistake of being a fan, then realizes it.
John Malkovich is like Kurkinski to me – he plays himself, there are no surprises, he feeds on human adoration and there is nothing wrong with that. I’ve seen seamstresses buy Kurkinski tickets and then bitterly say they could have filled their fridge with that money. But Kurkinski does not fit in a refrigerator, nor in the heads of women who think about troposki, moussaka topping and how to turn a lamb shoulder in the oven. Malkovich is known as Mnovich to our people.
But the hysteria and the truth here is in the manifestation of interest at a weak time. Malkovich’s rush, sort of like the rush of the olives when they weren’t there. John is something like the oranges and bananas in the display stores of my childhood – it causes a queue, it costs a lot, like Halley’s comet, it is once in a hundred years.
I bet my crooked Whatman nose that almost no one got his art or understood what he was saying despite the subtitled screens. It’s stupid, worn out and humiliating to watch a play where you don’t understand the dialogue. It’s not Chinese theater, it’s not Mongolian play, it’s theater in English. If you don’t know English, stay at home and watch Rachkov. Not that I understand anything about him. Watch Gala, watch the chef Sylvena from dubai, watch Slavi. There are no subtitles, no grief, nothing to translate.
John T. Malkovich and the one with the unpronounceable name are on a roll, they’ve got their royalties and they’ve forgotten where they were. I am personally happy that I did not become part of that snobbish majority who stood in line and whose topic until vintage will be that they have been to the theater. You can claim to have been to the theater, just because of the fact that our country is a huge urban theater – not behind the canal, but in the canal itself. We are swimming in filth – intellectual and in the literal sense. Our actors are puffy and fat, in casual clothes that reek of a kitchen. They have bad teeth and ugly shoes. They are not credible to me and they are not interesting to me. They announce someone as a sex symbol and you laugh. We miss Malkovich! We need more, we need Keanu Reeves, we need Jessica Lange to get used to imitating theater, imitating an audience. We feign our ignorance by applauding wildly what we do not understand. We need subtitles to look read. Because we are in the shame of our cotton necklines, where the withered nurseries of our self-esteem and knowledge sleep. So much.
Fashion idol
Harry Styles
The star of the unique film “My Policeman” is a real fashion idol. I like his style, which in this shot leads to ecstasy with its uniqueness. The textile flower dominates the landscape, but due to the designer’s self-control, the size has stopped at the right place. The color of the dress – butter green or as I like to call it – bottle green, is nicely located on the silhouette of the star. The face is playful and fits the mood of the green bag, even though it looks feminine. The light green trousers are a bright surprise in this ensemble, but it suits Harry just fine.
On farewell
Ambassador Mustafa walked along Doctor’s Street
Her Excellency the US Ambassador Hero Mustafa took a farewell walk around Sofia. The stylish lady was seen crossing the Doctor’s Monument garden with discreet security and friends. She stopped for ice cream and sweets in front of the small archipelago of establishments on San Stefano Street, but not at the pastry shop owned by Kiril Petkov’s wife – Linda. Passers-by recognized Mustafa and gave her a friendly nod. At the end of her term, Her Excellency left Bulgaria to take up a new post in her career. She is permanently leaving Sofia these days.
Gala ceremony
Bogdana and Petya with Singer of the Year
Bogdana Karadocheva became the Grandma of the Bulgarian stage during the “Singer of the Year” gala ceremony. Together with her husband Stefan Dimitrov, she performed a bunch of her songs in front of an enthusiastic audience of more than 125 people. The stylish ceremony gave the Grand Prix to Petya Buyuklieva for overall creativity and the most watched concert for 2022. The Argirovi brothers became “Singer of the Year”, and the award was presented to them by businesswoman Neri Ruseva. Nencho Balabanov won a statuette for a singing actor, and Dobromir Banev – for the lyrics of a current song.
