May 14th, 2006
May in Brighton means it’s the Festival, and last night we went to a free event put on by Group-F, the team of French theatrical pyrotechnicians who, at the turn of the millenium, were responsible for blowing up the Eiffel Tower. I knew it was going to be interesting when, as I made my way to the Eddy for the cup final, I encountered a troupe of animal-suited Gallic types sporting religious paraphernalia and accompanying a manacled Christ-like figure sealed in a plastic zorb. This was eyebrow raising, even for Brighton, and I interpreted it as a good omen for later.
Anyone who’s been in the Brighton war-zone on firework night will know that the the place is packed with pyromaniacs. This was clearly evident last night as the promise of an explosive spectacle drew what I estimate to be significant fraction of metropolitan Brighton to Preston Park. The show itself resembled a kind-of steam-punk opera, complete with lengthy, quiet passages of impenetrable plot exposition (or so I assume), punctuated by spectacular sequences of fireworks and flames.
I have absolutely no idea what it was all about. Neither, I think, did the people around us, apparently more concerned with re-locating their friends in the dark via the hopeless magic of their mobile telephones.
If the plot remained opaque, one thing I did learn is that my wife’s head makes a pretty good make-shift tripod when a longer exposure is required (see above shot). More photo’s (not mine) on Flickr >