Chapter 12 Knife throwing practice

London, December 1884 The target hung precariously in the study, between several large bookcases and several oil paintings with delicate frames.Despite its distinctive pattern, it is almost invisible in the dim light.But the flying knives still hit the target again and again, very close to the bull's-eye covered by a clipping on the target. The clipping contained a theater review carefully cut from The Times.This is a positive review, and some may feel it's overblown.At any rate, at this moment it was placed in the torture position, and a knife with a silver handle was shot at it repeatedly.The knife pierces the paper and penetrates the cork of the target.It was drawn, picked up, just to shoot at it again.

The knife was thrown gracefully from the handle, tumbling until the tip found its target.The man who performed the operation was Chandrash.Christopher.Hey Lefevre, the name is printed in legible typography on the last line of the aforementioned clipping. The sentence that included his name was what made Mr. Lefevre so angry that he threw the knife.In one sentence, its content is as follows: Chandrash.Christopher.Mr. Lefevre continues to challenge the limits of the modern stage, fascinating the audience with almost extraordinary spectacular scenes. Most stage managers should be delighted by such comments.They would cut out the article, paste it in a clipping book, and quote it when introducing themselves or recommending it.

But the stage manager was different.No, Chandrash.Christopher.Monsieur Lefevre saw only two words in his eyes.almost. The knife flew across the room again, passed many velvet and finely carved log furniture, and brushed against a crystal brandy bottle in a thrilling way.It did a quick somersault, the hilt over the blade, and hit the target again.This time it hit the spot between the scene on the tattered newspaper clipping and the audience, completely covering up Ling. Chandrash walked along the path of the flying knife and carefully pulled out the knife on the target, but it took a lot of effort.He walked back across the room with the knife in one hand and the glass of brandy in the other, then turned sharply and the knife flew out again, aiming at the dreadful word near.

Obviously he must have gone wrong somewhere.If his works are only close to excellence, a small step away from the real excellence, and not yet at that level, then he must have something to improve. He's been thinking about it ever since the review was neatly cut out and labeled on his desk by his assistant.For the sake of future generations and the safety of the archives, several photocopies were also kept in other places, because the one on Chandrash's desk was often punished because of his word-for-word scrutiny. A terrible fate like this. Chandrash longed for a response.Respond authentically, not just polite clap.He tends to put the audience's response more important than the performance itself.After all, a show without an audience is nothing.The audience's response, that's where the power of the performance lies.

He grew up in the theater, often sitting in a box to watch ballets.As an active child, he soon got tired of watching the dance performances and began to observe the audience.Notice when they smile, exclaim, and when the female is admiring and the male is dozing off. So perhaps it's not too much of a surprise that now, years later, he's still more interested in the audience's reaction than in the performance itself.Although of course the acting has to be good enough to elicit the best response from the audience. And because he couldn't see every face in every performance of every kind of performance, from heart-warming drama to exotic folk dance, and some very creative hybrids of both, he Rely heavily on critics.

It's just that it's been a long time since an art review has annoyed him so much, and it's the only time in years that he's so angry that he hit the target. The knife flew out again, this time hitting the word "stage". Chandrash walked over to retrieve the knife, sipping brandy.He gazed curiously at the nearly destroyed article for a moment, staring at the illegible words, and then he howled for Marco.