Sir Penis

The other night I saw Ian McKellen's penis. His business--hanging-- right there, where men's businesses tend to hang. Well, not quite really, because not all men hang it all out on the stage in the middle of a peformance of King Lear. But there it was. I knew it was coming as I'd heard him on a radio interview a few days prior discussing how he'd modified the scene when on tour in some less tolerant country than our beloved America.
But even as prepared as I was, and given that it was probably natural that the crazy old king would have stripped down to the all together, I just didn't really want to see that old man in the all together there, under the bright lights with so many other people there, watching, being shocked themselves. And there he was, a crazy old king, struggling to rip off his clothes, like madmen tend to do on skidrow, half in and half out, stuck. But it felt a bit all too real. I wasn't sure where Lear ended and McKellen began. Good acting, I suppose.
There was a collective gasp which, as much as I'd like to say was for the nudity, was more likely a reaction to the, ehem, size of the thing. Rather large it was, and mind you, I am being entirely British in my restraint here!
The presentation of the large member certainly perked things up momentarily in a production clocking in at a torturous 3.5 hours. I could barely keep my eyelids up and my ears were making chop suey of ye Olde English, accents and all. Producers really ought to rethink the wisdom of staging such productions in darkened theatres at week's end after 7pm. In the sopoforic dimness, a stage penis can only do so much.