Alan Turing, in his jail cell, a mug on a chain, trousers held with string.
The Heresy Machine, Greenside @ Royal Terrace (Venue 231) *
Baby, his computer, draped in white, bare nippled, with a very long loin cloth; faintly Pharaonic, and more than a passing resemblance to Daniel Day Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans.
A second sprightly apparition appears, in a kind of vegetarian chintz.
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They walk about the room, mouthing scientific phrases, presumably Turing’s, in a manner that manages to rob them of meaning or interest; they dance, sort of, jumping at each other. A bespectacled, ill-dressed gentleman sat in the front row: an elderly physicist, surely, on his morning off. In minutes, he nodded off, and passed a pleasant hour.
Until 24 August.