When the Arts Theatre shut its doors last year, there was a little wailing and gnashing of teeth at the loss of an intimate West End venue with such a venerable history that included the English language premiere of Waiting for Godot. But most of us accepted the inevitable; such prime real estate obviously had a value far in excess of its theatrical one, and besides, when was the last time you had actually seen a good show there?
Now the theatre has made a virtually silent, sudden return, and despite claims of a “major refurbishment”, nothing more than a little glitter has been added to the walls as you descend to the stalls, and some strange 3D mirror portraits added to the auditorium walls, which at least gives you somewhere else to look at besides the stage (though that surely isn’t the point) if things get a bit boring there. This little black box of a theatre has always been a bit bleak and depressing, and there’s nothing to lift the spirits about it now. The springs in the seats have entirely sprung; and the creaks emanating from them as you move your uncomfortable body do your moaning for you.
And though I want to applaud producer Andy Jordan for his valiant attempt to use the theatre to give a showcase to an Edinburgh show he did, 2Graves, this short, static piece of solo narrative verse wasn’t big enough to fill the Arts the night I went. There were barely thirty of us there, which failed to generate the heat — in any sense — to warm the chilly place up. But my own internal temperatures weren’t helped, either, at Saturday night’s performance by the unhelpfulness of the staff, who didn’t have a record of the press seats to issue or, having persuaded them to give me a ticket, didn’t understand the etiquette of giving a programme as well.
If the Arts is going to survive in the crowded marketplace of the West End, it is going to have to smarten up its act.
