Only yesterday I was saying here that all things are connected. And that, of course, is entirely one of the points of Facebook, which establishes the interconnections between the people we each “know” (and, of course, are also online!) and helps us expand that network. I finally joined up just the other day, and already I am astonished at how easy it is to make contact with people - and the variety of ways it allows you to do so, from an instant message to an e-mail, even if you didn’t previously know their e-mail address!
Of course, lots of people tell me what a time waster it is - and (being of a somewhat addictive nature!) how easy it is to get sucked into doing so, as you obsessively seek to build your “friends” list.
I’m amazed at the number of actors who make themselves available here - but there’s also a practical side. I have also already discovered a group for the complex that my flat is in - so I might finally get to meet the neighbours, if only electronically! (One of them thinks his girlfriend has met me already, and wrote: “Are the guy with the rabbit? Louise says she met you the day you moved in.” And yes, I am that person — I do indeed have a pet bunny. And may soon have a pet tortoise, too….)
But there’s also an amusing side to some of the groups, too. I love the entry I found for “The Philip Quast Thigh Appreciation Society” - “for anyone who has a) had the pleasure of seeing and loving Philip Quast’s thighs or b) loves Philip Quast’s Thighs ands would like to see them.”
Perhaps we could also have a West End group for producers and press agents to co-ordinate their press night diaries through. Yes, I know this is a perennial theme (and bugbear) of mine, but I got back from New York on Monday morning to the prospect of three clashing West End first nights that evening — Romeo and Juliet at the Open Air Theatre, Regent’s Park, Dickens Unplugged at the Comedy and The Harder they Come transferring to the Playhouse. Of course no one can be in three places all at once, not even me (though the Evening Standard impressively did, by sending three critics out), and the producers are doing themselves no favours by triple clashing in this way. It’s impossible to try to catch up, either: last night there were two more clashes, with Afterlife at the National going head-to-head with Golda’s Balcony.
The good news, sometimes, is that the other reviews may tip you off about what’s necessary to see - and what can be safely missed. After the reviews I read yesterday of Dickens Unplugged, I think I’ll stay unplugged now. You can’t see everything - and sometimes it is useful to have sent a canary down the mine first.
Mind you, even some shows with great pedigrees can asphyxiate the canary. At last night’s opening of Afterlife at the National - reuniting the writer, director and star of Democracy, respectively Michael Frayn, Michael Blakemore and Roger Allam - I ran into David Smith, who occasionally covers the arts reporting beat for The Observer, on my way in, and found out that he had actually bought a ticket to be there - since, he told me that outside of Shakespeare, Democracy and Copenhagen had delivered him two of the best nights of his theatregoing life. But by the interval, my own guest had fled - as did the director of a leading regional theatre I know who told me that nothing was going to drag him back in. I was slightly astonished, however, to notice that the West End Whingers - who I also ran into before the show - had made their way back to their second row £10 seats for the second act: they often leave things even before the interval, but what got them back this time?
After the grim spectacle of Fram, Nick Hytner’s National seems to have finally hit that double whammy of failure that - during its early successes - its artistic director always warned would come. And if this theatre knows how to succeed big, it also clearly knows how to fail badly, too, now.
Sadly we too are unable to account for our return after the interval and have put it down to morbid curiosity. We were a party of four and all would have been happy not to return. For one of our party, to do so would have been a first.
We thank you for drawing the world's attention to the fact that we were in £10 seats and may be tempted to respond by drawing attention to the likely cost of several items of your apparel. Anyway, surely your seats were even cheaper than ours?
But the cost of the seats is immaterial except to someone who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. And "nothing" was indeed the value of all of the seats at the National's Lyttelton Theatre last night. Or, to put it another way, the cost of those seats were 2 1/2 hours of the lives of each of the 890 or so people there (Well, 889, as presumably Frayn thought it worthwhile). That actually adds up to about 93 days.
Sadly or perhaps wisely, there was no interval during which one is able to flee Golda's Balcony!!
I have to say, after reading the reviews so far, I don't feel bad choosing sleep over Afterlife. I was meant to watch a preview last Thursday but I decided to be good to myself and stayed in, I would of prolly kicked myself silly.
If you read the reviews of Dickens Unplugged in The Telegraph, the Mail and the Express you might reconsider whether or not your canary can be trusted.