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Thursday 4 December 2008

Critical condition

Lloyd Evans on the perils of being both playwright and critic

The most surprising discovery of all — and I’m treading warily here lest I talk myself out of a job — is that critics’ opinions count for much less than anyone realises. Perhaps for nothing. After A Right Royal Farce had been greeted by those ‘take me out and shoot me’ reviews, Toby and I were resigned to the inevitable. Empty houses. We felt obliged to demonstrate a bit of solidarity with the cast so we trudged along to the theatre one Tuesday night like a pair of lepers. We may even have carried a bell to warn the untainted of our approach. But there was no tumbleweed blowing through the auditorium, no graveyard chimes echoing in the wings. The house was two thirds full. An open-minded audience was prepared to let the show do its best or worst. And they laughed their heads off. The reviews? Either they hadn’t read them or they’d ignored them. The box office concurred. The show was a modest, if not a runaway, hit. And while rehearsing my forthcoming play I’ve been greatly comforted by the knowledge that the critics are far less influential than is generally believed. Grand Slam opens next Tuesday and I await the reviews in a state of Confucian serenity. Nothing will stop me enjoying my breakfast the following morning. I’m having yoghurt, toast and a bottle of brandy.

Grand Slam runs at the King’s Head, Islington, from 24 June to 27 July.

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