Covid marshals are killing theatre: The Shrine & Bed Among the Lentils reviewed

Covid marshals have invaded theatreland. Arriving for a weekday matinee at the Bridge, I was greeted by stewards holding up illuminated boards. ‘PLEASE WEAR A FACE COVERING.’ Inside, the seating had been rearranged into clumps of twos and threes with the odd single perch sticking out like a toadstool. Nicholas Hytner offered us a pair of the best-loved scripts by his favourite living playwright, Alan Bennett.

The afternoon was stuffy and I took sips from a bottle of water in accordance with signage which suggested that masks might be removed for the purposes of drinking. After each glug I diligently replaced my covering. Ten minutes into the show, I was visited by a Covid marshal who informed me that the position of my mouth-wear dissatisfied him. ‘Can you put your mask over your nose? I keep seeing you taking it off.’ I did so. He crept back into the shadows to continue spying on me. How bizarre. A stalker hired by the theatre was policing my every move. This level of dictatorial intrusiveness will kill the theatre. An audience can’t possibly attend to a drama while the aisles are being patrolled by Stalinist busybodies licensed to select victims at random and force them to make minute adjustments to their apparel. The theatre is about showing us our better selves. If it turns into a grudge match between art-lovers and philistines it will die.

The performances were excellent but the atmosphere was muted and uneasy. In The Shrine, Monica Dolan played a widow whose motorcycling husband has collided with an oak tree. She visits the crash site to kneel and pray, wearing a high-viz jacket to prevent another mishap, but a bothersome safety inspector terminates her devotions.