Literary junkyard

We critics know everything about the theatre. We see the best shows, we get the finest seats in the house and we’re occasionally treated to a fuming glass of vin ordinaire to lubricate our ruminations. And yet what do we really know?

We critics know everything about the theatre. We see the best shows, we get the finest seats in the house and we’re occasionally treated to a fuming glass of vin ordinaire to lubricate our ruminations. And yet what do we really know? Last week a family funeral forced me to miss the press night of Frankenstein and when I logged on to the NT website I found it proudly boasting that the entire run was a slam-dunk sell-out. Rather than haggling with a tout on the South Bank I phoned the NT box office in desperation and was offered a ‘standing ticket’ on the spot. A standing ticket? I’d always assumed the Olivier was an all-seater stadium. It turns out that the rear of the circle includes a deep gallery where vertical spectators can be accommodated at all shows for five quid.

So along I went, and up I climbed, and aslant the dim-lit passage I felt my way until I found a comfortable perch high above the stage. Within moments I realised why the National has been so shy about selling tickets for this star-studded bonanza. Even for a fiver it’s a terrible rip-off.

The play starts with an unclothed male figure emerging zit-like through a sliced trampoline and landing with a bump on the floor. He starts groaning and slobbering noisily. He also does some writhing. Writhing, groaning and slobbering are then joined by a new artistic flavour: twitching. And with this ample store of expressive materials at his fingertips the naked escapologist (played by Jonny Lee Miller) proceeds to impersonate an electrocuted starfish and to jerk and croak and crawl his way around the stage for what seems like two hours but may only be 35 minutes.