Musicals are killing theatre

This has been an agonising time for those of us who love Julian Sands. On 13 January, he went for a one-day hike up Mount Baldy, 50 miles from Los Angeles, and hasn’t been seen since. No one who knows Julian can believe he’s dead. He’s the very epitome of the free-spirited actor. You never know where Julian will be turning up next. As soon as he lands in the UK, he always telephones to tell me about, say, playing a paedophile in the terrifying Czech film The Painted Bird or going to help Mike Figgis on his latest project in Hong Kong. If it’s Terence Davies, he’ll do it. Doesn’t mind the size of the part. That’s who he is.

Julian knows a lot about art, wine and mountaineering, but it’s his enthusiasm and generosity which makes him an outstanding reader of poetry. He developed a programme of Pinter poems which he attacked like one-act plays, redeeming them from the odium to which lethal Craig Brown parodies had consigned them. A hugely popular evening of Keats and Shelley followed. When Julian brings news of his latest adventures, he invariably spreads fresh air, hope and curiosity. His family would wish him to stay in the mountains, because he loves them. But the authorities insist that legally they must find him and bring him down.

It’s a long time since I played a round of golf. But I do remember there was something called a mulligan. That’s when you miss the ball completely and ask for it not to count. This seems to be the Tory party’s approach to the premiership of Liz Truss. They demand a mulligan. ‘That prime minister doesn’t count,’ they say, in spite of her election being entirely their fault.