Nothing earned or learned

Sir Tom and Sir Trevor — Stoppard and Nunn — have teamed up to realise Sir Trevor’s ‘40-year dream’ of bringing Sir Tom’s breakthrough play to the West End.

Sir Tom and Sir Trevor — Stoppard and Nunn — have teamed up to realise Sir Trevor’s ‘40-year dream’ of bringing Sir Tom’s breakthrough play to the West End. I couldn’t make the opening night and Sir T (x 2) had restricted press seats to that performance only so I had to make my own arrangements. What a bunch of highwaymen those ticket agencies are! (I’ll get to the play in a second.) You have to pay for the privilege of paying for the privilege. The fee amounted to 20 per cent of the entire outlay. But the author’s royalty is barely a quarter of that. Playwrights, retire. Become ticket agents instead. My cheap-seat status banished me from the opulent foyer and out on to the windy pavements where I pulled open a rickety old door, ascended three flights of carpetless steps and came out into a creaky platform of uncushioned tramseats. I was in the gods. Luckily, the show hadn’t sold out and the thoughtful staff gave me the option of un-deification. Gratefully returning to the ranks of humankind, I descended to the upper circle where I relaxed in an unfilled seat. This is by far the best part of the house. I’ve never liked the stalls where a big bonce or a Winehouse hairstyle can obscure your view. And the ground floor gives you a mouse-to-elephant perspective whereas a more exalted perch with a downward eye-line is more congenial. The acoustics are perfect too. Actors are trained to ‘project to the back wall’ and that’s where you are, ideally placed to hear the words at conversational pitch. So, the play, the play.