Theatre 2
Pre-millennial breakdown
Sheridan Morley
es, yes, Mrs Lincoln, we know all about that, but how did you enjoy the play? It has, in essence, been one of those years; the miracle was not good theatre, but any theatre at all.
Briefly to recap what I have been chroni- cling all year, we now have a pre-millennial breakdown in which no single state-sub- sidised company, be it drama or opera or dance, is not in some kind of artistic, man- agerial, financial or architectural melt- down. The still-new government has, despite many promises to the contrary (administrations are always in this country wildly pro-arts until they take office), behaved vastly more appallingly to all arts organisations than was even dreamed of by '0i, Luigi, have you seen the head on this coffee? I'd like full measure . . . ' Major or Thatcher. The daft idea that we were to return to some sort of 1964 social- ist heaven, with a latterday Jenny Lee throwing money at theatres new and old, has been shown to be more than a little over-optimistic. The Lottery has been an unqualified disaster of its own, encouraging hitherto solvent theatres to embark on ludicrously over-ambitious building pro- jects which not only can now never be com- pleted, but, even if they were to be, could never be filled by paying audiences.
Apart from those in government, the roll-call of guilty men can only be started in the space available here. Stephen Daldry, for announcing his imminent departure from the Royal Court when the burrowing under Sloane Square had only just begun and still shows no sign of ending; Daldry again, for allowing (with others) the impression to spread through the press that the Old Vic had been 'saved', when in real- ity all that has been achieved is what was already available under much of the Mirvish regime, a rent-free availability but no actual cash for productions or advertis- ing, or even paying the ushers.
Adrian Noble, for failing to resign hon- ourably as director of the RSC at a time when the company is clearly in midlife cri- sis, uncertain of what it should be playing where and for whom, reeling around from West End transfers to a half-out-the-door policy at the Barbican, which would be vastly better off (as has been demonstrated all summer) were they to quit entirely. This would leave John Tusa to programme his admirable world theatre seasons without having to unscramble them again when the RSC does deign to limp briefly in from Stratford, having first made sure that any likely winners they do happen to have hit upon (such as the current Robert Lindsay Richard III) go straight into the more com- mercially satisfying West End.
Oh yes, Stephen Daldry again, this time for tearing the hearts out of two beautiful West End theatres (the Ambassadors and the Duke of York's) while cluttering up a third with his endless Inspector Calls, there- by ensuring that almost half the stock of good and small commercial theatres is locked off; if you then add the others occu- pied by The Mousetrap and Woman in Black and the Reduced Shakespeare Com- pany, you begin to understand why count- less small-scale shows that I and my colleagues have raved about around the country and the fringe all year have failed to find a home in central London.
Shall we continue? Robert Lindsay, Anthony Hopkins and Ian McKellen for giving a series of daft interviews announc- ing their hatred of the stage, critics, audi- ences and their chosen profession in various degrees. Hopkins at least retains a vestige of a sense of humour; 'Still shouting at night?' he asked a fellow actor who, unlike him, had not given it all up for the movies, and thereby coining about the best definition of the stage actor's life I have heard. David Hare, who after giving us two great treats in Amy's View and his own Via Dolorosa, both now Broadway bound, man- aged to reduce Schnitzler's great and com- plex La Ronde to a series of revue sketches with which even Hollywood-based movie actresses would have little difficulty. That it Do we want any Damien Hirsts?' should be Kidman who made the headlines this year, and not her Hollywood colleague Kevin Spacey in the infinitely more tricky and courageous Ice-man Cometh, seems to me just one example of how totally screwed are now our theatrical priorities and atti- tudes.
Trevor Nunn, for turning the National Theatre into a kind of National Theatre Haymarket, full of weary warhorses that even Duncan Weldon or Bill Kenwright might hesitate to take into Guildford on a bad week. The local council in Greenwich for killing off one of the best outer-London playhouses, while apparently endorsing the fiasco of the neighbouring Dome. The local council in Islington for making the future of the King's Head still more hazardous than usual; yes, I admit to a strong person- al involvement here, but, given that Dan Crawford's was the first pub theatre in London and has survived longest, does it really make sense to try to kill it merely to satisfy a thoroughly shaky local political agenda? And while we are trying to name the nameless, just who decided this year to devalue and destabilise our oldest leading theatrical awards, those given by the Evening Standard, to a sustained but deeply unfunny cabaret by the National Theatre of Brent? Television ratings were predictably appalling, but there seems now to be a real and dangerous death-wish there.
You'd like a few heroes to cheer us into the New Year? Ian Albery for getting Sadler's Wells open again in the teeth of incredible hostility and the usual govern- mental treachery; Sam Walters for continu- ing to prove at the Orange Tree, Richmond, that nothing can beat a 30-year tenure, an absolute refusal to get side- tracked into movies or television or trans- fers, and a total commitment to doing one show on one stage for one local audience which he knows as surely as any great hote- lier or restaurateur.
Braham Murray, for getting the Royal Exchange Manchester reopened after the bomb, and incidentally performing a tremendous gesture of solidarity and confi- dence in the city centre. Dulcie Gray, for deciding only weeks after the death of her lifelong husband and partner Michael Denison that she would spend next year on the road in a first-ever staging of The Ladykillers, as if to reaffirm the importance of regional touring which was always at the heart of their partnership. And Peter Hall, for maintaining against all the odds a com- pany which only finally foundered as we reached Christmas; that it is he who should now be trying to make a living in America, while the companies he created at Strat- ford and the National are being so badly run by those he indirectly trained and sponsored, seems to me the bleakest joke of all in a dire time.
And all I can do now, in wishing you the happiest of new years, is to promise to look on the bright side of theatre in 1999, just as soon as I can find it.
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