DIARY
DAVID HARE The Spectator diary is as good a place as any to eat crow. A year ago, I wrote an arti- cle in a national newspaper saying that given the calibre of his Cabinet and the handicap of his politics, John Major was as near to being a decent man as a Conserva- tive prime minister could be. It has left me feeling like some hapless sports commenta- tor, confidently tipping a runner who immediately falls. Since my somewhat guarded blessing, John Major has mis- judged the Irish peace process, twisted the conclusions of the Scott Report to save his government's skin, and now finally defend- ed Shirley Porter on the highly original grounds that because she says she is inno- cent, she must be. It is hard to be temper- ate about this. Why does he only believe Conservatives? The Bridgewater Four have protested their palpable innocence throughout his Prime Ministership and he has taken not a blind bit of notice. If a Labour government is elected, then I expect Iris Bentley to be made a Dame, for she has lived the best life of any of us. She has shown exemplary dedication and courage, defending the reputation of a brother who the whole world knows deserves to be pardoned. Meanwhile, with- out dissent or even apparent interest, Major has allowed the worst Home Secre- tary since Henry Brooke to abuse his office by playing party politics with real people's lives. What John Major's admirers so like in him is his fundamental honesty. As it happened, it was also his way of holding the party together. It was the defence of his own survival. But now that he is seen to have lost that, he has lost everything.
Not, as you might say, a natural con- stituent for most modern novels — the very word 'fictive' sets my teeth on edge — I'd never taken much notice of novelists who complained of something called 'the crisis in fiction'. It never seemed real. But when I read Blake Morrison's brilliant memoir of his family And When Did You Last See Your Father? I could see that the character of his dad in real life had a complexity and a rich- ness which made the whole thing infinitely more powerful than if Morrison had wasted time putting his feelings into a novel. The book made the cranky mechanics of most fiction look silly. The psychology was much more interesting. For the first time, you could understand why writers of Morrison's quality were losing faith in the process of fiction itself. These feelings have been rein- forced by reading Sebastian Faulks' study of Christopher Wood, Richard Hillary and Jeremy Wolfenden. Although The Fatal Englishman has been widely reviewed, everyone was too busy picking at the brick- work to notice the architecture. This is the most wildly exciting book that I've read for a long time, and on a great theme: how the failures of Britain in the 20th century have seeped into the souls of its countrymen. It's a classic. The book's fans are already ringing each other up late at night to dis- cuss it, because Faulks is clever enough to know that it is, material about which the readers should make up their own minds. At some point he remarks how much neater the stories would have been in a novel, and how much more rounded. Well, yes. It's sad to have to agree with him, but this book is much more moving, much more suggestive than Faulks' own novel Birdsong.
People have also been ringing about Julie Andrews. They want to know if, as a fellow-nominee, I am going to express soli- darity with her by withdrawing myself from the New York Tony awards ceremony on the grounds that the nominating committee has outrageously overlooked the part played by, let's say, the hat-check man in the Broadway production of Racing Demon. Outstanding contribution, and so `There was a riot of colour at the dahlia display.' on. In my view, Julie Andrews may be well out of it. Awards ceremonies are getting out of hand. Earlier this year, Lloyds Bank, without permission, entered me for some new award no one had heard of. When I declined to take -part in the usual humilia- tions in a London hotel, they said it was their right to enter me whether I liked it or not. A letter arrived, making lawyers' threats. They don't understand. No sensible playwright likes to be entered like a rat in a trap opposite their colleagues. The ideal theatrical award is the one given by the Evening Standard. It's a model, because they ring winners up a few weeks in advance and tell them they've won. There are no envelopes, and no losers. An award becomes what it should be: a gift, not a competition. For this reason, in the theatre, the Evening Standard award is the one peo- ple actually want to win.
The Spectator prides itself on reason- able English. So why does it let the most exhausted journalistic cliché of the day go through without remark? A couple of years ago, I counted 11 'chattering classes' in a single edition. And it still goes on. In one article of Paul Johnson's, it appeared four times. As it is only used by people like Johnson whose own trade is opinion, it always carries a connotation of self- loathing. The people who use it hate them- selves. Let's just ban it as bad style.
Farewell then, Mike Nichols, who leaves the country on 1 June, after scaring the wits out of every actor who has been to see him in Wallace Shawn's new play The Designated Mourner. The visit has been a revelation. The only sadness is that the play will close before every member of Equity gets the chance to work out exactly how he does it. The writing itself casts a hallucina- tory spell. The silence in the Cottesloe is profound. But it also allows Nichols, Miranda Richardson and David de Keyser to give acting performances in which they are not seen to be acting at all. As the director, I know their apparent artlessness involves an immense amount of art. You could say it's like the book by Sebastian Faulks. Mike, although a wonderful direc- tor, has only acted once before in the last 30 years. He played George, in a rep pro- duction of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? I asked him why he had finally agreed to act again, just this once, and for such a short run. 'Because when I direct actors,' he replied, 'I often look at them and think, surely you can get what you're saying closer to your thoughts than that?'
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