DIARY
Underworld was finished when we started our seven-hour flight home — it is not suitable for hand-baggage. We flew what used to be called economy class. British Airways has now dubbed it 'World Traveller'. As we were welcomed aboard, this particular world traveller was bent dou- ble, trying to remove his knees from under his chin. It was all a vain attempt to squash myself into a woefully inadequate space. I am six foot two inches tall, with a frame that could politely be described as large. World travellers must clearly be very small travellers. I have noticed that leg-room on airlines is getting smaller as they cram in more and more passengers. It has to be accepted, like all the other miseries — the queues, the inevitable lateness, the disgust- ing food, the regular baggage delays. Mean- while the airlines spend more and more on slogans to convince us that their reality is not hell but heaven. All airlines are, in fact, much of a terrible muchness.
Ihave been directing Amadeus for Peter Wilson and Bill Kenwright. The two pro- ducers have been arguing over terms for months, and in this last week of rehearsal, they have finally broken off negotiations. Bill Kenwright (who has backed me for seven years and has been very good to me) asked me to withdraw from the production immediately. I said that so late in the day I could not do that to Peter Shaffer, David Suchet, Michael Sheen and a cast some of whom I have worked with for over 30 years. Bill's response? A lawyer's letter telling me that 'all present and future productions of the Peter Hall Company will be terminat- ed'. Not 'may' but 'will'. So who says this diary is not real? Oh, by the way, Ken- wright's lawyer also says the letter is not a threat. I hope this means we shall be doing the plays. There is Judi Dench in Filumena, Eric Sykes in Kaflca's Dick and Jessica Lange in Long Day's Journey into Night. Amadeus rehearsals were wonderful: the actors very quickly knew their lines. David PETER HALL Suchet was word-perfect in the first week. Out of interest, he kept a tally of his time. It took him 374 hours to learn the part of Salieri. Who says luvvies have an easy life?
Iam always explaining to arts journalists why theatre people dislike the word luvvies'. It belongs to the Thatcher years, when a vocabulary of abuse was developed by Whitehall. Now, distressingly, it contin- ues to be used by arts correspondents who want to demonstrate their impartiality. To ask for a proper subsidy is to 'whinge'. Sub- sidy is not regarded as the responsible cost of doing the job, but as a 'hand-out'. To assume that the arts are part of a healthy democracy is to indulge in 'a welfare state mentality'. And of course an actor who drops his fee to do good work (does any other profession reduce fees to help stan- dards?) is known as a `luvvie'.
Icame home to the great news that the Old Vic has been' saved. Sally Greene has created a charitable trust which will protect the theatre for ever. I have been asked if the Peter Hall Company could return there and continue the work of last year. It would fulfil a dream to accept; but I need an annual guarantee against loss of about half a million pounds. It has been suggested I apply to the Arts Council. I have sounded out one or two close to the decision-mak- ers. Their response was to roar with laugh- ter. It is thought that there is enough seri- ous theatre in London, so I am advised that Super recording – if you listen carefully, you can hear Neville Marriner's stomach rumbling.' I am probably wasting my time. Years ago, Peter Brook told me I should have been born in France: then I would have had my own theatre. . . .
The increased money for the arts recog- nises (at last) that a terrible crisis exists. For that we must give thanks — particular- ly to Chris Smith for not giving up. But the cheers are a little premature. They have welcomed £290 million — a formidable sum — but not many have noticed that the figure is spread over three years and there are many demands. The actual increase for the performing arts next year is only £30 million: better than nothing, certainly, but how can it save the Royal Court, stabilise the Royal Shakespeare Company, salvage Covent Garden and reinstate repertory at the National Theatre? And then there is the biggest problem of all: the collapse of the regional theatres.
Iwent to a directors' meeting of Casto, the group trying to set up an archive for the study of theatre and opera. Principally, we want to save the Motley Library for the nation. It is possibly the finest internation- al collection of books on the performing arts in existence. First it was to go to Oxford University, then to De Montfort University. It is now in the temporary care of the University of Leicester, but must be moved by the end of September. Why all the hiccups? Money, of course — or rather the lack of it. An application to the Lottery has been refused, though another is in the offing. We sat for two and a half hours in the airless Richardson Room at the National Theatre, worrying over the usual sources of money. Would the Hamlyn Foundation be interested in such pure scholarship? Could Thelma Holt (currently Oxford's professor of drama) be persuaded to lobby Cameron Mackintosh? He has, after all, endowed her chair.
My attention wandered in the little, stuffy room and I thought of the great man after whom it is so incongruously named, Sir Ralph Richardson. He was my friend and mentor. About six months before he died of a sudden stroke, I was lunching with him. 'Do you believe in God?' he asked me. `No,' I said, 'I just worry.' I believe,' he said. 'I've tried to be as decent as I can not hurt anyone much, you know. I don't think I've been too bad. But I was thinking the other day, when I die and go up to the Pearly Gates, do I expect a chap there to welcome me and say, "Hello, Richardson! Come on in!"? And you know, I don't think there will be anyone there at all.'
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