Theatre
Murder by Misadventure (Vaudeville) The Dybbuk (Barbican Pit)
An Inspector palls
Sheridan Morley
The Inspector paused on his way out of the stalls bar. 'I think it's a thriller,' he said, 'And it's been dead a long time. Maybe since Sleuth. Maybe only since the last revival of Deathtrap. These things are diffi- cult to pin down. forensically. I blame Roald Dahl myself.'
There was a long silence while he tried to read the eyewitness account he had scrib- bled on the margins of his programme in the sudden darkness of the first night. 'Unusual for Vaudeville,' he noticed, 'not often you get a death before the interval, maybe two after. Sometimes in the dress circle at revivals of very old musicals, espe- cially matinees. Not usually on stage.'
Only been in the new job a month, and already the Inspector was beginning to feel his age. Back at the old station typewriter, he considered the facts in front of him. Start at the very beginning. Tuesday night, late July. West End a regular bloodbath: 15 shows gone in less than a month including one of his own. Usual beat, seven o'clock start, report to theatre on Strand. About 300 potential witnesses, well-dressed mob, could be relatives or friends of the victims, investors even. Names and addresses to be taken later. Nothing unusual yet, give or take an agent's hairpiece in the dress circle and a tuxedo in the stalls that seems to 'He eats like a horse.' have had several previous owners. Check out the ice-creams. Think there used to be more nuts in the vanilla. Unsure of new EEC regulations on this.
Routine briefing in programme lists title, Murder by Misadventure, plus four charac- ters. Stars Gerald Harper, a Durbridge man if I'm not mistaken, and Angela Down: also two others listed, but this could be a trap. In Sleuth they printed the names of three mythical characters and one of our most promising lads actually reviewed them. Got transferred to the television pre- viewing branch in Sidcup before you could say Shaffer.
Programme also gives location: 'Kent's flat overlooking English Channel'. Thoughtful, that, save a lot of time with the AA Book of the Road later.
The Inspector paused again, this time to consider his life and career in the West End Reviews branch. Fifty this year, hair beginning to recede, usual weight problem, he'd taken the drama beat 30 years ago because it seemed better than fixing traffic lights. Now he wasn't so sure. Night work, it was, often meeting undesirables in dark attics off Shepherd's Bush Green or Isling- ton. Sometimes worse. Sometimes they did plays in Glasgow. Once he'd been beaten up in a pub by a suspect who hadn't much cared for one of his reports. Female dramatists can turn very nasty after a few lagers. When he'd started, back in the 1960s, different world: friendly neighbour- hood critics still able to walk dark streets at night without threats from John Osborne. Sometimes even invited in for a drink with Noel Coward around Christmas-time. More plays around then, too, leastways more plays he hadn't already seen. And sometimes, you won't believe this, some- times they actually put on a musical with new songs in it.
The Inspector went back to his pro- gramme notes. Two thriller-writers at the end of their partnership, both want to kill each other, spend all evening doing so. Greg Hicks as possible police inspector does devastating impression of Paul Scofield. This is probably the best thriller in town, given that the other two are The Mousetrap and Woman in Black. On the other hand, if I say that they'll•quote me on the bloody posters, and all it means is this is a lousy decade for thrillers. End of notes.
Samuel Beckett would have had an entire trilogy out of that lot, not just a drama report. The Inspector typed it up and took it through to his senior officer.
'This it? A week on full pay, entirely alone in Drama division, and all you man- age is one halfway adequate thriller down the Strand? What else is there?'
The Inspector thought for a moment. `Well, up the Barbican they've got an 80- year-old play by Solomon Anski set in the Ukraine about a woman possessed by the spirit of her dead lover. Probably where they got The Exorcist from, but the RSC production just looks like Fiddler on the Roof without the songs.
`Elsewhere, not a lot, and August is going to be worse. I find I think a lot about J.B. Priestley, An Inspector Calls and all that. Notions of reality. Am I really here? Does an Edward Taylor thriller halfway down the Strand actually represent the state of the art 2,000 years after Aristo- phanes? Maybe even 3,000. I never did the Greek exam, but I am getting on with writ- ing the books. That never hurt Wambaugh. He was an Inspector too, once. Mind you, he never had to review thrillers in the Strand.'
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