I must have seen the 1972 film Cabaret 30 times. I’ve watched it with people who didn’t like musicals, a guy who thought Liza Minnelli looked like a duck (who I no longer speak to), children so young that I started off trying to explain the Weimar aesthetic, only to realise partway through this that I’d first have to tell them who Hitler was. Yet, I had never seen it on stage, and by the time the current West End production opened, assumed I probably wouldn’t, being opposed in principle to super-expensive tickets. It’s a weird objection. I’m in favour of performers at the apex of their game being paid a lot, and I strongly support the live arts breaking even. I just can’t spend £200 on a thing that lasts such a short time.
Mr Z finally persuaded me with a PowerPoint presentation plotting units of human enjoyment against number of birthday presents it could represent. By the time the night rolled around, I was so completely won over to the enterprise that I stepped out in a mink stole belonging to Mr Z’s great-great-aunt. The 12-year-old disapproves of fur, of course, but I made the case that it was over 100 years old, so whichever way you sliced it, those minks would definitely no longer be alive.
