A couple of Fridays ago, a friend WhatsApped me to say she’d been left a free ticket for that night’s performance of Plaza Suite. Her plus one for the West End debut of Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick was having her beloved dog put down. I wouldn’t describe the three hours at the Savoy that evening as torture, exactly. But most of it felt like the person witnessing their pet being put to sleep had got the less arduous end of arrangements. Nothing reminds you more sharply of reasons not to go to the theatre than the revival of a play with zero contemporary resonance.
The following weekend, I noticed the Irish actor Andrew Scott made the news, complaining about the alienating price of London theatre tickets. Given my most recent experience of it, I sighed. It felt like a distraction tactic for more pressing problems, particularly delivered by someone just off the back of promoting a divisive one-man run of Uncle Vanya, tickets for which hardly constituted a bargain barrel of lols.
