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Tom Stoppard’s 1982 play The Real Thing begins with exactly the kind of scene that makes theatre fans love or loathe this garlanded elder statesman of British theatre. A married couple are arguing. So naturally, there’s an Ibsen-esque door slam that topples a house of cards, an erudite but deeply dated discourse on the fundamental naffness of Japanese digital watches, and an atmosphere so arch it could be used to patch up the Colosseum. But soon, we’re shown this is all a tricksy bit of self-parody, part of Stoppard’s exploration of playwriting and the realities we construct around ourselves.
