I sometimes feel we’re not good enough to go into the best of the West End theatres. Wyndham’s, where Twelfth Night has opened to deserved acclaim, is a case in point. This beautiful 1899 theatre by W G R Sprague has been lovingly redecorated by Cameron Mackintosh, yet the central aisle in the stalls last night resembled a London Transport cloakroom.

A mound of old tut, bits of paper and grimy clothing accumulated around the feet of several critics. Punters squashed into bars and corridors that were simply not built to accommodate them. People are becoming so fat — though not yet as fat as they are in New York — that they can hardly manouevre themselves into their rows, let alone sit comfortably in their seats.

There was always something penitential — and therefore good for the soul — about going to the theatre. Standing all afternoon in the cockpit at the Globe can’t have been much fun unless you really wanted to be there. And the stone benches at Epidaurus are quite an ordeal today, let alone four centuries ago.

But I think you have to match your deportment to your circumstances. Blankets and weatherproofs are a good idea in Regent’s Park. The Bush demands jeans and sensible shoes. And I think the Wyndham’s, like the Haymarket, merits a bit of sartorial respect from its visitors, not just because the building and the interiors are so grand and beautiful, but because scruffiness just looks rude.

I don’t care if you’re a critic or a paying customer, if you turn up at Wyndham’s looking like a busker or a down-and-out, then you should be refused admittance and asked to come back another night more suitably attired. That should clear a few seats, especially on the aisles.

Another odd thing about last night was a request from the Press officer as to whether or not I required her to bring me a drink to my seat in the interval, so I didn’t have to endure the bar stampede and could collect my thoughts in calm and serenity.

I asked back if this offer could be extended to include a tray of smoked salmon sandwiches with a side salad of chopped cucumbers, but I think she was drawing the line at a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.

Of course in the old days you could have a tea tray at the Haymarket during the interval of the mid-week matinee, a wonderful tradition that I’m sorry to say went the way of the national anthem some years ago.

At the time, I was hanging from the straps in the gallery, squinting jealously at the ladies in fur coats who were surveying their comestibles through lorgnettes. The most I aspired to was an ice-cream or a Kiaora orange drink.

But the idea of a Press officer scrambling around to bring cardboard cups and plastic glasses into the hallowed stalls of Wyndham’s strikes me as very nearly obscene.

Before the show I went for a drink in the circle bar, one of the most beautiful rooms in the whole of London’s theatreland. I was served coffee in a china cup and offered a seasonal minced pie, which was cold but moderately edible.

This was a perfect interlude before shoving myself uncomfortably down the crowded staircase into the first night hurlyburly and the aid relief clothing dump that was suddenly forming in the middle of the stalls. 

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 11th, 2008 at 5:45 pm and is filed under Michael Coveney. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.