Friday night’s preview audience of Sunset Boulevard at the Comedy Theatre were allowed in at ten past seven for a show starting twenty minutes later. I therefore had plenty of time to peruse my programme which informed me that the foyer bar would be open forty-five minutes before the performance (it wasn’t). 

I also had plenty of time to work out that the programme did not list the musical numbers in the show — a crime as heinous as not listing the names of the orchestra; which aren’t listed either, as the musicians are also the actors on the stage.

The Comedy used to be one of my favourite London theatres. It used to have a delightful front of house manager, Michael Ginesi, long since gone, who treated each customer as though he or she was a welcome friend or long lost relative.

In the stalls bar there were posters of past hits on the premises (and a few flops); these have now been mostly replaced with advertising for the controllng company, the Ambassador Theatre Group, whose chief executive, Rosemary Squire OBE, also president of the Society of London Theatre, remarks blandly in the same programme that “the theatre capital of the world continues to come up with shows that the public want to see.”

But theatres must make themselves more welcoming, tickets have to be more easily purchased and much cheaper, or the West End will die, end of story. You never feel that anyone’s life depends on your being on their premises.

The offensively hideous glass kiosk in the Comedy foyer, containing trinkets and other merchandising rubbish, is not the sort of thing you want to have to stand next to while waiting for the house to open. 
 
And I notice an alarming new trend. The people involved in the shows interview each other, with appalling results of back-slapping bromide of the kind you can read in the Twelfth Night programme between director Michael Grandage and his Malovolio, Derek Jacobi, and in the Sunset programme conversation between director Craig Revel Horwood and his musical director Sarah Travis.

What attracted you to Sunset Boulevard, asks the far too unobtrusive interviewer. “Craig wants to be Norma Desmond!” squeaks Sarah. “I am Norma Desmond!” squawks Craig. Excuse me, pass the sick bag, Alice, and send it back to ATG when it’s full.   

On top of that, customers are asked to pay a lot of money for this garbage. Then there are the ticket booking fees. And the surliness of front of house staff. And the cost of the lousy glass of wine. And in the case of Sunset, a fairly good production that still looks as though it’s done on the cheap out of necessity rather than artistic conviction.

If only there were some new films that were really worth seeing, or some television programmes you wouldn’t mind staying home for, then the theatre might really be in trouble. As it is, theatregoers keep the faith despite every attempt and wily ruse of their complacent hosts to keep them away.  

This entry was posted on Monday, December 15th, 2008 at 7:53 am 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.