Confusion bordering on the  chaotic reigned over the London opening of Tim Firth’s Calendar Girls at the Noel Coward. Last night, everyone had turned up for the 7pm start except the Press officer, Peter Thompson, and a few stray critics, who all thought the show began at 7.30pm.

The tickets were clearly marked 7pm, and the date and time had been registered with the Society of London Theatre months ago. So why the mix-up?

Producer David Pugh faced the first night crowd (Norma Major, Cilla Black, Anthony Andrews, Christopher Biggins, A A Gill, the usual top notch mob) to say that we were being held up by the Press — bloody cheek! — and was met with a chorus of good-natured boos and “We love you, really, Nicholas de Jongh” — before inviting the house to disperse to the bars and swig a free glass of champagne.   

But the fact is, Pugh has tried to exclude the critics from a show he rightly believes doesn’t depend on them. He had to be vigorously persuaded by the host theatre to allow the Press in to review the premiere at Chichester last September.

And this time, he and Tommo have picked off the critics by allowing them the option of creeping into previews over the past week and scattering their notices to the winds of chance and indifference.

This is all very well and Pugh is entitled to do as he likes, I suppose. But I guess some of us will be a little more guarded when he next comes begging for more coverage — as he did when his presentation of Kneehigh’s Brief Encounter started to flounder in the West End last year. You can’t pick and choose which shows you want the critics to review. It’s all or nothing, matey.

Of course, if Pugh knew that his show was a big resounding artistic success — as opposed to the so-so commercial crowd-pleaser it undoubtedly is — he would have had no qualms about setting proper Press nights and sticking to them.

But he’s been knocked back by a clutch of sniffy two and three star reviews in Chichester and, buoyed by the sell-out success on tour and the alleged record-breaking £1.7m advance in town, has gone down the old “who needs critics” line of most resistance.

The actresses’ flesh, or the coy promise of it, is the selling point, and Pugh has obviously decided he won’t tolerate a bunch of misery-guts critics coming along to point out that the flesh may be willing but the spirit, not to say the show itself, is weak.  

That said, it’s only fair to point out that Hamish McColl’s production has improved considerably since last autumn in Chichester. The first night audience whooped and holla-ed, giving the girls a standing ovation before being plied with yet more champagne and — how on earth were they going to get the things open and swallowed in such circumstances? — oysters.

I suppose the last item constituted some sort of aphrodisiac compensation for the lack of outright sexual titillation on the stage itself, though Lynda Bellingham (almost) baring her not inconsiderable bum and Gaynor Faye shaking her booty in some figure-hugging white jeans might have rendered the slithery molluscs unnecessary for one or two frisky punters.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 21st, 2009 at 8:41 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.