Post by dlevi on Jan 23, 2024 4:25:23 GMT
So there's bad news and there's bad news.
I had hoped that this least welcoming and claustrophobic of London Theatres would have seized this astonishing opportunity and run with it. But they haven't - from the confusing signage to simply enter the theatre, to the apathetic staff ( the first staff person didn't look up from her Insta when I entered the street level lobby) to the bar staff which happily announced that the house was now open - and it wasn't. When it was pointed out that the rope was still across the entrance, she said: wait a minute and sold two more glasses of wine ( clearly the priority of the venue) and then she left the bar and removed the rope to allow us in. An usher who was on the other side of the rope greeted us and directed us to our seats. ( "It's down there" ) . The seats themselves are relatively comfortable but way too thin. The only aspect of the new space that people were talking about was how tightly squished together the seats are - thus making a seat which on its own might be ok , now becomes a source of irritation. And throughout the performance we were treated ( at least 6 times) to someone kicking over their ( presumably) empty plastic wine glass - something which if the seats were placed differently wouldn't happen. And finally the late Dan Crawford's tradition of begging for money at the end of the performance . Not bloody likely.
Oh but the play? I had hoped that with a new larger and presumably more convivial space and a new artistic staff ( Isn't Mark Ravenhill involved?) that the level of play presented would be lifted a bit. I was wrong. The Exhibitionists is the usual cheap "gay" sex comedy. For which there is clearly an audience ( hey I was there I admit that) but this one was bad and more importantly it was a pathetic rewrite in terms of 85% its structure ( though none of the dialogue) of "Private Lives" . Featuring a cheap set design, lame direction and amateurish performances. I don't think I'll be going back there anytime soon, but I also don't think they'll miss me.
I had hoped that this least welcoming and claustrophobic of London Theatres would have seized this astonishing opportunity and run with it. But they haven't - from the confusing signage to simply enter the theatre, to the apathetic staff ( the first staff person didn't look up from her Insta when I entered the street level lobby) to the bar staff which happily announced that the house was now open - and it wasn't. When it was pointed out that the rope was still across the entrance, she said: wait a minute and sold two more glasses of wine ( clearly the priority of the venue) and then she left the bar and removed the rope to allow us in. An usher who was on the other side of the rope greeted us and directed us to our seats. ( "It's down there" ) . The seats themselves are relatively comfortable but way too thin. The only aspect of the new space that people were talking about was how tightly squished together the seats are - thus making a seat which on its own might be ok , now becomes a source of irritation. And throughout the performance we were treated ( at least 6 times) to someone kicking over their ( presumably) empty plastic wine glass - something which if the seats were placed differently wouldn't happen. And finally the late Dan Crawford's tradition of begging for money at the end of the performance . Not bloody likely.
Oh but the play? I had hoped that with a new larger and presumably more convivial space and a new artistic staff ( Isn't Mark Ravenhill involved?) that the level of play presented would be lifted a bit. I was wrong. The Exhibitionists is the usual cheap "gay" sex comedy. For which there is clearly an audience ( hey I was there I admit that) but this one was bad and more importantly it was a pathetic rewrite in terms of 85% its structure ( though none of the dialogue) of "Private Lives" . Featuring a cheap set design, lame direction and amateurish performances. I don't think I'll be going back there anytime soon, but I also don't think they'll miss me.
