Titter Ye Not.

I went to the theatre last night.
I love the theatre, especially Small Town's theatre! It's a proper theatre - you know, cosy, lots of red velvet, gilt and good muppet boxes? It's recently undergone yet another makeover and although they've managed turn the foyer into some sort of glass and tubular steel airport departure lounge they have lovingly restored the original Victorian splendour of the auditorium.

I don't go to the theatre as much as I would like, primarily because there is seldom anything on I want to see! Small Town's current theatre director has a passion for musicals, which I loathe, there are the ubiquitous Postman Pat "extravaganzas" for the pint-sized punters and paedophiles, there is ballet, which the very-soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither adores but I have never been able to take to, and then the rest of the year seems to be taken up by pantomime.
This week, however, there was something on I wanted to see - Shakespeare.

I have, for several years now, been trying to get into Shakespeare. I only did Henry V at school, you see, and although I found it a ripping tale of derring do I neither read nor saw any Shakespeare after that. Millions worldwide have, however, raved for centuries about Bill the Quill and it did not occur to me until I was in my early 40s that there consequently had to be some worth in the boy's work. I wanted to enjoy whatever it was I had been missing out on - either that or be able to hold my head up high and proclaim that I found Shakespeare shite, without talking from a position of ignorance.

Unfortunately, my attempts to educate myself with Bard for Beginners have not, in truth, been a roaring success to date. The principle problem has been that, unlike me, everyone else seems to have seen each of his plays a thousand times. As a result, there seems to be a widespread belief that Shakespeare has to be "freshened up" and given a new twist. That invariably means that "contemporary" versions of the works are staged. I have lost count of the number of times I have been to see a Shakespearean play and been deafened by the sound of motorbikes and armoured cars on stage or been bemused by the sight of hoodies, shell-suited rappers or footballers prancing about and talking in Olde English prose.
I want tights!! Men in tights!!! Not because I'm homosexual - I'm not. I'm more solosexual these days. No, it's because I want to see it as it was probably originally performed before graduating to more inventive and adapted performances.

Well, I had another chance to see what all the fuss was about when Janey, who works at Small Town Theatre, very kindly gave me two complimentary tickets to see an RSC production which is touring the provinces after rave reviews in the West End. She knew about my love of the theatre, of my efforts to understand Shakespeare and so bore me in mind, bless her. She and her other half, The Pirate, are indeed two of my favourite people.
So, I went last night, with the VSTB EW, and I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the evening out. The costumes, although not exactly 16th Century, were of no particular age and were excellent. The set designs were minimalist and yet elegantly creative. The lighting was largely simple and yet wholly mood inducing when needed. There was even music, subtlely, appropriately and entertainingly performed. Finally, there were the performances, all of which were first rate - passionately and expertly given, with total credibility, clarity and sympathy. There was only one thing wrong.........the play itself!!!
You see, the production was The Comedy of Errors, the Shakespearean "comedy".

First of all, I don't do "farce". With the sole exception of Fawlty Towers, which I suppose is farce, I find the sight of people scurrying around, hiding in wardrobes and dropping their trousers tedious. Secondly, and you can argue this with me 'til you're blue in the face, Shakespeare don't do comedy!!! I'm sorry, but Doddy he ain't! Doubtless, people farting, raising their eyebrows in a silly way or running about chasing each other was regarded as pant-wettingly hilarious in the 16th Century - but time moves on. When your principle gag centres around two people looking alike - twice! - you're not really starting from the rooftop apartment of Comedy Towers. To drag that out for two hours is stretching it beyond the bounds of bearability! I was praying that the two sets of brothers would bump into each other on stage after about 30 minutes and so all would become clear and we could get into the pub. My frustration brought to mind the greatest heckle of all time which supposedly came during an appalling performance of the Diary of Anne Frank. So tedious and mind-numbing was the production that when the Nazi stormtroopers burst into the factory where Anne and her family were hiding, some wag at the back of the stalls, in a desperate attempt to curtail the play, shouted "She's in the attic!!!"

There was something else which got on my mammaries last night, something which neither Shakespeare nor the cast could do anything about - the bulk of the audience!! God, they were pretentious and middle class! There were people roaring with laughter when one character chased another. They roared if someone fell over. They roared if someone gurned. Pither, meanwhile, failed to trouble his chuckle muscle all night. Perhaps saddest of all was the trainee, 12-year-old pseud who sat right in front of me and laughed ALL the way through - even when the father of the Antipholus twins was sentenced to death! - but kept looking to his dad for approval.

Many of those in the audience were like those wankers who politely applaud sporadically during jazz recitals and then look around, as if to say "Only I appreciate jazz and only I know which are the clever bits and you don't and I do 'cos I'm cultured and you're not". Fuck off!! I have to say I feared for the well being of many of the people there last night. I mean, once they got out of the theatre they were likely to rupture themselves or have heart attacks if they so much as caught an episode of Are You Being Served, let alone anything vaguely amusing!

Anyway, at least I finally saw a "proper" production of Shakespeare, and jolly well it was staged to boot. Sadly, it was a great production spoilt by the play!

What to send then? Well, Bill can stay out. I know the boy's got talent and I am looking forward to seeing "proper" productions of his meatier works. I think it has to be last night's audience. Pseuds and suburbanite, middle class wankers who laugh for show can go to Grantham.