Ghosts

So off I toddled last night to start my new role as perplexed theatre critic. I guess I’ve gone off the theatre of late, lost my ability to suspend my disbelief. This was however without doubt Theatre of the very finest kind.

I went to see Ghosts at the Gate Theatre.

I’ve never seen Ibsen performed live - I’ve read a few Ibsen plays but not this one.

The Gate is a 70 or so seater above the Prince Albert pub in Notting Hill. You could hear some of the inane banter wafting up during quieter moments, but it was very muffled and didn’t affect my enjoyment (if that’s the right word for the experience of an Ibsen play). Someone’s mobile set to vibrate was a little more irritating – switch the bloody thing off why don’t you – even without a ringtone you get a buzzy noise.

Seats are unreserved , and the queue to go in forms some 30 minutes before doors. This is not a happy proposition for someone of my disposition, especially when there was some poor queuing etiquette (ie pushing in). Overall I was about 14th in and happy with my seat position, if not my seat, which was a little hard, little better than a padded bench in truth, with a particularly hard backrest primed to press against the area where I am sore from physio. Nevertheless I managed to subsume the physical agony into the overall Ibsenian experience – I wasn’t there to have fun you know.

The audience I have to say were impeccably well behaved save for that instance of the vibrating ‘phone – no bangles in this part of London baby.

You will also want to know that at the front of the queue, a great British actor held forth. It might well have been the Great Gambon; if not he was certainly Gambonesque. A fine triangular beard jutted forth from his chin – it was the sort of beard that could only be worn by an actor as part of a role (“no stick on beards here, I’ll grow my own thank you”.)

Anyway the play was rather brilliantly acted – not too hammy or self-conscious, just natural and sometimes even subtle. If not exactly suspended, my belief was certainly pressed upwards, and you could tell the effectiveness of it by the trouble people had in walking afterwards (and I’m sure that wasn’t just due to the hard seats.) I was amazed that no fights broke out outside as, one after another, dazed theatre goers walked straight into the local hoodies waiting at the bus stop just by the door. That’s what I would call a good night out. And I was back home by 10.