The Seagull

“Was that Ibsen or Chekov?” said the very smartly turned out old boy in front of me as we shuffled out of the Royal Court theatre. I know the feeling. After two Ibsens, time for the first in a series of three Chekovs, the next two in Russian with English surtitles, so this was a good warm up.

One of the Sunday Telegraph’s critics (not Charles Spencer, who seems to find everything wonderful) is part of something called CRAP (I kid you not) – the Campaign for Real Acting Performances or something like that, though it could as easily have been Critics Really Are Planks. What CRAP object to are “movie stars” taking a turn on the West End stage thereby displacing the “better” traditional thesps. They appear to have taken a particularly dim view of Daniel Radcliffe waving his quidditch about on stage.

This was one of those kinds of performance that CRAP object to, with a cast including Mackenzie Crook, Kristin Scott Thomas and, erm, Art Malik.

Just to prove what a load of crap CRAP is, this was a wonderful production. There wasn’t any sense of “isn’t that the bloke off…” although I would admit to a little frission down below when the lovely KST made her entrance.

It was acted in a very naturalistic, downbeat style which is much talked about but little seen. For me it is a style that works much better that the declamatory, shouty “I am an Actaaaw” style still prevalent.

The Royal Court was instantly one of my favourite theatre spaces – small with an old fashioned feeling in the auditorium, comfy light brown leather seats, a rather nice looking bar and restaurant area. I felt very much at home with the over 60s who made up the majority of the weekday matinee crowd.

All in all good fun, and the best thing KST’s done since “Under the Bitter Cherry Moon.”