am i wrong, or are people sleeping in unprecedented numbers at the theatre? Of course, it depends how good the show is-but not necessarily. In spite of the limited leg-room, the theatre has always been a cosy place for a nap. It's said that the worst sound an actor can hear is that of polite attention. But the sound of sleep is worse.
Theatre parties and block bookings for a charitable cause are notoriously big sleepers. It has a lot to do with the banquet beforehand. And the cast always knows. They can hear the crescendo of light snoring. I haven't yet seen an actor fall asleep on stage-although, during Hamlet at the National Theatre, I saw Albert Finney fall asleep on his feet. "To be or not to be: that is the question," he began the unforgettable soliloquy, in his tights. But he blanked. He couldn't believe it, either. After a moment or two, it was clear to the audience, and to him, that the prompter was sound asleep, or in the pub. So the audience helpfully yelled out the next line, "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer," and he continued.
To eat and drink and be merry before or after the show? That is the question. For myself, not before. Because if the show isn't good, there's always something to look forward to. And if the show is terrific, there's reason to celebrate. Let me say now that, out of lifelong respect for the happy breed which work so hard in the theatre, I have never, ever fallen asleep during a performance, except at matin?es. Matin?es are the perfect post-lunch, midday doze, and quiet cultural communion. Wasn't it Arthur Schnitzler, after all, who said that theatre is a refuge from reality?
Critics are always falling asleep at the theatre, yet they have the last word, which isn't fair at all. A while ago, a leading New York critic fell asleep during an opening night. The next evening, the star actor in the play bumped into him. "I see you're awake," said the actor. "True," the critic replied. "But then, you're not on stage."
Sleep is contagious at the theatre. During a performance of Samuel Beckett's Texts for Nothing, John Simon, of all vigilant critics, could be seen dozing off. Then the lady accompanying him dozed off, too. Then Robin Wagner, the set designer, who was seated next to Simon, joined them. He was sleeping with the enemy!
Theatre people, like critics, always fall asleep at the theatre, and often during their own productions. This is because they have seen the show a million times. They sometimes have good judgement, too. When Peter Martins of the New York City Ballet choreographed Andrew Lloyd Webber's Song and Dance, he asked Lincoln Kirstein to attend a rehearsal. Within seconds, Kirstein was asleep, waking only when it was over. "What did you think?" Martins asked him later. "Absolutely terrible!" Kirstein replied.
Years ago, to my immense pride, a play of mine was put on in my home town. But as soon as the curtain went up, my father fell asleep. I tried nudging him, but he slept contentedly through the entire proceedings. "Enjoy the show?" I asked with a little edge, when he awoke to applaud louder than anyone.
My friend Robin Wagner-John Simon's sleeping partner at the Beckett play-outdid himself recently. He fell asleep during his own play. This is not only astonishing, but proves what a democrat he is. He had casually mentioned that he was having a reading at the Ensemble Studio of a play he'd written and asked me along. Twelve actors were seated in a semicircle for the reading.
"We cut 30 other characters," he whispered to me, nervously. "We also cut one and a half hours." It was a rainy Saturday afternoon. "There's going to be more people in the cast than in the audience," he added. But before long, a few souls joined us. The director Randall Sommer and I sat apart from Wagner, to hide, if necessary.
His play turned out to be an epic. Entitled The Straits of Magellan, it was based on the story of Ferdinand Magellan. Act One was a shade too long, to say the least. Still, I was admiring its narrative sweep, its intriguing questions concerning the nature of all voyages, of free will and the divine, when the unmistakeable sound of snoring came from Wagner.
"Ssssh!" I said to someone who tried to wake him. "How dare you! He's the author!"
Act Two flew by. "Well, you know what's wrong with the first act," I said to him afterward. "How could I?" he responded cheerfully. "I was asleep." But, of course, he knew it was too long. He thanked the actors, and we went off for a drink. "What do you really think of it?" he asked. A very dangerous question.
"Where was the music?" I replied, taking a gamble. "I wrote it to music!" he exclaimed, delighted. He had written an opera. And so Wagner went off to cut and rework his potentially wonderful piece of music-theatre. "I'll sleep on it," he said, waving goodbye.
From "How good is David Mamet, Anyway?" (Routledge, rrp 15.99). To buy the book at ?12.99
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