It’s the hottest ticket in town. A backstage haven bustling with the most current conversation, a flurry of tuxedoed and just-off-the-shoot mouth-wateringly handsome ushers serving
Veuve from crystal flutes and
Keira Knightley just within earshot pouting ferociously and poured over a
Chanel limited edition French cigarette – skinny and long like its fumeuse.
Damian Lewis brushes my shoulder signalling towards Knightley to take to the wings. She explodes into a full smile, retorts in
Austen tongues and flirtatiously dabs a pear-drop of her
eau de toilette on his collar bone. Show time! Or so I imagined.
Instead, I am ushered through to a not-so-exclusive staircase and corresponding corridor, frequently interrupted by misguided cloakroom seeking punters, and offered to stand among London’s self-professed elite drinking one glass (either now or at the interval – but strictly not both) of cava. Worse still, served by Vicky Pollard in oversized monochrome uniform. As she re-corks the cheap bottle with a now blasphemised
Veuve Cliquot stopper, conversation of any kind and a cameo appearance by an understudy would appear too much to ask for. So I take to my seat while juggling cava, coat and paraphernalia to await scene.
The play itself? Remarkable. Brilliantly acted and incredibly accurate, it’s as though
Molière peered through the looking glass into the future and wrote “How to make friends and bitch about them: a Brit’s guide to polite society”. Of course this is a modern remaking of a 17
th century commentary on the French aristocracy but the message is the same and the human condition has not changed. I find myself feeling quite the misanthrope; allergic to my own species. I recall the day someone told me what they really thought of me behind the prefix of, “I think you should know that so-and-so considers you
[insert slew of insults]. Note: not my opinion”? And the time I witnessed a friend gushing over someone as they walked in 45 minutes late in plastic shoes by
Vivienne Westwood, after just listening to their comments about her bad time keeping and awful dress sense. I remember the occasions when
I was that person.
Yes, we, the audience, are all under attack. And, we’ve paid for the privilege. It is all grossly ironic; the play about the ills of our celebrity obsessed society and the psycophancy of modern age quietly mocking those believing this to be the unmissable ticket of the month. And, most won’t have noticed that
The Misanthrope makes fun of their special “champagne” package.
Molière would have been proud.
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The Misanthrope's run at London's Comedy Theatre ends on 13 March so catch it while you can (champagne packages include premiere seating, a glass of 'champagne' and a poster). Jaz has to get back to Spooning now. No, not the Valentines kind, the Texan rock'n'roller kind.
Jaz x
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