Funny old house

Anyone who’s ever been involved in theatre can tell you there is no predicting what kind of audience you will get for any given performance.

One night they’ll be practically rolling in the aisles at the lines you know are funny and chortling heartily at things no one’s laughed at before. That is what is known as a bloody good house. And if you are an actor, that audience is your life blood. Everything notches up a gear and you are on fire. The house we had on opening night was pretty good. The house on Friday night was bloody good.

Then you’ll get the not-so-good house. The response is muted at best, even if the applause at the end is genuine. That’s a funny old house. We had one of those last night.

Sometimes this lack of responsiveness can dampen an actor, but for my play at least (one of three) that most certainly did not happen. My Frank, Ernie and Annie were positively on fire last night. That moment when everything comes together perfectly as far as the writer/director is concerned. I was bouncing around on my chair with delight. Afterwards there were hugs and pecks on the cheek all round.

One of the advantages of being the middle play in a show like this, the one just before the intermission, is that you can go outside after the bows and mingle, luxuriate in the praise.

And there was praise to be had, even from the somewhat subdued crowd last night. Well-deserved kudos for the actors. And for the playwright? Well, there is certainly no such thing as hearing the words “so good” and “so clever” too many times. And from people who’ve seen my previous plays a common comment (both in person during the intermission and in texts and emails after the show) has been: “I love your writing.” Music to the ears of the poor sod whose imagination and efforts at the keyboard are the only reason a play exists.