Frankenstein - a new production at the National Theatre with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller playing creature and creator on alternate nights - except the night I visited when Benedict was unwell.
Fortunately, Jonny Lee Miller was excellent as the downtrodden and reviled creature and, surprisingly to me, the creator's is the far smaller role in the play. By all accounts, Cumberbatch would have been excellent although I do not intend to buy another ticket to find out on the off-chance that his health might hold out on that occasion. And it's sold out anyway.
What are we to make of this? Clearly the theatre cannot cancel a play due to one of the stars being indisposed and they are, of course, at pains to point out that one buys a ticket to the show, not to see the actors who are, of course, replaceable because, of course, the show must go on. But one can't help but feel aggrieved. The poor man is ill, he can't perform - what else could one expect? I cannot answer that question - I have literally no idea - but, however unreasonably, I feel cheated.
The impotent howling rage of the theatregoer... hardly an analogy for the creature in the play but why not stretch a point?
Personally, I had neither read the novel, nor seen any of the many films, nor read a summary of the plot. I actually went to the theatre to let them tell me the story for the first time - except I made the mistake of reading Michael Billington's egregious review in the Guardian which gave a clear description of precisely which vile acts are meted out to whom in the climax of the piece. Apparently one can expect this because it's an old story and everyone should know it. Am I alone in thinking that, no matter how old a story, there must be a first time for everyone to hear/see/read it and the review of the play is never going to be the best occasion? Can it be so difficult to describe whether the acting/script/lighting/set are good enough to be worth buying a ticket without telling the whole story up front?
I would have thought it would be quite easy to do so. Maybe Billington could be sacked and someone else could have a go for a while.
So, having been deprived of enjoying the narrative twists from a position of ignorance, and then deprived of the (by all accounts) excellent acting of one of its stars, I still found it easily worth the ticket price - Jonny Lee Miller's acting could have made up for still more provocations.
Two days later, I discovered that N's favourite playground has been attacked by vandals. Two large pieces of equipment were set alight - the scorched bouncy tarmac and holes at the anchor points being the only sign that these ladders, climbing nets, slides, playhouses were ever there. I feel both rage and pity for these creatures who caused this damage - rage for the way they decided to deprive children of play for their own gratification, pity for the fact that they could get any joy from such an act. I cannot help but wonder whether they, like Frankenstein's creature, were treated roughly from an early age and, while technically able to love, have only seen hatred and rejection such that the love has been stamped out of them leaving only a mean-spirited and violent husk.
I picture Benedict Cumberbatch, in character as Frankenstein's creation (make-up and all), torching the playground while howling at the unfairness of the world. Obviously it wasn't him but, then again, if he wasn't in the theatre, does he have an alibi?
