This article is taken from the March 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.
Mean Mr Sheen
Though no stranger myself to regrettable levels of hostility from Welsh theatricals down the decades, one must still applaud Michael Sheen’s admirable plans for a new National Theatre of Wales!
Having swapped Tinseltown for the bright lights of Port Talbot, Sheen’s intent on championing those “amazing actors who’ve been working in Wales for many, many years”. Whilst these days held up as a paragon of virtue, Saint Michael’s delightful swipe at absent Welsh A-listers no longer pulling their weight reassuringly confirms he remains as catty as the rest of us …
Wife of Brian
With elderly show pony Brian Cox obliged to appear on the West End stage alongside German wife number three, the hazards that accompany this high-profile endeavour cannot be underestimated.
Refusing to hide distaste for her spouse’s celebrity life, not to mention possessing a fervent belief that a “great career” was thwarted by throwing her lot in with Brian, behind-the-scenes tensions shall prove pronounced should this most frustrated of firecrackers once more feel overshadowed!
Following one’s recent dizzy spell whilst recounting the treachery of Nigel Havers during the one-man show outside Northampton (unhelpfully diagnosed as a “cardiac arrest” by the young lady doctor), news Havers is suddenly taking to stages with his own “career retrospective” naturally sticks in the craw. Never remotely the “charming” fellow media types would have you believe, expect this preposterous mask to slip once Nasty Nigel gets into his stride.
Apropos recent disastrous events in Northants, nearest and dearest do little to raise morale.
Having since found myself confined behind closed doors back in Earl’s Court, the self-absorbed nephew (and current sole beneficiary) regularly displays a ghastly expression merging faux concern with mercenary gain.
And though spirits were initially buoyed by the surprise arrival of Monique via Nice Airport, the latest version regrettably bears little relation to the carefree, scantily clad French Riviera widow of last July to September.
With Monique proving intent on stamping out even the gentlest of indulgences on my part, whilst the boy lingers like the Grim ruddy Reaper, this inmate has every intention of hatching his great escape come the spring!
Death on the Wear
My recent tumble in the provinces also prompts reassessment of the commonly held notion amongst thespian contemporaries that breathing one’s last whilst treading the boards should be considered a fittingly romantic end.
With the one-man show having been scheduled for all manner of faraway outposts before fate intervened, I find myself haunted by memories of Kenny Williams snorting with unrestrained glee on hearing Sid James had just dropped dead on stage in Sunderland.
Ubiquitous west end playwright Mr Graham protests his works are being secretly used as templates by sinister AI types, intent on duplicating his commercial success. What with this dour Midlander’s fashionable efforts having already hogged our most prestigious stages for many a year, one shudders to imagine even more of the same …
Ghoulish media/clickbait folk persist in reminding us on a near-daily basis that Dame Judi remains blind as a bat in dotage. Having been amongst those guilty of repeatedly reading this same “exclusive” for the past half-dozen years, one imagines the old girl will have to gamely walk off the cliff edge, white stick in hand, before such dreary wolves are finally satisfied.
Bravo old chum Roger Allam for decrying the sorry state of affairs caused by mumbling young co-stars demanding microphones on stage! It’s a long proved rule of thumb amongst we senior cast members that those “trained” post-circa 1985 tend to lack anything approaching the real projection required.
News that “novels” shamelessly churned out every other month by the Reverend Richard Coles are now deemed fit for the screen reassuringly confirms the vision of modern-day TV execs to be everything we still imagine.
Missive creep
With the press having had a field day reporting the would-be assassin’s “poison pen letters” to Actors’ Benevolent Fund grandees, a list of theatrical “suspects” since humorously drawn up by myself and fellow ABF stalwarts to while away the hours was of course never meant to be viewed beyond our small circle.
Thanks to the incompetent online skills of the most senile/inebriated amongst us, that is no longer the case!
Farewell Dame Joan Plowright, whose dignified endurance of adversity in latter years proved an example to all. One always hoped deteriorating eyesight prevented Joan from seeing the chilling spectacle of Gyles Brandreth bounding about in the family back garden, wearing late husband Larry Olivier’s clothes!
Rogue agent
Months after announcing he’d been snapped up by MY agent, off the back of minor fringe theatre success, the nephew/lodger grandly reveals he’s dispensed with her services in favour of new representation “taking him to the next level”!
Already painfully aware of the woman’s professional shortcomings, one hardly required this upstart interloper, now boasting a mere six Netflix minutes to his name, to lengthily explain her limitations to me.
Dignity eventually caused his (inwardly seething) uncle to breezily remark he’d himself discreetly fired her “some months ago”, only for a crossing of wires to follow — though the appalling smirk that came across the rogue’s face indicated he wasn’t buying it.
Whilst 2025 proves generally deflating for a player of this vintage, spirits were raised by news one Joan Collins (94) has been cast to play Wallis Simpson in the latter’s “tragic final years”. Those of us familiar with Joanie’s true acting talents down the decades can cheerfully predict comedy gold awaits …
Addressing the ongoing row surrounding hefty West End ticket prices, hats off to Sir Cameron Mackintosh for so deftly dismissing the “outrage” of theatreland favourite Mr Tennant, whose propensity for jumping aboard the first-class bandwagon discounts him as a credible commentator on such matters.
Should anyone be foolish enough to mention a significant lead role of the past 40 years within earshot of Jeremy Irons, I gather he now embarrassingly resorts to always claiming he was offered the part first!
All too familiar myself with Jeremy’s on-set bragging, sympathies to those now having to contend with this intolerable dandy in muddled old age.
Announcing the “one-woman” Hamlet is heading out on a world tour, Madame Izzard grandly ignores the unhelpful critical consensus that this Prince of Denmark has already delighted us long enough!
