A nice review of 9 at the West Yorkshire Playhouse

I don’t normally alter what I write here, and I never delete anything. I considered rewriting the following post, however, after a Twitter exchange last night with the director of “9.” I decided to let the piece stand and offer an explanation of why I wrote it the way I did.

I had a review ticket to see 9. A review ticket obliges you to write something. Usually I manage, I’m rarely short of something to say even if it’s a bit silly or flippant or completely at a tangent – I’m no journalist, I leave the serious opinions and the thoughtful analysis to the folks with the training. I always take a notebook. I can’t always decipher my scribbles afterwards – if anyone knows the best technique for writing in the dark you know my email address – but the simple act of jotting something down seems to fix an idea in my head.

I left the Playhouse almost immediately after the performance (I managed to resist Jez Colborne, unfortunately) and was in my local by 9:30. I’d not thought much about what I’d write, I just fancied a drink with a mate. I was planning on doing the review over breakfast. The conversation in the pub that turned into the blog post is pretty much an accurate transcription – minus the swearing and the scurrilous gossip about certain members of the audience – which began after I’d referred to my notes when Harvi asked about my evening. I’d only written a handful of words; paint nice! . . . aagh, balloons . . . Tory *****’ers . . . and something I couldn’t work out about “bloody dancing.”

I’d spent an hour or so listening to some nice people tell some interesting stories. How do you review that? You don’t “review” real people. That would be as inappropriate as shushing a bunch of guys singing in a pub and telling them their harmonies needed some work. When a “real” person tells you a personal story you are bound by a tacit social contract not to interrupt, interject, or insert a critique. It’s simple politeness. Even if you’re bored or unmoved or simply don’t find the tale that engaging you nod along and make encouraging noises. Because it’s important to them!

And that’s why I felt uncomfortable. Not because the subject matter was difficult or unexpected or disturbing; it wasn’t. And certainly not because the lights were turned up and the audience addressed directly (that sort of stuff always reminds me of being at work.) I felt awkward because it was a social situation that I was having to endure and not just a piece of theatre which I could choose to take or leave. When I feel awkward I tend to take the piss out of myself – standard introvert defence reaction – and I talk complete bollocks . . . hence the silly blog post. Which is why I called it an “unreview.”

I suppose I’m not a natural theatre goer so probably not the target audience for Transform. For one, theatre is a bit out of my price bracket. But the main reason – and probably the reason why I wasn’t the right person to review 9 – is that when I do go I want distraction, entertainment, a bit of relief from grim reality, and I’m quite happy to be called shallow.

I take my hat off to anyone brave enough to do what the people did in 9. I just know it’s not my cup of tea (there’s two outstanding cliches in a row! What does that say, I wonder?) So, here again, is my very shallow, insensitive, evasive, but personal response to “9.”

– Did you enjoy the theatre tonight, Philip?
– It was nice, Harvinder.
– Nice?
– Yes, really nice . . . they were real people on stage you know.
– Nice people?
– Very nice people.
– That’s nice. And was it interesting?
– Really interesting . . . they had some nice stories. Real life stuff.
– Sounds nice.
– I was sat with some nice people too.
– And did they enjoy it?
– Oh yes! And after every story we whispered to each other.
– Did you?
– We did! . . . we clapped and said, “wasn’t that nice?”
– Uh huh.
– And I said, “yes, really nice, very interesting.”
– You agreed then?
– Oh yes, they thought everything was very interesting. And lovely.
– “Lovely.” That’s nice.
– Very nice. Very nice indeed. We had a lovely time.
– Yes, I’m glad. Wish I’d been there.
– Real people, Harvi! Some nice stories . . . “heartwarming.”
– Heartwarming, Philip? . . . That’s not like you.
– That’s what I heard a lady in the audience say.
– Oh, I see.
– Said it warmed her heart. Cockles and all that. Warmed her cockles.
– Uplifting?
– Hmm . . . yes, though I didn’t hear anyone use that particular word.
– Uplifted though . . . you felt uplifted?
– It’s a nice word, Harvi. Uplifted is a lovely word . . . Apt . . . Nice.
– Made you think then? Think about stuff. Life . . . life and that.
– It was nice!
– So, you came away with some of your lazy prejudices shaken?
– It was interesting . . . and one of them had a go at the Tories!
– Nice.
– Yes . . . he was a social worker . . . with a trombone . . . interesting.
– And he had a pop at the government?
– Oh yes . . . and people who were mean to disabled kids.
– Mean to children! That’s just horrid!
– I know . . . everyone in the theatre agreed.
– Don’t blame them . . . that’s just wicked.
– We all thought so too . . . which was nice . . . and interesting.
– Must have been nice to be amongst so many nice people.
– Very nice . . . very nice to feel such unity.
– You can’t have too much unity . . . it’s a very nice feeling.
– Yes, I felt very nice when I left the Playhouse.
– Did you?
– And I had a nice walk home.
– Lovely to hear.
– It was a very nice evening.
– Interesting . . .
– Got me out of Beeston.
– Nice.