Arriving five minutes late for a film or a gig is no big deal. But theatregoers with poor timekeeping will face the music
I don't mind so much when it's unavoidable, when I'm rushing from work, or the Victoria line descends into one of its weekend-long funks, or I've heroically fought through snow and Eurostar queues to catch the latest at Bouffes du Nord ? if there's a good reason, then I can rationalise it.
What I struggle with, when I get into real self-kicking mode, is when I've done nothing all day and then still manage to be late to the theatre. The blithe assumption that half an hour is long enough to make it to the National (it's not) or that there'll probably be a taxi right outside my house (there isn't) or that nothing could go wrong with Boris's bikes (lots can) or ? my favourite straw to clasp at ? that performances always begin a few minutes late (they don't).
The problem with theatre, of course, is the inflexibility of its start time. Turn up five minutes late to a restaurant reservation and your table will be waiting, five minutes late to a film and you're still only up to the Volvo adverts, five minutes late to a gig and the band haven't even come on yet ? but turn up even two minutes late to the theatre and you're greeted by the disappointed face of the usher which seems to say "Where have you been? Look, the doors are shut ? and behind those doors are literally HUNDREDS of people simply more competent at everyday life tasks than you."
Theatres are variable in their level of sympathy for latecomers. At one end is the Globe, where you can turn up whenever you feel like it, scramble to your seats (or, better still, stand) and usually don't miss much except some weird Jacobean dance or lute player or something. At the other end of the spectrum is the Royal Opera House, who aren't messing when they say "no latecomers" ? miss the start here and it's time to buy a bottle of champagne, because you won't be admitted until an interval. Fringe theatres are mostly sympathetic but have layouts which preclude late entrances at all unless you're willing to become part of the performance.
The Barbican is the absolute worst because, quite apart from the weird Disney ride self-closing door things being utterly inhospitable to latecomers, you can spend a full hour trying to find the theatre after arriving. The National falls somewhere in the middle ? they mostly restrict entry until a suitable break in the performance, which usually comes about five minutes in to the play (ie when it snows and they slowly rotate the full size replica of the entire house they've built on stage). But by the time that "suitable break" arrives there's a palpable sense of dread amongst the huddled mis�rables assembled around the grainy TV picture outside. Don't make us go in there. Don't make us face the tutting disapproval of our peers. Rory Kinnear can't be that good. We'll just leave.
You've been one of those people sitting smugly in their seats on time, already halfway through their plastic cup of rubbish wine, and you've been one of the thousand of pairs of eyes that greet latecomers as they scramble to their seats. How inconsiderate. Interrupting everybody else's concentration as they hop, scramble, crawl and apologise their ways to their seats, invariably in the middle of the row. Think of the poor actors ? how distracting. Haven't these people ever been to the theatre before? Standards today. I might write a letter. Tut tut.
Arriving late is excruciating, no doubt. But there are worse things ? at least if you're late there's some plausible logistical excuse for you disrupting everybody's evening. What is much more difficult is when you have to leave before the end of a performance. As regular theatregoers we must accept that we are all but pawns in the century-old battle between the performing arts and the human bladder. I've never had the bravery to actually leave a theatre under such circumstance, but not because I haven't wanted to, not that I haven't needed to. If I'm honest I recall very little about the last scene of Kenneth Branagh's Ivanov, except that I passionately, desperately wanted him to shoot himself as soon as possible. Clap clap, yes yes very good, now get off the stage and let me out.
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