This article is taken from the May 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.
Reboot the Bard
Whilst commentators foam at the mouth following reports the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust is “decolonising” his native Stratford-upon-Avon amidst “white supremacy” fears, surely a workable solution awaits?
The root of this ongoing problem for many, not least in the modern-day theatrical fraternity, lies in still having to contend with a troublesome 461-year-old Midlander, who happens to have believed in said white supremacy to boot.
What with AI advancements moving at breakneck speed, one wonders whether he still really needs to be from Stratford at all? Or a reluctantly balding white male from the 16th/17th century? Hasn’t the latest Doctor Who (officially “over 900”) proved age is no barrier to progress? Regardless of the end result?
We can be confident technological forces beyond our control shall soon enough ensure the emergence of an altogether more “relatable” Bard for those so inclined — fittingly diverse in origin and speaking with a Bolton accent.
Not content with bizarrely announcing to the press last year that he’d “caused the deaths” of Rod Hull and Harry Secombe, Brandreth returns to his macabre theme by suddenly claiming responsibility for the demise of an elderly audience member.
Gyles modestly wishes it to be known that the mystery fellow in question “died from laughter” during one of his long-ago stage shows — though the form book suggests he’s poached a similar tale told to him by John Cleese. More unsettling and intriguing (not to mention of potential interest to the authorities?) is this sinister man’s now compulsive urge to keep telling us he’s killing people.
Having called the shots on television and film sets these past few years, “intimacy coordinators” increasingly find their usefulness cast into doubt by leading stars of the day. A general rule of thumb now appears to be that mutually attractive human beings, not least when one is a menopausal actress of note, feel little need for such repeated interference — particularly when present industry convention permits said ladies to get to grips with strapping young bucks half their age. By contrast, we jobbing male character actors, less aesthetically pleasing courtesy of time’s ravages, continue to be monitored by these humourless censors throughout!
Ruthlessly displaying celebrity buying power during a recent online auction when snapping up Larry Olivier’s Richard III nose at the expense of less starry bidders (!), crusading Port Talbot A-lister Mr Sheen resorts to wearing said historic prosthetic for a downmarket television show.
Saint Michael’s thankfully since been on hand to explain this is his own special way of paying tribute to the great man, rather than the tasteless exhibitionism imagined.
Memoir of a show Tony
Whilst Sir Tony Hopkins promises a “raw and passionate” memoir, one fears this must be taken in the Californian sense of the words. Known to be writing his life story under the watchful eye of the third Lady Hopkins (South American) after decades of rigid LA sobriety, our one-time hellraiser will naturally feel compelled to cast a generally dark shadow over more carefree years on this side of the pond.
Let us hope the colourful array of thirsty West End theatricals (deceased) with whom Tony would regularly trade soliloquies over at The Salisbury many moons ago, aren’t entirely consigned to roles of regrettable ghouls of yesteryear …
Cut the dread tape
Speaking as amongst troupers facing the indignity of “self-tape” auditions — increasingly the norm since the ruddy plague struck back in 2020 — news Equity have finally woken up to the horror of it all hardly improves one’s morale!
Often finding myself contending with reams of dialogue to memorise at ruthlessly short notice courtesy of dead-eyed TV casting directors, not to mention being at the mercy of the nephew/lodger’s so-called “camera skills”, the stress that comes with this gruelling farce is blatantly designed to reduce the lifespan of any enraged thespian unlucky enough to be over 60.
Though once officially honoured by our late Queen for being a better class of Australian, Ms Blanchett now plays to the gallery overseas, rejecting His Majesty as “my King” and quaintly describing herself as “colonised”. Surely a timely reminder regarding the folly of gongs for instinctively treacherous Antipodean stars.
Preposterously attempting to rewrite history during the current one-man stage show, I gather old foe Havers is telling wide-eyed grandmothers up and down the land that loyalty to British television commitments cost him a long and lucrative “Hollywood career”.
Contemporaries alternatively/unhelpfully recall that following Nigel’s fortuitous supporting role in the 1981 running film (like the Scottish Play, the title’s now deemed a jinx in the trade), this one-trick pony’s obvious limitations were in fact soon enough sniffed out by hard-nosed Tinseltown types.
Though feel free to believe Nigel’s version of events should you prefer!
The life aquatic
Regular readers will recall my recent parting of ways with the misfiring agent after years of hostility on her part — for all intents and purposes a sacking, though she’s claiming to have pulled the trigger first.
The new representative, amongst the very few remaining in the trade of similar vintage to myself, proves an altogether more upbeat and resourceful fellow, full of ideas regarding the “way forward” and adamant one’s recent on-stage tumble/cardiac arrest outside Northampton shouldn’t necessarily be deemed an impediment to fulfilling professional years ahead.
Prior to our recent meeting, I confess to having underestimated the sheer level of demand for such seasoned and versatile performers as myself on any number of ocean liners, now packed with affluent/sozzled baby boomers, happily entertained by folk they vaguely recognise from once being on television.
With England’s theatrical landscape still in the clutches of modern-day Puritans, I can confirm that this persecuted Cavalier is heading for the high seas!
Due to be “controversially axed” by the BBC, Glaswegian soap River City provided welcome cameos for many a strolling player, keen to (modestly) cash in on north of the border origins. On his return to London, I recall one old Ayrshire rogue of my acquaintance proudly noting the consternation of certain co-stars, after his portrayal of a provocatively homophobic pensioner received the resounding backing of Scottish viewers.
Poor Biggins is reduced to squealing it’s “disgusting” he hasn’t received the knighthood, despite wheeling out Joan Collins to lobby on his behalf and apparently raising “millions” for good causes. One wonders what the honours system has come to when such self-serving charity work is no longer readily recognised …
