Review: THE REAL THING, The Old Vic
4 / 10
Symposiums (or symposia, as the Pedants’ Pedant, Henry, would no doubt instantly inform me from beneath his half-hearted mullet) are the places to explore ideas about writing. Stages should be reserved for characters we believe in, in whom we can invest hopes and fears, maybe even grow to like - after all, we’re lumped together for two and a half hours, so let’s get along hey? Such thoughts filled my head, as the play I witnessed seemed barely worthy of praise, never mind the avalanche of plaudits that have come its way since its premiere 42 years ago and consequent to its many revivals since. Had I missed something? In pooh-poohing the assessments of so many fine judges, was I just being a bear of very little brain? Or had this soapy tale (albeit with longer words, but almost as much shouting) merely outlived its utility? Probably a bit of all three.
