Tabard was pondering the muddy, murky waters of corporate arts sponsorship this weekend while leafing through a copy of the Independent on Sunday (well, somebody has to).
If some far-off colony of aliens were to have been listening in to recent offerings from radio drama, it might have been of comfort to them. The overriding impression they would have gathered about human life is that when we’re not engaged in full-scale warfare or blasting each other out of the skies, we’re involved in one-on-one duplicity. No time, then, for inter-galactic battles, our Radio 4-friendly aliens might surmise, when we’re so busy trying to get one over on each other.
Happy 90th Birthday Nelson Mandela was an intimate gathering in Hyde Park for fifty thousand of the celebrated nonagenarian’s closest friends.
Colin David Reese, actor and artistic director of La Compagnie du Cedre (France) replies to Mark Rylance and Prof Stanley Wells
Author Brenda James attends the recent Henry Neville Symposium and outlines the arguments for Neville’s candidacy for the authorship of Shakespeare’s works
But if limb loss isn’t really up your street, don’t fret, Tabard has discovered something equally repulsive.
Playwright Anthony Neilson - no stranger to this column, some of you will recall - seems to be upsetting people at the Royal Court.
After a significant absence, I returned to EastEnders this week to find everything in Albert Square as normal. That is to say, normal for Albert Square. A madwoman called Dr May was running amok with a crowbar, taking hostages, trying to kidnap a baby and blowing herself up in a gas explosion.
For decades radio has helped nurture the cream of British comedy with the result that the majority of successful performers and writers eventually move on to embrace the cash and kudos television can offer.
Ben Barnes has performed in The History Boys in the West End, the recent fantasy film Stardust and won the role of Prince Caspian in the big screen versions of the Narnia novels. He tells Emma Barnett how it feels to play the lead from a much-loved childhood book and acting tips he has learned.
It’s just strange enough to be true.
Meanwhile, theatre director Jonathan Miller has - in a not unChrist-like fashion - been rounded on by pretty much everybody this week following his comments about how you need a star name to get a play into the West End these days.
There are numerous literary portraits of exploitation below stairs and in factories and mills, but few of us would equate minimum wage slaves with the building industry. That is, of course, mostly down to the jaundice of the middle classes, battling to keep home improvements within budget. I’d never read Robert Tressell’s 1914 novel, The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, about heartless bosses and builders and decorators teetering between penury and the workhouse, but it seems that every well-known socialist of a certain age cites it as a seminal text in their political thinking.
Forty-four minutes of Margaret Thatcher: The Long Walk to Finchley had passed before the name of Mrs Thatcher was first uttered, and the effect was somewhat shocking. Up to that point we had been watching and admiring an ambitious, energetic and - let’s face it - sexy young politician called Margaret Roberts in her heroic struggle against the stuffed shirts and school ties that ran the post-war Conservative Party. But upon marrying businessman boyfriend Denis, and taking his name, the dreaded T-word surfaced and with it a whole barrage of hindsight-assisted connotations. I suspect audience sympathy took quite a dip at this point.
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