Kit Harington, star of the ubiquitous Game Of Thrones, and who has just finished a run of Doctor Faustus at the Duke of York’s theatre, has been making a bit of a splash in theatrical circles this week, after coming to the defence of the legions of his fans flocking to see their hero in the flesh; many of whom (or so it’s claimed by other disgruntled punters), are unschooled in the traditional protocol demanded of regular theatregoers, and whose consequently loutish behaviour has ruined the experience for those seated next to them.
One in particular, theatre producer Richard Jordan, claimed that audience members around him spent much of the evening variously texting, taking snaps on their mobile phones, guzzling popcorn, and even – gawd help us – returning after the interval with Chicken McNuggets.
In response Harington points out, with astringent clarity, that only by encouraging a new generation can theatre survive, and that any lack of awareness on their part of the social norms at such occasions is a price worth paying. He has a point, as those of us who’ve found ourselves performing in recent years to increasing seas of white hair and M&S leisurewear are only too aware that our profession has to reach out if it’s not to become defunct.
Harington is to be commended. There aren’t many young stars of his magnitude who’d consider taking one of drama’s most demanding roles, or think performing eight nights a week to be a better way of spending their time than hanging out in nightclubs and getting into scrapes in hotel rooms. So what to do? Is he correct, or are the traditional rules of theatre decorum sacrosanct, even if they don’t conform to modern social mores?
The point, surely, is that watching a play along with other interested individuals requires a commitment from each and every participant, and the experience simply can’t function if everyone treats the auditorium as an extension of their sitting room. OK, we can relax the rules – indeed, we already do – for you can bring a drink in nowadays, as long as it’s in a plastic cup, and nobody much cares if you’re in evening dress or jeans and a T-shirt. But the line must be drawn somewhere, otherwise the conceit cannot work.
Once it becomes acceptable to eat popcorn or check your Twitter feed whenever you reach a boring bit, you’re not only removing yourself from the experience, but by extension the occupants of several seats around you, each of whom now have to contend with a cacophony of chomping, noxious aromas, or the skittering fingers and acid white light as you connect with events beyond the building.
In any case, if popcorn and texting is allowed, then why stop there? Why not permit vaping? Or personal stereos? Would such behaviour be allowed at the world snooker finals? Or during a marriage ceremony? Or a funeral? One actor I discussed this with suggested the circumstances aren’t the same – weddings and funerals, he pointed out, are unique occasions, whereas a play is a play is a play, just one notch on a conveyor belt of nightly performances which will be repeated over many weeks. But while it may not be a once-in-a-lifetime experience for you and your spicy chicken wings, it may well be for the person jammed in next to you.
And then there are the actors. Pity us, for while the best of us make remembering lines look so easy and unforced that it would seem anyone could do it, the reality is very different. It may not look it, but we’re hanging on by a thread up there, hoping each time we step out that the lines will come, on cue and roughly in the right order. Yet it only takes a passing police siren or an adjacent nightclub tipping empties into a recycling bin to bring our precious pasteboard conceit crashing down around our ears.
So credit to Harington for opening up the debate. And theatres, why not set the standard by not selling sweets in the foyer? That would send out the right signals. But tread carefully you young guns, for one day, you will be older and less resilient than you are now.
My favourite story of an audience interruption is told by an actor friend of mine, who was mid-performance one evening when he heard a mobile going off in the stalls. After an agony of fumbling it was eventually answered. “I can’t speak now, I’m watching a play,” said a woman’s voice in a barely hushed whisper. Then, after an exquisite pause, she continued: “No, not very …”
• Michael Simkins is currently appearing in Fracked, or Please Don’t Use The F-Word at Chichester Festival theatre
