Second-time lucky ... Rory Kinnear as Sir Fopling Flutter and Nancy Carroll as Mrs Loveit. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
Perhaps it was the mortifying experience of seeing my flatmate in Hair that put me off, but I haven't been a regular theatregoer since moving to London nearly 12 years ago. These past three months, though, thanks in part to a new awareness of the National Theatre's £10-a-ticket deals, I've seen as many plays as I had in the previous decade. Frost/Nixon, Happy Days, Therese Raquin, Equus ... I enjoyed them all hugely, but this good run came to an end last Friday, when I went to see Nicholas Hytner's production of The Man of Mode, a restoration comedy by George Etherege.
I couldn't get into it at all. The plot was ludicrous, the set looked like a Travelodge and, nearly three hours in, my attention had wandered so much that I was surprised - though relieved - when it ended. Grumpily voicing these thoughts to my pal on the bus home led, as these things sometimes do, to a big row. He'd absolutely loved it - and claimed I was at fault rather than the play. Eventually I had to concede that turning up at the theatre after two post-work pints, fidgeting through the first half-hour, then making a break for the gents at a crucial plot point might have diminished my appreciation.
Despite having considered Friday evening wasted, I somehow agreed to see the play again last night. And surprise, surprise - it was great. The plot had the satisfying, symmetrical complexity of a Swiss watch, the dialogue's snapping elegance was a delight, and Rory Kinnear as Sir Fopling Flutter, reimagined as a new rave-loving Shoreditch ponce (glowsticks were brandished at one point), gave a grade-A comic performance. Even the set looked a bit better from a different angle.
Apart from reminding me never to attempt to enjoy a complicated plot while tired and slightly drunk, it was a salutary lesson in the appreciation of art. The nature of the medium allows records, TV series and maybe DVDs to grow on us, but it's rare - and sometimes impossible - to go back to a play or a concert we haven't enjoyed and give it a second go. Does this mean we're missing out? Should we give artworks multiple viewings, even if we don't like them in the first place? Have you ever only appreciated something the second time around? Perhaps seeing things again should be the new walking out?
