Behind you!... Hugh Ross and Dominic
Rickhards in The Woman in Black.
Photograph: Tristram Kenton
I have never felt so old in the theatre as I did when I went to see The Woman in Black. To be brutal, theatre audiences are usually a sea of grey. But the crowd at The Woman in Black, the adaptation of the Susan Hill novel that's been on at the Fortune Theatre in the West End since forever, was an ocean of teenagers. They must have accounted for about 80% of the nearly full house.
It's on the national curriculum, explained the theatre manager, who also said I should have been "warned" about the teenagers when I booked. I wasn't, not that I was bothered. They may have chucked the odd peanut at each other, but frankly I found it reassuring to be in the theatre with a bunch of kids who were at least as nervy as I was about this spine-tingling ghost story, and screamed just as loud.
It was also fascinating watching their reactions: they were so unjaded. The merest hint of dry ice elicited "oohs" of terror; they clapped every scene; at the end many of them gave a standing ovation. If they took a little time to settle, I imagine that for the actors that would have been outweighed by having such an involved and responsive audience. My companion said that the atmosphere had been similar at a matinee of Coram Boy he'd seen at the National Theatre, with the kids totally gripped (especially during the offstage sex scene, no surprises there).
It also reminded me that this is what theatre's all about. A communal experience, shared emotions. The polite, theatregoing classes, don't tend to show them much. Maybe we should remember what it's like being a teenager, watching a chiller.
(By the way, if you are thinking of seeing The Woman In Black, it's worth checking out the half-price ticket booth in Leicester Square on the day if you can. The theatre manager pointed out that they nearly always have two-for-one deals in the week.)
