Sunday afternoon, and some friends and I went to see August Osage County at the National Theatre in London. Oh, it's a fine play, and just a wonderful, luxuriant, three-and-a-half-hour soap opera of a dunking in post-Eugene O'Neill American theatre. I recommend it. Avant-garde it's not: it's a literate family drama, played out on a deeply detailed set, in which all of the characters are fantastically articulate and good at saying what they mean (with the exception of the largely silent Native American home-help, a kind of moral heart round which the other characters whirl and flail). But it's just so good at what it's doing – meticulous, big-hearted, funny performances; a lovingly constructed piece of drama in which the carpet is pulled out from under your feet at just the right moments; a piece of deadly political theatre that doesn't overdo its allegorical content.
And it was just fantastic seeing it on a bleak Sunday afternoon, without having to sit there exhausted after a day's work till 11pm. Brunch first, a nice cuppa in the interval, then home by 7pm with the whole evening ahead – and thus plenty of time to watch important episodes of The Wire. It's taken the National Theatre some time to get its Sunday performances underway (agreements with unions needed to be worked out, and that was a lengthy process). The current set of performances is a trial run only – the last Sunday show is on January 18. The National hopes and intends to bring Sunday performances back in the late summer of next year. I hope very much that they do.
