Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

Years of amateur dramatics would not allow him to miss the pregnant pause. ‘The light was just by the broken win(low. It shone on the jagged glass. I thought immediately of burglars and went back to the office to phone the police. Incidentally — ’ he added in self-justification, in case Denis’s last remark might be construed by anyone as a criticism, ‘the boys in blue told me I was absolutely right not to try to tackle the criminal. Said they get as much trouble from members of the public who fancy themselves as heroes as they do from the actual crooks.

‘Anyway, my intervention does not seem to have been completely useless. They reckon the burglar must have seen me and that’s what frightened him off. He appears to have scampered away in some disarray.’

‘Yes,’ Mary Hobbs chipped in, temperamentally unsuited to listening to anyone for that length of time. ‘He left his torch behind in the window sill. The police are hoping to be able to trace him through that.’

Robert Chubb, piqued at losing his punch-line, changed the subject. Like a child who dictates the rules of the game because it’s his ball, he brought them back to his dramatic society. ‘Oh, Charles, about the World Premieres Festival, did you bring along that play of yours? The committee would really like to have a look at it. Need a good new play, you know.’

Embarrassed at the fact that he actually had got it with him, Charles handed over the script with some apology about it being very light.

‘Oh, the lighter the better. I’m sure it has the professional touch. And, talking of that, I do hope that in your criticism this evening you will apply professional standards to The Seagull. We always do and hope others will. So please don’t pull your punches.’

‘All right. I won’t.’

As soon as Charles started speaking to the rows of earnest Backstagers in the rehearsal room, it was clear that they did not like being judged by professional standards.

He began with a few general observations on Chekhov and the difficulties that his plays presented. He referred to the years of work which had gone into the Moscow Arts Theatre’s productions. He then went into detail on Chekhovian humour and stressed the inadvisability of playing Russian servants as mugging Mummerset yokels.

He moved on from this to the rest of the cast. He gave a general commendation and then made detailed criticism. He praised Charlotte’s controlled innocence as Nina and the technical skill of Geoffrey’s Trigorian. He faulted Clive Steele’s Konstantin for lack of discipline and regretted that the part of Madame Arkadina was beyond the range of all but a handful of the world’s actresses. But, rather against his better judgement and to sugar the pill, he congratulated Mary Hobbs on a brave attempt.

He thought he had been fair. Out of deference to their amateur status and because he had no desire to cause unpleasantness, he had toned down the criticism he would have given a professional cast. He thought his remarks might have been overindulgent, but otherwise unexceptionable.

The shocked silence which followed his conclusion indicated that the Backstagers did not share his opinion. Reggie, who seemed to get lumbered with (or perhaps sought after) all official functions, was chairing the meeting. He rose to his feet. ‘Well, some fairly controversial views there from Mr. Parrish. I don’t think everyone’s going to agree with all that.’ A murmur of agreement came back from the audience. ‘Still, thank you. Any questions?’

There was an ‘after you’ silence and then Shad Scott-Smith rose to his feet. He spoke with a heavy irony which obviously appealed to the mood of the gathering. ‘Well, first of all, I’d like to thank Mr. Parrish for his comments and what I’d like to offer is not so much a question as a humble defence.

‘As perpetrator of the terrible crime of The Seagull.

This sally drew an appreciative titter. ‘I feel I should apologize, both to the cast, whom I misled so disastrously, and to the good folk of Breckton, who so unwisely bought all the tickets for all four performances and who made the terrible mistake of enjoying the production very much.’

This got an outright laugh of self-congratulation. ‘And I would also like to apologize to the local newspaper critics who, out of sheet malice and stupidity, gave such good reviews to my production of The Cherry Orchard last year, since they didn’t know they were dealing with someone who had no appreciation of Chekhov. And while I’m at it, I’d better tick off the adjudicators of the Inter-Regional Drama Festival who were foolish enough to award my production of The Bear a Special Commendation.’

He sat down to a riot of applause. Charles saw he was going to have an uphill fight. ‘All right, I’m sorry. I had no intention of offending anyone. I am here as a professional actor and director and I’m giving you my opinions as I would to the members of a professional company. Everyone keeps saying that these Critics’ Circles are not just meant to be a mutual admiration society.’

‘No, they’re certainly not,’ said Robert Chubb with unctuous charm. ‘I set them up as a forum for informed discussion, for the give-and-take of intelligent ideas. I’m sure we can all take criticism and that’s what we are all here for.’

Charles thought maybe at last he had got a supporter. But Robert Chubb soon dispelled the idea as he went on. ‘The only comment I would have is that it does seem to me rather a pity that the only member of the cast for whom you managed unstinting praise was one of our newest members and that you were somewhat dismissive of some of our most experienced actors and actresses. Particularly of a lady to whom we all owe many splendid performances, not least her Lady Macbeth last year.’

This spirited defence of Mary Hobbs produced another warm burst of applause. Charles was tempted to ask what relevance a performance in a production of Macbeth he couldn’t possibly have seen should have to a production of The Seagull he had seen, but there didn’t seem any point.

He had misjudged the nature of the meeting entirely. All that had been required of him had been a pat on the back for all concerned, not forgetting the charming young man who tore his ticket and the good ladies who made the coffee for the interval. All he could do now was to insure that that meeting ended as soon as possible and get the hell out of the place. And never come back.

Mentally he cursed Hugo for ever letting him in for it, or at least for not briefing him as to what to expect.

He then realized with a slight shock that Hugo wasn’t there. Nor was Charlotte. Nor Clive Steele. It seemed strange.

As he thought about it, he started again to feel guilty about the way he had left Hugo the night before. He hated to let things like that fester. Stupid misunderstandings should be cleared up as soon as possible. He was too old to lose friends over trivialities. Once he’d stopped the Backstagers baying for his blood, he’d go round and see Hugo and apologize.

But there was still more Critics’ Circling to be weathered. It was hard work. There was no common ground for discussion. The Backstagers were only capable of talking about the Backstagers. When Charles made a comparison with a West End production of The Three Sisters, someone would say, ‘Well, of course, when Walter directed it down here When he praised the comic timing of Michael Hordern, someone would say, ‘Oh, but Philip’s a wonderful actor too. If you’d seen him in The Rivals…’ It was like talking to a roomful of politicians. Every question was greeted, not by an answer, but by an aggrieved assertion of something totally different.

It did end. Eventually. Reggie gave an insipid vote of thanks with some vague remarks about ‘having been given lots of food for thought… interesting, and even surprising, to hear the views of someone from the outside.’