Death of a Marathoner — The London Theatre Marathon

"You do stil appreciate a three and a half hour film that starts at eight o'clock though," says a man with a soothing voice to his companion.

"Yeah," says the companion, doubtfully.

But he follows on willingly enough.

Three and a half hours. That's a hell of a long film. No matter what the start time. And it's an even longer play. What with the interval and all.

I've decided that I don't like intervals. Not just because of the extra time they add. But because their very existence means that playwrights think they can use them. When I finish this marathon and am crowned Queen of Theatre, the first law that I pass will be to ban intervals. Theatres will have to apply for special dispensation in order to break their shows in the middle. That'll see those run times tumbling down. No more waffling on with all those endless words. Playwrights will have to get to the point and wrap things up in ninety minutes if they don't want walkouts from people who can't cross their legs for longer than that. It will be the golden age of theatre. That is until the bar sale figues come through and ticket prices have to be hiked up in order to compensate, but by then I'll already have been exiled to some island where I will be forced to manage a little community puppet theatre where half the cast have been chewed up by the local cows. So, you know, I'm not really going for legacy here with my tyrannical rule.

Anyway, I'm back in the West End tonight, hitting up this theatre a little later than planned because of the small matter of their roof caving in.

Yup, I'm at the Piccadilly for a touch of Death of a Salesman.

Well, three and a bit hours of Death and a Salesman.

Still, it's nice to be back. I don't think I've been to the Picadilly since Viva Forever!. Yup. The Spice Girls musical. At the time it felt prescient that they'd tucked away that show in the most hidden West End theatre, far away from the gawping zombies wandering around Picadilly Circus. But it looks like the producers of Salesman have tried to counteract this out-of-the-way location by using the bright, pinkest pink that Pantone to come up with for the show's signage.

Pink seems to be rather the colour of theatre at the moment. The Place has Barbified themselves in their rebrand. Over on the other end of Shaftesbury Avenue, & Juliet has embraced the Schapirrelli. And now Death of a Salesman has got in on the action.

I can't say hot pink really screams Arthur Miller to me, but not gonna lie. It looks really good.

The pink positively glows out of the darkness. Making the rest of this cramped corner of London retreat into the background. I can barely even see the pubs and the cafes over this assault on my eyes happening in front of me.

And it's sure done its job. Even with the threat of having a whole theatre collapse on top of our heads, there's a queue of people waiting to get in.

But I'm soon through the door and into the foyer, where there is a massive box office right in the middle. One of those circular desks that makes me feel like I've just walked into the reception of Mode Magazine. And yes that was an Ugly Betty reference. I've already classed this up with the Spice Girls, might as well reach deep into the depths to pull out all my embarrassing viewing habits now.

"Next!"

The three box officers are powering through the queue.

It's my turn.

"Next please!"

I bounce over.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I say as quick as I can. We're working on a faster pace then the rest of theatre world in here. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

He nodes and goes to the pigeon holes in the back.

"Maxine?"

Yup. That's me.

"That's one ticket in the stalls," he says, pointing to the nearest door. "Next!"

"Any bags open, please!" says the guy on the door. He mimes opening a bag just in case I didn't get it. I open it, and clicking his torch into action, he gives the contents a quick sweep before waving me through.

Through the door. Down the stairs.

I find myself on a small landing.

More stairs lead down to the Stalls bar. It looks busy, even from up here. I don't think I'll be going in there.

Besides, I've spotted something far more interesting. There's a programme seller wandering around, holding out his wares in the classic fan formation so beloved by West End theatres.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask him.

He immediately spins round all big grin and even bigger energy.

"Of course you can, my love! That's four pounds."

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask, peering into my purse and thinking, not for the first time this week, that I really need to clear it out. "Oh! I have a five!" I say triumphantly, as I spot a green note crumpled up with an old receipt.

"Either is fine," says the programme seller.

I give him the five. Immediately regretting it. Fives are precious. Oh well. It's gone now.

"There's you pound change, and your programme. Enjoy!"

The auditorium is almost empty. Everyone is still camped out in the bar.

I walk to the front, near the stage and turn back, looking at the ceiling. Whatever happened up there the other week, I can't see it from here.

I reach into my bag and try to dig out my glasses, but there's so much stuff in there I can't find them. Oh well. Better find my seat now. The investigative journalism can wait until the interval.

Row G.

A. B. C. D...

There we are.

Two ladies are already on the end of the row.

"Can I squidge past?" I ask one of them.

She moves, and as I set down my bag next to them, she mumbles something.

"Sorry?"

"Orley's friend?"

I blink at her. I must have misheard. "Sorry, I can't hear you...?" I say, sliding down towards her.

"You Orley's friend?"

No? “No?"

"Oh."

She turns away. Our interaction now officially over.

I go back to my seat and start rummaging around for my glasses. They have to be in here somewhere. Umbrella? Check. Purse? Check. Makeup bag? Check. Collection of empty cough sweet wrappers? Check and check and check and check. But no glasses. Shit.

Okay, don't panic. It's not like my eyesight is that bad. I only wear them at the theatre. I'm sitting in the stalls. In row G. That's basically right in front of the stage.

It's fine.

My neighbour takes off her coat and starts arranging it on her seat. Setting up a cushion for herself, instead of shoving it underneath like a normal person.

"Sorry," she says, noticing me watching her fussing. "I'm trying to get comfortable."

I want to tell her that one of the key components of getting comfy is not trying to balance oneself ontop of a puffer coat, but I hold myself back. I don't want to get myself involved in another Orley loop.

Instead, I try to focus on my surroundings.

This requires a good deal of squinting.

But even without my glasses I can make out the hugely tall boxes on either side of the stage. And the pistachio green walls, which if you ask me, is a severely underused shade in theatre.

I'm starting to get a headache. I realign my vision to something closer. The chairs.

They're nice chairs.

They have scalloped backs. Very smart.

"Helloooooo," calls out my neighbour, flapping her hand in the direction of a newcomer. "Orley!"

Orley looks over. "Hellooooo," she calls back. "You're right at the end!"

"We were just talking about the collapse!"

"In Venice?"

"No. Here!" My neighbour gets out a small pair of binoculars and points them at the ceiling. "I can't see! I think it fell further that way."

A voice booms out telling us not to take photos, and reminding us to turn off our phones. "Turn them OFF!"

Bit intense, but okay. I mean, I'm not actually going to turn my phone off. But I'll put it on airplane mode, which is practically the same thing.

As the lights dim, an usher runs forward and orders a man in the front row to remove his coat from the stairs leading up to the stage. Honestly, some people think theatres are an extension of their living room. Which I don't get at all. My living room looks nothing like this. It's a lot smaller. Although I am tempted to paint it green now.

Actors appear all over the place. In the boxes. Walking down through the stalls and up the uncoated stairs.

And... now, I admit this may just be because I've lost my glasses and everyone on stage is suffering from a severe case of blurry face, but... it's kinda dull.

In fact it's really fucking boring.

So, okay, I'm not a great fan of Arthur Miller. The Crucible is literally one of the most tedious plays I've ever seen. But this is just... the movement is so... and they're all talking in the most...

Yeah, I'm not into it. I'm like super not into it.

I let my eyes unfocus and I drift into my own little world, as the words just go on and on. For hours.

"Be careful someone doesn't stand on your coat!" warns my neighbour as I stand up to let her pass in the interval.

I give it a kick to get it out the way.

She raises an eyebrow and steps over the sleeve, which is still hanging limply in her path.

Oh well. I refuse to be precious about my possessions.

"Can I just leave everything?" asks my other neighbour, Orley's friend. She indicates the small mountain of possessions that she's piled up on her seat.

"Of course!" I say with a wave of my hands that I hope indicates that I am very trustworthy and responsible, and her puffer coat won't be receiving any kicks from me.

Now with space either side of me, I use the opportunity to twist back in my seat and look up the circle. It's empty. No one is sitting up there.

I consider chancing it. Evading the ushers and climbing all the way up to see what's happening up there. But, I have a puffer coat to guard. And besides, I'm worn out. This play is like a lead weight strapped between my shoulders.

I try reading the programme, but find myself just looking at the pictures, unable to concentrate.

If good theatre leaves you energised, then this must be one of the worst plays I'm ever seen.

Bloody Miller.

"I'm not moving again," snaps the young woman sitting behind me as someone tries to escape the row to go to the loo. Looks like I'm not the only one having trouble with that heavy lead weight. "It's ridiculous."

But as people return from the bar and the toilets and their smoke breaks, she manages to get up long enough to let them back in.

The second act starts and I sink into a stupor.

I don't care about any of these characters. They all talk too much.

Orley's friend leans over to her companion. "There's going to be a big bang," she whispers. "He's going to kill himself."

And with that spoiler still hanging in the air, there's a big bang. And he kills himself.

At last. It's over.

Okay, one more scene, then it's over.

Alright, this must be the final scene.

Oh, there's singing now?

Gawd. When will they let me leave already?

Blackout. Finally. And I find myself rolling my eyes so hard I almost groan with the effort.

All around, people get to their feet to applaud. But I can't do it.