Politeness, we can all agree, is a virtue. And in any pastiche of British manners, it’s trotted out as a classic stereotype. More tea, vicar? After you, Claude. Please form an orderly queue. It’s one of the things that makes us feel British, and anyone who has been in a queue at a bakery in France, or an all-you-can-eat buffet in America, can feel justly proud that we know how to behave with courtesy and decorum.
But sometimes, you just want to scream: What’s wrong with you people? I had exactly that experience this week in a London theatre (the repository, you may say, of pliant good manners). I had been taken by my daughter for a birthday treat to see Guys and Dolls, my favourite stage musical, at the Bridge Theatre, and, given that my birthday was back in December, I’d had plenty of time to look forward to it.
Directed by Nicholas Hytner, and with Arlene Phillips behind the choreography, it has been an extremely well-received production – this very newspaper called it “exuberant and joyous” and said that it “reinforces the thrill of live theatre like nothing else”. And so it was that we settled into our seats to luxuriate in Damon Runyan’s story of 1920s Manhattan underworld and Frank Loesser’s inimitable, unbeatable lyrics. Who else could seamlessly weave the word “streptococci” into a romantic ballad?
And then, well into the first act, just before we were about to be transported to the Hotbox nightclub, the players left the stage, and there was an announcement that the performance was halted because of an “issue”. At various points in the next half hour or so of inaction, we were thanked for our patience “as we try to resolve this issue”. Not once were we informed what the “issue” was. Guesses ranged from someone falling ill to a terrorist incident.
Eventually, the show resumed and the cast galloped through the rest of the first act. As the players departed the stage for the interval, on came the announcer again: “Due to circumstances beyond our control, tonight’s performance has been cancelled. Please make your way out of the theatre.” Again, no explanation. Do they not know we live in a world where information is exchanged? Even if a Tube train stops for a minute, we are told precisely why.
I later found out that it was a failure of the hydraulic system which raises the level of the stage, and this would have made the dancing routines of the second half dangerous. Shit happens, of course, and we’ve been promised a refund. No biggie. But here’s the remarkable thing. There were no complaints, no rumblings of dissatisfaction, no berating of the theatre staff, not one member of the audience seemed angry or even moderately disenchanted. Of course, no venting of fury would have changed anything, but everyone just shuffled off, resigned and largely silent, into the night.
I wondered whether it’s because we are so used to things not working any more. Or whether people have so many better things to worry about. I’d waited seven months and even I couldn’t work up a lather. Yes, there was an element of British politeness. Don’t make a fuss. But maybe have we have become so cowed, so browbeaten, that, compared with our polluted rivers, our roads full of potholes and our GP surgeries in meltdown, a small reverse like this doesn’t even register any more.
Then I thought about the general election. We are about to have regime change, and a dramatic shift in our political fortunes. There’s going to be a revolution in Westminster. Elsewhere in the world, this might presage demonstrations, street protests, violent discourse. Not in Britain. You’d sense nothing but a peaceful, sunny Thursday and people going about their business with studied insouciance.
Where’s the passion gone? Sometimes we are too polite for our own good.