Top of the morning to you London Walkers.
London Calling.
London Walks connecting.
This is London.
This is London Walks.
Streets Ahead.
Story time. Theatre time.
Famous actor. Famous actress. Famous playwright. Legendary West End Theatre. In the way of these things sooner or later your turn comes. You go and see the show.
So, yes, Friday night I went to the Theatre Royal Haymarket to see David Hare’s Grace Pervades.
I’m very glad I did.
Strong cast. Strong writing. Strong production.
And two performances that stay with you. Ralph Fiennes as Henry Irving. Miranda Raison as Ellen Terry.
That’s class.
I enjoyed it very much.
Walking out into the Haymarket afterwards, the pavements still warm from the day’s heat, London dry as old parchment, the night air thick and close, I found myself thinking two things.
First: bless the air conditioning at the Theatre Royal Haymarket.
That auditorium was a sanctuary.
And second: I’d have loved a field guide.
A cheat sheet.
A “read this before you go in.”
Because this isn’t just a play.
It’s a world.
Victorian theatre.
Gaslight.
Stage doors.
Flowers at the stage entrance.
Screaming fans.
Matinee idols.
Scandal.
Illegitimate children.
Genius.
Vanity.
And London.
Lots and lots of London.
So.
In the spirit of the London Walks white glove service, here it is.
Your field guide to Grace Pervades.
Everything you need to know before the curtain goes up.
First stop: the king.
Henry Irving.
Or rather, John Henry Brodribb.
Because that was his real name.
He reinvented himself.
Changed the name.
Changed the game.
Start there.
And here’s the big one.
He was the first actor ever knighted.
When Queen Victoria dubbed him Sir Henry Irving in 1895 it sent a shockwave through Britain.
Actors had long been thought disreputable.
Half a rung above pickpockets.
Now one of them was “Sir.”
The theatre had arrived.
Now file this away.
His kingdom was the Lyceum Theatre.
And here’s your London nugget.
It’s a ten-minute walk from the Haymarket.
You can stand there before the show and think: this is where Irving ruled.
The Lyceum was his Vatican.
And this is worth knowing.
He was strange.
Everyone said so.
He had an odd, gliding walk.
People called it “the Irving walk.”
A critic said he moved like a man whose joints had been put together by an amateur.
And then there was the voice.
Mesmerising.
And weird.
Like music played through fog.
He made Hamlet fashionable again.
And The Bells.
And Faust.
And The Merchant of Venice.
Now here’s where it gets delicious.
His manager was Bram Stoker.
Yes, that Bram Stoker.
Worked for Irving for 27 years.
Practically worshipped him.
Some scholars think Irving’s hypnotic charisma helped shape Dracula.
You can see it.
Another thing.
He worked like a demon.
Micromanaged everything.
Sets.
Lighting.
Blocking.
Business.
He helped invent the modern actor-manager.
And his ending?
Perfect.
He died after a performance.
Bradford, 1905.
Collapsed in the lobby.
Curtain down.
Exit.
And finally.
He’s buried in Westminster Abbey.
First actor ever to get that honour.
From rogue to national treasure.
That’s a life.
Now.
Ellen Terry.
And what a life.
Born into theatre.
It was the family trade.
Like butchers. Or blacksmiths.
Only greasepaint instead of blood.
Start here.
At sixteen she married George Frederic Watts.
He was forty-six.
Thirty years older.
Victorians could be gloriously peculiar.
It lasted less than a year.
Then it gets interesting.
She took up with architect-designer Edward William Godwin.
Not married.
Scandal bells ringing.
They had two children.
Out of wedlock.
Double scandal.
And those children?
Edward Gordon Craig and Edith Craig.
Both of them changed theatre history.
But hold that thought.
Because here’s the heart of it.
She became Irving’s leading lady.
His stage partner.
For twenty-four years.
The great theatrical double act.
Victorian Britain’s Beyoncé and Jay-Z.
Only Shakespearean.
And here’s the delicious mystery.
Were they lovers?
Nobody knows.
Everybody wondered.
That was half the fun.
Her Lady Macbeth was legendary.
All flame and danger.
The Victorians couldn’t get enough of her.
She may well have been the most photographed woman in Britain.
And this matters.
She was adored.
Not respected.
Adored.
There’s a difference.
And she knew exactly how to use it.
Now the children.
First, Gordon Craig.
A genius.
Or a maniac.
Possibly both.
Start with this.
He hated realistic scenery.
Thought it was dead.
He wanted symbolic sets.
Shapes.
Shadows.
Suggestion.
Modern stage design basically starts with him.
And then he said something bonkers.
Actors were too unpredictable.
His solution?
Replace them.
With super-puppets.
Yes really.
The “Über-marionette.”
Imagine pitching that over drinks in Soho.
He worked with Konstantin Stanislavski.
That’s heavyweight company.
And everybody says the same thing about him.
Impossible.
Brilliant.
Exhausting.
He quarrelled with everyone.
Often in several languages.
And every minimalist stage set you’ve ever seen owes him something.
And now.
The dark horse.
Edith Craig.
And if there’s one person in the play you might not know, it’s her.
Correct that.
Immediately.
She was one of Britain’s first important women directors.
That alone gets your attention.
But there’s more.
A suffragist.
Properly militant.
A producer.
A designer.
An activist.
She founded the Pioneer Players.
Avant-garde theatre before avant-garde was fashionable.
She championed women playwrights.
She was openly lesbian.
That took guts in Edwardian England.
And here’s my hunch.
She was probably the practical genius of the family.
History has underrated her.
David Hare is helping fix that.
And here’s your final London flourish.
When you come out of the Haymarket, don’t just head for the Tube.
Take the long way.
Walk up the Haymarket.
And then bear right, along into Covent Garden.
And on to the Lyceum Theatre.
And the Savoy Theatre.
And the Theatre Royal Drury Lane.
You’ll be walking the old theatrical bloodstream of London.
Irving walked there.
Terry walked there.
Bram Stoker walked there.
Craig walked there.
Edith Craig too.
That’s the thing about London.
The play isn’t over when you leave the theatre.
Not here.
Not ever.
See you tomorrow.