I understand the desire to gawp – I bought those tickets, didn’t I? – but every time I watch a famous person on stage, they’re competing in my head with all the other characters they’ve played. Not that this is anything new: back in 2007, I watched Daniel Radcliffe in Equus while sitting in front of a woman who squeaked every time he came on topless. This year, the audience at the Almeida theatre watching A Streetcar Named Desire felt as if it was about to spontaneously combust the second Paul Mescal appeared in a tank top. Worse still is the dawning understanding that half the audience is there to distractedly gawp at the celeb. But, speaking as someone well acquainted with the cheap seats, there’s nothing more frustrating than getting to a show only to realise they blew the budget on the lead and scrimped on everything else, rendering it completely unwatchable from the nosebleed section. From a producer’s perspective, casting big-name talent makes sense – Branagh’s production is already a hot ticket in London.
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