Miller time

So before my fit of overwhelming self-pity on the tube home last night, I saw an amazing, amazing play, and if you can get to London and get tickets, I would recommend you do so. It was Arthur Miller's All My Sons, and it was, like I said, amazing. The poster for the current London production shows a soppy, Vaseline-on-the-lens snuggle between David Suchet and Zoe Wanamaker, which drew an involuntary urgh of disgust from me when I saw it on a tube escalator some weeks ago. But it got a five star review in The Guardian and I owed Don a theatre trip after he so kindly took me to Jerusalem, so we returned to the Apollo for this. Other than the five stars, I knew nothing about it. I'd taught A View From The Bridge a few years ago as a tutor, so I was pretty sure it would be set in post-war America, but that was it. And wow. What a plot. Jerusalem was a fantastic portrait of modern Britain, but this was a tight, pacey drama with laughs, a joyous combination that left me attractively gobsmacked. Nothing about the schmaltzy poster was echoed in the production. It was hard and tough, unflinchingly powering through painful moral dilemmas with a directness that set my head whirring. Rooted in its era yet still fully relevant, the play questioned whether looking after our nearest and dearest can justify crime, whether our familial duty is greater than our duty to society as a whole. The acting was exceptional, but what got me the most was the script - each character rigorously fleshed out, necessary and consistent. No lines for the sake of it, each remark was loaded with backstory and, as the truth gradually outed itself, Miller's talent became ever more evident.

Anyway. It was a masterclass in objectivity, insight and genius. And I read in the programme that, had All My Sons not been a hit when it was first performed, Miller had made the decision that he would give up writing plays forever. A near miss. And a triumph today - bursting with lessons for us all, fresh and unpatronising. Loved it.

Then I got on the tube, felt inadequate because I will never write a play like that, and then the sweet young couple next to me started kissing and giggling and it tipped me over the edge. Instead of gunning them all down like Michael Douglas, I went home and wrote a poem, a poem that exposes me for the needy, illogical sap I am. I published it on the internet for all to see. And for some ridiculous reason, it actually helped.