![]() Actually, not since those cheesy-listening tracks were the grownups’ hip-hop. And I hadn’t read or heard Under Milk Wood, Dylan Thomas’ play-for-voices, for decades. But I worship Michael Sheen, who gets Rylance-ier by the day in his eccentricities, adored his Hamlet-in-a-psychiatric ward at the Young Vic, and even, forgave him those cringey Zoomathons with Tennant. So there’s the confession: sitting in the Circle for half an hour of 1950s cheesy-listening music before the start, I was a dreadfully bad subject, wondering why I’d spent £ 20 (press tix are like hens’ teeth for us marginals in these socialdistanced days, quite rightly). Even, perhaps, churlishly admitting that they really hate the laboriously, Covidly, reconfigured Olivier in the round and the prissy – compulsory – rules like the poor usher having to push the lift button for you, even though fomite surface-infection has been discredited for months. ![]() It might be helpful if critics admitted sometimes arriving bad-tempered, hot, out of tune, dreading the long masked late night train journey home.
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