It’s the time of the year when I hand out the Brooks awards. Let’s start with theatre. The best and most enjoyable revival of 2016 was Tom Stoppard’s Travesties, which, for those who missed it at the Menier, in Southwark, moves to the Apollo in February. Witty and clever, too, was The Truth, a new drama by the Frenchman Florian Zeller, who previously penned the more serious The Father and The Mother. I also thought Lucy Kirkwood’s The Children, still at the Royal Court, was terrific, confirming her, after Chimerica, as an extraordinarily talented playwright. My performance of the year goes to Billie Piper in Yerma at the Young Vic. Brilliant raw emotion.
■ It wasn’t such a good year for films. The best of British were Ken Loach’s deeply moving I, Daniel Blake and Notes on Blindness, an extraordinary docudrama about the author and academic John Hull. From overseas, I liked Trumbo — particularly the wonderful Bryan Cranston — the bizarre Anomalisa and Paterson, while I admired Son of Saul and Room.
■ The most enjoyable TV drama was The Night Manager, and Andrew Davies made a good fist of War and Peace, even if the cameo roles were the best. But tops was Channel 4’s National Treasure, for its searing writing and outstanding cast, particularly Robbie Coltrane. Please bring him back to the screen soon.
■ My favourite art show was the Royal Academy’s Abstract Expressionism, where I was introduced to several American artists, including the wonderful Clyfford Still. The RA has been on great form these past two years. Sunken Cities, at the British Museum, was also a highlight, featuring magnificent sculptures retrieved from the deep.
■ This year saw the deaths of two musical geniuses, David Bowie and Leonard Cohen. Sadly, the Bowie tribute concert at the Proms did not work, nor did his last piece, Lazarus. However, Cohen’s wonderful final album, You Want It Darker, released three weeks before he died, is now all the more poignant. Other musical highlights included Steve Reich’s 80th birthday celebrations, first in the unlikely venue of a Peckham car park, then at the Barbican. A trip to Garsington on a beautiful June day for Eugene Onegin also remains vivid.
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■ The best new books, for me, were Graham Swift’s return to form with Mothering Sunday and Francis Spufford’s first novel, Golden Hill. Why on earth did neither make the Man Booker longlist? And Amy Liptrot’s memoir The Outrun was an emotion-filled story of recovery through nature.
■ Outside London, Artangel’s evocation of Oscar Wilde’s time in Reading jail again showed the creativity of its founders, Michael Morris and James Lingwood.