The scene: rehearsals at a cluttered West End stage. Tutus and tights are strewn across the sofa of a university lecturer’s sitting room. New York gamblers are tossing dice on the floor. Nazi regalia line the walls. Money, Money, Money is playing in the background.
Enter, left, Kathleen Turner, slowly removing her blouse: What a dump. Hey, what’s that from? “What a dump!”
A Hollywood producer swiftly interjects: Hey, darling, keep it on! You did The Graduate five years ago. This is Virginia Woolf. Let’s get Billy in now.
Enter a young ballet star, fleeing jeering children: Look, I’m not a History Boy. I’m a dancer. I want to dance. Why do I have to dress up as a lion?
A Producer: Shut up and put on your jackboots. This is the West End now, and we’re making a mint. So let’s not get picky about the goddam plays, or in your case, Billy, musicals. Take Edward Fox over there. He’s playing a waiter this time, but the punters filling the seats think he’s Edward VIII.
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Enter Nigel Harman, flustered: What do you mean, no cameras? I came because Ewan told me the West End was now bigger than the East End, but I don’t see much in the tabloids about the story lines here. Am I meant to be a gangster or some kind of soap star?
A Producer: OK, calm down. We need names. Big names. This place is rolling: 12 million paying customers last year, £375 million box-office take. Who else have we got? Where’s Judi Dench? She does a nice Queen Vic.
Another Producer: Too late. She’s booked. But could we redo Hay Fever as a Nazi musical? Set to Abba. With Kathleen, Edward and Nigel. Or better, a detective in a snow storm? Like a trapped mouse. Would that sell?