>Memories of an evening in Philip Hobsbaum's flat in the early seventies,
>when a group of us including AG were sitting around watching a play Alasdair
>had written for STV being broadcast. Gradually, he hunched over more and
>more with his head in his hands, then half-way through gave a stiffled sob,
>got up and left. At least _Lanark_ liberated him from that. ***
>
Grim memories arise of being consoled with strong scotches by a very
sympathetic composer (he knew how I felt) after seeing the dress
rehearsal for a play of mine which had been "collaborated" on without my
consent, to the extent that half the script had disappeared... the
critics were too stupid to notice that the result was idiotic, because
the theatre came under the rubric "avant garde".
And some other awful moments, where I've really sympathised with Chekhov
("shoot me in the head if I ever write another play"). For some reason,
for me, they've always been the biggest productions.
Mind you, when it works, it can be wonderful.
Look forward to your other comments...
Best
A
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