In the extreme rush of this month (still going on: new book on the shelves now, launch happenings tonight, appearing at the Brighton Festival this Friday, trying to rewrite the next book, reviewing a veerrrrrrry long novel for the Guardian, and oh yeah, buying a house and moving in by 31 May), I'd overlooked some recent theatuh.

Saw Vanessa Redgrave in The Year of Magical Thinking at the National.  She's an odd actress, isn't she?  Some of the time brilliant, some of the time unwatchably mannered.  The show is too long; after about an hour it starts feeling like a lecture.  Plus, her intonation robs the ending of the huge emotional impact I think it's supposed to have.  I was only moved by the very last thing, a huge photograph of Joan Didion with her husband and daughter. 

Two other things about this:  Redgrave didn't help matters by giving the most pretentiously hammy curtain call I've ever seen.  Would a smile of thanks kill you, love?  And second, the audience was so filled with women of a certain age who'd clearly modelled themselves on Vanessa, I half expected a Spartacus moment:  "I'm Vanessa Redgrave!  No, I'm Vanessa Redgrave!"

Oops, running out of room, except to say I was expecting a bit of a disaster from The City at the Royal Court, but it was gripping stuff.  Go see it.