Sink into a sofa at THEATRE 503

This week’s venue has the dubious prestige of being the only theatre I’ve ever walked out of. Not, rest assured fringe-lovers, because of anything to do with the production. Just good old-fashioned self-humiliation.

A few years back, during the first half of a touching and reverential play, a platoon of youths behind me were flipping texts to one another. More unforgivably, the text alerts in question were Crazy Frog Redux and Akon singing about how lonely he was. They tittered maniacally and eventually I responded with an exasperated:

‘Oh, come on…’

At which point I realized that the audience —and actors— were staring at me, horrified, presuming my outburst concerned their deeply touching reconciliation scene. I made my excuses like a tabloid hack at a brothel.

If only we’d been on Broadway. This week saw James Bond and Wolverine battling disruptive audience members, with Daniel Craig and Hugh Jackman directing their celestial fury towards a front-row audience member who forgot to switch his phone off. They may have hyper-gadgets and super-powers, but these boys are squealishly susceptible to cracks in the ol’ Fourth Wall.

Thankfully tonight’s performance was interruption and mortification-free. Theatre503, formerly the Latchmere, formerly the Grace theatre. Same venue, but now with added mysterious numbers. Perhaps 503 is the meaning of life. Perhaps it just means they get to the top of the listings. Either way it’s refreshing. It’s also deceptively close to Clapham Junction, which means pretty much anyone in London should be able to get to it easily with no excuses. Take note, my esteemed colleague, who burst into the theatre half an hour late.

Fearless new writing is the directive of the 503, and over its burgeoning years it’s previewed many authors of whom I am intensely fond and covetous, particularly the talent-crammed collective that was The Apathists. They even coaxed the skyrocketing Tom Hardy in to run an actors’ gym —Shotgun— culminating in a tremendous production of Blue On Blue.

However, seeing a play here about a death-row warden, I felt the inscrutably malevolent voice of my old principle in my head: ‘What’s the relevance, darling?’ (don’t read into that, he called everyone darling. Or at least in our impressions of him he did). What interest could a British audience have in an American execution block?

Judging by sniffling into scrunched tissues at curtain call, a helluva lot. The Ones That Flutter by Sylvia Reed —like its set— is a beautifully compact production. An outstanding evening begins front-of-house — not in all OWE theatres do you get the artistic director taking your ticket. The auditorium is a snug descent down into a confidential playing space, which doesn’t require traps and tricks when the acting is up to scratch. Which it certainly was tonight. To top it off, which other fringe venues have a sumptuous private antechamber to discuss the play in at the end of the show?

The perfect place to confront noisy audience members. Not, remember, during the performance.