THE GATE THEATRE

Approximately 83 theatres make up the glorious confederacy of the Off-West End. 83! Show to show that’s 8 straight days of sitting in the dark; roughly 166 gin & tonics - and 8 limes, if you’re the type. I for one am that type, and here begins a rather rapacious attempt at compiling a taster menu; a sampler of all 83 fringe venues. Sort of like stamp-collecting, but with less licking. One would hope.

Phileas Fogg-like delusions of grandeur aside, I begin by having one of those days. You might call them ‘a working day’. My usual, erm, working day consists of 20% lie-mongering, 4% panicked dead-lining and 76% girlish tittering as I filter rude words through my Mac’s speech function. But today starts with an audition for a play requiring me to murder crustaceans live onstage, and go tongue-to-tongue with my ‘grandmother’. To be honest, only one of those theatrical gimmicks intensely appeals. I sneak in front of a fellow actor because I have an impending game of tennis and a terminal lapse of attention. On the courts I am destroyed by a giant Italian, and it strikes me that hastily-purchased, Wimbledon-inspired tennis rackets are summertime’s equivalent to Boxing Day puppies. After this I attend yet another Alexander Technique session, and begin to suspect my spine resembles a half-played game of Jenga. At dinner I spill chili-squid down my white shirt, which rather stylishly kicks off an evening of bumping into influential contemporaries. Finally I arrive at the Gate theatre in Notting Hill.

Be warned: the pre-show entrance up to the Gate feels misleadingly like a rollercoaster queue. Inside, however, is the closest thing you’ll find to a miniature Royal Court. Familiar faces of stars-in-ascension abound, huddling cross-legged by the intimate toilets. This and the lack of a bar compels people to mingle - and converse?! - which is rather nice.

Tonight’s play is Vanya, a streamline approach to Chekhov’s chubby classic, written by the increasingly dexterous Sam Holcroft. I like this slim-fast approach to old Anton. His short stories - The Kiss, An Avenger, The Duel - seem to work potently on a smaller scale, and for some reason the reduced cast here provide real bite to the comedy. As we settle into the Gate’s cinematic slice of a sloping auditorium, the bleak simplicity of the set suddenly erupts. I don’t know quite how they managed to rotate their box-of-tricks shed-set on that modest, sprightly stage, but the effect was as dizzying as the performances. It’s rare, too, to see a play where the story is so punchily told through pure body language. That’s your subtext. Where do we learn body language if not at the theatre?

Certainly not on the commuter train home, where body language does not exist because everyone is so rammed up into each other that we might all as well be Chekhovian lovers. Smelly, knackered, gin-soaked lovers. Here’s to the Gate - and long may it remain, swinging.