Feeling the spur to finish my recap of June’s adventures as the month draws to a close (unlikely to finish that in time but hey, I am trying), I decided to do something that requires less effort than an exhibition reel — especially since the next one in line is Schiaparelli which may require two. Ay yi yi — there are a lot of pictures. I can try to be more selective. But as Blake advised, the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom and I have done far too much to embody that, I fear.

But I began my London sojourn after the brilliant time in Manchester with a play, which I have not done in a while. Alas London, like New York, is full of musicals based on films and increasingly inflated prices. And it’s often a challenge to get last minute tickets at the National — and I’m far too old to do the £5 standing tix. So off to the Haymarket to see Grace Pervades, which Susan Wands had mentioned seeing, Her novel series inspired by the tarot of Pamela Colman Smith intertwines with the history of Ellen Terry and Henry Irving, giants of the late 19th and early 20th century theatre world. And the Haymarket which not only has an illustrious history but also many wonderful personal memories from Patricia Routeledge as Lady Bracknell to Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart in Waiting for Godot.

I should say at once that I am not a fan of David Hare and this play did not change that opinion. The cast were terrific: Ralph Fiennes lent Irving a touch of melancholy and hesitation in his offstage persona that conveyed beautifully how having a script can make emotions much easier to manage. Miranda Raison’s Ellen Terry was vivacious and bright, able to modulate her performance to her individual audiences without ever giving the sense of performing. She played Terry as someone who read a room in a trice and communicated with authenticity. Ruby Ashbourne Serkis gave Edy Craig a hearty confidence but Hare gave her far too little to do–he seemed only interested in the ménage-a-trois and far less in her Pioneer Players. Even in the programme, she gets a paragraph while a whole page is reserved for her brother. Hare seems quite enraptured by Edward Gordon Craig’s ‘genius’ which is at first ridiculed a little then slowly revered. The mention of Peter Brook as one of his supporters seems to elevate his importance, though Artaud and Littleton seem far more influential.

There’s a moment where Terry and Irving are arguing about performance and there’s a line about theatre not being ‘just people arguing in a drawing room’ and of course a chuckle from the audience as we see exactly that. It really crystallised for me what I find irksome in Hare: he is always at pains to dismiss the magic of theatre when that is what it’s about. The stage must be transformative to live. It doesn’t have to shout; some magics are small explosions that echo on and on and on. But sometimes we do indeed what glorious ritual and I think Craig and Hare both would make a moue of disgust at the thought. But I do want magic. Always.

The set designs by Bob Crowley were ingenious and allowed for fluid transitions between scenes and locations, some mere suggestions of place (the flat in Paris with Isadora Duncan [Saskia Strallen]) while Irving’s study was deeply homey. Fotini Dimou’s costumes were sumptuous. It was a beautifully organised and coherent production. But I longed for more magic from a story about two people who lived to create magic. I can’t help feeling that Hare would like to do away with actors all together.

But they are magic.