Once upon a time, a glamorous screen siren breezing into town for a
rare stage appearance could reliably expect to be brutally savaged
by London drama critics, even the straight ones. Years of grueling
fringe theater in the upstairs rooms of pubs in obscure outlying
boroughs, years of exposure to nudity on the stage—where on the
whole the people who take their clothes off are the people you’d
rather didn’t—all this had left them with no use for such banal
Hollywood values as flawless skin, defoliated armpits, firm breasts,
etc. But last year, when The Blue Room opened at the Donmar
Warehouse with Nicole Kidman, she brought out the kid in every man.
“Stunning,” said The Daily Mail’s Christopher Tookey. “Pure
theatrical Viagra,” said The Daily Telegraph’s Charles Spencer.
Was that a rolled-up copy of the Telegraph in his pocket or was he
just pleased to see her? Hard to tell. Fortunately, the Evening
Standard sent along a lady correspondent to peer through the sea of
middle-aged male drooling and apply a more rigorous critical
dissection:

“Narrow hips, bosoms at armpit level, long

rangy legs …”

Er, thanks, but how about the play?

“No—repeat, no—cellulite …”

And the direction?

“I was concentrating on her removing her bra

under her vest …”

Anything to say about the design?

“No unsightly chicken-joint effect in the high-

cut front …”

Well,