It seems I can only write intelligently when I’m snarling like a beast. Give me something nice and fluffy to write about and I’m like Lennie from Of Mice and Men. I might adore it, but I’ll probably accidently crush it’s skull.
The 39 Steps is dangerously near perfect, a gloriously playful panto for the grown ups. To do anything other than gush happily to the point of being incomprehensible would be to damn this play with light praise.
That’s it. It’s so good it’s actually fried my critical faculties... could I sue?