I hadn’t realised what a very, very good girl I was until I caught an unexpected reflection of myself in the window, listening to the flight attendant on the plane back from France last week. It was imperative that she saw I was paying attention. Not just paying attention, paying tribute. She must see that I was engrossed, that I was appreciative of her care, performance and sensible little mimes. Catching sight of myself like this was interesting to me, revealing as it did a part of myself I’d not yet identified: the good audience member. I watch, I listen, I breathe through the impulse to reach for my phone as if it was a contraction. I participate, when required, even though it brings me pain, and I clap, when appropriate.
Recently, stories of bad audiences have gone viral – people on their phones during Oppenheimer, people pouring their drinks over said people on their phones, violent fights at Barbie, captured on bystanders’ phones. In theatres (partly due to pressure to augment profits with bar takings), ushers have had ice-cream thrown at them, watched audiences join in with the onstage dialogue (the Evening Standard reported that during a production of The Taming of The Shrew at London’s Sam Wanamaker Playhouse, one man who did so was kicked out only to return later to shout “wine and cheese, that’s all you are!” at the audience) – audience members have been caught having sex and watching porn. Music industry experts said last week that bad behaviour at pop concerts “has become the new norm”, with the latest incident a drink chucked at Cardi B mid-performance, and someone throwing their mother’s ashes on stage at Pink. Their mother’s ashes. Pink.
