As for the unexpected death that occurs between the third and fourth acts, there is the worrying feeling of a writer playing god with his characters to raise the dramatic stakes. Dench is on magnificent form as Esme, an apparently scatty woman who is actually blessed with great common sense and unsinkable courage. Bond is wonderfully touching and vulnerable as her warm and finally broken-hearted daughter. Joyce Redman harrowingly charts the course of Alzheimer's as the grandmother, while Ronald Pickup creates a fascinatingly complex and touching portrait of the boozy businessman who leads Esme to financial ruin. No British playwright is better than Hare at making arguments about social issues lively yet fair.
Antithesis follows thesis, retort follows opinion, as deftly as ping follows pong.
But this time the bats, the tennis table, or something, have been fixed. In the play's central conflict, which is between the cultural claims of the slick modern media and that antiquated form, the theatre, there is absolutely no doubt where Hare's sympathies lie. Another is the pace and clarity of Richard Eyre's direction. And the third is Dench's wonderful blend of bloodymindedness and warmth. The final scene, which finds Esme grimly enduring her losses yet getting serious solace from the exercise of her art, is as moving as anything Dench, Eyre or Hare have achieved.