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HOW TO TELL
THE HEARTLESS TRUTH,
AND STILL KEEP YOUR
BEST FRIEND HAPPY...!
by JACK TINKER,
late Theatre critic of the Daily Mail

It's a dilemma anyone with a friend in a show has had to face. From the local amateur panto in the village hall to the star dressing room at Drury Lane, the after-show confrontation is landmined with moments that can explode the closest friendship sky-high.
The performer is hungry for praise. The backstage visitor, appalled by what he has just witnessed. What can you say? How can you possibly utter the unpalatable truth to someone waiting only to hear the inevitable: 'Darling, you were WONDERFUL'? And to lie to a dear one will be spotted immediately and forgiven even less readily than awful honesty.
In my experience, though, it is a situation not confined to the rarified atmosphere of Thespians. For instance the man who goes home to find his wife has had her crowning glory ('Sweetheart, I love you with your hair loose and flowing.' How many times has he told her that?) cropped to the texture of the tufted front door mat knows the feeling well enough. And the best friend who has decorated the living room a defiant yellow and purple opens up the same sensitive war zone. Never insult a person's choice of wallpaper even if you feel perfectly free to criticize his mother, offspring or bedfellow. It's a sure end to even the most beautiful friendship.
And last night John Osborne gave vent to a lifetime of being on the receiving end of honest opinion delivered at inopportune times. His TV play, 'You're not watching me, Mummy' dealt eloquently with the boredom behind the bright lights. In it Anna Massey was seen slumped in her dressing room after the curtain had fallen waiting for the onslaught of backstage ritual. 'Why do they come?' she demanded petulantly. 'Just sitting there as if they expected something to really happen after you knocked your backside off for two and a half hours. Staring. Saying nothing. Waiting. Helpless. The world seems full of them. We slosh our blood all over the stage and what do they do? Sit and wait for a drink.'
Poor lady. But there is a brand of backstage veteran who can cover all emergencies without having to beat a quick retreat. Miriam Karlin is among the prime exponents of the art of dressing-room ambiguity. And though I avoid dressing-rooms - a critic is as welcome in one after a show as Mr Banquo at the Macbeths for dinner! - there are times when paths cross uncomfortably; when silence can only be interpreted as a dumb reproach; when we all need Miss Karlin's technique....
High on the list of get-out ambiguities is my own personal favourite, shamefully stolen from Miss Karlin's artful armoury. 'I didn't be-LIEVE it, my dear!'
Now, besides being strictly nothing but the truth, this retort has the added lustre of feeding the recipient's vanity. It can be used as well for disastrous interior decor as for a dog of a show. Uttered with the right inflection it can even persuade a suburban housewife that her attempt at punk spiky hair is nothing but the sensation she hoped it to be when she let her hairdresser talk her into it.
But there are others, all of which work on roughly the same blend of high-octane delivery on the part of the giver, and easily ignited ego on the part of the receiver.
'What about YOU!' needs only the merest touch of innocence and awe to convince the listener that he or she has achieved something very special. And after all, special is just another word for downright odd. The trick is to rush on to the next topic before being asked to elucidate. In absolutely all such situations, gush is essential.
'You've done it again!' cried at full throttle and with a warm embrace to hide the embarrassment, can warm the cockles of a wife who has just had her hair died bright green, a friend who has mis-mixed-and-matched her old wallpaper to the new fitted carpets, or a faded star who has given several performances too many. The art of the hidden barb knows no barriers and no shame. 'My dear, if I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have BELIEVED it!' is the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But prefixed by a term of endearment - often quite genuine - it allays any suspicions of malice aforethought. We all believe the best about ourselves, after all.
Not even the world of heavy rock is free from the deperate need for reassurance. Look only at the scene Bette Midler played on her film debut, THE ROSE. 'What did you think?' asks Midler with uncharacteristic lack of self-confidence. 'You were insane,' her visitor assures her -pop jargon for 'Only you could do it, darling'. And leaving them to pick the bones out of it as best they may.

This article was extracted from 'Jack Tinker - A life in review', by James Inverne, published by Oberon Books in 1997. This extract was originally published in the Daily Mail on 21st January 1980.