Culture

No idea why, but the hunt is on for lost 20th-century masterpieces. Michael Attenborough is searching for gold at the Almeida and Matthew Dunster has his pan in the stream at the Young Vic. Carson McCullers’s The Member of the Wedding is an adaption of her 1946 bestselling novel. We’re in the Deep South where romantic tomboy Frankie (energetically played by Flora Spencer-Longhurst) wants to run away from home and begin a new life with her elder brother. Frankie’s character, depending on your point of view, is an adorable free spirit or an irksome little whinger who deserves to be clattered over the head with a horseshoe. The play’s structure is clumsy and indigestible and the sluggish plot strays up all kinds of unreasonable side alleys.

Warren Mitchell is lying on an air mattress in rehearsals. He’s 81 and in constant pain, made worse by a recent operation. Warren Mitchell is lying on an air mattress in rehearsals. He’s 81 and in constant pain, made worse by a recent operation. He looks very tired, very old and I wondered, hauling him up off the floor by his wrists, whether he’d make it through our interview, let alone a ten-week tour. Why on earth isn’t he at home with his feet up instead of rehearsing all day long? Doesn’t his wife object? He says, slowly and with effort, ‘Yes, my wife does object; she says, “You’re not fit enough, you should retire, you’re mad!

If you’re planning a visit to the cinema this weekend, I recommend you bypass the  cold, albeit visually impressive, ‘Atonement’, in favour of  Julie Delpy’s first effort as an actor, writer and director, ‘2 Days in Paris’.  The premise is simple: a couple round off a tour Europe by spending two days with the girl’s parents in the ‘city of love’, hoping to inject fresh life into their flagging relationship.  Not everything goes according to plan as the boyfriend, played by the relatively unknown Adam Goldberg grows increasingly troubled by his girlfriend’s past and swelling number of ex-lovers.

Cinema goers will all be planning to go to see Atonement this weekend: I know I am. But if you are defeated by the queues, which threaten to be of English Patient/Shakespeare in Love proportions, do go and see Knocked Up instead. If ever a film was let down by its title it is this one. Clearly marketed for the audience that loved American Pie and US gross-out comedy, this is actually a very sophisticated film which brilliantly explores the gender gap and uses an old and unremarkable plotline – beautiful woman falls pregnant by unattractive male – as a sturdily reliable framework over which to drape the most delicate script and comedy of observation.

Last night's GQ Men of the Year Awards were, as ever, a glittering occasion and a tribute to the talents of the magazine's editor, Dylan Jones (whose most recent Spectator Diary you can read here). Plenty of excellent choices for the 10th annual ceremony, including the editor of the year, Will Lewis, editor in chief of our stable mate Telegraph titles. I finally got to meet Michael Caine, who was given a Lifetime Achievement award and rewarded with a thunderous standing ovation at the Royal Opera House. He is almost certainly the Greatest Living Englishman. Why? Because, in the end, it is more fun to be Harry Palmer, a spy born in the sound of Bow Bells, than James Bond, endlessly fretting about the right brand of watch and the marque of your car.