![]() ![]() ![]() He’s loveable, detestable, winning, haughty. ![]() From his first appearance, in fancy-dress, looking like one of Peter Pan’s ‘Lost Boys’, a growling hungover malcontent, the great Scott is supreme, tracing the air with lots of mime-like business, catching the musicality of the wit as he tilts between sounds faint and ironic, boomy and actorly and waspishly sardonic. There have been productions when the laughter attending this feast of self-involvement, revolving round (increasingly) fraught, farcical comings and goings at Essendine’s London flat in the run-up to a tour abroad to Africa, has been present more in the title than in reality. He has been cast by Matthew Warchus in that 1942 Noel Coward warhorse Present Laughter – and brings star quality to Garry Essendine, an arch, self-knowing portrait of a celebrated actor as a preening, highly sexed egotist on the cusp of middle age. And his career-cementing (series enhancing) turn as the “hot priest” in Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s tragicomic phenomenon Fleabag was frankly unmissable.īut something remarkable has now happened at the Old Vic that will surely make even his expanding congregation of worshippers sit bolt upright in extra excitement – a revelatory performance that turns a good year into an annus mirabilis. His Hamlet further served notice of this dreamy-voiced Irishman’s huge gifts. His beguilingly fiendish Moriarty broadcast his exceptionalism at the start of the decade. We knew – didn’t we - that Andrew Scott was very good indeed. ![]()
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