The One Star Review Which Changed the Life of Peter Zensky

“THE SHADOW OF THE MOORS *

Benedict Cumberbatch stars as an elderly man, who likes to roam around wearing a grizzly bear costume -his alter ego- in this shambolic melodrama set in the Yorkshire Moors.

Peter Zensky, who both wrote and directed his “years in the making debut play,” deserves an accolade for “this century’s worst theatrical production,” according to chief executive of the English Arts Council. Ideals of what make “proper” theatre are being questioned by the whole industry, as that of the decision of The Royal Court -the playwright’s theatre- to produce and stage this pitiful pile of defecation. Theatre fanatics were left baffled, and many of them did not return to their seats after the interval of Thursday’s opening night. “How The Royal Court Theatre decided to completely ruin their reputation, along with the reputation of everyone else involved in this production -instead of burning this monstrosity after reading the first page- I have no idea!” said one audience member, as she left after just twenty minutes. “I want my money back! Boring, no rhythm, badly written, even Cumberbatch couldn’t save this one. How could theatre sink so low!” said another. The director of The Royal Court Theatre has not been available for comments.

Known for my humble honesty, there’s not much more I have to say on the matter except this: avid theatregoers, stay at home! Peter Zensky, my advice to you: quit playwrighting! It may have taken you years to write this play, but it will take you years of excellent writing to rewrite your way back onto the stage, and fix the devastation you have caused to yourself, The Royal Court and the entire future of theatre! By Penelope Squigglehap – voted the country's most loved and reliable theatre critique by Time Out magazine.”

Molly closes The Week and looks at her younger brother, who is staring with a blank expression at the rain streaming down the outside of the kitchen windowpane, on this grim Saturday morning. My whole life’s work down the toilet after a poxy one star review. This person clearly doesn’t like me…. Or is this some kind of a joke? “Can you read it again?”

“For the twentieth time? What’s the point, it’s not going to change what’s already been said. It’s too late now,” she says softly. He reaches for the magazine himself, opens it and reads out loud, “Pitiful pile of defecation,” and closes it again. “This play was produced by the most innovative theatre I know. Those who agreed to put it on, loved it! I just don’t understand.”

“Exactly… it’s all subjective Pete.”

“Subjective? Try telling that to Penelope Squigglecrap and to all those who read her vile review! She has used her manipulating words as weapons to annihilate my playwrighting career before it’s even started. It’s all over thanks to this hideous woman!” He slams his fist on the table, leaves the kitchen in a sulk and goes back to bed -where he spends the rest of the day feeling sorry for himself.

What followed was a difficult month for Peter, full of highs and lows. He retreated away from the world, questioned his purpose and mission in life, his reason d’être. He dug deep and took a real look at why he had decided to write in the first place. Did he really enjoy writing? Did he want to use it as a medium to say what he wanted to say; to try, in some small, tiny way to make the world a better place? Did he want to be one of those storytellers who would take people on an amazing journey to another place, another time, to inspire, to try to bring happiness and joy, laughter, to cry, to break down barriers, to build bridges? Or was all that, in itself, some kind of arrogant moralistic principle? Who did he think he was anyway to want to make a difference? And he asked himself… is it my passion? Or am I just looking for recognition, to be somebody, to be validated, to have the label “playwright?”

The review hurt him deeply. He felt it had taken a stab at old wounds, not fully healed, and that was excruciatingly painful to bear. Did he want to continue, or give up on his lifelong dream of being a playwright, ever since he had read his first Shakespeare at the age of twelve? They said that the industry was full of rejections, that one had to have determination, lots of patience and to have skin as thick as an elephant’s. So… did he have that kind of strength and grounding in him to continue?

During that profound time of self-examination and reflection, Peter didn’t answer any phone calls, nor read any emails. He told his sister that he didn’t want to see or hear from anyone, nor did he want any news of the “crazy” outside world. She cooked meals every day, which she left on a tray outside his bedroom. He went for early morning walks when no one was about, and when inside, wrote ferociously like never before. Pages were filled with thoughts, ideas, feelings and more stories, all drawn from his life's experience...

In the meantime, The Royal Court Theatre tried to call Peter several times and left many messages on the answer phone. Due to Penelope Squigglehap’s review -which was subsequently elaborated and republished in other magazines- the production got a lot of attention. The Royal Court Theatre did not withdraw it, but rather, out of fear -that there would be night after night of empty seats- slashed the prices in half. To add to that enticement, people all over -non-theatre buffs alike- were curious to go and see the “century’s worst production.” Being the “worst” meant it was the best, the best at being not very good, and that was all very exciting for them. The Shadow of the Moors was a sell out each night for a whole month and turned out to be one of The Royal Court’s biggest success stories. Demands for the play to tour the world began to pour in, copies of the play text completely sold out.

After one month, Peter went for his early morning walk: his usual round in the gardens, and to the pond where he would sit for a while and watch the ducks. He knew that he loved writing. It was his passion. And if people even hated him or what he wrote, he decided that he would not be giving up! It's impossible for everyone to like what I do, and if I change what I write just to please, then I’ll never be happy and I’ll never please everyone anyway. Just do it for yourself Pete and if you can touch even just one heart in the process of finding your joy, then that's truly something to rejoice in!

When Peter went back home and into the kitchen for the first time in a month, there on the table, was a copy of the latest edition of The Week. On the front cover was a flattering caricature of someone familiar, “Best Play of the Year: Peter Zensky’s debut play takes the world by storm!”

The Doorbell rings.

Lights flash and cameras click as Peter opens the front door to see the whole front garden filled with paparazzi and journalists.

“Mr Zensky, how does it feel to have written best play of the year?” asks one.

“And Mr Zensky, is it true that Steven Spielberg wants to turn The Shadow of the Moors into the next Hollywood blockbuster?” Calls out another one.

“Will you all just bugger off, I don’t want to speak with any of you!” He yells back, as journalists frantically take notes.

“Oh, this is great stuff Mr Zensky, would you like to tell us more about that?” asks another one, “and how do you feel about the huge success your debut play has had?”

“I couldn't give a dam.”

And with a smile on his face, having felt that he'd conquered some inner demons, he shut the door...