A short history of applause – and booing

A dank Tuesday evening in a West End theatre. The auditorium is barely two thirds full. The play is nothing special – certainly not spectacular. Your neighbour is struggling to stay awake. The reception, however, is tumultuous. The audience is on its feet, squealing, whistling and whooping as though someone has just found the cure for cancer. The house lights come up and the rumpus stops as suddenly as it started. Everyone makes for the nearest exit.

This irritatingly mechanical ritual is a phenomenon – imported, I guess, from Broadway – that has recently become ubiquitous in London, never mind the quality of what’s on stage. It represents a significant departure from the custom of voiceless clapping, ranging in volume from warm forte to cool piano, that was customary during my youth 50 years ago. Nobody ever cheered or shrieked as Gielgud, Olivier or Guinness took their courtly bows; cries of ‘bravo’ or ‘brava’ were reserved for the curtain calls of the likes of Fonteyn and Nureyev at the Royal Opera House, and they were uttered in manly baritone rather than high-pitched squawk.