Ninety-nine seats. One stage. New plays only.The house goes fully dark before the first line, for as long as it takes for ninety-nine people to stop moving. Some nights that's four seconds. Some nights it's twenty.
Book one of ninety-nine
The back row is eleven metres from the stage. Nobody is amplified. When an actor decides something, you see it before they say it. That's what a theatre this size is for, and it's why we won't build a bigger one.
Everything we stage is a first production. No revivals, no classics, no adaptations of things you've read. Three writers, three casts, forty-two nights.
A woman comes home to find her sister in her chair. Neither of them has spoken for eleven years. The kettle is on.
A family firm, a dinner, and the empty chair at the end that nobody mentions until the pudding. Funnier than that sounds. Then not.
A front-of-house manager, on the night the play doesn't start. She has ninety-nine people and no news. So she talks.
Small rooms need rules, and ours are short. They're printed on the ticket, and said once, kindly, by the person on the door.
The Long Table, from 3 November. Fourteen nights, ninety-nine seats each, one price. When they're gone, the play is gone, and we'll be honest about which nights are close.
Book one of ninety-nine