Are West End producers obsessed with celebrity, or are they just obsessed with paying the bills? Miller’s frustration is understandable. You mount a production in the regions. It gets raves, extends its run - it moves to the West End. That’s how it works.

Or how it worked. I would love to see Miller’s Hamlet reach town. A fascinating director with a strong production of one of the greatest plays ever written. But would I bet my shirt on it when so many shows that cause a sensation at Edinburgh, say, move to Shaftesbury Avenue and struggle visibly? The way West End finances increasingly work, it’s no good doing “decent” business. Doing decent business is a good way of going out of business. You need to do great business. A run at the Royal Court, the Donmar or the Almeida need shift only a few thousand tickets, with top prices at about £30, to be a sold-out sensation. In the West End, you need tens of thousands willing to pay up to £50. Reviews help. Word of mouth is essential. A star name? It’s not a cureall, but it’s a start.

No doubt, by fostering the idea that you need a name to have a hit, producers are contributing to the vicious circle of star casting. The stars can’t always do the job - I saw a young actor, excellent on television, whose voice barely made it past the third row. I’ve seen star comedians in plays who still act as if they’re the only person on stage.

Will Jude Law be a great Dane? His screen work suggests he’s has the presence but not the required range. But his production is a year away, and already several nights are sold out. West End producers have joined estate agents and journalists as popular hate figures. Well, they like to make a profit - don’t you? But I know how hard they find it to punt a straight play. I know too that they feel uneasy about relying on stars - particularly since so few of them will give up more than three or four months of their time.

Which doesn’t mean to say that more imagination isn’t needed, or that yesterday’s brainwave doesn’t turn horribly fast into today’s blinkered thinking. Just that the West End is a hard place, and so much of its potential audience for serious work is already serviced very well by subsidised venues such as the mighty National Theatre.

I once sat next to Lauren Bacall (and her squeaky leather jacket) in a West End theatre. But she was the only star in the house: we were watching Blackbird, a play about paedophilia, with two almost-stars (Jodhi May, Roger Allam) as the leads. Blackbird bucked the trend. It’s now on tour. But are its producers showering in champagne each morning? I doubt it.

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