Matthew Weinstein isn't the first artist to take on the 1950s Situationist guru, Guy Debord, and his warnings against the decadence of spectacle. But until now we didn't see the narration of spectacle played out in the art world with the combined mise-en-scène of theater and the technical illusions of cinema.

Due to one of those odd coincidences, theater at the moment seems to be about chairs. Rowan Atkinson sits in a relatively comfy one throughout the flawless revival of Simon Gray's Quartermaine's Terms, at Wyndham's.

I'm only left to report that in one extraordinary week I saw both Clive and Moose Murders and am prepared in both instances to cry, "Murder most foul!" Which was worse? Please don't ask.

Why do we assume classics are impenetrable and obsolete? Why do we imagine that an ecology that privileges "emerging artists" while all but abandoning mature ones, let alone historical ones, will have resonance in the long run?