[In the following evaluation, Toynbee faults Shaffer for a lack of character and plot development in Amadeus.]

Amadeus by Peter Shaffer should have been a musical. The only moments that were really moving were when Mozart's music was played and these, alas, were all too few. More music and less talk would have made a very long evening (three hours) seem a lot shorter.

The first part of the play is crisp and enjoyable, as the dying composer Salieri recounts his relationship with Mozart. Salieri a mediocre court musician, honest, hard-working and virtuous is confronted suddenly with the arrival of the young Mozart at court in Vienna. He has heard of his musical prowess. A wonderful scene shows Salieri, awaiting his meeting with Mozart, in a drawing room hidden from view in a deep arm chair. Mozart cavorts into the room pursuing a pretty girl, and instead of a cultured young genius, Salieri discovers a vulgar foppish near-idiot, shrieking with laughter at kindergarten scatalogical jokes, foul mouthed and ludicrous in an extraordinary blond wig which stands up en brosse.

Later that evening he hears Mozart play, and is agonised and outraged at the exquisite beauty of the music. How could an unworthy, strutting lout be touched with such divine genius, while he, pious, serious and good had never for one moment been granted the gift to lift his music above honest mediocrity? It makes a fine opening to a play, a powerful image of the arbitrariness and injustice of God's grace. But unfortunately, with still another two hours to run, the play has nothing more to say. The story, retold by Salieri, unfolds to the point where Salieri convinces himself of the truth of the rumour that he was responsible for Mozart's death.

Salieri, as a good man dragged down by jealousy, is somewhat two dimensional, but Paul Scofield does the best he can. Simon Callow is a splendid buffoon as Mozart, but again, as the character does not develop, the wretched actor is left repeating himself over and over again in scene after scene. Felicity Kendal—as always exquisitely charming and delicious—is a perfect Constanze, flirtatious but virtuous. We have become used to such beautiful sets in the Olivier that the ugly plastic floor, and curious electric screen—which raises and lowers itself so fussily, is a disappointment.

Modern historical plays, like historical novels, start with many handicaps. They tend to become over-involved in the plot and the history at the expense of having anything to say. Some rather cheap stagy tricks here try to disguise the fact that this is hardly a play at all, but more of a narration.