Play it, Sam

Welcome, Sam Mendes. In the great cause of cheering us all up, there are few figures who give better value than the British director. Other celebrities, no matter how vaunted, tend to be a little one-note, but our directors have endless potential for entertainment, possessed as they are of splendid dollops of artistic temperament, wit, brio, intelligence, and dictatorial tendencies.

Mr Mendes, although demonstrably gifted and garlanded, has, until now, been just a bit disappointing in the temperament area. The Halls and the Hytners and the Eyres and the Nunns and the Nobles have been bestriding the media apron, declaiming, delivering loud asides, respectively buffeting and bolstering Stratford and the like. Mr Mendes has merely been gathering in Oscars, presenting Hollywood stars naked off West End, dating the odd other, such as Cameron Diaz and Calista Flockhart, and turning down the chance to run the National.

Now, though, he has crashed into the upper circle with the splendid double of romancing the nation's favourite, Kate Winslet, and deciding to leave the Donmar Warehouse after 10 years. We can hardly wait to see what happens next. Carry on, Sam!