Leading Article: There is much to praise in British theatre. So let's give it more support

AT THE Evening Standard theatre awards yesterday, there was no award for Best Play. You could take that as evidence that things are going to the artistic dogs: No Best Play equals No Good Play. In reality, the opposite may be the case.

All praise to the judges (including - let us declare a small interest here - The Independent's own Paul Taylor) for refusing to dole out consolation prizes. It need not be a reason for pessimism, but a declaration of confidence that the highest standards apply. Hype should not always rule. If no play this year deserves to be singled out for excellence, that is likely only to prove a blip. There have been excellent plays in recent years - Caryl Churchill's Blue Heart, for example, and Michael Frayn's Copenhagen - and there will no doubt be excellent plays in the years to come.

British theatre in general, and London theatre in particular, is in robust health. The suicide of Sarah Kane, the acclaimed author of Blasted, robbed the theatre of one of its brightest talents. But other British writers and designers are winning renown across Europe for their daring and originality, often merging different art forms to stunning effect. A quarter of a century ago, Peter Brook abandoned Britain because he felt attitudes to theatre were too parochial. A latter-day Brook - Mick Gordon, say, from the Gate Theatre - does not need to flee abroad. Despite the difficulties, there is a climate of possibility.

Of course, there is still a swath of theatreland that remains rooted in tradition, catering to red-velvet-loving audiences who treat the art form merely as something that one Ought to Do. They like their drama to be safe, innocuous and, frankly, a little dull. They may flock to plays such as The Chiltern Hundreds, starring Edward Fox, which has just opened at the Vaudeville Theatre. For them, theatre is almost an offshoot of the social services; culture to make one feel comfortable and cosy. This audience, though, is dying off.

Much contemporary theatre, thankfully, is braver and more challenging. It could also make money if only more producers were similarly courageous. Mark Ravenhill's Shopping and Fucking was one of a string of plays that moved from the small scale to commercial success in the West End and abroad. The Royal Court's recent reopening provides a classy venue for the staging of often ground-breaking productions.

Cool Britannia may now seem more lukewarm than cool. But British theatre has plenty to boast of. The Almeida has performed to critical and popular acclaim, both in its West End transfers and even in its theatrical exports, including the coals-to-Newcastle production of Chekhov's Ivanov that went to Moscow. Theatre de Complicite took European and New York audiences by storm with the wondrous Street of Crocodiles. The audiences are out there, waiting to be lured in.

Some subsidies are needed in order to encourage and develop new writing. But subsidy is not the be-all and end-all, especially where commercial sponsors can be found. And producers and theatre-owners should take more risks: there is a wealth of talent, if it is only given the chance.

Too often, we hark back to a mythical Golden Age of artistic brilliance. We should, however, be grateful for large mercies. Foreigners sing the praises of British theatre and British playwrights. Just occasionally, we should do it ourselves.