Jews may or may not have built the pyramids, but we know for certain that they built Hollywood. The names of the men who founded MGM, 20th Century Fox and Paramount speak for themselves: Samuel Goldwyn, Louis B Mayer, Marcus Loew, Joseph Schenck, William Goetz, Adolph Zukor et al. It's no wonder, then, that Hollywood history overflows with Jewish filmmakers, actors and producers. But for all the Spielbergs, Allens, Hoffmans and Weinsteins, one corner of Jewish life has often escaped the cinema: the world of the Orthodox Jew.

Above the Stag, an unpromising-looking, ominously shuttered gay pub in the ungainly heart of Victoria, a little miracle has been taking place. Word of mouth quickly sold out an intelligent adaptation of E M Forster's great coming-out novel Maurice, so the run has been extended until this Saturday. At the time of writing there were a few seats left for the final performance; as for a transfer, who knows?

Friends bought tickets for this one, so I came to it fearing all that's bad about pub theatre (and from some I've seen, it couldn't be much worse). How wrong I was. Roger Parsley and Andy Graham have selected nearly all of Forster's most significant one-to-ones. The clarity of his prose keeps datedness or sentimentality at bay, and it's much assisted by Tim McArthur's sure-footed direction as well as some first-class acting from Adam Lilley's ambivalent hero - excellent in conflict with poor sister Ada (Persia Lawson) - and from Jonathan Hansler in two consummate cameos. Unless you're fixated on the image of Rupert Graves's gamekeeper in the cagier Merchant-Ivory film - I'm not - then Stevie Raine's Alec is all that could be desired. Further details from Above the Stag Theatre's website.

Regular punters at the King’s Head are familiar with cheerily naked gay romps, they are quite a speciality in this much favoured North London haunt, possibly enhanced by the intimate dimensions of the theatre itself. In Martin Lewton's Lord Arthur's Bed the stark lighting and very basic set – a double bed and a dining chair – further highlight the sensation of almost prurient proximity, something almost immediately addressed by Ruaraidh Murray’s very in-yer-face Jim, who tells the audience that “you are our webcam”.

Everything has been immaculately planned for the big event of the evening: the prized possessions arrayed like trophies on the desk, the chosen suit laid out ready to wear, the perfectly colour co-ordinated tie alongside it with a note specifying, "Windsor knot".  Yes, indeed: it will be a death in the best possible taste, a very British suicide.

Playwright Joe Orton's untimely death has often threatened to eclipse his life. On 9 August 1967, he was murdered by his lover, Kenneth Halliwell, who then committed suicide. Although Orton had completed the first draft of his masterpiece, What the Butler Saw, he'd never got around to writing a play called Prick Up Your Ears, whose naughty, innuendo-heavy title had been suggested by Halliwell. But the title lived on. First as John Lahr's 1978 biography, then as Stephen Frears's 1987 film and now as Simon Bent's new play.

Play titles can acquire a life of their own. Playwright Joe Orton, who met a violent end in August 1967, didn’t have the chance to write the play that was to be called Prick Up Your Ears, but the title has lived on. And on. It was used by critic John Lahr for his 1978 biography of Orton, and by Stephen Frears for his 1987 film, which starred Gary Oldman. Now a new black comedy, written by Simon Bent and currently at the Comedy Theatre in the West End, uses the same title, with its naughty anagram - just shuffle the letters of the last word and you’ll see what I mean.