TELEVISION and RADIO
TALK, talk, talk, does nothing ever happen here but talk?—Thus, or in words to this effect, the German engineer in Denis John- ston's The Moon and the Yellow River. Precisely. But what else, at certain times, does one want but talk? Of course the story of this unforgettable play that so perfectly catches the mood of the Ireland of the 20s had to be told, and the characters to display themselves. But it was the talk that carried us forward under the movement of its own melody of sense and sound so that we really scarcely minded whither the story led us or whether it ended. Of course Denis Johnston had something important to say on a problem of human relationships (though, as he points out, he has been saying it all his life and nobody has noticed what it is) but his meaning was conveyed not in action and situation but in what his characters reflected and spoke about their actions.
Why then televise this play? some one might ask. Why not, as far as broadcasting is concerned, leave this lovely yellow river of words to flow on in sound radio to which
it would surely adapt so well, and, in merely listening to it, imagine everything that happens? The answer was given to us who saw the play on television on Sunday night. It was not the rather unconvincing sets, nor the somewhat ragged visual production, nor even the noble appearance of Malcolm Keen and the poignant charm of Denis O'Dea's looks and manner that persuaded us that this was worth putting out through the camera as well as the microphone. No, it was just the simple fact that, if two of our senses are appealed to at the same time, our attention even in such a play of sound and words, but no fury, is more easily held.
Is this such a platitude as it may appear when thus baldly set down? I hope not. There may have been many viewers in Britain who could not, or would not, have cared to make head or tail of Sunday night's play however it had been presented. At the same time, there must have been many who listened to it to the end (perhaps a trifle uneasily) just because they were able to look as well as listen. They would have switched off their radio sets well before half-time.
It is the same with music. One ought to be able to enjoy pure sound for its own sake— and particularly after a quarter of a century of some of the best music in the world com- ing to us over the 'blind radio.' But no. Anyone who has enjoyed the sensation which television alone can give of sitting in the midst of an orchestra while hearing the sounds from the body of the hall is not likely to sit back, close his eyes, and just listen. Words and music, sound and talk, such as we heard in The Moon and the Yellow River. It may be a paradox, but it is none the less true that, through the gift of sight, these are amongst the best things that television has given to us—especially on Sunday nights.
MORAY MCLAREN
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