Theatre
Departures
Mark Amory
The Mayor of Zalamea (Cottesloe) Much Ado About Nothing (Olivier) Tonight at 8.30 (Lyric) The Mayor of Zalamea is getting on for 350 years old, by CalderOn, a famous Spanish playwright with whom I am unfamiliar, and rarely performed in this country. 'Spaniards then were especially sensitive in matters of honour. Honour in the shape of virginity is the keynote', says the programme. Within moments the bare stage was filled with roistering peasants who swayed and waved their arms about while walking on the spot, .shouted things like 'You old fart' to one another and, worst of all, shouted it in verse: 'Let the bells go bloody ding-dong/ As we finish our little sing-song.' MY spirits sank, hovered for a moment just above zero and then, with the entrance of Michael Bryant, started a climb that scarcely faltered. He plays the rich and worthy peasant, who hides his not particularly beautiful daughter from the dashing captain (Daniel Massey) when troops are billeted on him. The captain contrives to meet her and almost up to the interval it seems to be a jolly, fastmoving romp. Like countless plays it becomes serious in the second half but unlike the overwhelming majority the transition is smoothly managed and the heavy stuff is more interesting than the light. The captain abducts the daughter and rapes her. She tells us about it in a long monologue, while the events are mimed behind her — a device which has been criticised but seemed to me effective. Bryant, who has become mayor, begs the rapist to marry her. On being refused he arrests him. As the subtitle is 'The Best Garrotting Ever Done' it is easy to see which way things are going. The unfamiliar values are comprehensible if not sympathetic. Marriage would have made everything all right apparent ly, otherwise the virgin's brother thought it his duty to kill her and she expected her father to do so. Calderon was a nobleman and he makes the commanding officer and the peasant mayor become friends, each admiring and understanding the qualities in the other. Michael Bryant, always excellent, surpasses himself. His faith in his own worth, which amounts to a pride, almost an arrogance equal to the aristocrats, is immediately apparent in his stance and his measured gait. His blank stare shows an immovable resolve, yet he can be tactical, even wily. When he kneels to beg before his enemy it is painful but credible. It must be done. The production is strongly cast and beautifully lit.
Having cast Michael Gambon and Penelope Wilton in Much Ado About Nothing, you (by which I mean I) might think you could wander off and wait for success. Peter Gill has not quite done that but he does seem to have simply applied an approach that has served before and the result is a little flat. All is elegance and clarity (except for some suburban roofs seen from above as if you were about to land at London airport). The plot is so clear that the misunderstandings seem unreasonable. Would two old sophisticates like Beatrice and Benedick be gulled so easily into believing the other in love? Would Don Pedro jump so quickly to the conclusion that the figure accepting advances is Hero, or her fiancé Claudio then behave so ruthlessly? No hints or explanations are offered. Dogberry, the comic low-lifer, gets a merciful move on, but is not funny. The tricky scene after Hero has been humiliated at the altar becomes a touching declaration of love, so Beatrice's `Kill Claudio' is a request to the only man she can ask, to do no more than she would do herself if she were a man. This is fine and all objections would fly if only there were more laughter. When early on the resourceful Gambon was downstage left and the mettlesome Wilton downstage right for a game of singles, a happy smile of anticipation spread over my face. It lingered, began to ache and departed. Not for good, but an evening that should have been delightful was only pleasant.
Tonight at 8.30 isn't. It is at eight o' clock and consists of only three of the nine short plays Noel Coward wrote to show off, well not exactly the versatility of himself and Gertrude Lawrence, more the fact that they could get away with it. It is not clear that John Standing and Estelle Kohler can. 'You move easily', she says to him, and he has a nice insouciant way with a cane too, but neither of them quite dances. Neither of them quite sings either. I came to dread the music starting in the first one, Shadow Play, a mini Private Lives, which I had enjoyed at the much smaller King's Head. Hands Across the Sea is a simple comedy of bad manners and misunderstanding which works happily. Red Pep pers is about a tenth-rate variety act on and off stage and the fun must have depended on seeing superstars slumming. These are not superstars. Estelle Kohler manages a voice jagged with sophistication and throws in moues, gurgles and shrugs, but charm eludes her. John Standing has that and the right apparently casual style and just about saves the evening; but on second thoughts 8.30 or a bit later might be a good time to go.
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