CONTEMPORARY ART S
THEATRE
"The Alchemist." By Ben Jonson. (New Theatre.) IN the theatre as well as outside it an imposture only becomes really interesting when it is threatened with exposure. In this comedy a threat is exerted at an early stage to the security of Subtle's chicanery; and it is wholly typical of the author's outlook and technique that Surly, who, smelling a rat, comes ex officio to represent the forces of light, wearing as it were the Sheriff's badge is described as a " game- ster." It is a revealing touch. The other characters comprise a Char- latan, a Rogue, a Bawd, an Ass, a Creature, a Dreamer, a Sceptic, a Religious Maniac, a Wealthy Bumpkin and so on ; almost any other dramatist would have welcomed the chance to let in a little wholesome fresh air, almost any other dramatist would have flashed the Sheriff's blameless badge and put down Surly as an Honest Fellow or a Plain Dealer. But not Ben Jonson, whose mood here is that no amount of black presupposes the existence of any white at all ; if the black has to be relieved—as for the purposes of drama it has—let it be - relieved by a dubious shade of grey. So a Gamester is the nearest we get to Galahad.
Disenchantment, rather than righteous indignation, underlies and animates this merciless exposure of the early sevententh-century underworld. The author's attack on folly and vice is sustained and vigorous, but it has little or nothing about it of the crusade ; his tech- nique may suggest Hogarth but his motives approximate to those of the Candid Cameraman. He no mere condemns the quacks than he pities their gulls. With the tough, skilful, disillusioned relish of s barker calling our attention to the peculiarities of a Bearded Lady or Siamese Twins, Ben Jonson analyses, with a nice blend of precision and extravagance, a recurrent campaign in the long, one-sided war between knaves and fools.
There must be many like myself who, put off by memories of " Jonson's learned sock " or by dialogue which, in the study, seems indigestibly rich in contemporary cant and allusion, have never expected The Alchemist to be good entertainment. I can only say that I know of none better in London. Mr. John Burrell's production attacks this harsh, murky, potentially atrabilious comedy with light- hearted gusto, and the Old Vic company seize with alacrity its numerous and great acting opportunities. The result is a kind of harlequinade, swift but full of lasting verities, seamy and sardonic but essentially gay. Mr. Ralph Richardson's Face is smooth and bold and full of resource, and he gives a fine performance ; but I thought he was almost too sure of himself, that as an imposter he was less interesting than he might have been if he had seemed less insensible to the risks of exposure which he courted so readily. Mr. George Relph, as the Alchemist, exuded mumbo-jumbo with glib and com- pelling authority ; Mr. Alec Guinness gave a curious, elfin import- ance to Abel Drugger ; Mr. Nicholas Hannen's superb portrait of Sir Epicure Mammon found (it seemed to me), the one weak spot in Jonson's armour of toughness, for it is to this worthless and ludicrous old lecher that Jonson characteristically entrusts a hint of the poet's immortal longings. Miss Joyce Redman, though not perhaps ideally cast, was a spirited Doll Common, and Mr. Frank Duncan, Mr. Michael Warre, Mr. Peter Copley, Mr. George Rose and Miss Margaret Leighton all rose splendidly to their diverse opportunities.
I left the theatre with the unexpected conviction that, if the object of comedy is to amuse the audience, Ben Jonson must be a much
better comic dramatist than Shakespeare. PETER FLEMING
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