25 MAY 1985, Page 38

Theatre

The Mysteries: 'Doomsday' (Lyceum)

Spirit level

Christopher Edwards

Readers of the Spectator will under- stand that the excellent writing on which it prides itself, and for which Mr Kingsley Amis praises it on television, flows from the fact that its contributors are not narrow journalists and politicians, but touch life (both high and low) at all points. This is true of the theatre reviewer no less than Taki and Jeffrey Bernard. When I am not writing for this magazine (an occupation which — to adapt Jowett on the study of the classics — elevates above the vulgar herd more than it leads to considerable emolument) I practise the law. And if my review this week is more sketchy than usual I have an unusual excuse to offer. Having completed my copy in good time, I left it on my desk to be photocopied, only to discover that it had instead been dis- patched, along with several Powers of Attorney and instructions how to register title to vessels flying the Panamanian flag, to a bank in Geneva. Swiss bankers are as a race both obedient and literal-minded. The combination is likely to produce paranoia. I envisage that when they read unusual instructions that they should all go to Mysteries, and in particular to the section entitled Doomsday, they will interpret this as a broad hint of impending financial disaster, and also of secret recommenda- tions on how to meet it. The Lyceum Theatre is likely to be filled with blinking men in badly cut suits and thick spectacles seeming to decipher coded directions. Perhaps it may even provoke a financial crisis. In the meantime I will attempt hastily to reconstruct my impressions of the production.

Doomsday is the last part in Tony Harrison's 'version' of the English Mediaeval Plays, and tells the story from the Resurrection to the Last Judgment. I denied myself the experience of sitting through the entire 11-hour cycle, but for those with Wagnerian stamina, The Nati- vity, The Passion and Doomsday may be had in one go, every Saturday. For those seasoned campaigners of theatrical epics — those for instance who `did' the entire Nicholas Nickleby show by the RSC in one day, this sort of assault course will un- doubtedly beckon.

Memories of an RSC marathon produc- tion did in fact come to mind, but they were not of the Dickens epic. I found myself comparing The Mysteries to John Barton's The Greeks, the point of compari- son being the relationship (or the lack of one) between the modernised `version' and the original source. The first thing you realised about The Greeks was that it had nothing to do with Greek tragedy, or with the heroic grandeur of purpose available 11 1 the original Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euri- pides and Homer. Barton also missed the compelling poetry of the great myths Harrison's The Mysteries has a terse poetic diction of its own — an earthy alliterative verse which has to be spoken in a York- shire accent. But although his trilogy IS based upon the York, Wakefield, Chester etc cycles, neither Harrison nor his director Bill Bryden appear interested in the origi: nal spirit of the cycles, which was one 01 popular religious teaching. The production therefore lacks any informing spirit of faith and sanctity, but without it what else there to give the cycles any dramatic weight?

Harrison attempts, instead, to recreate II local, homely Yorkshire idiom for th' simple story-telling which lies at the heart of the cycles. This demands a false naivety on the part of the audience for we have to pretend to be unlettered locals. The Virgin is played as a good simple soul from down the road. When her Son ascends to heaven she is moved to poetic utterance: `A cloud has borne my bairn to bliss', but she quickly reverts to homely type as He departs: 'Think of thy mother dear' — an injunction delivered in the tone she might use if she were telling Him to wrap up warmly.

The Resurrection is staged as a piece of divine escapology from a chained and locked magician's box; all that remains of Christ is his lounge suit. When the Virgin's coffin is carried through the town a punk soccer hooligan spits and shouts abuse at the Christians. Satan appears as a miner (soul not coal?) and there is an odd mixture of musical accompaniment ranging from the wailing electric guitar of the rock musical, to local brass band. The most spectacular moment is the vision of the souls in torment — a huge trompe-l'oeil globe turning on its axis and containing caged sinners.

The prevailing atmosphere is one of communal mateyness, for this is a prom- enade production, aimed wistfully at those with a democratic taste for rubbing shoul- ders with the actors. Although this sounds artificial, it proved very successful with the audience and seemed to generate a festive, relaxed but surprisingly attentive approach to the drama. For those who find this sort of thing exhausting, comfort may be taken from the thought that, although the indi- vidual plays have no interval, alcohol is available throughout the performance. So, after meeting Jesus on his 'walkabout', you can push your way through the crowd hanging around the Saviour and make your way to the crowd hanging around the bar.