Theatre
Horse laugh
'Kenneth Hurren
Birds of Paradise by Gaby Bruyere, English version by Michael Pertwee; with Moira Lister (Garrick Theatre, London).
Sometime, which was evidently long before any of us was born, and for reasons which seem to have been lost in the mists of antiquity, the French acquired a certain dashing reputation for worldliness and insouciance in sexual matters that was the envy
of more inhibited peoples like the British, to whom the carnal relationships of men and women, if mentioned at all, were matters so deeply embarrassing that refuge could only be taken in smirks and snickers or, at best, a hearty lavatorial bawdiness. It was a reputation that mysteriously survived theatrical generations of the genre 'French farce,' which was founded almost exclusively on the more ribald aspects of adultery, the capabilities of lovers and the coquettish ways of mistresses. It seems unlikely, however, that it can survive many exhibits of the calibre of Birds of Paradise, which is alleged to have had an enormous success in Paris, even though its general approach to sex would surely seem a touch unsophisticated to the residents of Huddersfield (if you're a resident of Huddersfield, I mean Scunthorpe), while the originality and wit of its humorous invention might easily dismay Hughie Green (if you're Hughie Green, I mean Des O'Connor).
It would not, of course, dismay Michael Pertwee, who is notoriously hard to dismay; indeed, it is possible that the only thing that could cloud his horizon would be a compliment trom this reviewer, which would plainly lead him to suspect that he had somehow lost the knack of that paralysing witlessness that is his very own box-office gusher. Frankly, I think he's safe enough. Bird of Paradise is open proof that when his personal inspiration runs dry (and Don't Just Lie There, Say Something must have taken
serious toll of it), he can go unerringly to the right source for a translation job. There can't be many foreign works that share his wavelength as precisely as Mlle Bruyere's little lulu, which is about an Edwardian widow who purchases a bordello in the Virgin Islands (where else?) in the belief that it is a riding school. The mistake ensues from the property agent's guarded references to an establishment offering an attractive choice of mounts and no shortage of keen stallions, and the first act is mostly taken up with the innocent matron (played bY Moira Lister) talking about the horse, and the agent (Robert Coote) talking about the whores, both parties believing they are talking about the same activities. The humorous possibilities 'bf this wheeze are swiftly exhausted even allowing a certain peripheral academic interest in the linguistic point that sexual-equine ambiguities are apparently common to the English and French tongues), but even the widow's enlightenment brings no relief, for in the second act her formidablY respectable aunt turns up and the gamut is run relentlessly again: the fillies, the use of the whip, the beginners whose performances will be carefully watched, the older members needing special encouragement to come more frequently. It is doubtful whether the double entendre has ever before been pursued so single' mindedly, and the ineffable Pertwee seems not to be done with it even yet. I see his next piece Is called A Bit Between the Teeth.
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