DIARY
JOHN OSBORNE
Each year the longest nights of winter are heralded by the Standard Drama Awards, and every year the awards are accompanied by strident appeals for The New Play. Last week 87 proselytising play- wrights wrote to the Guardian on behalf of this endangered species. Eighty-seven! Can there be so many on the planet? The letter Was followed by a shrill article claiming that for the English theatre to survive, let alone flourish, the production of 300 new plays a Year, countrywide, was essential. Three hun- dred!What on earth could anyone do with 300 new plays? Does every producer have a bottom drawer overflowing with them? Has anyone thought what they might be like? The 87's premise was that a concerted dis- play of 'output' is a means of releasing energy and discovery, a guarantee of atten- tion and success. But when I was employed reading scripts for the English Stage Com- P,anY, I was warned by its artistic director, George Devine, of the perils of such hopes. You'll have hundreds of scripts on that desk, and do you know how many will be even producible? About three.' Who can contemplate 300 — or even 87— good new Plays, or fine paintings, or hummable tunes, turning up in the space of a year? People, in and out of the profession, seem to believe that the theatre constantly renews itself. Well, it doesn't. Why should we be burdened by the expectation? Only journal- ists are interested in bullying the appear- ance of — new stars. In the meantime, the rest of us can wait cheerfully, if not hopefully.
Because of my nocturnal habits, I thought I was immune to the chimes of mid- night on television. Even so, it wassome- thing of a shock when, in a discussion on rape and erections of all things, one of the participants did a Lyndon Johnson and took It out. It was therefore with some relief at teatime the next day that I switched on the saner world of Just William. How the Public Library carpers can accuse Richmal Cromp- ton of being humourless and unable to write is, as William would say, beyond me. She authentically Pinpointed the childhood experiences of an entire generation. The stones skilfully evoke a tightly knit section of English society, and the television adap- tations are unselfconsciously circumspect and splendidly cast. Some critic made the bizarre suggestion that William Brown was Upper class'. He was a notch well above the social ratings of boys like myself, but the Browns were simply what was then known as 'well off. They ran a car and went for Sunday trips to Eastbourne. They led lives Of ineffable dullness, quite free of anxiety and doubt As a boy, I knew the Browns well. They were the Walls, and they were the only people who were nice to me. Their son, Mickey, was my best friend and confidant. 'Well, that's what we jolly well want. Free speech. I'm sick of bein' told to shut up the minute I open my mouth. Well, it's funny to me we haven't all turned deaf an' dumb.' Mickey shared William's gothic fantasies and his jaunty mongrel charm and belliger- ence. His attempts to be 'nice' or helpful were always disastrous. He was burdened by a snooty sister with tennis club suitors and a brother who was always sloppily in love. What I found hard to believe then was that William's admiring readership included girls, mostly middle-class, free-wheeling Joan Hunter-Dunn sort of girls. As a viewer, I'm equally baffled that the BBC has deprived awful Violet Elizabeth Bott of her lisp. 'I'll thcweem and I'll thcweem till I make myself thick.' Oh, no, you won't, you verbally chal- lenged young girl.
Shakespeare was probably the first and last playwright to be chummy with the roy- als and, it has to be admitted, he did suck up a bit. So it was something of a surprise to be invited to what I suppose you would call a soirée, albeit a very large one, at Buckingham Palace. The wife's republican hackles rose a bit, but we dusted ourselves down and set off rather apprehensively. I had no idea what to expect, or why people in high places should have enlarged the holes in their net to include upstarts like myself. I had the feeling that their curiosity was as straightforward as my own. It was equally surprising to meet three playwright friends there. They were just as startled to see me, and each other. Each was unnerved to discover that he was not the only drama- tist present and that his cover, consequent- ly, had been blown. All quickly, and sepa- rately, confided that they had been per- suaded to attend by their wives. Hare was with his enchanting new wife, Wesker reunited with his trusty old one and Pinter with the delectable Antonia, who certainly looked at home in the Throne Room. Now, if I am clamped by the tabloids as an old Tory blimp, they are just as crudely cast as Liberal-Lefties, and it took a good few glasses of excellent champagne for us all to agree we were having a spiffing time. Wesker and I ended up dancing down the Mall. I could almost hear George Devine dismissively spitting out the dottle from his pipe.
Anew threat hangs over these blue remembered hills. A bureaucratic debate of Toytown proportions has erupted about whether or not a bridleway in the woods above my house should be reclassified as a byway. There was an open meeting in the Memorial Hall supposedly to settle the issue. Against: the Locals. For: the Van- dals. The vandals come from far away: Greenlaners in four-wheel drives; Trail Riders on motorbikes; Land-rover Safaris, who enjoy what is known as a good 'bash'. They were represented by no less than three members of the County Council whose case rested on the Tithe Map of 1844 and an Inclosure Map of 1845, when the track in question was referred to as a Public Carriage Road and four wheels were pulled by horses. It was a surreal occasion. Anomolies' (sic) were admitted. Potential damage to wildlife was not deemed 'eviden- tial'. A British Telecom engineer from Shrewsbury claimed he regularly drove his bike and sidecar along the route when implausibly travelling the 25 miles from his home to our village shop. The Inspector, or Referee, took no shorthand and recorded every word in a laborious script as wit- nesses attested in brief, somnolent phras- es to accommodate him. The light failed. Business was adjourned. The site will be inspected by yet more Council members at a future date. The verdict will be deliv- ered in the spring. Are we all as doomed hedgehogs? Does this picking-over of ancient by-laws go on all over rural Eng- land? How much can it all cost? Have we lapsed into unblinking, automatic mad- ness?
Postscript on the Jews in Hollywood. My old friend, the late Harry Saltzman (Jewish and producer of the Bond films), had a favourite story. Nymie, an agent on the skids in Los Angeles, was finally clear- ing out his office when there was a knock on the door. It was Clark Gable, then at the height of his fame. 'I'm looking for a new agent,' he announced. 'Interested?' Nymie could scarcely believe his good fortune. Contracts were drawn up. Gable was just about to sign. 'By the way, are you Jewish?' he asked. An extended pause. 'Not neces- sarily,' came the reply.
Previous page
