Moral calamity
Lloyd Evans
Guantanamo New Ambassadors Judith Bloom Southwark Playhouse The Pub Landlord Cambridge Theatre
Tourists, not terrorists. That's the likeliest assessment of the Britons who have been released from Guantanamo Bay. Consider Jamal al-Harith, a Manchester student. One fine autumn morning this devout, if clippy, Muslim decided to go toddling off on a pilgrimage to Afghanistan. Nothing odd there, except the timing: October 2001. He should have known what would happen, The Taleban, as soon as they learnt he was British, suspected him of working for MI5. Not that Mr al-Harith cut much of an 007 figure in his flip-flops, T-shirt, ayatollah-beard and peakless cap embroidered with pearls of Mohammedan learning.
But someone who looks nothing like a spy is, of course, the perfect spy. They threw him in jail, no doubt jeering at him triumphantly, 'Ha, Mr Bond, we see through your flimsy disguise. Your American friends will never find you here.' Days later the Americans rode into town and liberated the jail. But they didn't like the look of him any more than the Taleban had. Condemned as a member of the very sect which had imprisoned him, the sad disciple was shipped off to Camp X-Ray where he spent two years doing very little but reading the Koran, saying his prayers and discussing the meaning of life through the chicken-wire with his fellow inmates. He was released earlier this year.
The itchy fundamentalists still languishing there, in their famous tangerine rompersuits, have only the sacred texts to occupy their attention. Each of them, apparently, has the whole book by heart, and Guantanamo College, Cuba, is now the world's leading centre for Koranic interpretation and debate, The Americans should formalise the institution and offer diplomas in Islamic divinity to overseas students. Instead they're building a military courtroom with an execution chamber en suite. This quiet, measured and forceful show exposes the moral calamity that is unfolding in Cuba. It's a calamity, principally, for those who admire American values. The relatives of the prisoners are growing desperate. This tragic gem of a letter, reproduced in the programme, was sent to St James's Palace by Ana El-Banna, the sevenyear-old son of a detainee. 'Dear Prince Charles. Hello. How are you. I hope you read my letter soon and you OK. this is my first time writing to a prince. I always read tories that say the prince is a good man and loves to help people.'
A playwright who shows characters falling in love is taking a risk. There's something about lovers that instantly revolts an audience. One solution is to make them serial bickerers (Beatrice and Benedick, Harry and Sally). The other is to surround them with external dangers (Romeo and Juliet, A Fish Called Wanda). A third approach is to ignore conventional wisdom and to rely on smart, witty dialogue and the warmth of the characters to carry you through. Woody Allen manages this in Annie Hall. Peter Elkins does so too in his funny and touching new play, Judith Bloom. Elkins traces the romance from the hesitant tendernesses of the first meeting to the perfunctory familiarities of the bitter-sweet parting. Very little happens in the play, a sure sign of confidence in the writer. This absorbing and beautifully staged show proves that that confidence is fully justified. If you're there, have a glass of the house white, which is inexpensive and delicious — unlike the cans of Carling at The Pub Landlord's show which are marked up by 500 per cent.
Al Murray seems eager to squeeze every last penny from his hugely successful franchise. The good news is that The Pub Landlord is an extraordinary creation, a sexist and reactionary little-Englander who is utterly adorable. This acute piece of social observation would work before any audience, the Institute of Directors, the Globalise Resistance Movement or the BNP. Sadly, judging from the numbers of shaven heads I saw crowding the stalls like winter turnips, some of Murray's fans regard him as a spokesman rather than a satirist. When Warren Mitchell played Alf Garnett, he too was hailed in the street as a saviour.
But Al Murray is more lyrical and sophisticated than Warren Mitchell. He has a wonderful gift of improvisation and he enriches his character with subtle graces. The Pub Landlord speaks with the autodidact's faintly erudite turn of phrase. Finding a foreigner in the crowd, he asks politely, 'From which vanquished nation do you hail?' This is far more than a piece of stand-up; it's a state-of-the-nation morality play — the mirror we hardly dare peek into.
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