Contemporary Arts
Past imperfect
The Master of Santiago. By
Henry de Montherlant. (Lyric, Hammersmith.)—
Justice Fielding. By Roy Walker. (Guildford Theatre.)—King Uldipus. Translated by C. A. Try- panis. (Oxford Poetry Society.)—The Duchess of Maffl. By John Webster. (Theatre Royal, Stratford, E15.)
To find that plays written about the past are nearly always inferior to those written in it is infuriating, but I suppose it is not very surprising. Historically minded playwrights wanting to make an impact on a modern audience seem to get forced into line with either moral-mongers or Merrie Englanders; and with fatal results. The moral-monger, relying on the reputable fallacy that history repeats itself, presents the problems of his own time in terms of another. Unfortu- nately, it is ten to one that 'now' differs radically from 'then' at the crucial point, and if it does not, why not write a play about 'now'? You will save your management the expense of hiring Greek chitons or what have you, while the cast's own espresso-coffee-stained pullovers will incite you to be realistic and will have twice as much effect on the audience. More commonly, especi- ally if he has an eye on his pocket, the author will find himself in the other camp. 'Let us,' he says, 'evoke atmosphere. Let us conjure up for you the simplicity/squalor of Medimval England, the mirth/melancholy of Elizabethan London, the loves/lechery of the Restoration court. If for a brief moment you-have been transported to those far-off times by my magic my task is done; I can die happy and I don't care a groat/guinea for the moral.' There's no denying, either, that it can be done after a fashion. Many a Hollywood director has died happy (and affluent) in the knowledge that he has conjured up just these things and many
• more besides—the splendour/savagery of Baby- lon, the beauty/ blood of the Incas, etc. etc. What he does not realise, or doesn't care if he does, is that his papier-mache temples are thronged in the minds of his audience (and against all historical probability) with 'little people just like you and me,' worrying about their corns and the payments on the telly. Neither he nor the playwright can produce within the small confines of a film or play more than a cardboard travesty of any other age; and unless he is a genius it is futile to try; if, on the other hand, he is concerned to shed light on his own, why Can't he state his moral in modern terms instead of tarting it up in fancy dress?
Take the case of M. de Montherlant's play dis- interred at the Lyric, Hammersmith. The Master of Santiago is a man of stratospheric moral prin- ciple living at the beginning of the sixteenth cen- tury—an age of plunging worldliness. He is the head of a dwindling Order of Spanish chivalry whose members, now that the Moors have been expelled, prefer to line their,pockets in the New World rather than carry the war into their souls. The Master himself has only been prevented from entering a monastery'by his duty to the Order and the necessity of bringing up his daughter, and in the course of the play solves this dilemma by leaving the first to its fate, and taking the second into the monastery with him after she has given up for him her only hope of marriage. This un- compromising and, to my mind, repulsive 'saint' is played with immense control by Donald Wolfit. Gone is the thunder, the catch in the voice, the slightly quivering hand, the dying fall, but the result, theatrically speaking; is enormously effec- tive. Well acted, well staged, well produced (by Mr. Wolfit), it is still totally unsatisfactory, be- cause M. de Montherlant is wasting his time and ours. Is this an effort to portray the Spain of El Greco and Saint Theresa or has it something to say about the decadence and worldliness of the twentieth century? If it is the first it does not get within a thousand miles of it—an hour's reading of St. John of the Cross is worth a hundred Masters if you want to, know about Spanish mysticism. If it is the second it quite fails to make its point for the obvious reason that the parallel breaks down catastrophically at all but the most superficial levels.
I do not want to overlabour this point, but since it applies conveniently to Roy Walker's play at Guildford, I had better go into it a little more. Henry Fielding, the novelist, was also a Justice of the Peace and soon before he left England for the last time, though he was dying, he became involved with one of the most notorious causes celebres of the eighteenth century—the case of Elizabeth Canning, a poor maidservant who claimed to have been kidnapped and locked up in a bawdy house by some gipsies. It transpired after the conviction of the gipsies that some of the witnesses had been suborned, and Elizabeth Canning was tried, sentenced and deported for wilful and -malicious perjury. Fielding's conten- tion, which he upheld in a-virulent pamphlet on the subject, was that the girl was telling the truth, and Mr. -Walker follows suit. Edward Burnham produces his version very lucidly and makes a good job of Fielding, playing him, as the author - intended; as a brave, sick 'man fighting' for justice whatever -the consequences to himself (or, for that matter, to the girl); his supporters are as compe- tent as one could wish. This makes in many ways a far more rewarding evening than M. de Montherlant'S rehashed religiosity; it is light- weight, being half detective story in fancy dress, half Merrie England, but Mr. Walker, by keeping close to Fielding's tract, produces moments of the authentic eighteenth century which no amount of painstaking reconstruCtioh could have achieved; these moments, when one gets the impression that Fielding had written the play himself, are what excite—when it ceases to be about the 'past and becomes a part of it.
With CEdipus we don't' need to bother about authenticity; which is just -as well, since its fate is now in the hands' of translators who Must per- force do their best to 'make it' less 'of its 'time' in order to make' it comprehensible to modern audiences. Still, the best translator's will keep as much 'of the Greek flavour as possible, and this Professor Trypanis -is uniquely qualified to do. His version is lucid, perhaps, in places, almost to the point of transparency, but it is eminently actable •and producible—as his production and cast have shown us. '
As for The Duchess of Malfi, she is literally a voice from the tomb, an Elizabethan, Grand Guignol corpse of the most blistering improba- bility and yet unmistakable veracity. One goes armoured with foreknowledge and a' mind which has 'supped full of horrors,' prepared to laugh rather than to weep at such outmoded stuff as hanged waxworks figures, dancing madmen and dummy dead hands. But no; it turns out that this kind of cosy family business has far more frisson than Things from outer space or even atomic mud. Theatre Workshop makes an admirable shot at it, playing the piece straight from the dagger arm. Avis Bunnage is not quite young enough for the Duchess, but she wrings the withers all right. The Stratford Theatre is the ideal spot to stage this tragedy—a cheerful and wholly satisfying air of slow decay hangs above the place. The seats are far more comfortable than tombstoriek, but they sometimes have the same chill about them.
DAVID WATT
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