CONTEMPORARY ARTS
THEATRE
WHEN Sister Agatha after more than thirty years in a convent decides that she has no vocation, it is only natural that her return to the world should pose problems, difficult enough in themselves, even without the strain of anlenforced adaptation to the post- war welfare state. She is lodged by her nephew and his wife—two young people who adhere strictly to the convention that courtesy between husband and wife is super- fluous—and is all set to fall into a pattern of good works appropriate to the conditions of 1913. But it doesn't happen that way. Charity is out of date, and Sister Agatha, after helping to resolve the problems of her young hosts, comes to the conclusion that shg must take a job and settle down to the business of living. Life is her vocation, says the Mother Superior.
This story is put on the stage by Bridget Boland in a series of effective scenes—the handling of the relationship between the young married couple is especially good. And yet this won't quite pass muster as a serious treatment of the subject. The original conflict between activa vita and contempldtiva vita is dissolved away in the luke-warm waters of reconciliation. Sister Agatha accepts life. The Mother Superior accepts her accepting life. But then what is she doing as a Mother Superior? There is a conflict between the world and the cloister which this play tries to gloss over. It ends with everyone being right, which is disap- pointing dramatically and wrong philoso- phically. I should like to know what St. Peter Damien would have had to say about it or, for the matter of that, Voltaire.
However, it is well-acted and well- produced. Flora Robson gives a virtuoso performance of halting sincerity as Sister Agatha, and Ann Watford isfeally charming as the modern girl. The action is swift, the writing competent. This makes a good evening's entertainment, but I hope that Miss Boland will one day give us the really serious play she is certainly capable of writing. * * It is goad for all of us to be reminded that there is •such a place as Lancash:re where meat pies are thrown at referees, where the jokes come off ,seaside post-cards and the most tragic event is Mrs. Entwistle's ginger cat having kittens in the rhubarb. In Glenn Melvyn's laughter show (his phrase, not mine) anyone can fill his lungs with salt arr from Blackpool and his mind with still saltier wit from the northern music- halls. The story is about how Mrs. Brown takes in a lodger and how the lodger turns out to be the referee Mr. Brown has just beaned with a meat pie and how our Rose gets engaged to Alf Hall and our Perce plays for United and how. . . . But there is no end to what goes on in Lancashire. You must see for yourselves. The revels are presided over by Arthur Askey as Mr. Bill Bitwn, ably assisted by Thora Hird as Sal Brown, his wife. Mr. Askey is rather less pert, rather more broadly humorous than usual, and can even assume the dignity of an outraged householder.
It is a family hot-pot done to a turn. Most people will gobble it up.
Theatre Workshop's East End production of Gogol's Government Inspector is a com- petent piece of production. Joan Littlewood extracts the maximum of farce and , yet manages to bring off the semi-tragic last scene which consummates the downfall of the Mayor. Harry Corbett was good as Hlestakov, the imposter, and Karl Woods as Ossip, his servant. The make-up of this last made him look like Harpo Marx- Harpo with a Scots accent. Howard Goorney as the Mayor carried the buffoonery a little further by looking even more like Groucho and this fitted his part admirably. Altogether it was quite an evening for the
Marx brothers. Karl, fortunately, was absent.
ANTHONY HARTLEY
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