CONTEMPORARY ARTS
THE THEATRE
"Present Laughter." By Noel Coward. (Haymarket.)
ONE of the odd things about Mr. Coward is' the way people take him for granted. If he were a horse learned men would write books about his versatility, admiring how the same animal could make the running at both Aintree and Epsom, compete with success at Olympia and adorn a ceremonial parade. Mutatis mutandis, this is roughly Mr. Coward's form in the world of entertainment, yet nobody seems surprised and comparatively few seem grateful. " Of course, he can do this sArt of thing on his head," said someone in the audience, and their tone conveyed the know-not-what of belittlement, as though to write, direct and act the leading part in a brilliantly amusing comedy was an achievement in some way unworthy and ill-timed ; like an Old Blue making a century in the Parents' Match at his son's private school.
It is true that Present Laughter has some of the elements of a private joke, but since the joke is a very good one, and not at all obscure, this does not matter. Garry Essendine is an actor of acknowledged eminence and almost nauseating popularity. The moths that hover round the bright but somewhat unstable flame of his personality are plentiful and strong on the wing. His charm is irresistible, and, though its victims mean little enough to Garry, his feckless exhibitionism allows few of the moths to escape unsinged. In the central episode of the play he lets himself be seduced by the predatory wife of his closest friend, 'a characteristic lapse which, characteristically, has no very dire repercussions, for the plot never competes seriously with the incidentals of this highly exotic tranche de vie. These include a Scandinavian cook addicted to spiritualism, a debutante resolute upon that fate which is worse than death and— best of all—a young playwright of the avant garde, whose gangling interventions give Mr. Robert Eddison the opportunity for a comic performance of the very highest order.
The whole cast, as a matter of fact, act beautifully. Mr. Coward leads them at a terrific pace and can seldom have been funnier. Miss Moira Lister invests the seductress with just the right equivocal glitter, Miss Joyce Carey, as Garry's wife, dispenses understanding and a measure of discipline with tact and skill, and Miss Joan Swinstead is particularly good as an astringent and imperturbable secretary.
A Major Beamish, whose name sounds cheerful, said in the House of Commons this week that the green woodpecker was one of the only living things in the British Isles that had retained its sense of humour under Socialism. Londoners, who cannot normally seek solace in listening to the yaffie's present laughter, will find Mr. Coward's a more than adequate substitute.
PETER FLEMING.
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