ON THE AIR It is, thank heaven, no part of
my business to express any opinion on the content of the talks which Mr. Attlee and Mr. Eden gave last week. I am Concerned with them merely as broadcasters, and as broadcasters I thought them curiously similar—competent but undistinguished. Neither showed any tendency to rant, for which we must be duly thankful ; both were quiet, sober, reasonable and clear. They reduced their arguments to common terms, and their language was that of plain, level-headed business-men. But they failed to achieve real intimacy ; there was no distinction of phrase, no colour, no warmth, nothing to inspire the listener. Clearly they do not possess the mysterious, indefinable gift which we know as the microphone manner.
* * * * Nevill Coghill's version of The Canterbury Tales, which came to an end last week, is one of the best things the Third Programme has given us. The Reve's Tale, which concluded the series, was excellently done, and the use of dialect to differentiate character was an admirable stroke, in my opinion completely successful. Stephen Potter, the producer, Robert Mawdesley, the reader, and James McKechnie as the Reve must share with Mr. Coghill the honours of a worthy conclusion to a memorable series. These programmes would be well worth reviving at a later date.
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Owing to its clashing with Mr. Anthony Eden, I heard only the latter half of Vernon Watkins's Ballad of the Mari Lwyd. But I heard enough to make it clear that •this poem, based on the old Welsh Christmas custom of the Mari Lwyd, is an impressive piece of work, with a distinctive and evocative quality about it. I hope there will be another opportunity to hear it in full.
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Evelyn Waugh's play, A Handful of Dust, succeeded admirably in conveying the atmosphere of aimless frustration which char- acterised the 1920's. In the adaptation by Denis Constanduros it was also good radio. The dialogue was terse and telling ; the suc- cession of short, quickly-changing scenes—some of them only a line or two long—produced a restless effect which accorded well with the dramatist's argument ; and, most important of all, the play had something vital to say. Felix Felton's production had the smooth competence which we have learned to expect in his work. He had the support of an excellent cast, of whom I thought Leslie Banks, Hugh Burden and Belle Chrystall particularly effective.
* * * * Floods, a short topical feature inserted into the Light Programme on Thursday, brought together some vivid descriptions by B.B.C. observers of the devastation caused by the floods in the Fen country and of the heroic fight waged by the inhabitants, the Army, the R.A.F. and German prisoners against the catastrophe. It was a thing that needed doing, and it was well done. The only criticism I have to offer is that an insufficiency of background information was provided. The detail was excellently presented, but the overall picture did not emerge. We saw the trees clearly enough ; the wood remained unrealised. * * * * Rayner Heppenstall's Professional Portrait of a ballerina, founded on the career and personality of Margot Fonteyn, gave us a fascinating picture of that curiously unreal, multilingual world in- habited by coryphies and balletomanes. But it did not seem to me to stick closely enough to its theme. The years of grinding tutelage and the severe self-discipline which go to the making of a ballerina were, I thought, rather glossed over ; while the synopsis of Swan Lake and the recorded interviews with Frederick Ashton and Robert Helpmann, interesting though they were in themselves, seemed to me irrelevant. It was a portrait of the ballet rather than of a ballerina ; but it was a most enjoyable programme.
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Incautiously switching on ten minutes early for the 9 p.m. news on - Saturday, I encountered the last item of Music Hall, which happened to be Jimmy James. Perhaps it was one of his off-nights, but rarely have I heard anything more laboriously unfunny ; and—much worse —he committed the unforgivable sin for a broadcaster of playing to the studio audience, whose eager bursts of sycophantic laughter were dominated by a shrill woman apparently on the verge of hysterics. I do not know whether the B.B.C. follow the traditional music-hall practice of keeping the best—or what is reputed to be the best—until last; if so I am happy to have missed the remainder
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