Contemporary Arts
Festival Blues
As the last maroon echoes over the castle, as the last cocktail is drunk and the last dramatic critic speeds southwards with an increased blood alcohol content and a bad attack of cultural indigestion, the thoughts of the more hardened festival-goers turn to comparisons, which, if not odious, are usually to the dis- advantage of the experience they have just undergone. It is, therefore, advisable, when on the point of devoting a blistering paragraph to some festival event, to take a deep breath and ask oneself if mere exhaustion has not some- thing to do with one's unfavourable reaction. However, having had a week in which to think
over my immediate reaction to Thornton Wilder's new play, A Life in the Sun, I am confident that pure fatigue is not responsible for the boredom and irritation I felt when watching it.
The play is a version of the Alcestis myth and therefore comes under the rules which govern the use of classical mythology in modern drama. To achieve this successfully two things seem to me to be essential : first, a certain poetic quality in the writing and, secondly, something to say. Neither of these is present in Mr. Wilder's play. The moral of it (that forgiveness is a very desirable thing) is drawn from the tritely murky depths of nineteenth-century American transcendental- ism, and this message is conveyed in a style which is prosy in the extreme. Moreover, Mr. Wilder has little sense of form; the shape of the play has been ruined by a last act dealing with what happened to Alcestis after she rose from the dead, and its tone has been robbed of all classicism by the introduction of pseudo- Shakespearean characters (a comic porter and nurse) whose particular brand of home-spun humour is out of place in this setting. Let me be understood: I am not making a plea for pure tragedy in the manner of Racine, but, when dealing with a story that the audience already know, it is absolutely necessary to sustain the maximum amount of tension. Now rustic wit and wisdom can only lower the ten-. sion (since the story is known, the suspense which comes from the awaiting of the un- expected is no longer possible) especially when they are not accompanied by any very impres- sive creation of character. To compare Mr. Wilder's play with that of any French drama- tist doing the same thing (Anouilh's Antigone, for example) is to see how gravely he sins in the matter of form. The only thing that can be said in favour of the way he has handled his myth is that it is perfectly adapted to the tedium of the philosophy which the play is intended to convey.
This being so, it is to the credit of Tyrone Guthrie, the producer, that he has managed to extract some dramatic moments from the wreckage. The challenge extended by Hercules to Death, the rush of the plague-stricken in- habitants of Thessaly in the last act—these effects owe everything to good production and good acting. Alcestis is played by Irene Worth with great dignity and pathos, and Rupert Davies achieves the considerable feat of making Hercules a sympathetic character and not a mere bullock on the loose. It was a pity that all this talent should.have been wasted on a play that is pretentious to very little purpose. I have always been in favour of plays that are thought by their authors, but then I mean thought. You know, the past participle of the verb to think.
Also illustrating the dangers of Greek back- grounds to modern plays was Jack Ronder's The Daughter of the Dawn, which was per- formed by the Edinburgh University Dramatic Society at the opening of the very smart new University Theatre (an event that does estdit to those responsible). Mr. Ronder's play is a vague allegory about someone who decides to open the eyes of a goddess and of the conse- quences that follow. The actual allegorising is not particularly interesting, but there was a good moment at the beginning of the second act when a group of Athenian proles represent in song and dance the daily round of their exceedingly dreary lives. This was well done by the company and its effectiveness makes me think that Mr. Ronder might do better if he were to allow himself this kind of pastiche more often. Better than this was the perform- ance (the first in this country) of Franticek Langer's Periphery by the Oxford Theatre Group. This company is blessed with a singu- larly talented producer in Patrick Dromgoole, and he made the most of a play in the very height of expressionist fashion. This tragedy of a murderer with a conscience has been criti- cised as morbid and dated, but it is only com- prehensible if the social criticism aspect of it is taken into account. Like so much expression- ist art, it is the story of a Candide of the slums, and the world of prostitutes and policemen in which be dwells necessarily produces murder as a by-product. The singularity of Franzi lies in his possessing a conscience, not in his com- mitting a crime, and his exceptional character is well brought out by the acting of Michael Cox (though his voice is a little too refined for his environment). Angela Crowe was perhaps better as Anna, the prostitute with whom he falls in love; she managed to be bold without being too brassy. This was a very effective play performed in a way that does credit to company and producer. Unfortunately, there is some doubt whether they will be back next year, as the City of Edinburgh rather foolishly wishes td oust them from Riddle's Court in favour of an exhibition of children's art, there-
by exemplifying the inability of municipal authorities to leave well alone. It would be a
pity to lose a company who have produced much of the good drama of the festival 'fringe' as well as (in Night Shift) one of the best inti- mate reviews I have seen for some time.
Other 'fringe' shows this year include the London Club Theatre Group's Act of Madness,
by John Wiles. This is, I believe, Mr. Wiles's first play, and he has succeeded in producing a most effective thriller. It is the story of an attempt to assassinate a dictator behind the Iron Curtain, and its twists and turns keep up the suspense throughout. This play should ob- viously go to the West End : as pure entertain- ment it is better than most things of its kind, though it has its serious side as well. John Stratton is very good as Rapcev, the villainous chief of police, and Jack Rodney brings to the part of the would-be assassin a judicious mix-
ture of nerves and idealism. At the Palladium is the only purely Scottish contribution to the dramatic side of the festival: The World's Wonder, by Alexander Reid. This is a pleasant little fairy-tale about Michael Scott, the war- lock, a wicked Provost and a pair of young lovers, and it is notable for the presence of Duncan Macrae, whose magic tricks were more comprehensible to one Englishman than were his broad Scots jokes. This simple tale might equally well have been performed by marion- ettes and was produced as such. It made a welcome break in the more portentous festival business.
With this selection from the 'fringe' I come once again to the job of summing up the dramatic side of the festival. By and large this has been disappointing, and, at the risk of being tedious, I must repeat that the organisers of the official festival do not realise how much they owe to the various companies (amateur and professional) who come to Edinburgh year after year to produce plays for the list of what are called 'additional entertainments.' Let me put it another way: why should a London dramatic critic come to Edinburgh this year? Not to see the Old Vic and Edwige Feuillere. He will see them in London. Not, as far as I am concerned, to see Mr. Wilder's rehashing of Greek mythology. What makes the festival in- teresting to a critic at the moment is the col- lection of new plays, new producers and new companies around its edges. These are interest- ing; the official offerings are not. Instead of taking part in idiotic controversies as to whether the citizens of Edinburgh have the proper festival spirit or not, those most con- cerned with this considerable event in the world of art should be questioning the standard of the official productions. That is the debate that should be going on in Edinburgh. And it is not.
ANTHONY HARTLEY
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