THEATRE
The little boys in the band
KENNETH HURREN
There are those who would have you believe that to take a frivolous view of Henry de Montherlant's La Ville dont le Prince est tin Enfant (with which the Theatre Michel opened
this year's World Theatre Season at the Aldwych last week) is something closely akin to giggling in church. The author himself believes its theme to be of such delicacy that he resisted all requests for the stage rights for fifteen years and even now, two decades after its publication, feels able to entrust it only to the tender handling of Jean Meyer and the Theatre Michel. I'm sorry I can't take his tale of mild and latent homosexu- ality in a Catholic boys' school quite as seriously as he would wish.
One of the little fellows is fourth-former Souplier, an unprepossessing enough urchin as personated by Dominique Pennors, but regular catnip to young and old alike. That sixth-former, Sevrais (Gil de Lesparda), surely isn't simply filled with an altruistic desire to help him with his grammar and algebra; and as for the school's vice-prin- cipal, the Abb6 de Pradts, isn't there something a touch carnal in the -way he so tenderly takes those grubby little hands in his own? Indeed there is. This, it is pon-
derously implied, is why the Abbe intervenes in the friendship of Souplier and Sevrais and, later, coming upon them in what seems to him a clandestine assignation, has Sevrais ex- pelled. But if de Pradts thereby hopes to get Souplier to himself, he is foiled by the head- master who expels the younger boy, too, and takes the occasion to bring de Pradts back to a proper concern with souls and minds, and to the love of God. The older cleric lays the facts of the holy life on the line in an in- terview that ranks high on my list of 'conversations I doubt ever took place': his statement, I daresay, would seem arresting enough in an essay, or even a letter, but as man-to-man or priest-to-priest talk (though beautifully underplayed by Paul Guers and Yves Brainville) it's not my chalice.
The real-life background that is presumably expected to give an extra dimension of interest to these humdrum pro- ceedings is that de Montherlant himself was expelled from his school in similar circumstances; which would seem to be the vital clue to what's wrong with the play, apart from its total lack of dramatic tension. Though ostensibly about the Abbe and his sexual-spiritual problems, it is clearly written subjectively from Sevrais's point of view. De Montherlant has said that only the scene between the two priests is wholly imaginary ('since I was obviously not present at their confrontation'), but there's a powerful im- pression that everything else is being selec-
tively handled and that what we have here is an elaborate 'rationalisation' of a long-ago incident that still bothers the dramatist.
Conviction cannot be said to peal through any of the relationships as presented here, and the slanting of the play to establish the innocence of Sevrais and the culpability of the Abbe is achieved at the expense of the intellectual sinew we expect from this Writer. All right, all right, de Montherlant, we accept that half-a-century ago you were unfairly victimised; but don't make such a big production of it, old chap. I mean, this is Your second play on the subject, and there was a novel, too. Come now, let's let by- gones be bygones.
I was more taken with the delicacy of another French occasion (how the foyers have reeked of garlic and Gauloises): to wit, the one-off appearance of Juliette Greco at the Royal Festival Hall, which drew a goodly crowd of young admirers as well as the old- timers who fell in thrall to her long ago in the smoky cellars of St-Germain-des-Pres. As always, Mlle Greco's theme, feelingly ex- plored, is love; but she is taking more joy in it nowadays. Though still gowned from neck to toe in black, and still singing of anguish and disenchantment, she allows herself some gay songs, too, and that endearingly roguish smile is more frequently seen. It would be nice to have her back for an extended season.
That there is room in the West End for solo performers is proven again by Max Adrian, who has returned (to the Theatre Royal, Haymarket) in the guise of Bernard Shaw. His programme, GBS, is enormously amusing and ultimately rather touching in its exploration of the great man's extraordin- arily winning and impish arrogance.
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