THEATRE
God the father
KENNETH HURREN
My theory that the successes of the National Theatre are in direct ratio to the extent of Laurence Olivier's per sonal involvement in its activities can be said to have had a bit of a test with its newest produc tion, the revival of the Jean Giraudoux comedy, Amphitryon 38, at the New Theatre, and I'm glad to say that the theory is holding up pretty well. Olivier directed this piece himself, and it's a reasonable assumption that the choice of the play for the repertoire, as well as its casting, was also his. The result is an evening of stylish sophistication; too frivolous an occasion to be regarded as one of the company's major productions, but they're entitled to their lightsome moments and they take such opportunities (Coward's Hay Fever and the Feydeau farce, A Flea in Her Ear, were others) beguilingly well.
The Amphitryon legend is the one about the infatuation of the god, Jupiter, with Alkmena of Thebes, and how he came down to earth in pursuit of this passion to spend a night with her in the guise of her husband, Amphitryon, an impersonation imposed on him — rather to his chagrin — by the lady's implacable fidelity. Of the thirtysix other versions of the story which Giraudoux claimed had intervened between Plautus's and his own, I can call to mind only Moliere's and Dryden's, but I doubt whether any of them extended the myth quite so engagingly. Giraudoux's concern is to trick it out with whimsical discussions of the relative advantages of omniscient immortality and fallible mortality, coming down firmly and reassuringly in favour of the latter. The principal source of comedy —apart from the routinely farcical misunderstandings that ensue from the overnight impersonation — is the fmquent discomfiture of Jupiter when confronted with Alkmena's re fusal to be awed by, or even to find especially inviting, the prospect of eternity as he describes it; he is humiliated by her casual reluctance to coneede that the night when he took Amphitryon's place was outstanding in her experience, and perhaps even more so by her lack of enthusiasm for an encore in which he would reveal himself in his proper godliness. Even death strikes her as more desirable than divinity.
Giraudoux is doing no more than mocking gently and glossily the premises of ancient mythology, and if there are earnest reviewers who affect dismay that the metaphysical aspects of the p'ece are flippant rather than profound, I see no reason why an impatience for the building of cathedrals should cause us to be sniffy about an agreeably decorated gazebo. The decorations in this case include a performance by Geral dine McEwan, as Alkmena, that is as bewitching in the delicate subtleties of its comic effects as it is pictorially entrancing. Christopher Plummer, making a somewhat delayed debut with the company, copes efficiently with the complexities of the Jupiter-Amphitryon role, and others admirably on hand include Richard Kay, who is appropriately mercurial as Mercury, and Constance Cummings as Leda, who drops in at Thebes eager to deputise for Alkmena and doubtless hopeful of more satisfaction than she ever got from that swan.
The fruit of Jupiter's fraudulent congress with Alkmena, you probably recall, was the child Hercules, whose exploits later on included the breaking of Prometheus's chains; and by coincidence the sufferings of Prometheus before that happy release are available to us at the Mermaid in Robert Lowell's version of Aeschylus's Prometheus Bound. Actually, in Jonathan Miller's rather eccentric and ruthlessly humourless production he is not exactly bound : the chains and the rock are dispensed with, and the hero — confined to a platform, wearing seventeenth-century breeches — is allowed to amble around a bit, which inevitably leads to some perplexity when we have references to his being unable to move an inch "chained to this unchanging rock."
The performance is not much more than a series of recitations, as Prometheus reflects glumly on his predicament and on the behaviour that has brought him to this pass (the Lowell treatment, urgent for contemporary overtones, displays rather more sympathy for his rebellion against the Establishment gods than I remember in Aeschylus), but Kenneth Haigh speaks for him with gravity and fervour, and among his visitors Angela Thorne is notable as lo, a girl with troubles and dilemmas of her own to discuss.
Previous page
