Theatre
. and again
Mark Amory
Poppy (Barbican) Artichoke (Tricycle) Breach of the Peace (Bush)
TWO musical entertainments opened, one expensive and expansive at the Bar- an, the other so restricted that the au- dience seemed in constant danger from high kicks and the orchestra had to double as chorus and triple in supporting roles. At the risk of being predictable I have to admit to a rnild preference for the modest Destry Rides Again over the fully-blown Poppy. It started with grievous handicaps. Westerns, relying as they do on galloping horses and wandering men in spacious landscapes, are peculiarly unsuited to the theatre. Comic westerns always to be approached with cau- tion, tend to fall back on hearty, physical humour involving drinking troughs and slipping saddles, again tricky to stage. Music is properly kept to the ballad over the credits, with perhaps one song by a camp fire with mouth-organ accompaniment, as even Elvis Presley accepted in Flaming Star. This particular western musical comedy, not very enjoyable on Broadway in 1959, did not come to London so there are few tender memories, little familiarity with the tunes. Nor is it quite fresh however, for the film is remembered, though mainly for dif- ferent songs and the stars James Stewart and Marlene Dietrich (embarrassingly inept but a star); their replacements here are comparatively unknown. There is no question with this material and these limited resources of going for that combination of spectacle, vigour and din that can lift you out of your seat. Instead an amiable atmosphere is created, as with Andy Capp, so that you are on the side of the show. I was immediately pleased by the opening game of poker, which did not end with four aces beating four kings as is usual so that non-players can grasp who has won, but pitted a three against two pairs. It has to be admitted that later a game of draughts was wound up as usual with the unlikely capture of more than four pieces. The small parts are exceptionally well played: Barrie Houghton somehow stopped the town
drunk from being the town bore, George Irving with his thin-lipped smile made a serpentine villain and Michael Heath brought a plain conviction to the wronged farmer, which, oddly in this unreal setting, helped a lot. The leads are efficient. Most of the praise must belong to Robert Walker, a specialist in the pocket musical, who can make small, if not beautiful, at least good fun. For instance, I imagine that it was he who recognised that a gunfight, the only suitable climax for the film, could not be enough on stage. So we get a spec- tacular banister-breaking fall thrown in and then a quick finish. I can hardly wait to see what he does next.
Poppy by Peter Nichols, meanwhile, is not amiable at all and plans to wipe the smile off your face and make the laughter die in your throat. First, however, it has to get them there. The wicked tale of how the British exported cotton to India and opium to China in order to import tea and make money is told with all the trappings of pan- tomime. These are set up in order to be undercut, producing a sort of 0 What A Lovely Empire! I cannot be alone in feeling that I have been told about the evils of our imperial past as often as I can bear, usually, as here, with an air of discovery; but with a jollier surface it might have worked — for one number about the involvement of mis- sionaries it did, simply because the tune was good; for the most part, not. The heads on stakes, shooting the pantomime horse, the heroine an addict, ghastly pale, these
seemed gratuitous cruelty. The centre hav- ing failed, the lavish sets and costumes and the skills of the actors could offer only marginal comfort. Stephen Moore got a mature and dignified audience to shout `Look behind you', Geoffrey Hutchings made as splendid a dame as you could hope, the most popular cracks were about
the unloved theatre; how an elegant white elephant got off stage without comment I cannot imagine.
A description of Artichoke by Joanna Glass can hardly escape sounding banal and
depressing. In the kitchen of a Canadian farmhouse we meet a divided family. Four- teen years ago Walter's bastard was left on the doorstep and Margaret took her in, cared for her, and has not slept with Walter since. She is intelligent and passionate but she cannot forgive him. The child is 'not right', keeps her hat on at meals and describes herself as an island of calm in a turbulent sea. Margaret's adopted brother, an egghhead who turns out to be no good with eggs, comes for a visit and provides the plot. Among the things that have not reach- ed the farm are television and feminism, ad- ding to the feeling that it might have been written 40 years ago. The naturalistic style, like the values offered, has been around some time. Margaret does not promise an evening of fun and almost her first line is, 'Why do I have all these laugh lines when I haven't laughed for years?' Nevertheless, fun it is, with the freshness and perception of the writing greatly enhanced by excellent acting from the Canadian cast and Janet Suzman. As Margaret she actually laughs quite a lot and with great skill. Her laughter when talking about sexual originality with her brother is embarrassed and delighted, perfectly conveying her happiness at talking at last to someone who can understand; she is a little embarrassed again and laughs in deprecation when telling how she delivered a calf (she is a city girl); finally her sad laughter, suppressing tears, takes us through a dangerously corny ending. Lured by the names of newish writers
(one must keep up) I ignored the reviews and ventured to Breach of the Peace. This consisted of six sketches and a song about the Britain of the Eighties. The opening by Tunde Ikoli showed some black looters in Brixton resenting the intrusion of East End sightseers and seemed a decent unpreten- tious beginning. Alas it was the high spot, though Dusty Hughes's pastiche of Cobbett was well written and delivered. Heathcote Williams is still obsessed with royalty but as the journalist who poured out information about how expensive and stupid and rich and powerful they are, was himself por- trayed as almost unhinged by malice; perhaps he is aware of the dangers of obses- sion. At Eton he seemed such a nice boy.
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