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Drama

Carry on Acting: by Ghelderode, Theatre 87.

Reviewed by Martin Edmond.

Theatre 87 have just completed a long and, I gather, successful run of a thing called 'Love Story' featuring the work of Roger McGough. I did not go, since I find myself somewhat allergic to that man's poetic posturing in the face of an undoubtedly unloving and probably insane world. It's not that I prefer policeman's boots to flowers or a morning kiss: but I am not adept at arguing myself into a position where they become alternatives, to be chosen at leisure. I know the world is cruel to poets and it makes them wistful about everything from geraniums to the charladies' potato knees. My question is, however, do I need to know it?—and my answer, typically, a resounding no. But this is all by the by. I'm really here to talk about the play which has succeeded the one I did not see. It is a piece called 'Carry on Acting', identified as a 'trench farce' by Ghelderode. Since it was penned sometime in the 1920s, the title probably bears no relation to the many English films of later years. I am delighted to report that it does not feature Syd James, either.

It is a rather slight play and a short one, constructed around the actor's contusion about what he is on stage, what off it and how the two are related. A foolish and perhaps dated melodrama with faustian overtones is invaded by the real, off-stage drama of the three player's lives. Not surprisingly, the only person who suffers from the intrusion, is the author of the original melodrama. His suffering is, however, soon over, the agent being a bullet in the head. The actors continue their farce. There is not enough precision in any of the five performances—Michael Wilson's is the best—to make the production an outstanding success. It docs exude the kind of bumbling good-humour which occasionally provokes secret grins and muffled titters, though not the unencumbered belly laugh. It is cheerful without much genuine humour and a little morbid without any accompanying depression. It is not, finally, heavy in any direction. And this is more or less how it should be and about as much as it can hope to be.

Theatre 87, since it is a small concern, with limited resources, is there primarily to give its lunch-time audiences an hour or so of entertainment, while they cat their sandwiches and drink their coffee. As such, it docs passing well and I think it a good institution and worthy of support. It is the only theatre I go to where I feel slightly embarrassed about receiving a free seat; though the embarrassment has not yet caused me to insist on paying to remove the cause. You cannot expect, when you do go, to be profoundly moved or suddenly startled into some intellectual or spiritual enlightenment; yet you cannot expect that anywhere and an abject failure is somewhat worse than those productions which do not make the attempt. The positive side of the place—the rather infectious combination of good-humoured enthusiasm and amateur concern, in the air as it were—is worth sampling. It was apparent again in their children's theatre, called The Dancing Pig Theatre, which is Elsie, Friends and Giants" every Saturday at 11 am until the August Holidays. This is a hotchpotch of Aesop fables, folktales and short-sketches with bouncy music in between. It's probably not sinister or violent enough to get the kids really going and it is a trifle moralistic at times; but you could feel the mingled disappointment and pleasure in the room as it ended, which is some indication of its success. Though I do think less words and more action would improve later attempts.