Modern dramatic interpreters shouldn’t be making a choice between prose and poetry—a play should be a marriage of the two
A STUDENT asked recently what I seek in a good play. I made all the obvious points about conflict, tension and the collision of public and private worlds, but added that heightened, colourful language was a vital ingredient. One reason I enjoy the theatre is to escape the flat, flavourless dialogue I hear in much TV drama: I used BBC1’s Troy as an example, in which Homeric figures speak like characters in a soap opera.
For several centuries, poetry held sway. Then came Ibsen, Chekhov and Shaw to make prose respectable; Chekhov even proved that prose, by means of what it implied rather than stated, could achieve the effect of poetry. Modern writers such as Harold Pinter have done something similar by finding artful patterns in the rhythms of everyday speech. However, three recent experiences make me wonder if one always had to make a choice.
The first wake-up call was a revival of W.H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood’s The Dog Beneath the Skin (1936) at London’s Jermyn Street Theatre. It is, to be honest, an odd play that mixes serious politics with cabaret and revue-style sketches.
An idealistic villager, Alan Norman, travels through Europe, accompanied by his dog, in search of a missing heir. Driven by the anti-Fascist spirit of the 1930s, the play shows a continent succumbing to despotism and suggests we have to prevent Britain following the same path.
Denne historien er fra March 21, 2018-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra March 21, 2018-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Kitchen garden cook - Apples
'Sweet and crisp, apples are the epitome of autumn flavour'
The original Mr Rochester
Three classic houses in North Yorkshire have come to the market; the owner of one inspired Charlotte Brontë to write Jane Eyre
Get it write
Desks, once akin to instruments of torture for scribes, have become cherished repositories of memories and secrets. Matthew Dennison charts their evolution
'Sloes hath ben my food'
A possible paint for the Picts and a definite culprit in tea fraud, the cheek-suckingly sour sloe's spiritual home is indisputably in gin, says John Wright
Souvenirs of greatness
FOR many years, some large boxes have been stored and forgotten in the dark recesses of the garage. Unpacked last week, the contents turned out to be pots: some, perhaps, nearing a century old—dense terracotta, of interesting provenance.
Plants for plants' sake
The garden at Hergest Croft, Herefordshire The home of Edward Banks The Banks family is synonymous with an extraordinary collection of trees and shrubs, many of which are presents from distinguished friends, garnered over two centuries. Be prepared to be amazed, says Charles Quest-Ritson
Capturing the castle
Seventy years after Christian Dior’s last fashion show in Scotland, the brand returned under creative director Maria Grazia Chiuri for a celebratory event honouring local craftsmanship, the beauty of the land and the Auld Alliance, explains Kim Parker
Nature's own cathedral
Our tallest native tree 'most lovely of all', the stately beech creates a shaded environment that few plants can survive. John Lewis-Stempel ventures into the enchanted woods
All that money could buy
A new book explores the lost riches of London's grand houses. Its author, Steven Brindle, looks at the residences of plutocrats built by the nouveaux riches of the late-Victorian and Edwardian ages
In with the old
Diamonds are meant to sparkle in candlelight, but many now gather dust in jewellery boxes. To wear them today, we may need to reimagine them, as Hetty Lintell discovers with her grandmother's jewellery
