Review
The Stage: Eric Braun
Not just a piece of jingoism
Of the three plays presented by Noël
Coward in that bleak war year of 1942, “Present
Laughter” and "Blithe Spirit” have been going the rounds ever since.
The third, "This Happy Breed", has curiously been so neglected in the
years between as to provide a rewarding surprise on the rare occasions
we get an opportunity to view it.
People with long memories are apt to dismiss it along with "Cavalcade"
as jingoistic, and yet that is just what it is not, with the possible
exception of Frank Gibbons' long speech to his grandson in a pram just
prior to curtain fall. That, as an excess of wartime enthusiasm, is
quite excusable; the remainder of the play remains as true as the day
it was written, as a microcosm of life in the years between the wars
(June 1919 to June 1939) in the Gibbons' house in Sycamore Road,
Clapham Common.
Frank, his wife Ethel, sister Sylvia, children Vi, Queenie and Reg, the
carping mother-in-law Mrs Flint are unexceptional people, leading
unexceptional lives, but so truly and sympathetically observed that
Coward reminds us that in all humanity there is dramatic interest,
loving relationships in the most unexpected quarters, and above all,
humour.
The play is so well crafted, the dialogue so true to each individual,
that it holds the interest in even an average repertory performance.
But in this presentation every particular is of the highest quality and
the effect is electrifying.
Under Patrick Tucker's guidance the cast do the playwright proud. David
Harries and Jenny Logan bring Frank and Ethel to life so vividly one
feels oneself a guest in their front parlour and Mary Kerridge presents
the archetypal prophet of doom without ever straying near caricature -
a fitting adversary to Christine Ozanne's totally real and awful Sylvia.
The young people are individually excellent, especially Alison Frazer’s
Queenie, Robert East and Tim Charrington, Bob and Billy, while Michael
Garner’s Sam is the next-door neighbour to the life - all framed
perfectly in John Page's admirably suitable set.