Has
there
ever been a better backstage drama than Ronald
Harwood’s 1980 play? It’s not remorselessly funny
like Noises Off,
though its gloriously lippy dialogue deserves a
curtain call of its own. And yet its depiction of
two men, both blotting out the real world through
commitment to their craft, is a study of tunnel
vision that’s both satirical and sympathetic.
Di Trevis’s revival has the odd wobble at the
edges — it can be hard to depict actorliness
without succumbing to actorliness — but is motored
by a fine central performance by Clive Francis. He
plays Sir, a megaphonic actor-manager much like
the late Sir Donald Wolfit, for whom Harwood once
worked as a dresser. A stage performer to his
fingernails — “They haven’t built a big enough
camera to record me!” — Sir takes Shakespeare to
the wartime masses, leaving his sickbed to give
his white-haired, shuffling Lear to the people of
Liverpool. Flirty then feeble,
imperious and then incapable, Sir rages against
the dying of the light even as he faces up to its
inevitability. His wife (Sarah Berger), playing a
creaky Cordelia, wants out of this peripatetic
life. But the play’s meat is the push-pull between
Sir and his dresser Norman, played with a fiddly
tenacity by Graham Turner, purveyor of a camp
capacity to cope that keeps his master in line and
his mind off what he’ll do without him. “We have
to face facts,” says Penelope Beaumont’s lovelorn
stage manager. “I’ve never done that in my life!”
retorts Norman.
Francis’s performance is huge but not ham —
Harwood is superb at tracing the shifting
hierarchies of the workplace. Sir is an egomaniac,
but how else could he function? When he’s not on
stage, the cast can strain for effect, but Trevis
orchestrates the play within a play, which we see
from the wings, to be endearingly overblown rather
than sniggeringly awful. Finally, it’s more fully
realised in its comedy than in its tragedy —
you’re more likely to be stimulated than
devastated. But this is a backstage
drama that truly understands the compulsion with
which people define themselves by their work, that
nails the need for solidity that motivates the
restlessness of creativity. A good play, not far
off a great play, given a very solid revival.
* * *
* *
The Dresser
is the ultimate backstage drama, written from
first hand experience by Ronald Harwood, once
dresser to notorious actor-manager Sir Donald
Wolfit. It’s
a
beautifully
crafted
play
and,
like
Clive
Francis,
I
was lucky enough to see the original
production in 1980 with Freddie Jones as
Sir, and Tom Courtenay, who went on to play
the title role on Broadway and was nominated
for an Oscar for his film portrayal.
Now I consider myself just as lucky
to have seen Clive Francis as the irascible
tragedian who struggles to keep his sanity and
play his 227th King Lear - with much cajoling
from his faithful dresser, Norman. Francis’
performance
is nothing short of magnificent, a true tour
de force. He dons the cloak of senility so
convincingly that when he says the life blood
is draining out of him, you believe him and
will him on, while his transformation as King
Lear is equally amazing and gives us a
fascinating lesson in the art of stage
make-up. Usually
second fiddle to the dresser of the title, in
this production he makes the role every bit as
compelling, even though Graham Turner’s
sensitively acted performance, with its camp
humour, matches any that have gone before him.
With
an
fine
supporting
cast,
this
is
indeed
a
special
treat for any theatre-lover, and a worthy
production with which to celebrate a 100th
anniversary.
*
* * * *
Daily
Telegraph: Dominic Cavendish
In
Watford, Di Trevis gives us another
assured revival of a modern classic - Ronald
Harwood's The
Dresser (1980) - which would do well
to transfer (to the West End). Clive
Francis plays the old actor-manager -
disintegrating before a performance of King
Lear in some nameless backwater in 1942. He
can't go on, he must go on. Fussing and
clucking over him, his dresser Norman looks
like he's seen it all before but, as he knocks
back the brandy, we realise he's putting on a
show too, aware that it could be curtains for
both of them. Hand
ever clasped to cheek, Graham Turner's camp,
neurotic lackey matches Francis for
affectation. Their glorious double act,
embellished by walk-ons from other minutely
observed thespian types, pays expert,
affectionate homage to a self-absorbed species
that strutted and fretted its hour upon the
British stage and then was heard no more.