debitha | A Habit of Art

Last night I saw a play in London.

Sort of.

You see, the play was at the National Theatre in London. But I wasn't. I was at the Little Theatre (cinema) with a friend. The National Theatre have devised the ingenious notion of live broadcasts of their plays to participating cinemas around the world. Yes, around the world.

How fucking cool is that?

The play was Alan Bennett's latest, A Habit of Art. It's conceptually a pretty interesting play in itself, even before adding in the broadcast aspect. Bennett began writing a play about the poet WH Auden (you probably recognise 'Funeral Blues' - Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone...), and his former friend and colleague, the composer Benjamin Britten. They are two very intense characters, almost completely opposite in temperament. They worked together in the '30s writing early films, but fell out over a project that flopped utterly and didn't speak for about 25 years.

Somewhere in the course of writing this play, Bennett decided to add another layer, and in fact write a play about this play being rehearsed. It's a complicated beast as the 'actors' in the internal play, Caliban's Day, break out of character, introducing us to Richard Griffiths' aging and insecure actor playing Auden, Alex Jennings' gloriously camp actor who plays the astoundingly uptight Britten ("Rent boys had little bags" "Really? What for?" "Oh, a towel, you know, accessories." "I never read that." "I never read it, either."), the writer, who is horrified by the artistic decisions of the absent director ("You can't cut that bit. That's the whole point of the play!"), and Frances de la Tour (who is Queen of Everything) as Kay the Stage Manager.

The blurb on the website is appallingly dry. We were geared up for something very... worthy. Which left us entirely unprepared for the conversation about penises, or the moment when an enormous fart erupts and Richard Griffiths pipes up with, "That was Auden farting, not me!" I'm still not quite sure whether that was a scripted sound effect or The Fart That Was Heard Around the World, but the cameraman was certainly quick to show us the cast creasing themselves. This contrasted rather beautifully with some wonderfully charged scenes. There is an exchange where Auden and Britten are talking about Britten's penchant for mentoring pretty young lads that was amazing. Mind-blowingly intense.

Impressively, you always knew which play you were in, which is no small feat. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and would recommend it to anyone. And indeed, anywhere.

Keep an eye on the National Theatre's website for future programmes.

Funeral Blues - W.H. Auden

I
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

II
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.