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A new
play by
Gerald Sibleyras
Adapted
by
Tom Stoppard
Directed
by
Thea Sharrock
Design
by
Robert Jones
Lighting
by
Howard Harrison
Produced
by
David Pugh
Dafydd Rogers
and the Shubert Organisation
Cast
Richard Griffiths
John Hurt
and Ken Stott
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Wyndham's
Theatre
18
Oct - Jan 31 2005 |
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When
translating Gerald Sibleras's
Le Vent Des Peupliers into
English, Tom Stoppard feared
that its title would be confused
with Kenneth Grahame's The
Wind in the Willows. Yet affinities
between the two works go beyond
the literal translation of
the title ('The Wind in the
Poplars' - which Stoppard
replaced with the ironic Heroes).
As one might expect in a play
about French veterans of the
Great War, the piece is rife
with the fantasies of second
childhood. The three characters
play out their last years
in their own Secret Garden,
lovingly created in Robert
Jones' pretty design, with
climbing rope improvised from
garden hose, companionship
from a stone dog, and conversation
with each other.
This is a skilfully written
and translated script, suggestive
rather than explicative; well
complemented by Thea Sharrock's
idiosyncratic use of visual
suggestion in the staging,
which borders on surrealism
at times. There are moments,
however, when the direction
seems perhaps more suited
to a pantomimic Wind in the
Willows: Ken Stott, dressed
to look rather like a latter-day
Buster Keaton (or an overgrown
Badger), collides with the
floor periodically in a series
of pratfalls, to suggest flashbacks
created by shrapnel lodged
in his brain. Though he plays
the most pathetic of the characters,
these repeated falls jar with
the rest of his understated
performance, often drawing
attention (and laughter) away
from the rest of the action;
they could have done with
a lighter touch. There are
few other moments when Sharrock's
attention to the visuals is
ineffective, but these form
only momentary stylistic confusions,
before the production returns
to the fold.
Meanwhile, John Hurt's stately,
self-proclaimed, grumpy old
man feels like more of a foil
to Griffiths's Henri than
a central figure in his own
right. Griffiths himself is,
of course, magnificent, and
what is more, splendidly cast.
Clearly the most comfortable
on stage, he trips through
throwaway and pivotal lines
with voice and gesture suggesting
that the part had been made
for him. Which is not too
far from the truth: Sibleras's
reputation in France is as
a very British writer, one
of the reasons why his French
veterans transfer so easily
to being acted in English
on the London stage. The production
crosses national boundaries
- written by a Frenchman,
translated by a Czech who
has been adopted as 'the typical
British writer' - even while
the characters exist in a
time when those national boundaries
were strictly enforced: Gustave,
reflecting on the music he
wants played at his funeral,
decides that he rather likes
German tunes: 'But you don't
hear [those] very much any
more'.
Despite the fact that death
surrounds and obsesses them,
the pathos of the characters
is almost underwhelming: the
madness which each claims
the others suffer is referred
to so constantly that it is
rewritten with comic rather
than tragic connotations ('You're
all barking. Except the dog.').
Henri, no more an Eros than
he is a hero, tries to gather
the courage to make overtures
to a local teacher. Neither
he, Gustave, nor Philippe
are the heroes, tragic or
not, of the English title,
but they are not quite anti-heroes
either, for as much as it
ridicules the men themselves,
the play never parodies the
war for which they sport numerous
medals. Thus, while losing
one aspect of being 'heroes',
they retain another, suggesting
that heroism is of the moment
rather than the man: if these
three men can be heroes in
a different time and place,
then there is hope for us
all.
Lauren Cushman |
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