It seemed impossibly good to be true, too
much of a dream to miss, the most tantalising of carrots to be dangled in front
of subscribers a year ago when the 2012 season was announced: Ralph Myers
directing Toby Schmitz in Noël Coward’s Private
Lives. In a nutshell, the play is about two newly-wed couples – Amanda and Victor,
Elyot and Sybil – who go on their honeymoon. To the same hotel. Elyot and
Amanda were previously married, and now they’re are about to find out all over
again why they got divorced in the first place. Considering Coward wrote the
piece as a vehicle for himself (playing the role of Elyot, Schmitz’s character)
and the censors tried to ban it upon its premiere in London in 1930, it’s
pretty much still bang-on the money, still definitive in its wit,
almost-perfect in its plot, and utterly beguiling in its critique of modernity
and the rich, to paraphrase Belvoir’s season book.
Schmitz is a kind of theatrical wunderkind in his own right, not dissimilar to Coward in a way; Myers, in an article in The Australian three weeks ago, described Schmitz as “very sharp, very funny, very droll, very much like Coward in many ways ... Elyot is a kind of personification of Coward; Coward wrote the role for himself to play and gave himself all the best lines. Toby is kind of him.” And his delight in playing the part is evident, from his first moment on stage to his last. But it’s not Schmitz’s show. Far from it. Part of Myers’ direction of the play has been to assemble a cast that can run with the piece, the language and its rhythms and mannerisms and images and make it breathe (and sing). Zahra Newman as Amanda, Eloise Mignon as Sibyl, Toby Truslove as Victor – and even Mish Grigor as Louise, the maid – all steal the show at points, and no member of the cast truly outshines another. In that respect, it is a true ensemble piece, and it is an absolute delight to watch, from Mignon’s first tentative moments on stage to the chaotic and violently passionate final image.
It’s a wonderful ninety minutes of
theatre, and I don’t think the fact that it’s not ‘in period’ matters. In fact,
I don’t think it matters at all anymore; it’s not about ‘Then’, just as most
classics are never truly about their respective ‘Then’s, but are increasingly
relevant to the hereandnow. Reading a copy of the play later, it’s interesting
to note just how specific, how precise, Coward’s written stage directions are,
and just how different Myers’ production is. Not different so much in
fundamental fabric of the production as in the staging and near-total disregard
for Cowards’ directions as they are written. It’s a bold decision, and I think
Myers’ production is stronger for it. In his director’s notes in the
production’s program, Myers talks about the preconceptions that go with such a
play: “[we] think of Coward and we see
grand pianos and brandy and gramophone records and we think that is what the plays
are about. But in fact they’re not; like all great plays they’re about
something profound. They’re about love, and about being alive, and about trying
to be happy and how hard that is. Coward’s genius is to wrap that up in a
confection that makes you think that you’re just watching a stage full of
beautiful people in evening dress saying not very much in a frightfully clever
way, rather quickly. He makes it fun.” In stripping away the confectionery and
throwing it head-first kicking and screaming into the here-and-now, you’re not
quite sure, at first, how it’s going to go. But as the arguments and quarrels
begin and the bickering goes back and forth on and on, like a tennis game, tit
for tat, as couples slam doors in their partners’ faces, all you can do is
grin, and sit back and watch, go along with the ride. And what a ride it is.
Part of Private Lives’ charm comes from the
behaviour of its affluent well-off characters, in watching them misbehave and
wreck each other’s lives and dreams. “Coward uses the wealthy as his subject,”
Myers continues, “not because they’re special, or any more interesting
than the rest of us, but because they’re idle. They don’t have anything to do
other than sit around and talk and drink and smoke and fight. If they had to go
to work then they’d never get down to the core business of tearing each other
apart.” And they make a pretty good fist of it too, Myers and his cast.
There are many moments to adore in this production
– from the musical interludes in the ‘Sollocks’ (itself a contraction of the
signal word ‘Solomon Isaacs’, and including an ingenious staging of Phil
Collins), to the opening of Act Two when Schmitz and Newman are silhouetted in
the door of their room, holding lamps and cocktail glasses, their lips locked
in a passionate embrace, before they emerge into the space, setting up their
deliciously decadent existence; the repetition of Glenn Miller’s ‘Moonlight
Serenade’ leading Schmitz to remark upon the orchestra’s limited repertoire;
Newman’s dance in her black dress, her shadows amplified on the walls around
her, almost voodooistic; the mounting awkwardness of the final scene before it
degenerates into an all-out brawl between Eloise Mignon and Toby Truslove. If
it wasn’t for the fact that it was a performance, you’d almost believe that
Mignon could seriously hurt him.
At the start, it seemed there were multiple
ways in which the play could potentially end, but by the end, it’s pretty clear
that there really is only one way it can end, will end, has to end. It doesn't matter that there isn't a tail coat or an evening dress to be seen in sight, nor should it, because ultimately the play is not about the superficial facade of outward appearances like clothing; it's about something deeper, more profound, and more difficult to articulate. In the end, it’s
Coward’s wit, charm and glee that shine through in this production, brought to life on Belvoir’s corner stage by Myers and his dazzling cast. Though the old
adage runs that ‘what happens in private should stay in private,’ it certainly
makes for a wonderful evening – watching the rich and affluent at their worst,
behaving like the rest of us
– and I dare you to miss it.
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