Programme Cover
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First produced at the Old Vic, Waterloo by the
National Theatre, 23 April, 1975 transferred to Wyndhams Theatre
July 1975 - January 1976 Lyttleton Theatre April -May 1976 - New
York (see foreign) October - December 1976 Lyttleton Theatre January
-February 1977
Hirst - Ralph Richardson
Spooner - John Gielgud
Foster - Michael Feast
Briggs - Terence Rigby
Directed by Peter Hall
Designer - John Bury
Staff Director - Sebastian Graham-Jones
Production Manager - Martin McCallum
Stage Manager - Jackie Harvey
Review by Michael Billington
Harold Pinterís new play, No Manís Land, is about precisely
what its title suggests: the sense of being caught in some mysterious
limbo between life and death, between a world of brute reality and
one of fluid uncertainty. But although plenty of plays, from Sweeny
Agonistes to Outward Bound, have tried to pin down that strange
sense of reaching into a void, I can think of few that have done
so as concretely, funnily and concisely as Pinterís.
All Pinterís plays are to some extent about the invasion of territory;
and this is no exception. The setting is a curved, opulent room
on a summer night in Hampstead. Hirst, a rich, famous belle-lettrist,
has invited into his room a shabby, beer-stained poet Spooner, whom
he has apparently picked up in Jack Strawís Castle.
Hirstís amanuensis, full of flash patter reminiscent
of Lenny in The Homecoming, and his burly, free-swearing
manservant resent the intrusion of this coarse outsider into their
world of silk, organdie and eighteenth century cookery books. But,
as night turns into morning, it transpires that Hirst once seduced
Spoonerís wife, that Spooner wishes to penetrate this closed, elite
circle and that all four characters are permanently frozen in time
like the figures in Keatís Ode On a Grecian Urn.
Michael Feast, Ralph Richardson,
Terence Rigby and John Gielgud |
In one way, the play is a masterly summation of
all the themes that have long obsessed Pinter: the fallibility of
memory, the co-existence in one man of brute strength and sensitivity,
the ultimate unknowability of women, the notion that all human contact
is a battle between who and whom.
It is in no sense a dry, mannerist work but a living, theatrical
experience full of rich comedy in which one speech constantly undercuts
another: a devastating four-letter work indictment of Spooner, for
instance, is followed by Hirstís ëyes, yes, but heís a good man
at heart: I knew him at Oxfordí and the minutely-timed laugh would
not disgrace Jack Benny, Pinterís achievement , in fact, is to have
treated comically a theme that most writers tackle with sententious
gravity: that at any moment in time the ërealí, tangible world may
turn out to be an illusion.
Peter Hallís metronomically precise production also
brings out the extraordinary contrast of images that is part of
the key to the play: outside a world of country cottages, sunlit
lawns, bucolic gaiety, inside hothouse order, ostentatious wealth,
endless booze. Amongst the plays many themes, I suspect Pinter is
also saying that the money, luxury and the privileges of literary
success are themselves a death-in-life.
Ralph Richardsonís Hirst, contrasting a peppery, ramrod-backed power
with chilling geriatric collapses and exits on all fours, has precisely
that other-worldliness that makes this actor such a magician; and
John Gielgudís Spooner, with the creased, tobacco-breathed quality
of the kind of Forties Bohemian you meet in BBC pubs is superbly,
sly, mellifluous and ingratiating.
The Guardian 24 April 1975
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