Dublin 5

July 10, 2009

Noel Coward’s Present Laughter at the Gate. The first thing which must be said is that the design for this play was magnificent. I tried to imagine changes in the decor or costumes, and each thing I imagined was less perfect than what was actually on stage. Each dress, each dressing gown, each hat was a note in key. The characters all looked like they had dressed explicitly to visit that apartment. The mode of acting was a little irritating to me, but I suppose right for the play, very arch and affected and spoken through closed lips. The women were beautiful. The men were not. There were a few clear instances of miscasting. The dialogue was often very funny, but I had to account for the fact that I did not enjoy the experience; in fact, actively, if mildly, disliked it. I liked the desk-lamp lit one-act in the bar storeroom this afternoon better. In the end, I think it was because the play’s sole reason to exist is to show off the playwright’s skill. There was no point, nothing at stake, nothing to be learned or questioned, no exploration. Gary, the main character, even prepares us for meaninglessness in his longish speech about the “realities” of the theater, when a “serious” playwright is made a laughing stock. Other things–professional sports, for instance–are pretty much about individual bravura, but one expects something more from the theater, from any art, where bravura exits to hurl the great truth home.

This afternoon it was a short play called Roman Fever, by Hugh Leonard, at Bewley’s. It was a clever bit of acid, and they gave us free soup.

People ask me why I don’t move to Ireland, since I spend so much time here. The real answer is practicality. But as departure day draws near, I consider how I am heartbroken standing in the airport at Shannon and Dublin, and that alone must be some sort of message. Though the philistine in me keeps asking, “How then shall I live?”