British playwright alan ayckbourn is the chronicler of an
age-as is seen by his characters, who usually inhabit a privileged
corner of the British Isles. He lovingly yet often unflinchingly
uses humor to reflect the eccentricities and foibles of his
culture, the English middle class. Amazingly prolific, habitually
producing at least one new work every year, he treats theater
as his toy, and he enjoys playing around with its conventions.
Ayckbourn penned The Norman Conquests, in which the same event
is seen from three different perspectives, and Intimate Exchanges,
in which the action changed nightly according to slightly
altered decisions by its characters. In House and Garden,
his 57th and 58th plays-now at London's Royal National Theatre-he
goes even further.
House and Garden depict the same characters on the same day
and are performed simultaneously in the neighboring Olivier
and Lyttleton theaters. One stage serves as a grand country
house, the other as its garden. So, for example, when a character
chases offstage after his dog in House (the Lyttleton), he
turns up a minute later in Garden (the Olivier); when a jilted
woman enters with a limp and dark glasses in House, you find
out only when you see Garden what mishap befell her. Both
plays start and end at the same time, followed by a village
fete in the lobby with the stalls manned by the actors.
It is an ingenious idea and a terrifyingly complex feat of
theatrical engineering. Fortunately, the National found a
director brave enough to tackle it-Ayckbourn himself. Any
number of things could go wrong: cast members could fall and
hurt themselves as they rush through backstage corridors or
an audience could slow up one play with gales of laughter,
ruining all hopes of synchronized finales. However, there
are contingency plans, including extra dialogue and the sound
of an offstage dog (named Spoof) whose barking warns the actors
to hurry. Even so, on opening night one actor was reduced
to ad-libbing about the garden's flora and fauna during his
curtain call until his colleagues arrived, panting, from their
bows next door.
Both shows revolve around the same basic plot line. Teddy
Platt (David Haig), who owns the residence of the titles,
is having an affair with Joanna Mace (Sian Thomas), his best
friend's wife. Although each play is self-contained, it would
be a mistake to attend only one. There is real enjoyment in
piecing together the two parts of the jigsaw. Ayckbourn insists
that the order is unimportant, but he is wrong. I saw Garden
at a matinee, and House in the evening. That's the wrong way
around. Garden is farce, House is altogether more substantial.
Seeing Garden first is like eating the dessert before diving
into the main course.
Still, a most enjoyable farce it is, packed with dropped
trousers and Ayckbourn wisecracks like, "You can wreck my
marriage but I'll never forgive you if you ruin my lunch party."
Garden concentrates on the efforts of Joanna's husband Giles
(the splendidly meek Michael Siberry) to control his increasingly
hysterical wife. Siberry's Giles epitomizes the English stiff
upper lip, a trait Ayckbourn gently ridicules.
House is a darker affair, and a superior work. It details
Teddy's quest to become a Member of Parliament-hindered by
the sinister politician Gavin Ryng-Mayne (Malcolm Sinclair)-and
his battles with a wife who ignores his existence. Haig is
a marvelously slimy Teddy, hilariously frustrated when he
finds that his simpering charm leaves everyone cold. Jane
Asher gives a star performance as the wife, Trish, whose misery
and anger break the surface of her perfect-hostess veneer.
The most disturbing episode, however, occurs when the suave
Ryng-Mayne, played with icy poise by Sinclair, seduces Trish's
teenage daughter. It ensures that House has a bitter aftertaste.
For in that play, Ayckbourn probes beneath the surface of
gentrified English society to show that there are enough Ryng-Maynes
to give ample cause for discomfort. It is a thought that nags
even through the gaiety of the fete.
