THE LETTER
Wyndham's Theatre, London WC2
Opened 1 May, 2007
***
Jenny Seagrove is not by any stretch of the imagination a bad actress.
In recent years she has made a number of interesting choices of role,
and her portrayals show both a thoughtful understanding of her
characters and the technical skills to convey their thoughts and moods.
Nor, for the same reason, do her performances lack depth: she
recognises and communicates what is at the core. Rather, she reminds me
of the Caribbean Sea in holiday adverts: so clear you can see
straight to the bottom, without murk or apparent refraction. This can
be a problem. Normally, I use "clarity" as a term of approbation about
acting or directing... but sometimes you find yourself wanting layers.
In William Somerset Maugham's 1927 play about murder, adultery and
blackmail among the colonial classes on the Malay Peninsula, Seagrove
plays planter's wife Leslie Crosbie, who as the curtain rises has just
emptied a revolver into a man on her verandah. Her account of defending
herself against his importunities is thrown into doubt by the discovery
that a letter exists from her asking the deceased in impassioned terms
to meet her while her husband was away; Crosbie's solicitor, Howard
Joyce, is forced to buy the letter back from its current possessor via
his oleaginous Chinese clerk (who probably organised the blackmail
operation).
At every moment, one can see Seagrove's Mrs Crosbie clearly keeping
herself in check, clearly feeling stress, clearly trying to ride out
the inconsistency in her story, clearly desperate when it becomes
apparent that she cannot avoid the truth emerging and, finally, clearly
self-recriminatory as she confesses to Joyce and her husband about her
affair with the dead man and the crime
passionel of his murder. It's a fine performance, but I'm afraid
it's not a particularly fascinating one.
Much the same about ability and clarity can be said with regard to
Anthony Andrews, although probably in rather less courtly terms; and
much the same is true of the transparency of his performance as Joyce
the lawyer. Perhaps, too, he needs to experience what a student
director once did with me in rehearsal: put a strip of duct tape across
my forehead, so that every time I tried to raise one or both eyebrows,
I couldn't help but feel it, and consequently would learn to avoid the
gesture. Andrews is one of the world's single-eyebrow-raisers, and the
effect in this play is to accentuate the comedy, which is already
dangerously – and unintentionally – buoyant.
Reviewing a 1995 revival of The
Letter here, I wrote that the difference between its world and
ours tends to elicit sniggers rather than contemplation. Maugham saw
with a wry though ultimately dispassionate eye the banalities and
quirks of the Malay British. Eighty years on, however, we see little of
the trenchancy, and what remains seems to us parodic. This is not
helpful to the English characters, but it is positively perilous as
regards the native ones. Such characters are at best distastefully
patronised, more often casually despised, especially the Chinese.
Joyce's clerk Ong Chi Seng (played by Jason Chan) is shown as a
Cantonese Uriah Heep: immensely deferential and impudently over-exact
in the Englishness of his expression. The phrase "ideas above his
station" might have been coined for Ong. His blackmailing comrade is a
slothful, malodorous opium addict. Twelve years ago, such portrayals
were risible as well as offensive; today, with the allure of racism
(even as an element of state policy) having rather advanced than
receded, such portraits simply cannot be offered so blithely... still
less in a theatre such as Wyndham's, a mere stone's throw – I use the
phrase advisedly – from London's Chinatown.
Written for the Financial
Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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