James Joyce described his short story
collection
Dubliners as
having been deliberately written in a style of “scrupulous meanness”.
The phrase echoed through my head as I watched Peter Gill’s revival of
his 1976 play
Small Change.
As both writer and director, sparse precision is Gill’s long suit, and
he lets himself down when he strays too far from that path. He has
staged this revival on an unadorned, square red stage, bare save for
four unmatched old wooden chairs set at various forty-five-degree
angles to the banks of audience. As the intercut memory-accounts begin,
telling of Gerard and Vincent’s childhood in 1950s east Cardiff and the
everyday attrition endured by their respective mothers, it is some time
before actors break either physically from the chairs or dramatically
into dialogue. It suddenly seemed to me that Gill’s work looked both
backward to the working-class realist dramas of D.H. Lawrence (whose
1960s revivals at the Royal Court first brought Gill to wide attention)
and forward to the fluid, fragmented stage-poems of writers such as
Sarah Kane and Martin Crimp.
We jump between the lads’ childhood and adulthood, as they attempt to
negotiate both their own difficult ages and the erosion of Vincent’s
mother by her abusive-when-not-neglectful husband; at the end of the
first act she is found to have committed suicide by drinking a lye
solution. After the interval, the surviving Mrs Harte (a wonderful
performance by Sue Johnston, right down to the casual rubbing of her
hands to relieve poor circulation or arthritis) begins to lose a sense
of her own place in the world, lamenting, “I want to take part”, while
the returning Gerard (Matt Ryan) confronts Vincent (an eloquently
stolid Luke Evans)about their young love that never quite was. It is
during this phase that Gill overplays his hand by colouring Gerard too
vividly as an authorial surrogate with a self-conscious turn of
poetical phrasing. It is delicious for us to make the association
ourselves between the red stage and young Gerard’s description of the
colour of the sky when mine-slag was emptied on to the foreshore; when
the adult Gerard makes a throwaway comment about his return to Argos,
if we make the connection at all (the ancient Greek city was built on a
plain of red earth), it seems almost a betrayal of the spareness which
so potently indicates intensity of emotion through banalities and
half-sentences. Most affecting in their inarticulacy are a sequence in
which the two mothers dance with each other as a simple expression of
solidarity and affection, and another in which the two boys repeatedly
put off going indoors for their tea because they cannot admit their joy
in each other’s company.
Written for the Financial
Times.