The Orange Tree’s 30-year involvement
with Václav Havel has culminated this autumn with the UK
première of
Leaving,
which Havel began writing before the Velvet Revolution of 1989 and
finished after he left office as president of the Czech Republic in
2003, and which happens to be about a president leaving office. The
fanfares were muted slightly when it turned out not to be that terrific
a play. Before it returns returns in December, the theatre presents two
double bills of Havel’s 1970s work, of which this is the first.
Audience (1975) is the first
of the semi-autobiographical “Vanek” plays. In it Vanek, a dissident
playwright assigned by the state (as was Havel) to work in a brewery,
is called to an interview in the boss’s office. The latter, growing
progressively drunker on his own product, offers Vanek a cushier
position in the warehouse if he will help out by writing up
surveillance reports on himself. Robert Austin enjoys slurring a series
of repetitious platitudes, though he may take less pleasure in getting
through the better part of a dozen bottles of stage beer inside 45
minutes (especially, as when I saw him last Saturday, after a matinee
performance as well). David Antrobus as Vanek has little to do except
keep a straight face.
If
Audience shows the
absurdity of state bureaucracy,
Mountain
Hotel (1976) widens the canvas. A variety of guests and staff
converse in a hotel garden, in a series of increasingly bewildering
scenes. One man appears to be competing jealously with himself to
seduce the hotel maid; a woman is repeatedly distressed by an elderly
count’s protestations that she was his beloved in youth, but more
disappointed when he stops; the hotel director and his flunky swap
roles and badmouth each other. A scene may follow a previous one in
chronology, or precede it, or repeat it with the lines assigned to
different characters. It’s all a matter of silly formulae, Havel
suggests, whether it be office politics, personal relationships,
memory, identity or life itself... for it is hardly surprising when the
broadest metaphor of all comes into play. Sam Walters’ production
bounces along such that, as lines come round more and more often
sounding ever sillier, one wants to join in the daftness.
Written for the Financial
Times.