The
programme notes for this revival make explicit how dramatic triptychs
such as David Eldridge’s
Under The
Blue Sky or Simon Stephens’
Wastwater
have been strongly informed by Robert Holman’s tripartite work from
1986 (these three writers collaborated on 2010’s
A Thousand Stars Explode In The Sky),
but in truth no such pointers are required. In his trio of meditations
on “war and chance”, Holman takes an understated approach which both
faces the enormities of this world unflinchingly and yet affirms the
possibilities of human connection and individual progress; this
combination of bleakness and hope, in a measured voice, has grown more
familiar through a number of younger writers.
In the first play of the trilogy,
Being
Friends (which in Peter Gill’s production lasts some 35
minutes), an openly homosexual writer and artist and a conscientious
objector encounter each other in a Kent field during World War Two, and
gradually bare themselves to each other both figuratively and then
literally. In
Lost (20 mins),
a naval officer visits a mother to tell her of the death in the
Falklands War of her estranged son. In the play which gives the
triptych its name (60 mins), an elderly German woman in the
contemporary Black Forest challenges a violent, foul-mouthed British
squaddie and his autistic young charge to confront their own
stubbornnesses.
Holman is in turn indebted as a playwright to Gill, who as director too
has an instinctive touch for leaving the unsaid unsaid. Matthew
Tennyson may conduct himself with a kind of florid languor in
Being Friends, but does not overdo
it; Susan Brown is excellent as the bereaved, bewildered Mrs Appleton
in
Lost. In
Making Noise Quietly itself, Sara
Kestelman as the elderly woman, Ben Batt as the soldier and (on press
night) Lewis Andrews as the all-but-mute boy give interwoven portraits
of the reassurance of obstinate failure and the paradox of
well-intentioned yet extreme coercion. The moment when young Sam writes
a few words on his arm in marker chillingly prefigures Helene’s
uncovering of her own tattoo from Auschwitz. Neither Holman’s writing
nor Gill’s staging (on a minimalist set by Paul Wills) contains an atom
of palliation, of emotional or intellectual cop-out, yet we emerge from
the theatre surprisingly heartened.
Written for the Financial
Times.