No Mans Land

There is a considerable body of theatrical opinion that holds that Harold Pinter is Britain’s greatest living playwright and another less vocal one that cannot fathom his works. I belong to the second school. Last night I saw No Man’s Land at the Theatre Royal  Brighton. I was more attracted to the two leading actors – in every sense – Sir Patrick Stewart and Sir Ian McKellen. The play has attracted luminaries over the years: John Gielgud, Ralph Richardson, Michael Gambon and Corin Redgrave to name but four. Perhaps these theatrical Knights wished to measure their performance against them. One quality I invariably appreciate in a great actor is clear  diction  though in the upper circle each word uttered by Sir Ian McKellen as Spooner was crystal clear  . Altough Sir  Patrick Stewart had less lines in the first act he conveyed through his body language a dissolute literary figure  I was less convinced by Damien Molony as the toughie Briggs nor Owen Teale as the sharp camp Foster . I can recall Bernard  Hill and Keith Allen more memorably in these parts

The play is set in the drawing room of a wealthy litterateur Hirst who has met a poet Spooner in Jack Straw’s pub and invited back to his home  for several drinks. Two men rough and sinister live with Hirst and the play is the interaction between them. Hirst is drunk, nostalgic and troubled by his dreams all of which leads to an increasing lack of grip on reality. We are in the nether world, no man’s land between life and death. I tried to concentrate on the dialogue but working it all out was beyond me. I’m not sure for all their crafted and measure performances the actors  knew either.  Some say this does not matter, others regard Pinter as a comic playwright. Some of the audience did indeed laugh boisterously but not me.

One curiosity of the play is that each character is named after a famous cricketer of yore. Pinter was a huge cricket fan. However the relevance of this except perhaps developing the theme of nostalgia was again lost on me.

I can never consider Pinter a better playwright that Alan Ayckbourn, Alan Bennett and Tom Stoppard as simply he cannot entertain the audience as well. Some would say this does not matter but in an overheated poorly ventilated theatre perched in the upper circle eyrie with an obstructed view it does to me.