Love is in the air – at least on the nib of Bennelong Point better known to us as the Sydney Opera House. How else can you ascribe for the number of romantic comedies currently on offer? If you were to visit the Opera House last weekend (26th-27th September), you could have your pick between three very choice offerings: Cole Porter’s maritime romantic comedy – Anything Goes, Gerwshin’s political romantic comedy, Of Thee I Sing (my review of that show here) or George Bernard Shaw’s wonderfully romantic anti-romance, Arms and the Man, part of the Sydney Theatre Company’s 2016 MainStage season.
Contrary to what Lerner and Lowe’s My Fair Lady implies, Pygmalion – undoubtably Shaw’s most famous play – is not a romance, or at least, a romance between the two people you think it is. In fact, Shaw was so incensed by the notion of a romantic reunion between Eliza and Higgins that he wrote a post-script essay as part of the 1916 edition of Pygmalion: ‘What really happened’. (Spoiler: Eliza sticks with Freddy). In such a way, Shaw and Louisa May Alcott would have got on famously, if only to commiserate on the beast that was 19th century shipping.
Yet audiences were so clamorous for a happy ending that they eventually got it – much to Shaw’s dismay- in the excellent 1938 film adaptation of Pygmalion, which itself became a template for Lerner and Lowe’s famous musical. In many ways, our collective, yet understandable, need to romanticise Pygmalion is a great pity, because it cheapens what is, in essence, a great feminist fable. The whole purpose of Pygmalion is the self-discovery of a young woman, separating herself from the narcissism of Pygmalion/Higgins vision to become a singular, self-reliant individual. It seems sad to me to want to foist a young woman, so full of vitality, on an anti-social grump more than 20 years her senior who, in general, looks upon her most with the fondness of one admiring a prize winning science project. Therefore, if you are looking for a romantic comedy by the inimitable Shaw, Pygmalion will just not do. So why not try Arms and the Man instead?
I do have to warn that looking for romance in a Shaw show is a double edged sword, because even his most romantic plays are often about the upending of romance as it is one. In this particular play, Shaw seeks to dismantle every notion of romance – from the cupid’s bow and arrow variety and beyond. All forms of sentimentality, but especially those bed partners: patriotism and warfare, are particular victims of Shaw’s needlepoint wit. This dismantling comes in the form of the two rivals for our heroine Raina’s affection. Does true love await in the form of Sergius Saranoff, her dashing, moustachioed fiancee – every inch the heroic soldier of her fantasies, or Captain Bluntschli, the unsentimental soldier for hire, who runs from gunfire at every opportunity and keeps chocolates in his pockets instead of cartridges. The audience is never in doubt of who Raina will ultimately choose – but isn’t that half the fun?
Illustrating war as an absurdity – not as a noble quest but merely as war for war’s sake – is hardly a revolutionary concept for audiences today. But we only have to think about what the world was like for Shaw when he wrote it to understand the extent of his subversiveness. The play was primarily written in 1894 and is set during the two-week long conflict between Serbia and Bulgaria in 1885, when war still remained unalterably fused with the concepts of identity and honour. This notion of honourable warfare – perceived or real – would be denuded in the trenches of WWI, but it would be not be completely destroyed until the advent of WWII. But in 1894, where duels of honour were still being fought, war would still be as much a playground for the wealthy and the upwardly mobile as for the conflict itself – a petri dish designed to make robust men out of boys. The figure of Captain Bluntschli-a mercenary who chooses his next assignment purely because “Serbia was closer”-shows us how absurd the notion of men fighting for a cause so much removed a general sense of reality. Similarly, the posturing Sergius shows us the pitfalls of mistaking maschismo and self-aggrandism as a form of nobility and heroism.
The above paragraph makes the play sound like serious stuff, too serious to be pleasurable, but it is an altogether delightful play, as is Richard Cottrell’s chocolate box of a production. For one thing, this production of Arms and the Man should be seen if only to be seen. Though I’ve been become much more accustomed to a bare, minimalistic set, it is wonderful to see a play which a proper one- and none so beautiful as this. This 19th century Bulgaria created by the mind of a porcelain maker and fantasist. Almost entirely white, as if blanketed in snow – the revolving set has a magical, Hans Christian Andersen fairytale-ish quality to it. This effect is rather dazzling, amplified by the lavish candy-coloured costumes – bustles in bright blue and green – and intricate period detail. It’s a world that one could easily imagine setting The Nutcracker quite comfortably.
Director Richard Cottrell’s production of Travesties was my first Tom Stoppard play, and so I naturally have very fond memories of his work. His production was the first play I ever went to watch by myself, and it was wonderful. Comedy – most importantly, period comedy – is very much Cottrell’s forte. This particular production felt a little comically broader than the text really needed – specifically within two performances – but Cottrell has a way of letting witty dialogue crackle, prick or float when occasion demands, and this play is especially demanding.
Arms and the Man’s cast is very small, eight to be exact – but in general, they are all goodies. For the impulsive Raina, Andrea Demetriades gives a robustly funny, modern performance. It’s a tricky role to play both an obnoxious, spoiled brat and yet, an incredibly appealing young woman, and I think she acquits herself rather well. Sometimes I felt she played the role too broadly, too childish – a problem I felt was also shaped by Charlie Cousins’ similarly broadly drawn Sergius, who takes to posturing quite literally – but perhaps it’s altogether too much to quibble about the largeness of a performance in a farce. The rest of the cast I can more unequivocally claim as wonderful – particularly the work of Deborah Kennedy and William Zappa as Raina’s parents. I’ve always been a huge admirer of the multitalented Mitchell Butel ever since his performance as Princeton in Avenue Q, and I was not disappointed in his Captain Bluntschli. It’s hard to make a character so prosaic, particularly attractive. In the wrong hands Captain Bluntschli can actually be rather quite dull. The BBC 1989 production starring Helena Bonham Carter shows that this character is not inherently arresting as a – lets say – Mr Darcy. Yet I think Butel succeeds greatly in this role, exuding a espirit of intelligence – a quiet knowingness – that instantly lets you know why Raina would dub him so quickly and so affectionately, her “chocolate cream soldier”.
While it’s not exactly the transcendently funny production that I was quite hoping for, Arms and the Man is unquestionably enjoyable theatre. With such a dazzlingly beautiful looking production studded with winning performances, it’s not hard to see why Arms and the Man proved to be one of Shaw’s most successful, incandescent and relevant of comedies – as well as blissfully romantic, in its own wry way.
The Sydney Theatre Company’s production of Arms and the Man runs until October 31st.
Hons and Rebels 