Circling the Circus

Except for the low, seven bob price of tickets and the high, Edwardian bob of loitering Teddy Boys, the American theatregoer might mistake London's Piccadilly for a circular Broadway. The King and I, Bell, Book and Candle, Kismet, and Tea House of the August Moon are all current favorites. Such dubious U.S. attractions as The Remarkable Mr. Pennypacker and Johnnie Ray have Britons queueing up patiently for each performance. And adapted American productions like My Three Angels and Ondine have found a home here also.

But if the visitor is casting about for authentic London drama, he will soon find that the city's 45 theatres are armed with a barrage of comedies, mysteries, and little else. Only one production in London's Theatre Guide has the courage to announce that it is not wholly clews or comedy. It is the current intellectual necessity, Waiting for Godot, billed as a "tragicomedy." For the rest, Britons clearly like escape quite as much as the notoriously-gross Americans. Agatha Christic's Mousctrap has baited over 1000 audiences and shows no sign of closing.

For my 98 cents, the best play in London is not English at all. The Count of Clerembard, a French satire by Marcel Ayme, is a thorough delight and will soon be brought to America. Clive Brook, as the Count, is a bestial huntsman converted by a miracle to equally vehement Christianity. He decides that his son must marry that humblest of all creatures, the town prostitute (played by Mai Zetterling). Without sacrificing any humor, the play deepens from farce to genuine reverence. Its unresolved conclusion, called by one London critic "seatty and sacreligious," is just the opposite, if there is an antonym for "seatty." The Count is mad; he is also touched by God.

Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot, another philosophic piece, was touched only by tedium. The setting is a desolate swamp where for eternity two hoboes talk about how bored they are. They are waiting, as you might suspect, for Godot, a nobleman who will bring salvation from their misery. During the evening, three symbols of humanity stroll past, Godot never appears and the dialogues about boredom become more persuasive by the minute. Even allowing for the innovations in technique, I found Godot on evening of baggy-pants comedy and penny-dreadful philosophy with little power, wit, or charm. It is, however, being considered for an off-Broadway production, so I am overruled again.

One item definitely not exportable is The Punch Revue, a collection of dry skits and songs which should leave even the most devout Anglophile gasping for more vermouth. The fraction of the show I understood was very funny, and Miss Binnie Hale's impressions of other actresses broke through the language barrier. With filmy dress and yellow sausage wig, Miss Hale succeeds in making even Marlene a little ludicrous.

The Britishers have hungered for American musicals since their first taste of Oklahomal and Annie Get Your Gun. Last month the latest in a long string opened and the critics, at least, seem to have gotten their fill. The Pajama Game, awaited because the Queen Mother had singled it out in New York, collected pans and mild jeers. Most reviewers found it coarse, loud, and unfunny. They especially deplored the enthusiasm of the audience and the seven curtain calls.

London's loss of reserve over U.S. musicals is easier to understand after seeing the two local contestants: both make Ankles Away a triumph. The Buccaneer, Sandy Wilson's follow-up to The Boyfriend, concerns a wholesome boys' magzine and the competition from American comics. Salad Days, produced by the Bristol Old Vic who should know better, follows a young couple's escapades with flying saucers and a magical piano. Both the plots are thin, music routine, and puns atrocious. ("What shall I wear on a flying saucer?" "A tea gown, of course.")

So America seems to have cornered the musical market and with Williams, Miller, Wilder, and Inge to match against Fry and Rattigan, perhaps has the edge in straight drama as well. On the other hand, American actors cannot meet the English standard, and the competition gets more acute daily; outside the Old Vic, the poster announces The Merry Wives of Windsor and scribbled below by a fan "starring Princess Margaret."