Stoppard's Timepiece

BRITANNIA has never been easily translated to the Harvard stage, and not simply because of the funny accents. A tale of modern-day British life frequently must convey a sense of national loss and social stagnation that is foreign to audiences and--much more damaging--all too often unexpressed by the actors. In the current Winthrop House production of Tom Stoppard's Enter a Free Man, this failure mars an otherwise enjoyable evening of theater.

Written soon after the masterful Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, Enter a Free Man shows us a different Tom Stoppard, a playwright who has curbed (somewhat unwillingly) his absurdist humor and created a sensitive portrait of a man waging a rather pathetic battle with society. The result, an uneasy balance of typical Stoppardesque repartee ("Look at the Japanese! The Japanese inventors are small...") and more down-to-earth pathos, neverthless works as a unit. Enter a Free man may not rank with Stoppard's prize-winning comedies, but it remains a warm and amusing play.

Stoppard's protagonist George Riley is a middleaged inventor whose inventions, like a tape recorder thay plays "Rule Britannia" when the clock strikes twelve, never seem to grab the public's fancy. As a result, he lives off ten shillings a week provided by his rambunctious 18-year old daughter Linda, who works in Fancy Goods at Woolworth's. He refuses to collect unemployment compensation; that is for the masses, not for an inventor. With a new ten-bob note every "Meatless Saturday," George heads for the pub, where the locals indulge his fantasies. He is a man lost in the past, reading his daughter's old fairy tales, living in the days when the navy was strong and he and "Lindy" would go for walks in the park.

But George has had enough this time, and he's left for good--a free man, armed with his latest invention, an envelope with gum on both sides of the flap. At the pub, Harry the horseplayer and the dopey seaman Able (from the new navy) play on George's wild dreams until they convince him that he, with Harry, can revolutionize the envelope industry. Soon George derails again, wanders into the past in a monologue, and we return to the Riley home, a place where, as George explains, "I give nothing, I gain nothing, it is nothing..."

While George lives out his fantasies in mechanical gizmos, Linda lives out hers in her boyfriends, white knights on motorcycles, who also fall just short of expectations. Frustrated by the sameness, she, too, walks out--to elope with her latest. Of course, her freedom is as unrealistic as her father's (the motorcyclist turns out to be married); like George, she never even discovers her partner's real name. As the two dreamers return defeated, Persephone--George's wife--greets them with dinner for three. She has been expecting them all along.

These transitions from the Riley home to the pub (a wonderfully dilapidated one, designed by Derek McLane), from disturbing reality to comic illusion, occur smoothly under Maddy DeLone's crisp direction. DeLone makes full use of the intimate confines of the Winthrop House JCR, organizing the human traffic with all the aplomb of a Back Bay traffic cop. A Stoppard play needs technical gadgetry: for true comic effect, Enter a Free Man should have a "Rule Britannia" clock, a few portraits of the Queen, BBC radio droning in the background, and "indoor rain." The Winthrop production manages well without them, but the loss of these elements cannot help but detract a little from our enjoyment.

It is the pub scenes that shine especially, crackling with fast-paced hilarity and several fine performances: Daphne de Marneffe as the daffy yet sensitive Florence, Charles Mills as the meek, bewildered Brown, Randy Marshall as the meek, bewildered Brown, Randy Marshall as the less-than-Able seaman, and, best of all, David Frutkoff as the manipulative Harry. After some initial fumbling with lines, Frutkoff takes charge (as he should) and controls the comedy with exquisite timing. As Harry, he is neverill-intentioned, willing to take gullible George for a ride, but stopping when his delusion gets out of hand. Yet the irrepressible jokester keeps emerging, even when he tries to be sympathetic: "Keep trying, there's always something else...What about a cup with no handle for people with no hands?"

THE PLAY SAGS during the home scenes at the beginning of the second act, however. Part of the blame must go to Stoppard, who is clearly more at home with the frothy pub banter than with the unfolding human drama. But there's not enough oppressiveness here, not enough love wrestling with the frustration. We have no sense of a 25-year relationship between husband and wife, or of what must have been deep affection between father and daughter. As a result, much of the poignancy of George Riley's plight goes by the wayside. It is an unfortunate letdown of first-act expectations.

Alice Brown, as Persephone, is simply too placid. She may be the anchor in a stormy household, the practical support for two restless dreamers, but nonetheless (indeed, as a result of this) her frustration should be evident in subconscious glimpses early on and flashes of anger later. When she tries to explain to Linda why she married George--Persephone's most touching speech--Brown fails to communicate the depth of this woman's love and the strength of her character. (In all fairness, it must be stated that Brown took over the role only two weeks before the opening, so her performance may improve with time.)

More successful is Laura Rogerson as Linda, flouncing around the stage in her pajamas, hurling insults and lapsing into romatic reverie. Rogerson exhibits superb comic timing and movement, but she, too is overly restrained. We cannot understand her rebelliousness without a deeper glimpse into her frustration and her innate childishness.

As the pathetically funny inventor, Ed Redlich dominates the stage with inexhaustible energy that is unfortunately misdirected. His George is too blustery and dumbfounded--can this really be the same man that once invented a machine gun that could make tea while firing? George Riley should express the faded dignity of old England; he is an intelligent, romantic man who somehow got switched onto the wrong track and can no longer find his way back. To feel pity for George, we must believe in his past, and Redlich fails to express this. He is too young, loud, and energetic for a man whose only future lies in his memories. The only suggestion we have of a pitiable George Riley is Redlich's stooped posture; otherwise, there is no hint that his conscience is catching up with him painfully. In his eyes we see no sadness or anger--only the blank gaze of a bewildered man.

Thus Stoppard's extended metaphor of the decline of England may fail to carry the evening in the Winthrop JCR, but not without several moments of high comedy along the way. In the end, it is the snappy one-liners that we have come to expect from Tom Stoppard that shine through and send us away chuckling. After all, Britannia's 3000 miles away; as Linda suggests, maybe a sudden wave of loony patriotism will put a Rule Britannia clock in every home.