The Education of The Ruling Class

It takes more than a History degree from one of the world’s top Universities to get a ticket for the (very) limited performances of Alan Bennett’s latest, “The History Boys.” After reading at both Cambridge and Oxford, Bennett’s first stage play—“Forty Years On”—debuted back the revolutionary days of ‘68. However, various critics have considered his recent take on elite schools and education the pinnacle of his career. Judging by the widespread acclaim and the myriad of Tony awards received a couple of weeks ago, they are spot on.

But for anyone with the slightest contact with our alma mater, “The History Boys” becomes much more than a 2004 London West End hit transplanted onto Broadway. In the context of the Thatcherite eighties, the play focuses around eight students from a north English grammar school seeking admission to the world’s most exclusive and competitive educational institutions. Pressured from the school administration and attracted primarily by the behemoth of reputation, they linger at school beyond their final examinations for extra classes in preparation for admission interviews and papers.

Although the play is primarily a comedy, Bennett’s lines require an audience of literati. In just under three hours, spectators will hear about Orwell’s social theory, Wittgenstein’s philosophy, a handful of Auden, the unavoidable Shakespeare, and others. All of this fits in the seemingly unavoidable duel between two styles of teaching set up by Bennett.

As Teacher of General (and indefinable) Studies, the character Hector draws heavily from Robin Williams in “Dead Poets Society”; an old-fashioned academic armed with the appropriate quotations for any circumstance. He does not lose sleep over the students’ struggle to again admission to Oxbridge, as he considers testing (and education itself) an enemy of true education. As the hatefully pragmatic principal describes, Hector’s contribution to the students’ characters is “unquantifiable, and thus purposeless in education.”

Opposed to him we find a Machiavellian younger professor, Dr. Irwin, hired by the administration to get the students into the elite institutions. Irwin seeks to avoid clichés and trite essays, emphasizing that the “old ways” produce only “dull” essays. History (and academia, for that matter) is nowadays “entertainment,” where “facts are just the beginning,” according to Irwin.

His creative but confrontational approach to history, as well as his popular British television documentaries, illustrate Bennet’s charges against proud academics. Although his academic criticism is at times too simplistic to be taken seriously, Bennett ends up heightening Irwin’s role in developing the students’ personalities as the character deals with his own inner conflicts.

The synthesis of Hector’s quotes and Irwin’s awakening of historical passion meet with a third teacher, Mrs. Lindtott, masterfully portrayed by Frances de la Tour. Although she represents the epitome of the classic way, the only woman in the cast successfully develops both the wittiest humor and a profound emotional entanglement with the audience.

The play’s radical combination of filmed segments, an engaging score, and flawless stage-managing prove director Nicholas Hytener’s holistic vision for the play was aesthetically worthy of Bennet’s dialogue.

“The History Boys” does not have one theme; its profundity lies in dealing with an eclectic but complimentary variety of issues, all of which relate to elite education. Bennett’s play addresses homosexuality, and literature’s raison d’ être; it analyzes legacies, but also the understandability of the Holocaust; it tries to define money’s role in education while addressing gender neutrality and manliness.

With a heavily British accent, “The History Boys” achieves what only masterful art can: a diverse but cohesive critique of education and its meaning. After witnessing these students’ dreams of Oxbridge, it is left to the spectator to ponder over the “confusion of a real education with cold, ancient cobblestone.” A sublime opposition in their, yet also our, Cambridge.

—Staff writer Pierpaolo Barbieri can be reached at barbier@fas.harvard.edu.