Reviews

Drama club play needed support

Billy Liar seemed very much in vogue: we had read the book and seen the film of the book; then we were invited to attend the play. The response was sparse. Monday's audience at least could have been comfortably accommodated on the edge of the stage.

In a sense it is regrettable that this was so. If the university wishes to maintain a body of dramatic tradition that will allow those of its members who wish to act an opportunity to do so. and at the same time be provided with productions which may be said to contribute to its corporate life, it will have to support the club on which both these benefits depend. But two things that it is entitled to require in return for freeing the Drama Club from the financial and artistic embarrassment of empty houses, are good plays and competent production. In Billy Liar the second requirement was satisfied: but if the acting was polished, the play was purest, chintz.

The society which Billy's fantasy escaped from and satirised was squeezed out of the parlour window. It could not be fitted on to the stage, and left as its anaemic representatives only Granny, who quivered after the good old days. Barbara, whose orange-eating became a weak joke, and Billy's Mum and Dad, whose personal stupidity stripped of social context were without significance. Where, we might ask, were the Duxberrys of yesteryear? Where was the dance-hall? Where was the cemetery? Hidden, with Billy's fantasies, behind the parlour curtains. The play robbed the book of its acuteness and vitality: it turned it into a farce of situation where Billy was more bothered by a hiding than by moral defeat.

The actors deserved better. I wondered at times about Granny's (Susan Lothian's) tremolo; but she conveniently died and took her quaver into the next world. And she caused by her passing one of the most pointed scenes in the play as Mr. Fisher (Walter Plinge) described her last moments to his wife (Pamela Barnat). David Smith as Billy was mobile and versatile, turning his tongue to anything. Everybody was securely attached to the correct accent, except possibly Liz (Gay Davidson). But she is excused: for, though appearing only at the end, she acted with a force and tranquillity that almost saved the play from triviality. The set was useful, the lighting was good, the production intelligent. There was in all considerable talent considerably squandered.—A.M.B.