"Home"
There is no danger in a critic's
turning thumbs down on a piece of
theatre such as "The Rothschilds."
Yet there is definitely a personal
danger incurred when he
rejects a serious drama which
has been hailed by fellow critics on
both sides of the Atlantic, for
immediately cries of "shallow
mind" and "pseudo-intellect" are
heard from those studious people
who would like to make you think
that symbols are everything and
that deep insights into the human
condition automatically make a
play great.
Well, I have always maintained
that no matter what other qualities
a play may have, it must first be
interesting or entertaining if it is to
succeed. I am firm in that belief
and I shall always write my true
impressions and I found David
Storey's "Home" to be a total bore
in spite of the triumphant
performances of John Gielgud and
Ralph Richardson. Mr. Storey's
style of writing is comparable to
that of Samuel Beckett - short
thoughts, abrupt stops, many pauses
- whose style has never been
particularly to my liking.
"Home" is about two men and
two women (there is a third man,
but his is a very minor role) who
talk to each other, reminisce about
their empty pasts, and try to find a
little pleasure in their daily
routines. They are, we are slowly
made aware, patients at a mental
institution.
Sirs Gielgud and Richardson are
nothing short of great and their
female counterparts, Dandy Nichols
and Mona Washbourne, are almost
their equals. Still, the play, which
has been well directed by Lindsay
Anderson, isn't worthy of them. I
should make it clear that my
objections stem primarily from my
disenchantment with this type of
theater in general. I am sure
"Home" is a philosophically astute
work, yet it is intolerably dull and
therefore, by my standards, a
theatrical dud.
