Left - Andrew O'Connell and Aaron GlenaneThere's nothing like a spot of traditional theatre, what? Provided it's topping, of course. And Genesian's take on English playwright R. C. Sherriff’s moving WW1 drama, Journey’s End, which premiered at London's Apollo, in December, 1928, is spiffing. There are a few laughs to be had, but mostly it's unrelenting high drama, as we inhabit the officers' dugout, behind the support line. As the grandson of a man who, as I discovered long after his passing, was stuck in a trench, as a frontline machine-gunner, on the Somme, this recapitulation of tension building before an expected onslaught by the Bosch, at the battle for Saint-Quentin, has poignancy & resonance. Even as a youngster, asking about the war in all naivety, I clearly remember the vehemence of my grandfather's reaction in not wanting to talk about it. He denounced war and was little short of disgusted by its glorification, as he saw it, in the form of marches, tickertape, returning heroes and the whole Anzac myth. Legend has it he burnt all accoutrement pertaining to soldierhood on his return, save for a practical, warm, heavy trenchcoat. His brother lost a leg, he nearly did, and one could still move around the shrapnel in his knee and back.
Director Debbie Smith brings all this back to haunt us. And rightly so. What could be timelier? If only that perennial timelessness would elude us, for a change.
The first weapon in her arsenal is a terrific set, which, astoundingly, she also designed. It might be literalistic, and in no way conceptual, but it's a reminder as to why old school theatre relied on such traditions: they work. I can't imagine STC, even with a bottomless budget, could top it. Cleverly constructed and painted, it features what look like old railway sleepers, corrugated iron, and various period accessories, to achieve an utterly transporting look. We're there. Paint it up suitably, overlay judicious lighting (designed by Michael Schell, as with sound; both operated by Janina Olmos-New), set the scene with evocative musical intros. Then all you need is a taut troupe. And she's assembled one of those, too. In the beginning, it's full tilt towards that unmistakable brand of 'terribly British' acting practically all of us are familiar with, if only via Pythonesque parody. It tends to curl the corners of the mouth upwards, at first, but one quickly settles in and the serious intent of the play quickly overtakes the public school stoicism.
Hardy (Zac Vermeer), second-in-command, is about to go relief, giving way to Osborne (his peers call him Uncle, as he's older), who shows himself to be much more dedicated and selfless than his outgoing equivalent. Despite leaving records in a parlous state, Hardy does Osborne (played with suitable restraint and subtelty, by Andrew O'Connell) the service of a heads-up on the commanding officer's disintegration ('his nerves have got battered to bits!') and dissipation, via drink. Osborne, however, a loyalist to journey's end, defends the CO, Stanhope (played with aplomb, and a plum, by Hunter McMahon), as 'the best company commander we've got!'
Wry, but darkly telling humour pervades the work: when Mason (James Moir), the give-as-good-as-he gets cook, is asked what kind of soup he's serving, his reply is 'it's yellow soup, sir'; to which Osborne retorts, 'yes, it has a deeply yellow flavour', or words to that effect. It is by this literary device, in good measure, that Sherriff conveys the quiet desperation of these men, as they dread a much-rumoured, imminent, massive attack. Indeed, it's this expectation & dread which sustains the suspense and tension to the very end.
Trotter is the Sergeant Schultz of the dugout. A simple, unashamedly rotund, reliable, fair-minded, good-natured fellow, who seems to have dealt with trauma by way of the 'fake it till you make it' school of discipline. He savours his food, makes much of the smell of bacon (discussing its leanness, or otherwise, at length), & appreciates the ray of hope in every new sunrise. By focussing on the everyday, he makes it through every day. He's depicted vividly by Tom Massey.
Zac Vermeer reappears as Hibbert, a snivelling coward (as he probably would've been dismissed then) who feigns chronic neuralgia, in a foiled attempt to move down the line. Vermeer skilfully assumes all the characteristic affectations of the role.
Characters and story gradually unfold, culminating in a fated broad daylight raid (at the behest of senior brass, who won't let a good battle get in the way of a good dinner) on German territory, in which the dedicated and compassionate Osborne is lost and the young recruit and acolyte of Stanhope, Raleigh (with boyish innocence expertly feigned, by Aaron Glenane), is divested of his naivety & appetite for adventure; rendered devastated. The final scenes are a gripping, edge-of-the-seat triumph: simulated pyrotechnics, sound design, effects and remarkably realistic wounds, not to mention the writing itself, and these actors' readings, really bring it home.
The futility of war is communicated starkly in an anecdote written for Osborne, who relates, to Raleigh, how a German officer halted fire to allow British troops to repatriate a wounded soldier. The very next day, however, 'we blew each other's trenches to bits'. Osborne's observation that the frontlines are but the breadth of a rugger-field apart points to the nearness of peace, and certain destruction. It is eerily prescient of both, though not in that order.
Finally, Paul Barbary is almost purpose-built to play the aloof colonel. If there was a slightly weak link it was in the failed accent and poor diction of Nic Canadas (who seemed somewhat nervous self-conscious), who played the Sergeant-Major.
There are at least two scenes worthy of special mention: a no-holds-barred confrontation between old schoolmates Raleigh and Stanhope, in which the normally subservient but now shellshocked former challenges, in no uncertain terms, the apparent coldness of the latter and their tender reconciliation, as Raleigh veritably dies in Stanhopes arms.
It's a long play, but never feels it. Not a bit of it, old chap! My only restlessness was political: though Sherriff's incisive, finely-judged exposition insinuates itself, and us, into the hearts and minds of the officers of the day, it's just a little harder to have complete sympathy for these men, who are that little bit removed from the brunt of the action, fronting up for but a few hours duty at a time; eating better food, enjoying (albeit minor & marginal) privileges unknown to the men walking on rats & comrades' bodies, in urine & excrement. This bitter contrast is partially explored by Sherriff, through Stanhope's sarcasm in the presence of the offhand colonel and, more particularly, in the obvious class difference between Trotter and his comrades: Trotter, straightforward, dependable salt-of-the-earth, while his peers show the foibles, excesses and twittery of the silver-spoonfed.
Smith has done an exemplary job of showing just how much, with so little, independent theatre can do, in every aspect of the craft. Many other independent and mainstream companies alike would do well to take note: in bang-for-buck production quality, it doesn't get any better than this. While leaning a little towards overstatement in both production design and performance, the overall effect is sweepingly cinematic, giving an other-worldly quality which firmly roots it in a bygone era. Another company might have chosen to subvert it, in lending an ambiguous temporal context, but this interpretation is completely in keeping with the brand heritage of the much-loved Genesian; a veritable inner-city timewarp & portal to foregone theatrical grandeur.
Genesian Theatre presents
Journey's End
by R.C. Sherriff
Directed by Debbie Smith
Venue: The Genesian Theatre | 420 Kent Street, Sydney
Dates: 13th March - 24th April 2010
Times: Fri & Sat @ 8pm; Sun @ 4.30pm
Bookings: 1300 306 776
Visit: www.genesiantheatre.com.au
