"French Leave."
The Mandarins of the Theatre, who are no wiser than other mandarins (on
the contrary), have been long repeating the formula that the public
won't look at a War play. If I'm not mistaken it will for many moons be
looking at Captain Reginald Berkeley's _French Leave_. He
labels it a "light comedy." That's an understatement. It is, as a matter
of fact, a very skilful, uproarious and plausible farce, almost too
successful in that you can't hear one-third of the jokes because of the
laughter at the other two-thirds (and a little because of the indistinct
articulation of one or two of the players). Of course when I say
"plausible" I don't exactly mean that any Brigade Headquarters was run
on the sketchy lines of _General Archibald Root's_, or that the gallant
author or anybody else who was in the beastly thing ever thought of the
Great War as a devastating joke, but rather that if it be true, as has
been rumoured, that not all generals were miracles of wisdom and
forbearance; that British subalterns and privates sometimes put on the
mask of humour; that _Venus_ did wander, as the observatories punctually
reported she did occasionally wander, into the orbit of _Mars_--then
_French Leave_ is a piece of artistically justifiable selection. Its
absurdity seems the most natural thing in the world and its machinery
(rare virtue!) does not creak.
_Rooty Tooty's_ brigade then was resting--if in the circumstances you
can call it resting. The rather stodgy Brigade-Major's leave being due,
his wife has come over to Paris to wait for him. The leave being
cancelled (and you could see how desperately overworked Headquarters
was) there suddenly appears what purports to be a niece of the billet
landlady's, a _Mdlle. Juliette_, of the Paris stage, with a distinctly
coming-on disposition (and frock). The uxorious Brigade-Major, weakly
consenting to the deception, suffers the tortures of the damned by
reason of the gallantries of the precocious Staff-Captain and the
old-enough-to-know-better Brigadier. There is marching and
counter-marching of detached units in the small hours; arrival of the
Brigade Interpreter with Intelligence's reports; sorrowful conviction in
the Brigadier's mind that _Juliette_ is _Olga--Olga Thingummy_, the
famous German spy. Confusions; explosions; solutions.
That's a dull account of a bright matter. The players were not, with the
exception of Miss Renée Kelly, of the star class and (I don't
necessarily say therefore) were almost uniformly admirable. I suppose
the honours must go to Mr. M.R. Morand's excellently studied
_Brigadier_--the most laughter-compelling performance I have seen on the
"legitimate" for some years. But the _Mess Corporal_ (Mr. Charles
Groves), the _Staff-Captain_ (Mr. Henry Kendall), the _Brigade-Major_
(Mr. Hylton Allen), the _Interpreter_ (Mr. George de Warfaz) and the
_Mess Waiter_ (Mr. Arthur Riscoe)--all deserve mention in despatches. As
for the "business" it was positively inspired at times, as when the
_Mess Corporal_ retrieved the red-hat (which the passionate
_Brigade-Major_ had kicked in his jealous fury) with an address which
would have done credit to the admirable Grock. Miss Renée Kelly had her
pretty and effective moments, but somebody should ask her (no doubt in
vain) to be less tearful in the tearful and just a little less bright in
the bright parts--a little less fidgetty and fidgetting and out of key,
in fact.
I should say in general that author and producer (Mr. Eille Norwood)
would do well to watch the serious passages--always the danger-points in
farce. As nobody on our side of the footlights takes these seriously the
folk on the other side must substantially dilute the seriousness. The
tragically uttered, "O God!" at the end of the Second Act ruined an
otherwise excellent curtain. But I must not end on a note of censure. I
was much too thoroughly entertained for that. Here's a quite first-rate
piece of fooling, with dialogue of humorous rather than smart sayings.
And humour's a much rarer and less cheap a gift than smartness.