Skip to main content

The Deep Blue Sea. Terence Rattigan. Northcott Theatre, Exeter, 16th October 2006

Rattigan’s post-war drama highlights the voracious nature of woman’s passion, and his use of language brilliantly conveys the unsaid, which lies behind the politesse of formal speech. Hester’s desire for Freddie has no reason to it, other than itself, the force of her passion is an ind in itself, serving no purpose than to blaze and consume. Freddie’s desire for Hester does not come across; he is merely portrayed as a shallow and inconsequential fellow who has no purpose in his life since the end of the war. Lost in peacetime he has turned to drink and playing golf as escape mechanisms for his inability to ‘live’. As a result, his character fails to engage. In strong comparison, Hester’s veers from ladylike self-control to almost demented frenzy and back again. Her physical pain comes close to the primitive, and the conflict between the primitive and the civilized is wonderfully captured. There are times when her focus on the need for Freddie in order to be able to live seems like weakness of character, but that would be to fail to understand the very primitive nature of such strong desire. It is an emotion that cannot be civilized. It needs to be repressed in order for Hester to survive the ordeal of life, which she ultimately does. Love is simply not enough. Would woman choose steady, gentle love and affection before experiencing a collision with her spiritual equal? I think not. She seeks solace after the fire and torment of such meteoric explosion. Hester decides to return to her art studies and finds the strength to let Freddie go, and she forces herself to access the strength to do so. Freddie is the weaker half of the pairing, and one wonders how he will fare. Hester is to be admired for her commitment to him, despite the sense of it, as she is following her instincts and her heart, but surviving such an ordeal will leave her tempered, not happier, or even fulfilled, merely able to exist. Thought provoking.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

OLD JOY. Dir Kelly Reichardt. 2005

Dropout Kurt arrives in town and calls up his old friend, earnest father-to-be Mark to suggest a camping trip out in the forest, away from the city. They haven’t seen each other for some time and the film suggests a desire for intimacy as well as a quest for peace. Something of a lost soul, Kurt is emotional and, at times, to be pitied. He lives outside society, in a world of new age type retreats and travels, which seem to have left him out on the margins. In contrast, Mark has a home and a pregnant partner, and tunes his car radio in to phone-ins with much loud chat about the state of society in America but he seems only half alive. They drive out of town, with the camera as passenger, which gazes out of the car window while a gorgeous soundtrack by Yo La Tengo sets a mellow mood. The use of extended silence makes me a little uneasy; it’s hard to get away from memories of Deliverance, and a sense of apprehension. In the city, the glass of the car windows insulates us...

Interior Life of an Estate Agent - part 18

You're not from round 'ere then? I am surrounded by delightful young families, happily retired couples, or contented empty nesters, enjoying their return to pre-children companionship and some freedom from parental responsibility, as well as a large number of women who have escaped their marriages and bought a dog, preferring long walks and book clubs. One of the imbalanced things about living in the west country, as with living in the farther reaches of Scotland, is that there is a surfeit of single women and a dearth of suitable single men. The men are wage slaves, and to be found in the south-east whereas women, on the whole, like a bit of a view. This must be the centrifugal effect, as though single women have been flung out from the frenzied middle of a dance, and have landed, like so many wallflowers on the hard chairs all around the dance hall. I can tell you; those chairs are hard; and sitting on them makes you invisible; not, however, to the sort of man who has an ...

Use and Abuse

Sitting outside in the evening sun with ice chinking in my gin and tonic, our chatter is interrupted by the mildly irritating, feeble piping of a child’s recorder. Five or so minutes later a little boy, aged about seven, is planted by the entrance door to the theatre, and carries on blowing down the damned thing. A woman folds a towel and places it by his feet. The boy’s little sister is placed alongside her brother; she’s about five. The woman walks up and down the piazza with a mobile phone clamped to her ear, talking incessantly. Sometimes she comes and sits with a man but they do not go near the two children. The children are pale; they look miserable, and keep going over to the man and woman, but are brought back to the theatre door. It is not obvious the first time he does it, but the man makes a flamboyant gesture of bending forward, dropping coins onto the folded towel, giving a thumbs up sign to the little boy, smiling broadly and then walking away. He seemed to be a man in th...