Look Back In Anger, by John Osborne
(Cliff) 1 October 57, Lyceum Theatre
moved to the Golden 17 March 58
directed by Tony Richardson

New Plays in Manhattan: LOOK BACK IN ANGER (by John Osborne) hit England with a bang last year and it is clear enough why. On the one hand, it jabbed some good spiny cactus into the aspidistra drama of the English stage: on the other hand, it clangingly echoed a new generation's call to disorder in English life. And it had something more than the Zeitgeist or England's general theatrical anemia to recommend it; it had a man who could really write.

"Look Back in Anger" has hardly raised the curtain on the frowsiest-looking attic in years, than it catapults upon the audience the most blisteringly vituperative character. While his better-born young wife (Mary Ure) bends over an ironing board and his working-class friend (Alan Bates) sprawls over the Sunday papers, Jimmy Porter looses his bilious scorn, like a revolving gun turret, on everything within range: art, religion, radio, Sunday, England and, again and again, his wife and mother-in-law. As minutely venomous as a wasp, as sweepingly violent as a whirlwind, his mockery sauced with self-pity, his growl subsiding in a whine, he brings to a vast repository of grievances a commensurate repertory of abuse.
As the play proceeds, an actress friend of his wife's comes to stay in the house, lashes back at him, and rouses the put-upon pregnant wife to give him the gate. But after the wife leaves Jimmy's bed and ironing board, her friend suddenly takes over both. At the end, despite her being wild about the brute, the friend clears out from a sense of guilt, while the wife, who has had a miscarriage, pleads with him to take her back.
Postulating a gray-as-ashes England where upper-class loss has not meant lower-class gain, Playwright Osborne writes of a young intellectual who looks back because he has no incentive to look ahead, and looks back in anger because he has no brighter past than future. Exulting in his wrongs rather than crusading for his rights, living in "the American age" but without sharing its rewards, Jimmy -- at least on the surface -- is resolutely a full-fledged Disorganization Man. But gnawing at him worse than have-not economics is the endemic English intestinal bug of class resentment. Happily, none of this ever becomes a mere plight in man's clothing. Jimmy (extremely well played by Kenneth Haigh) is always real in himself, exasperatingly and vibrantly alive, and with a natural-sounding, real-life gift for witty and eloquent abuse.
Less happily, what is best in all this has been pretty fully conveyed by the end of a brilliant, dynamic first act. Indeed, the first act's very power of assault gives to what follows a diminished impact. But what follows has also too little organic development. The play never really advances from a kind of one-man show to any kind of social drama. To be sure, a negativist, no-exit attitude that shies away from moral crisis cannot develop very far; while at the same time so much overt anger must shut the door on irony. Having shown how angry Jimmy can be, the play chiefly thereafter shows how personally irresistible he is. Perhaps a little concentration on human plight would have helped; it cuts deeper than Bohemian mess.
Not for a good many years has anyone come out of England with Playwright Osborne's verbal talent for throwing stones. But playwrights need an architectural talent too, for placing one stone on top of another.

Tony Richardson died on November 14, 1991. This book was discovered on the day of his death, hidden at the back of the same dark cupboard where he kept his Oscars. As his daughter Natasha movingly writes in her foreword, it is an "entertaining, humorous, and very personal account of the people and places he loved, the films he made, and the things that were important to him.
Tony Richardson was born on June 5, 1928, in Shipley, Yorkshire. After Oxford University, he joined BBC Television and in 1955 set up the English Stage Company at the Royal Court Theatre with George Devine. Richardson's time at the Royal Court, directing John Osborne's Look Back in Anger, The Entertainer, and Luther, among many other productions, heralded a new departure for postwar theater.
Through his films he brought this new theatrical realism to the screen. "The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Runner", "A Taste of Honey", and "Tom Jones" (which won the Academy Award for Best Picture and Best Director) were among his most acclaimed movies from this period. Later films include "The Charge of the Light Brigade, "The Border," "The Loved One," and "The Hotel New Hampshire."

Tony Richardson was married to Vanessa Redgrave, with whom he had two daughters, Natasha and Joely. In 1973, he moved to California, where he directed films and theater. Following his divorce, he lived with Grizelda Grimond and his third daughter, Katharine. He completed this book six years before he died.

THE NEXT STOP of the "Look Back" progress was America. David Merrick, then at the beginning of ascent on being Mr Broadway, had negotiated bring it over intact. (At the time, American Equity was wonderfully generous and welcoming to British performers; it was only later, when British Equity refused any kind of reciprocity, that the situation became more and more grudging and difficult and the Americans were forced to retaliate.) The rehearsals -- short, as the original cast had been reassembled -- were rather funny. The atmosphere was slightly like the morning after a party where everyone knew they'd behaved badly the night before and so were now on their most proper behavior.

We moved to New York, into the Lyceum. We didn't have many hopes for the play. We did a couple of previews; then, on October 1, the first night. There wasn't much response, and the applause was tepid. Nobody came around or said anything. We were taken to Sardi's, seated at a table, offered one drink each. Food was clearly not to be asked for. We all felt as though we were carrying some unnameable, unspeakable social disease. David looked more and more anxious and on edge. We heard murmurs like, "Four pairs of orchestra for the first two paras." We'd no idea what this meant -- the press agent was negotiating with typesetters for an advance on the notices. Then the first paragraph of the New York Times came through. Menus were produced. We were invited to order. We were a hit.

Of the many things around which Manhattan revolves, theatre is one of the most important. And to have success there for the first time is like no success you will ever have again: The whole town celebrates with you. Success is palpable and instant, with none of the backbiting and grudgery you always find in the UK. Everyone you meet knows you're a success -- even people you don't know know you and love you.
How the show would hold up was another question. A few nights after, John and I dropped into the Lyceum. Kenneth Haigh was not only not performing but was totally inaudible and cutting some of the most brilliant monologues in John's play. I called the cast on stage for notes. As I attacked Ken, his only response was to gesture toward Mary and Alan. "Why do you always pick on me? Why don't you blame them?" They were giving impeccable performances against a hole in the center. "Why were you cutting those speeches?" "I couldn't reach them tonight. Do you want me to give the audience lies?" "The answer is yes -- I want 'To be or not to be,' whether the Hamlet feels it or not."

| A year on Broadway |

David Merrick was a master promoter. Within weeks he hired a girl -- a feminist before her time and, as such, supposedly outraged by Jimmy Porter's attitudes to women -- to climb onto the stage during a performance and belt Ken Haigh in the face. It was all conveniently timed for the next day's headlines -- and a subsequent controversy as to whether the gesture had been plotted or was spontaneous. David wouldn't admit it at the time even to us, but with stunts like these he established the play for a year on Broadway and afterward a year's tour. |||