It's My Party: "This House" (National Theatre)

I came very close to passing on the National Theatre Live broadcast of James Graham's political play This House yesterday afternoon.  Thanks to the original House of Cards series and some spirited dinner table conversations in England in the '80s,  I know a bit about how Parliament works on the day to day level, but not a lot, and somehow a play about the slow implosion of the Labour Party through the "hung" Parliaments of 1974 to 1979 sounded like it might be just a little too topical to hold my interest.  Fortunately, I did some research online and was sufficiently encouraged by the British reviews ("an exhilarating rollercoaster ride through an era of political upheaval!" - British Theatre Guide) to overcome my anxiety and go anyway, and I'm so glad I did!

32 year old playwright James Graham (who's quite young enough without adding insult to injury by also looking like he's about 12) does a masterful job of "educating" the audience in the vocabulary and terms of the story as he's telling it, providing exposition and backstory so seamlessly you almost don't notice, a particularly impressive achievement given that he wouldn't be born until 3 years after the close of the play's events.   Broadly speaking, during the five years in question neither Labour nor the Tories held a clear voting majority in the House of Commons, and even when Harold Wilson's minority Labour government was voted in it still was only up by three votes, with the result that it was nearly impossible to definitively pass any legislation.
For both parties, every vote was crucial and every voting member had to be present for every vote that was called - pregnant, ill, drunk, stoned, their condition was irrelevant as long as they could be dragged or drag themselves through the Yes or No lobby to be counted.  The Whips, whose job it is to get the votes in for their party, were in a constant high-stress frenzy, making sure their MPs were on side, chivvying the more rebellious ones to make sure they toed the party line, and most importantly trying to lure the votes of the smaller parties (referred to with gallows humor as "the odds and sods" and including the Liberals, Scots and Irish Nationals, and the Welsh) to widen their margin.  The back corridors of Westminster were a 24/7 madhouse of shifting alliances with no holds barred to manipulate the legislative outcome: bullying, bribery, blackmail, and even the occasional beat-down.  On one memorable occasion, which makes a great set piece for the play, there was an actual brawl in the House chamber with Michael Heseltine swinging at everybody in sight with Charles II's ceremonial mace.

The situation is similar in many respects to the legislative deadlock in the American Congress during the first four years of the Obama administration, particularly as the body's responsibility to govern and protect the interests of the people begins to become secondary to just obstructing the opposition and keeping them from accomplishing anything towards their political agenda.  The difference is cultural, and significant: Parliament still runs less by rule and regulation than on tradition, sportsmanship and a particularly English belief in the inviolability of the gentlemen's agreement.  Sooner or later almost every character in the play finds him (or in a couple of instances her) self having to confront how far they're actually willing to go for the sake of party loyalty.  What gives the piece its emotional heft is that inevitable conflict between political expedience and individual conscience, and the equally inevitable moment when the point is reached that honour, and the ideals that brought these guys into politics in the first place, can no longer be ignored or pushed aside.

Originally performed in the National's smallest space, the Cottesloe (small being a relative term - the "little" Cottesloe is the size of ACT's mainstage theatres), the production was so successful that it was moved into the largest of them, the Olivier, for an extended run. Scenic designer Rae Walsh rose impressively to the challenge, with the inspired idea of seating some audience members in the "back benches" on the Olivier's famous turntables, which shift position between scenes to define locations, while the actors play in a stationary space between them and the audience out front:  Tory Whip's office stage left, Labour Whip's office stage right (a bit of designer humour there perhaps!), and an area in between which is sometimes the center aisle of the House and at other times various party-neutral locations around Westminster.  Hanging over everything is the gigantic lower half of the face of Big Ben, not only the iconic image of the political power located in the Palace of Westminster, but also the indication to Londoners that, at least in theory, their government is hard at work and literally "burning the midnight oil" on their behalf :  when Parliament sits late into the night, the lamp at the top of the clock tower is lit; when it finally rises to go home, it's extinguished.

Director Jeremy Herrins gives the script a vital, high-stakes, high-octane production that captures both the relentless physical and mental energy of this world and the equally relentless psychological stress it creates.  There's a driving authenticity to it that makes you feel that this must really have been what it was like during these madhouse years, and it's played at speed and with blistering wit and ferocity by one of those giant, deep-bench ensemble casts the National can field, 23 actors in about twice that many roles.  With the exception of Vincent Franks, who for me was the least effective among the principals, his weepy, hysterical characterization of Labour's Michael Cocks becoming wearyingly one-note as the play went on, pretty nearly everyone delivers, but there are standout contributions in the considerable crowd.   Julian Wadham, a familiar face from British television, delights as the giddily effete Conservative Whip, peering like a loveable schoolmaster over his spectacles and fussing about grammatical correctness ("That wasn't assonance, was it?"), and enjoying the game of it all so much that he practically dances around his office - for him the worst of the situation is that it begins to stop being fun.  The it must be said extremely dishy Charles Edwards (currently Lady Edith's tragically married love interest on Downton Abbey and so wonderful as Richard Hannay in the original company of The 39 Steps) as his Deputy Jack Weatherill is the epitome of a certain kind of ideal English gentleman, square-jawed but sensitive around the eyes, perfect suit, perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect easy charm even when defending his corner.  Edwards has a sublime gift for light comedy, so much harder to play than it looks when it's done properly, and he deploys it here to excellent effect - you wouldn't believe the impact he can make with the flick of an eye-brow or a fleeting thin third of a smile.  Reece Dinsdale is all northern bonhomie and cheerfully boorish profanity as Labour Whip Walter Harrison, whom it is a mistake to underestimate but whose bantam-rooster aggression hides a warm heart - the relationship between him and Edwards' Weatherill is the central one of the play -  and Matthew Pidgeon plays, with admirable commitment to the task, a rogue's gallery of obnoxious MPs from both sides of the aisle.  ("Is this even a real job?" complains one on being given a post as Arts Minister in the Shadow Cabinet.  "It makes me sound like a wizard - Shaaaaaaadow  Aaaarts.")

At just over three hours it's a daunting evening in prospect, but in practice it goes like a bullet-train with very few lulls in the proceedings, and I was happily surprised by how much suspense and excitement was generated from what sounded like potentially the most boring idea for a play imaginable.  It's an invigorating reminder of how thrilling political theatre can be, and how discouraging it is that in our current environment in this country we're not making it anymore.  Political plays tend to be big, and therefore expensive, which is a practical problem, but the larger issue is that I think American playwrights are afraid to write them and theatres are for the most part reluctant to produce them for fear of alienating subscribers or donors.  (American audiences don't in general have the philosophical equanimity of British ones about seeing themselves, their country or their government depicted in less than flattering terms.  We don't like not being Exceptional, and we don't like being reminded how often we are not, it's a peculiar kind of self-generated artistic censorship.  This House was a roaring hit in London, with MPs from both sides of the aisle in regular attendance and enjoying the hell out of it.  It's hard to imagine a similar play about the U.S. Congress being received with comparable enthusiasm on this side of the Atlantic.)  The noteworthy political plays about the United States in recent years - Stuff Happens, Frost/Nixon, Continental Divide - are all by British writers. The English have for centuries gone to the theatre to see the issues of the day argued on stage, and as a way of triggering public and private debate about the state of the nation and its institutions.   It's a great shame that we've lost that perspective.  It is healthy, and it is part of what theatre is for.

The National Theatre Live broadcast of This House has three more showings at Seattle Film Festival/Uptown Cinema on June 17, 22 and 24, and at other times and venues around the country.

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