BICKERING HEROES
It ought to be light and sweet, like the meringue on a lemon pie.
Tartness is needed too, but somewhere underneath.
“Heroes,” you understand, isn’t the sort of play that wants the weight of a heavy hand.
In spite of moments of levity, when warmth rises reluctantly from what is undoubtedly a smashing looking Players’ Guild production, this “Heroes” is a jaundiced vision of French writer Gerald Sibleyras’ talky, mostly empty play.
If only the Guild production of this difficult piece was blessed with lighter, ebullient performances, it might have a chance of rising beyond its slight Boulevard style. Sadly, it’s not.
Yes, I know, ultimately this concoction, translated by playwright Tom Stoppard, is ostensibly about mortality. And yes, truth be told, the final moments of this slow-moving play, with its three First World War reprobates gazing sadly into a grove of poplars, watching some hopeful geese take up their traditional V formation, ready to trust God and nature, is moving.
But this metamorphosis has been a long time coming. In the meantime we’ve had to endure Gustave’s desperate agoraphobia, Philippe’s worrisome passing-out ceremonies, and poor old Henri’s quite inappropriate, creepy lusting after some 12year-old schoolgirl.
Now, I think we’re meant to
love these codgers, to find in their querulous relationship a sort of Gallic charm. They’re supposed to be French, passing their time in some French military hospital circa 1959. You’d be hard pressed, though, to know who and where they are in what is an anchorless Guild production. Their rhythms are stolid Canadian, that much is sure.
Nothing much happens over the course of two hours. The men talk of fleeing to Indo-China, but settle on a shorter trek to a nearby poplar grove where they plan to picnic, resting on hastily procured blankets. We know, of course, they’ll never really leave their comfortable terrace where they bicker and banter in the warm rays of lighting designer Larry Hamilton’s fake sunshine.
In some ways Sibleyras’ play reminds you of the British comedy series “The Last of the Summer Wine,” but it’s not nearly so eventful, or funny.
The evening is, in fact, a bland affair. The lads get tangled in a giant red hose, straight out of some vintage French vaudeville pastiche. You know the sort of thing, ends dangling in phallic silliness.
A large stone dog they call Pierre sits in cold, hard splendour, as if mocking everything they say and do. The lads quack on about sex, women, having an erection, nasty nuns and the ultimate sadness of aging. Hohum.
Graham Clements’ direction cleaves to Pinteresque pauses that eat up too much time. Things
play out slowly, very slowly. As a result, the production is less effervescent than it ought to be.
Then, too, someone has chosen to add an unnecessary intermission that bifurcates the play in a most awkward way, slowing up the evening even more.
Remember when audiences were able to sit for more than an hour without bathroom breaks and breathless dashes to the bar? Apparently that’s out today.
But come on, if the playwright wanted his play to have two acts he would have written it that way in anticipation of fidgeters. He didn’t.
The Guild’s hard-working trio of actors do what they can. They look natty, if not quite rumpled enough, in Barb Bartram’s autumnal suits. And the cemeteryinspired
walls of Jane Coryelle’s funereal set is a dark reminder of what waits for us all.
Michael Hannigan as Philippe is good at finding some shreds of warmth, but he’s given this same performance a number of times before. Erik Peters’ Henri frequently garbles his lines offering a suitably gruff exterior tempered with some welcome wit. And Steve O’Brien’s Gustave, perhaps meant to be the saddest of the three, offers a grumpy growl that rises from his throat, though his placid face reveals someone frightened of an unfamiliar land waiting ahead.
The play positively oozes fake charm. It’s sentimental and obvious, and quite difficult to find touching. When it’s leaned on, as it is here, it falls flat.
“Heroes” is, after all, a slight bit of fluff, something that requires more liberating air than it gets here. It might have been sweeter. It might have lifted aloft like those brave autumnal geese heading resolutely for some mysterious, but unknown home.