Long-neglected Rattigan drama turns out to be one of his finest
Not seen in London since its 1944 premiere, Terence Rattigan’s
Love in Idleness could easily be mistaken as the runt of the litter – or perhaps that should be the Lunt of the litter.
Originally conceived for Gertrude Lawrence and called Less Than Kind, it was swiftly given a waggier-tailed comic personality (and new title) to meet the needs of Lynn Fontanne and Alfred Lunt (aka The Lunts), the American theatre power-couple who took on the project after being bombed out of a successful run of a show on the Aldwych by a V1 flying bomb.
A great hit they were too, playing a widow whose relationship with a rich Tory industrialist (and member of the War Cabinet) is tested to destruction by the return home of her teenage son, grown militantly socialist during his evacuation in Canada. Even Churchill dropped in to see it, but despite a successful outing in the States, it has been missing through inaction ever since (though Less Than Kind was finally exhumed for a fringe premiere in the Rattigan centenary year of 2011).
It might be a stretch to say that Trevor Nunn now manages to make us see Love in Idleness as a lost classic on a par with another of RAF-man Rattigan’s wartime plays, Flare Path, which he triumphantly revived five years ago. But I became not only gripped by its ingenious fusion of domestic tragi-comedy and political debate but ever more seized by the conviction that this work has now entered the canon of must-do Rattigana. Nunn has coyly hailed this as a “world premiere”: he has combined elements from both scripts. Whatever the exact textual carry-on, the result is, to quote the callow and callous anti-hero, simply “corking”.
A wartime babe himself, Nunn tugs at our nostalgia strings by projecting newsreel footage taking us to the crux of the matter: that while the guns are going quiet across Europe, skirmishes loom on the home-front. Eve Best – seldom bettered, superlative here – is first seen lolling on a sofa, phoning le Tout-London to arrange a soiree at her plush Westminster abode. Her character, Olivia, is devoted to the man who has helped her put her lower-class past behind her, and Best’s quasiconjugal adoration of Anthony Head’s grave, debonair Sir John Fletcher is evinced by her giving him a foot massage after a hard day at the Ministry (yuk!).
With the arrival home of whippersnapper Michael – virulently opposed to Sir John and everything he stands for – the stage is set for abundant tug-of-war comedy and a soupçon of Oedipal anguish. This skulking malcontent forces his mother to choose between the two men in her life and rival visions of the world. The twist is that just as maternal instincts are the undoing/saving (take your pick) of Olivia, so the male sex-drive, and need to impress the ladies with a hefty pay-package, is the making/marring of Michael.
As the latter, young Edward Bluemel is the “find” of the night, a choice blend of neck-wringable priggishness and adorable puppyishness, hilariously patronising his “poor old mum”. But everyone has their moment, including Call the Midwife’s Helen George as Sir John’s ghastly wife. The pacing is superb. I never thought I’d say this of a Trev production but nearly three hours simply flies by.