The Constant Gate
Colin Murphy braves the tour groups and summer heat for the kind of unthreatening production the Gate do best
A balmy Monday evening at the Gate, and the tour groups are in. The audience is rustling and laughing, the set – a Georgian drawing room – is resplendent, the humour is (almost) Wildean and the acting is mannered English. It doesn't really matter who the play is by, or what it's about. Sure, it's by "the creative team that brought you Lady Winder-mere's Fan"!
As it turns out, the play is rather good. It's The Constant Wife by W Somerset Maugham. I loved his ambitious, searching novels (The Razor's Edge and Of Human Bondage), which contained much sharp-edged observation of middle-class mores but reached way beyond that, in search of no less than enlightenment. In this, Maugham is largely content to indulge in a gentle and humorous comedy of manners, with less subversion or wit than Wilde, but a satirical edge nonetheless.
The audience sits back and chuckles, occasionally roaring in delight. The set never changes. Eight or so characters come and go through elegant double doors, manned by a steadfast butler. There's rarely more than a few lines without a barbed comment or outright gag. Time ticks easily by. The auditorium is a little stuffy, but the play isn't too long.
It is easy to deride this kind of thing: even easier now than it was when it was a roaring success on the West End, presumably. It is unambitious. The wit flags, occasional lines jar. It is dated, but not irretrievably so. An excuse for a pretty show, a well-decorated stage and good frocks. Unthreatening. It is a very "Gate" show. And the Gate does this very well. This is the summer equivalent of A Christmas Carol, which has been reprised – oh, how many times? – each Christmas in memory. In summer, the plays change, but barely perceptibly.
Alan Stanford, the director, can do this kind of thing in his sleep. Here, he has a strong cast, who appear to be largely awake, though not much is required of them beyond consistent accents, diffident posture and occasional comic timing.
Constance Middleton is being betrayed by her husband, with her best friend, no less. Her sister and mother are anxious to tell her; a former suitor is anxious for her to find out so she will fall for him. But Constance sees all, and quietly and cleverly schemes her mild-mannered way around everyone. The play actually contains the line, "I'm economically independent, and therefore I claim my sexual independence," though Constance is mostly more subtle, and generally quite witty. The role is, in fact, an intriguing one, but Paris Jefferson plays it without intrigue. She pitches her Constance constantly throughout and Alan Stanford allows the rest of his cast to largely bounce their lines off her at similarly steady pitches. This works respectably for the humour in the play, but undermines any drama, or sense of genuine character, in it. Still, it's all gently agreeable.
Only the last line of the play reveals that there's anything amiss with the production – a sudden injection of real passion and naked power-play that undercuts the poise that has been preserved throughout. Perhaps this could have been quite different, more edgy, less constant. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking. We go back out into the balmy twilight, ever so mildly intrigued by Maugham's game-playing. Around us, the tour groups are happy.