Miller and Daniel Souter wrote this play during their final year of study at
the Bournemouth Arts Institute. Their inspiration was the life of Lorenz Hart,
Richard Rodgers’s witty but depressive pre-Hammerstein lyricist; their theme is
homosexuality and repression in a bygone age when the merest whisper of such a
thing meant ostracism or imprisonment.
In a programme note the writers observe that “it is hard to imagine a
time when it was prohibited for people to publicly show their love for one
another”. To anyone a tad older than they are, their bemusement is both
touching and hopeful.
Laurence
invites his former lover Michael to dinner. Since they last met Michael has
started a family and embarked upon a respectable career; Laurence, by contrast,
is a cabaret star whose feelings for Michael have never changed. All in all,
the two men are heading for heartburn well before the main course.
Everything
about this unpretentious two-hander invites approval. The atmospheric décor,
slow-burn action and guarded dialogue are stylish and confident. Amid the
realism a single, surreal burst of song really shouldn’t work, yet it does.
Playing the roles they wrote themselves, Miller (Laurence) and Souter (Michael)
may be a little callow, but they are always believable and emotionally
truthful.
The
script seems to imply that the men are actually American (there is much talk of
‘closets’ – in the wardrobe sense); however, neither actor attempts an American
accent. This is a distraction, as is the bewildering progress of the dinner
itself. An appetising main course is barely touched before being wheeled away
by the guest and replaced by a similarly untouched dessert, also served by the
guest. There are endless nits to be picked, in fact, and director Robert
Laycock’s inattention to detail leads to a range of shortcomings, dodgy dining
etiquette to the fore.
Miller’s
intensity is another matter. He projects Laurence’s contradictory emotions and
self-destructive instinct with complex sophistication, and the character’s soul
is laid bare. If Souter interprets Michael with less freedom and greater
self-consciousness, that too chimes with the buttoned-up man he plays.
The
measure of A Dinner Party’s maturity is its restraint. For
all its moments of naïveté and solecism (a script editor wouldn’t have gone
amiss) it remains sensitive, compassionate and non-judgemental. The play closes
on a bang when a whimper would have hit harder, but it’s still a valuable work
in progress
