SAINT JOAN

Southland Times, Issue 21928, 1 February 1933, Page 7

SAINT JOAN

A WORLD ARRAIGNED SHAW’S GREAT PLAY DAME SYBIL’S TRIUMPH History never repeats itself. Humanity’s anxiety to find precedents for its desirts and misdemeanours will lead it to clutch at every similarity, every straw to prove that events and people will live again, as if from straws alone one could make bricks. It would be insufferably boring if history did display such a lack of versatility. Of course, the history books used not to be so scrupulous; but nowadays the writing of history is in the hands of people who believe that truth is more important than public or private reputation, and so notions rooted in the very marrow of human error are torn up to the intense disgust of the eminently respectale people who have been sound in the idea that established lies are better than disturbing truth. And so at the risk of internal upsets, one may insist that history does not repeat itself. Therefore can there never be another Shakespeare, and to call Bernard Shaw a Shakespeare is arsant nonsense, calculated to draw snorts from the living, if not from the dead. But if Shakespeare had still to come to this earth, if Shaw had been first to enrich the English dramatic literature, people would say with equal force: “There can never be another Shaw, and to call Shakespeare a Shaw is arrant nonsense.” The author of “St. Joan” annoyed many of his critics by claiming that he was a greater dramatist than Shakespeare. No one should worry about that claim, because it deals -with matters of technique, rather than with material, and even Shaw himself need not worry about the opinions of those who dislike him with fussy cordiality anyhow, because his justification is one of the enduring works of The Maid. When Shaw decided to resurrect Joan of Domremy he went not to her tomb in the halls of romance, not to the grave decorated by political interest, not to graceful falsehoods of statuary, but to the very foundations of France, to the foundations of society’s history. And he has found them in the present. Here is the paradox of his achievement: he has clothed Joap with her body, brought her back to earth, spirit and flesh, wrought from the materials of the twentieth century, and yet he has discovered for us the Joan who came out of Domremy, who confounded the obsolescent gentlemen generals and made a king from very poor human stuff. More than that: he has given proof which strikes home to every heart, whether it be admitted by . approval or gusts of annoyance, that if history may not repeat itself, human nature in its essentials does not change. Beyond that he has gone, too, for he has arraigned not one error, but a hundred. The accusing finger is placed relentlessly on the flies which hide in the ointment of life’s smoothest self-satisfaction and the twentieth century’s smugness is riddled by a battery of witty maxims, by an indignant prosecutor whose . laugh is shattering. There is not time, not space for the drawing up of the complete articles of the arraignment, but has there been anything more damning, more enlightening than Cauchon’s protest' “Must then a Christ perish in torment in every age to save those who have no imagination?” If Shaw had merely accused the twentieth century, he would have written a powerful pamphlet. He has led the assault on all the ages that have lived through the period since Christendom was founded on Calvary. He has not attacked Christianity; he has attacked the errors of (hose who have covered Christianity with the trappings of their own conceits. And this he has done in a play which is the very truth and substance of history, which breathes the very essence of great dramatic poetry, which makes one realize that Shaw is one of the greatest literary artists of all time.

There can be no denial of his place. St Joan has done as much for him as he has done for her. He has made her a grander figure, because he has seen her without sentiment and made her the embodiment of great spiritual forces. In a play of such stature, he might have been excused if he had moved to the task with a steady tread. He did no such thing. At once the story begins exultantly, and. within five minutes the excitement is rising. Another five minutes, and the audience is gripped by a power it cannot deny: it knows that it is in the presence of tremendous forces, and this excitement, this power holds them through every moment unfil Joan, deserted by those who do not wish her return, lifting her hands in supplication prays:

O God that madst this beautiful

earth, when will it be ready to receive Thy saints? This is not a prayer for the saints; it is a plea for the men and women out of whom saints can be made. Shaw gives back to the men who condemned Joan righteousness of purpose, and condemns that error which flourished because there was no imagination to show them how hopelessly fallacious are facts unless imagination can help to interpret them; how terrible a thing is conservatism which is merely institutional; how unjust is the written law' at times. It is possible to interpret Joan in terms of some others of Shaw’s heroines, but that is because parts of Joan are to be found in them—she is not made of their material. And moving from Joan, one finds in the other characters of the play the personification of forces, which combine to make Joan a figure of classical tragedy, winning Io triumph in the closing epilogue, not because she is canonized—that is merely the world’s humble gesture of defeat—but because she is risen above the Joan of Domremy, the Joan of Orleans, of Reims, the Joan who could falter, who loved soldiers, who loved religion, loved war, and became Joan of great charity, Joan of the clear vision, Joan the spirit essence of humanity’s faith in the non-theological the non-political, the non-social God. In the realization of Joan, Dame Sybil Thorndike revealed the magnificence of the modem dramatic art. One would not care if a meticulous critic found a vowel too broadened or too narrowed an articulation blurred. A hundred faults could not have affected the splendour of this performance. This was a St. Joan who, presented in the classical manner, was yet the full revelation of a human figure, living through every inch of the way, and realizing to the full the Joan of a master conception. In works like this the greatness of an actress is discovered, because heroic greatness is the first essential quality of Joan, and no one but an actress of overwhelming power could make Joan what Shaw intended her to be. One might go on adding incident to incident, and still do less than justice to the actress, and so one prefers to leave it there. It is possible, too, to expend time in detailed encomiums for the members of the cast, to those who gave flashes of histrionic brilliance and multiplied instances of versatility. The suavity of Warwick, the quiet sanity of the Inquisitor, the assertive honesty of Cauchon, the emotionalism of Stogumber, the weak selfishness of the Dauphin and the sturdy bluntness of Dunois were all instances of excellent characterization; but one must pause just to compliment Mr Christopher Casson on a display of his-

trionic proteanism not equalled for very many years. For the production one must thank Mr Lewis Casson. In spite of the difficulties attendant on tours and resulting from a stage not large enough for the play, the presentation of Joan was at all moments impressive, particularly through the manipulation of the lighting, which was an instrument for the intensification of dramatic expression. The scenes and the dressing as well as the grouping, were revelations of the new methods which have been long in coming to these shores, revealing the artist mind in the picturization, as well as in the general interpretation of a great play. Finally for the audience one may say that it did not hide the fact that it recognized the significance of the moment, and of the opportunity it had of seeing the real Shaw.