Design For Living

A Review

“Look it’s perfectly simple, or at least it should be. I love you. You love me. You love Otto. I love Otto. Otto loves you. Otto loves me.”

Andrew Scott, Lisa Dillon and Tom Burke as intertwined lovers Leo, Gilda and Otto

Noel Coward’s Design For Living concerns itself solely with words and their ability to seduce. Stripped back to just the words, the play would lose nothing, for the setting, characters, story itself, are merely vessels for the utterances that they contain. The play is an expression of Coward’s love for himself, and all those that can summon words at will and who are thereby part of his world. Director Anthony Page, in his current production at Coward’s own Old Vic Theatre, not only comprehends the significance of words in this whimsical work, but is skillfully meek in his ability to allow the dialogue to take centre stage.

The drama is set in the 1930s and follows the struggles of three lovers trapped in an emotional menage a trois as they come to grips with their situation. She is an interior decorator. He is a playwright. And he is an artist. All of them are in love. Really. While this immediately marks them as societal outsiders, the more important distinction that raises them above the other characters (and their banal morality) is a shared mastery of language. Wielding the power of words, or “talking nonsense” as it is described to the characters of Coward’s world that lack this power, places the lovers above all others and, like Greek gods, they are beholden only to those of their own elevated rank. Indeed, those denied words are denied life itself. As the title suggests, in a world where the only currency is words, those without them lack the ‘design for living’.

The play purposefully employs an awkward, obvious structure, with little real dramatic ‘action’. Each of the three acts are placed in a different city - Paris, London and New York, respectively- and in each act, one lover goes through two tests. The first is to deal with the tormenting ascent into professional success, and the second is to be torn asunder from the other two lovers, which is to say words, which is to say life. Each is then drawn back into the fold and the emotional and sexual triangle that is so repulsive to outsiders, but so inexorable to insiders. The dramatic progression is painfully laborious, (which will doubtless repulse audience members outside of the joke as it does characters who are), but the three leads are to be applauded for injecting something approximating emotional journeys into a play that is not concerned with the traditional dramatic idea at all. Our interest, of course, is not with their journeys, but rather with the sweet nothings that a smiling Coward is whispering in our ears.

Similarly, the supporting cast is impressive in their ability to draw life into badly drawn sketches of characters. While one could criticise the obviousness of the servants’ disdain, which is, at best, vaudevillian, given the two levels of character that exist, this seeming theatrical mistake is again exactly correct. Their thoughts should be obvious, their movements clumsy and their jokes clown-like. They cannot be part of the joke, and the self-awareness along with it, that the wordsmiths and audience share.

Fittingly again, Lez Brotherston’s set is necessarily simple, elegant and awkward. There is one room in each act in which the action takes place and while the three visages are opulent to be sure, the purpose of the play is not forgotten. Each room is spiritually hollow. Be it a shambling artist’s studio in London, a townhouse in Paris or a lavishly moneyed New York penthouse, the setting is lifeless. It is as if the physicality of the space is almost embarrassing when compared to the richness of the parallel world that inhabits it, in the conversation between lovers.

Strangely, the tawdry affairs comically depicted here capture more exactly my own experience of seduction than any stock standard love story ever could. The feeling, for me at least (I will divulge), is something like the tense moment of realising a heist. My elation is heightened, or rather dwarfed, by the feeling that I have stolen something, or achieved something that was never mine to achieve. It is the fascination of one’s own power and the shocking thrill of catching one’s self wielding it.

Coward shares this thrill, and is aware of it. Like Shakespeare before him, he has fallen prey to the fantasy of seducing someone utterly with words. As Shakespeare’s Puck simpers in the final lines of a play on the subject of the same fantasy, ‘think you have but slumbered here’. One can reach out and grab hold of the rich, fatty smugness in the words, in which the Shake crows unashamedly at his seduction; a lover that is all-powerful, completely irresistible, and who knows it. Coward inherits from his eloquent predecessor not only the love of words and a fascination with the heady power that accompanies them, but also the cock-suredness and lazy indulgence of a lover under his own spell. We are a plaything in his fingers and can only hope that he will give in to us as we gave in long ago.

Design For Living is a masterful production of a work by a powerful wordsman that leaves one raggedly wishing for more.


Design For Living is showing at the Old Vic Theatre until November 27. It runs for three hours with two twenty minute intervals.

Michael Peters
London, October 2010

Two Letters (Guest Post)

Dear Mother,

Life here is tough.

The mud comes up to my knees and stops me sleeping. Gab has drowned - can no longer go on. I can’t go on much longer either. I bend my head, about to give in to the sorrow. A voice whispers on the wind; “Chicken or fish for supper?” My tears break out.

We were deployed two weeks ago. The cold was unbearable - gad it was cold. Our first stop was Marlborough, a small country town southwest of London and the home of Nic's grandparents, Robert and Clare Napier. We disembarked from the shuttle and were frog-marched across the inhospitable territory of daisy-covered fields, riddled with enemy sheep and ferocious face-eating cows. We continued this way for some time, scouring canals and surveying the landscape from the heights of the downs. It was a gastly place. A criss-crossing of truly horrific and hostile plants which, if caught on the sleeve, could rip a man's arm clean off.
 

The barracks in which we are being held are by way of a torture chamber. We are required to get up at the horrendous hour of ten o’clock each morning without fail. We are then fed a measley three-course meal (the terrible home-made strawberry jam and marmalade included) which we are forced to live on for the next three hours until we must consume another banquet while held at gunpoint of course. The dinners are too painful for me to speak of. They are a truly horrifying choice of roast duck, gammon and the local fresh trout (caught that morning by our host).

That’s all I can speak of for now before complete mental breakdown. Will write again when find strength to go on. Give my love to the fish.

 - Nic and Gab

 _

  

Hey Everyone,

Yeah, as seen above we’ve had pretty easy sailing. We spent two weeks here touring England in the lap of luxury. We then trundled off to Ireland for a week where we stayed in University of Limerik with a friend of mine. The Irish are crazy and drink like they don’t want to live. It was great!

    But to be totally honest it’s not been all cherry-flavoured-chunks-of-goodness. We (‘we’ as in ‘gab’. Nic’s been vomiting on most transport while resenting my ability to sleep anywhere at anytime) have spent vast amounts of time sleeping off the night before or just generally doing nothing. For example, yesterday we spent the day holed up inside some art-students share-house in Cork watching Beauty and the Beast. I regret nothing.

    Really the worst part about traveling is that you’re the one doing it and you’re still as moody and insecure as you were at home You’re still not some hot-shot-jet-setter with money and charisma flowing around them like the water round Mickey Mouse in Fantasia. And just to make this clear, there are always funny stories and situational dramas spotted around the whole adventure but in between these episodes is lots and lots of sitting around trying to be organised for the next thing you’re supposed to be planning to do.

  I’d say the best thing we’ve experienced so far is the range of interesting characters we’ve met. Also trying to imitate local lingo is fun and apparently hilarious to the person you’re trying to imitate.

   Anyways, we don’t really want to bore you with a list of the things we’ve done. If you want to chat or hear the stories, shoot us an e-mail telling us that Sydney still loves us and we’ll get back to you asap (gabriellepeters@live.com).

Xoxoxoxo ttyl brb wtf gtfo bffl,   

Nic and Gab

Swings and Roundabouts

Well it’s me again. (Don’t worry, Gina still features early on.)

I’m so into that last photo on the last post that I thought I’d indulge you with a couple more.

Cool colours, huh?

All persons walking in Petersfield in groups of more than one will be shot

And also, just to set the record straight, here is my beardy beard. It’s not Chopper. It’s not Ivan Milat. It’s not Major General from Pirates of Penzance. It’s 18th Century Russian aristocrat (obviously).

The shot is taken in my new apartment, which warrants some explanation. I arrived in London and went to a nasty, but cheap hostel. There, I chatted to a few people (also cheap and nasty) who, like me, intended to find apartments and jobs in London. They had, to a one, found it very difficult. One of them had been trying on both fronts for two and a bit weeks without any success at all. I was a bit put out by the conversation, but it was nothing compared to waking up the next morning to find that my wallet was gone. I sleep with it in the front right pocket of my jeans on me when in hostels, so I must have been pick-pocketed while sleeping. Rough.

As is standard when I am annoyed, I bought some cigarettes and went to a cafe. Barely had I sat down, but a kindly looking woman smiled at me. Hoping for someone to commiserate with, I offered her a seat and a cigarette. She gave me a quizzical look, explained that she owned the place and then sat down anyway and took out her own cigarettes. I explained my predicament and after talking for about fifteen minutes she volunteered the idea that, seeing as I was a good sort, I meet a good friend of hers, who might like to have me as a housemate. Fifteen minutes after that she drove me there and introduced me to Mark, a fifty-something-year-old conductor. And then she left.

Mark, as it turned out, was also on the way out, so he gave me a set of keys and then he left. I sat down on my bed in the silent house, not really knowing what to do next. However, four days later I’m still not dead, so I am (as I so often am) more than a bit indebted to a kind and trusting person instead.

People won't get pick-pocketed while sleeping when I run this place

Rent is 75 pounds a week and the apartment is on Shirland Rd, pretty much bang in the middle of London. This is ludicrously cheap as the apartment is lovely.

The next step is getting a job. I have a trial shift at a cafe on Portabello Rd (10 minutes walk from home) next Tuesday, so fingers crossed.

However, my bank card is gone. Could you all please give my dad a call and ask him to check his email asap so as to cancel the card? I can’t work out a way to do it on the net. Seriously, everyone call him. (I’m looking your way, whoever keeps reading me in China.) Also, does anyone know how I can access my money now?

Best,

Michael

Georgina! (Guest Post)

Hello all, if you don’t know me, I’m Gina, one of Judith’s twenty (?) grandchildren, and consequently Michael’s cousin. Michael has coerced me into writing a guest blog about my travels so far. I suggested that I only write about the weekend I spent with him, but he seemed to think that people would want to know what I had been up to all year. However, if you only want to hear about Michael (and I won’t blame you, he’s much more interesting than me) skip down to the last paragraph.

My year began arriving in London on the 2nd of January to sub zero temperatures, wind and snow! The weather was so atrocious, that both the trains and most of the schools in Southern England were cancelled for a week (my childhood dream). The unexpected extra 5 days in London were exciting, but finally arriving at Dunhurst and being able to unpack my international sized suitcase was a welcome relief.

I suppose that Dunhurst is best known, as related by me, for having the children of the rich and famous. I have told anyone that will listen that Jude Law’s son goes to Dunhurst, and consequently I have had a few relatively long conversations with Jude himself. To say that this was the climax of the year would be very sad, but it was definitely a highlight. Other students of note include the nephew of Helena Bonham-Carter and Noel Gallagher of Oasis’ daughter. When I tell people I’m a GAP student at Dunhurst they often nod their head and say “oh a gappy, that’s great”. However, from further research I honestly don’t think anyone knows what Gap students do, and fair enough, I’m still working it out and I guess it changes from school to school. From my 9 months of experience, I can say we do something in just about every area in the school. We act as an extra pair of eyes for supervision, of legs, for helping with P.E. and games, of ears for answering reception phones and of hands, for stapling and photo copying calendars, address books, reports, newsletters......the list goes on.  The work is pretty easy and although stapling and photocopying can be psychologically damaging when things don’t work (I’m not even joking, it should be addressed in OH&S), my brain has remained pretty dormant for the year. The absolute best part of the job is the holidays. The English school year includes a lot more holidays than the Australian one (It feels like it anyway). They have 3 weeks between terms, and 9 weeks for the summer, As well half term breaks, where they decide they’ve had enough about half way through the term, and take a week off! This arrangement works nicely for me, and come the holidays I have been jet setting off to nearby Europe!

The 9 weeks of the summer holidays went by very quickly, starting with a smaller than usual family holiday with my mum, Nat, Fran and Jacq in our epic wicked van adventure! The week and a half of road tripping up to the Lakes district was fantastic with highlights including; a Camelot theme park, visiting Pemberly, Beatrix Potter enthusiasm, fabulous singing and navigating in the back seat of the Wicked van, and a freezing cold swim and photo shoot in the lake! After a few days of mother daughter bonding in Yorkshire, including singing “Wuthering heights” by Kate Bush in the moors, I piled onto a Topdeck bus, along with 39 other girls and 6 boys, for a trashy, 18 year old Gap student tour of Europe. The trip was superb with a mixture of fun filled days of sightseeing in the sun (a welcome relief from the cloudiness of England) and tipsy nights of ridiculous drinking games and extremely cheap and nasty vodka. My favourite part of Topdeck was probably sailing for 3 days in the Greek Islands. During the days there was nothing to do except lie in the sun, drinking in the Vitamin C and beautiful sea breeze, as well as stopping in the middle of the Mediterranean for a swim!

At the beginning of our 5 hour hike through the Swiss Alps, going the opposite direction to every other hiker

The third and last instalment of the summer holidays was solo travelling with my friend Claire. We braved the summer crowds and heat in Pompeii, where the tourists were everywhere and the heat and dust almost overwhelming. However, we were prepared with our homemade sandwiches, giant water bottles and €4 wide-brimmed hats purchased in Naples and explored the day away, avoiding the big groups. We caught an extremely uncomfortable overnight train to Sicily, and our first day there was not a fun one, full of sleazy Sicilian men. However, once off the streets (and with the most unflattering and unrevealing clothes we could find) Palermo was actually quite nice. The cathedral and Norman palace there were stunning with spectacular mosaics. The beach was similarly beautiful, except that there were a trillion people there! The best part of the third instalment was going to La Tomatina in Valencia, Spain. One hour of getting Tomatoes hurled at you, and being drenched by the industrial strength fire hoses was definitely an experience. My favourite part of the day, was after the tomatoes had all been thrown and the locals came out of their houses, equipped with hoses and buckets, and began hosing down the festival goers. We finished the summer with a week in Barcelona, which I plan to move to in my future life where I am a millionaire!

Claire and I at Pompeii just before my camera ran out of battery

I want to end by giving a brief account of my weekend-and-a-bit with Michael because, after all, this is his blog. Apparently, Michael’s original plans were to surprise me by arriving in London, travelling down to Petersfield station, making his way to the school and arriving at reception demanding to see me. Thankfully Gab ratted him in out, so I had time to prepare and plan things out. When he arrived on Thursday I had to look twice before I was sure it was him, he’s grown some bizarre facial hair that makes him look like a skinnier brown haired, Chopper Reid cross Major General from Pirates of Penzance. Friday night was wet and cold, and after abandoning a trip to London, we saw a movie in Portsmouth with the French assistant Marrine. The unexpected highlight was the pub we went to whilst waiting for the next train to Petersfield, where everyone was in fancy dress, the majority were cross dressed and we danced the night away with male nuns and men in leather stripper outfits. Saturday brought a trip to Winchester and a crazy night out in Petersfield  where we were on the verge of being kicked out of the karaoke bar for singing the likes of YMCA, Barbie Girl and Down Under!

The three Dunhurst Gaps, avoiding the inevitable mud of Petersfield

My Special thanks goes to Mum, Jacq, Fran, Nat, Michael, Gab and Nick for visiting me over in the rainy country that is England, and making my long stay a little more homely.

Georgina McKenzie
Petersfield, UK
3 October, 2010

Belgium (with respect to Wordsworth)

Composed 20 Miles from Tintern Abbey, On Visiting an Old Friend During a Tour, October 1, 2010


Three years have past; three summers with the length
Of three summers! and again I see
These blue hills, rolling from their mountain-heights
With no inland murmur of water or doubt.
Behold again this bright and lofty gaze
That on a warm scene past impressed
Thoughts of a more secluded scene, but
Had no strength to fling and flopped
Into the dark repose of night.

The day is come when I repose
Here under a sloping ceilinged roof, and view
These plots of well-tilled earth, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their full, ripe fruits,
Are clad in nothing, and lose themselves
‘Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These lively woods run wild where none
Are judged, but rather loved in turn by
Simple animals and vagrant dwellers.

Though long absence has not been to me
I feel the stern gaze of blue mountains that
I cannot see, but know have grown old
Too early and hardened into cold blue rocks.
And as I left with twinkling eyes and wondered
If we’d speak again I think of love and warmth and
Want only for adventures beyond the reach of the
Wise and old for they know nothing, but what they
Remember from a youth that is spent.

Sarah

Bit of a selfish one, folks, but it is my party, don’t you know.

My sincere thanks go to Sarah, her boyfriend, Sam, and their housemate, Valerie, who put me up for quite a few nights and were lovely hosts. I believe they did the same for Georgina a month or two ago, so I am, once again, indebted to some very generous people.

Best to all and stand by for a guest post or two from some fellow travelers whom you all know well,

Michael