![]() ![]() ![]() In either role, she is compelling enough to command even the small gestures, such as when she picks at her toes after a bath, or languorously drapes a foot over a bed. Her enormous hooded grey eyes shine and then brood the drama ricochets off her impressive cheekbones. But it is Ms Scott Thomas who steals the show. Ms Williams makes for a nervously effervescent Anna. Mr Sewell stomps and sputters as the charismatic and slightly insecure Deeley, though he might be a touch too handsome-his face too chiselled-for the role (Pinter himself played the part in an American production in the 1980s). It works as well as it does thanks not only to Pinter’s text, but also to superb interpretation on stage. This is a strange play, puzzling and haunting. He clings to it, sensing that he is always on the verge of being the odd one out. As the lone man in the room, he enjoys a unique power. Deeley, meanwhile, is both spectator and provocateur, stoking the evening with his own memories. Kate consistently tries to perch on the sofa behind her husband, turning him into a shield. Undeterred, Anna manically lobs yet more memories as if they are weapons. Anna’s memories are so colourful, so vivacious, but the Kate she describes is nothing like the quietly intense woman on stage. “Is it always as silent?” She has just finished rhapsodising about their young, romantic lives in the big city (“Queuing all night, the rain, do you remember?”), only to be greeted by an inhospitable wall of quiet. To heighten the sense that this is a play about the power and frailty of perception, Kristin Scott Thomas and Lia Williams switch roles for different performances, though Rufus Sewell stays anchored as Deeley. Their recollections overlap but also confuse and compete with each other. These three figures seem to know each other intimately, but it is not clear what history they actually share. But memory can be a funny thing, full of selfish needs and manipulative fictions. And the pretty fool stopped crying and said, “Yes.At a remote farmhouse on the English seaside, Anna pays an unexpected visit to Kate and her husband Deeley, seemingly to reminisce about all of those adventures they shared in London 20 years ago. “Oh,” he said, “Did you fall on your face? You’ll fall backward when you grow up, won’t you, Jule?” And, by God, the pretty little thing stopped crying and said, “Yes.” To watch a joke come true! Even if I live a thousand years I’ll never forget it. My husband-God rest his soul, he was a jolly man-picked Juliet up. I remember because just the day before she had cut her forehead. No, in fact, by then she could run and waddle all over the place. You didn’t have to tell me to get out of there. That’s when the earthquake hit and the dovehouse started to shake. Oh my, what a great memory I have! As I said, when Juliet tasted the bitter wormwood on my nipple, the pretty little thing got angry with my breast. I had put some bitter wormwood on my breast as I was sitting in the sun, under the wall of the dovehouse. It’s been eleven years since the earthquake, and it was on that very day that she stopped nursing from my breast. ![]() But, as I said, on the night of July 31st, Juliet will be fourteen. She and my daughter Susan-God rest all Christian souls-were born that same day. And, pretty fool, it stinted and said “ay.”Įven or odd, of all the days in the year, she’ll be fourteen on the night of July 31st. “Yea,” quoth he, “Dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit, Wilt thou not, Jule?” and, by my holy dame, The pretty wretch left crying and said “ay.” To see now, how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it. And then my husband-God be with his soul! He was a merry man-took up the child. Nay, by the rood, She could have run and waddled all about, For even the day before, she broke her brow. And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand alone. But, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! “Shake!” quoth the dovehouse. My lord and you were then at Mantua.- Nay, I do bear a brain. For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall. ‘Tis since the earthquake now eleven years, And she was weaned-I never shall forget it- Of all the days of the year, upon that day. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she-God rest all Christian souls!- Were of an age. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. ![]()
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