The Habit of Art

The publicity machine has made it very clear that this is Alan Bennett’s latest play. His face adorns the poster and his name is larger than the title on the programme.

And yet the script itself feels more like three or four ideas thrown into a naturalistic blender with a sprinkling of the absurd and a frothy topping of sexual innuendo, coming across more like a junk yard of theatrics than a polished play.

The action takes place in a rehearsal room in the National Theatre down in London. There, a group of people are rehearsing a new play about WH Auden and Benjamin Britten. The director is missing, the actors are unsure about what they are doing, the writer is less than thrilled about changes and the stage manager does her best to keep the rehearsal productive.

And for two and a half hours, that’s about it.

There are many things that the play could have been, and indeed there are echoes of great ideas. However, it comes across as if Bennett was afraid to commit to anything for long and has instead decided to just throw everything at the audience and hope some things stick. For the few moments that he does commit, the play is great - especially the few times where the two worlds of reality and theatre collide. These moments are brilliant, but unfortunately they are few.

It also comes across as one big inside joke. Those who have worked in theatre will find much to enjoy, including the truthful depiction of a rehearsal space and how a theatre company tends to spend a lot of time talking nonsense and strutting their egos. The cast are all in on the joke and have a great time playing, and at times sending up, actors.

But for a play written by one of the best dramatists currently working, it’s mostly a letdown. It’s clever, well-acted and brilliantly presented but, in the end, mostly shallow. And for a play that hangs on numerous penis jokes, it sadly lacks balls.