37. See, for example, Rodney Garland’s novel about homosexual life in London, The Heart in Exile. London: W. H. Allen, 1953, p. 104.
38. See note 36; and also ‘Rattigan Talks to John Simon,’ Theatre Arts. 46 (April 1962), p. 24.
39. Terence Rattigan and Anthony Maurice. Follow my Leader. Typescript. Lord Chamberlain Play Collection: 1940/2. Box 2506. [British Library].
40. Quoted in Darlow and Hodson, op. cit., p. 15.
41. B. A. Young, op. cit., p. 162.
42. Quoted in Darlow and Hodson, op. cit., p. 56.
43. Quoted in Sheridan Morley, op. cit.
44. Darlow and Hodson, op. cit., p. 308.
45. Guardian. (2 December 1977).
French Without Tears
In 1934, Terence Rattigan was convinced that he was a playwright. Two years later, he was wondering if anything he wrote would ever be performed again.
The modest success of his first play, First Episode, had encouraged him to pursue an entirely immodest lifestyle. Despite investing £200 in the transfer and having received only £100 in return, it seemed clear to him that he was now a successful West End playwright. He gave this news to his father, dropped out from Oxford, and moved to London. Most of March and April 1934 were spent partying and dining out, relying on friends and betting on horses to finance his new lifestyle. His father urged him to move back home, and when First Episode closed late in April Rattigan soberly complied. A deal was struck whereby Rattigan would be given an allowance for two years, after which, if no signs of a playwriting career had manifested themselves, he would follow his father into the Diplomatic Service.
Rattigan wrote play after play at his desk upstairs at Stanhope Gardens. One piece was called Black Forest, described by its author as ‘a turgid drama about tangled emotions’. Drawing on a trip to Germany in the summer of 1933, the play concerns a schoolteacher and his family on holiday in the Black Forest, whose members become entangled with an expelled ex-pupil of the father’s school and the boy’s German lover. Even given Rattigan’s characteristic harsh judgement of his own work, the play’s rejection by every management that read it is not entirely surprising.
Of five other plays written during this period only three have survived: an adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities, written with John Gielgud, another of Hector Bolitho’s novel, Grey Farm, which Rattigan’s equal measures of disdain both for the book and its author made rather onerous. The third surviving play was initially titled, Joie de Vivre, then French Chalk and thirdly, Gone Away.
In summer 1931, Frank Rattigan, at that point still envisaging a diplomatic career for his son, had sent Terry to a crammer in Wimereux, near Boulogne, to get his French up to an acceptable standard. The school was run by M. Martin, a formidable character, whose disdain for Rattigan’s remarkable linguistic inadequacies was continually broadcast, usually at the communal house meals where only French could be spoken. ‘Ah, Mon Dieu!’ he would daily cry, ‘Entendez, Messieurs, cette nouvelle abomination de Monsieur Rottingham!’ Years later, Rattigan recalled, ‘It was an all-male environment and all we did was gossip away to each other in English. I learned no French whatever’.1 Gone Away was a farce, based on his experience of this crammer. On holiday in Exmouth with his parents, Rattigan wrote the play in four weeks, writing it straight out in a school exercise-book and then typing it with two fingers: ‘There was no time to make any corrections. The play went out just as I’d written it’.2 However, this play, too, remained adamantly unperformed. Nine producers in all turned the script down.
When a production of A Tale of Two Cities fell through in the late summer of 1935 (see p. vii), the West End producer, Bronson Albery, consoled the young writer by offering to read any other scripts he had. Rattigan hesitated on which piece to offer until his mother took charge: ‘Better let him read a good farce than a bad drama!’3 Rattigan sent off Gone Away and, to his surprise, Albery took out a nine-month option on the script. Rattigan’s initial delight gave way to dismay as it became clear that Albery did not see the project as a priority and by the summer of 1936, the option had lapsed with no sign of a production.
Rattigan’s period of grace with his father had also elapsed, but Frank Rattigan gave his son one more chance and secured a screenwriting job for him at Teddington Studios, working for Warner Brothers. Under the system then operating, Warner Brothers would hire writers on lengthy, renewable contracts, during the period of which they could be hired out at inflated rates to other studios, Warner Brothers pocketing the difference.4 The work was mechanical, the scripts formulaic, but Rattigan was in no position to refuse. Although he was now earning regular money, he found the work frustrating. The first script he completed was torn up in front of his eyes by the studio head, Irving Asher, who called in another scriptwriter and said, ‘I want you to take this young man Terence Rattigan away, and show him how to write scripts properly’.5
However, the period with Warner Brothers was not entirely without value. The discipline of the studio’s approach to writing gave Rattigan an opportunity to develop further his sense of dramatic structure. And one of Rattigan’s co-workers at Teddington, the novelist, Anthony Powell, recalls: ‘Over a period of about three weeks Terry Rattigan and I were immured together with the purpose of producing a story between us. This brief collaboration added no classic to movie history, indeed professionally speaking, was totally barren, but we laughed a lot over preposterous subjects discussed as possibilities’.6 Working alongside other aspiring writers, and with the security of a regular wage, Rattigan’s later successes with scripts like The Way to the Stars, Brighton Rock, The Yellow Rolls Royce and Goodbye Mr Chips can be traced back to the intensive training he received at Teddington.
At one point, Rattigan even offered world rights for Gone Away to Warner Brothers for £200. Fortunately for him they refused, because at the Criterion Theatre, Albery’s new project, The Lady of La Paz, was faltering. It would be two months before a new major production would be ready, so he cast around for a cheap, stop-gap to fill the theatre. Gielgud reminded him of Gone Away, which with its single set and small, young cast fitted Albery’s requirements, and Rattigan was informed that his play would at last open at the Criterion in November, though after a mere two weeks of rehearsal and no out-of-town try-out.
The director, Harold French, had just completed a film contract when he ran into the actress, Kay Hammond, at the Café de Paris. She informed him that he was about the receive a script from Albery: ‘‘He’s sending it to your club. I’m going to be in it and it’s very funny.” The way she accented ‘very’ defied me to think otherwise,’ he recalls.7 Happily, French concurred with Hammond’s verdict, also admiring a quality of tenderness that complemented the play’s farcical energy.
When he met Albery the next morning, French discovered that Kay Hammond, Jessica Tandy, Percy Walsh and Robert Flemyng had already been cast. He was also told to go and see a young actor called Rex Harrison in Heroes Don’t Care (a farce set on a polar expedition) at St. Martin’s Theatre, to consider him for the part of Alan. He and Hammond went to see the production and were both won over by the lightness and elegance of his performance. Rattigan’s agent, A. D. Peters, who put up some of the money for the production, recommended for the part of Kenneth the then unknown Trevor Howard, who had understudied at Stratford during the previous season. The part of Rogers, the Naval Commander, was more difficult to fill, and eventually French took a risk with Roland Culver, a film actor he had worked with before, but who, with his ‘bald head and oddly gesticulating hands’, was mainly known for playing villains.8
Like Hammond, Culver was delighted by the play when he read it, but Harrison was more circumspect. He knew that his stock was rising and was uncertain that this ‘nice cheerful little play’ would showcase him adequately.9 Nonetheless he eventually agreed. The top salary was £25 per week, and Harrison asked for £30. He did not get it, but since he was under contract to Alexander Korda, who would therefore be taking a percentage of hi
s salary, he was given a small percentage of the box office, as was Jessica Tandy, the only bona fide star in the whole production.
Rattigan played very little part in the casting, as was usual then; indeed, he played a minor role in the entire rehearsal process.
French recalls how at the first read-through,
I noticed a character sitting in the far corner of the room, well outside the semi-circle. Sometimes he chuckled, and once or twice seemed to be making a note. I imagined he must be an assistant stage manager making a list of ‘props’ that he would have to find. At the end of the second act, coffee was served. It was then that I asked Kay if she knew who the odd man out was. Her eyes opened even wider than usual!
‘Oh darling, hasn’t anybody introduced you? That’s the author.’ She took me by the hand and performed a belated introduction. I found myself talking to a tall, slim youngster to whom no one had thought it necessary to offer a cup of coffee. He seemed quite overwhelmed when I managed to produce a cup and thrust it into his hand.
The read-through itself was unremarkable; Culver and Hammond read rather badly, and the play’s wit made only momentary appearances. Afterwards, French took Rattigan to the Green Room, a theatrical club in central London. Rattigan spent the evening, gazing star-struck at the actors and directors milling past him, ‘as though,’ said French, ‘he believed dreams could come true’.10 French made a number of suggestions concerning the play, which Rattigan happily accepted; as he admitted later, he was ‘so enslaved by my director’s charm that he could have asked me to change Rex Harrison’s part into a Rumanian Prince disguised as a Nubian belly dancer and I would have cordially agreed’.11 The only remaining problem was the title, which French did not like; Rattigan promised to think about it and after French had got home, at 1.30 in the morning, he received an apologetic phone call from Rattigan bashfully offering a new title: French Without Tears. French immediately agreed.
The title was not the only change made in the play during the rehearsal process. The famous joke in the opening moments of the play (‘elle a des idées au-dessus de sa gare’) was added by Rattigan during rehearsals. More substantially, the actor who had originally been cast as Brian, Alec Archdale, was not working out, and he was replaced by Guy Middleton. Substituting an actor some way into rehearsals is difficult enough, but this was complicated by the fact that Guy Middleton was at the time having an affair with Rex Harrison’s wife, Collette. In the event, Harrison had had a series of extra-marital affairs himself, and his marriage was pretty much over. Worried about ‘the figure he would cut in court as a cuckold’, Harrison remained cool but cordial with Middleton throughout rehearsals.12
The last major change was one which prefigured similar changes Rattigan would also make in The Deep Blue Sea and Separate Tables. At the end of the play, the temptress, Diana, eagerly awaits the arrival of Lord Heybrook, hoping to make him her next catch:
The OTHERS crowd round window. KIT goes to door at back.
KIT. (Calling) Diana! Lord Heybrook!
JACQUELINE. (Leaning over ALAN’s shoulder.) What does he look like, Alan?
ALAN. I can’t see. Your father’s in the way.
The CROWD round the window disperses as a taxi-man comes in, carrying two suitcases. MAINGOT follows.
MAINGOT. (To taximan). Apportez-les en haut. Tenez. Je vous montrerai sa chambre. (Calling) Par ici, Milord.
LORD HEYBROOK comes in. He is a pale, slender man, with golden hair. He has a Borzoi on a lead.
MAINGOT. D’abord je vous montrerai votre chambre. Les presentations après.
He opens door at back. LORD HEYBROOK goes towards it. Before he reaches it, DIANA comes in in a bathing dress and wrap. She flashes him a brilliant smile, but he appears not to notice her.
LORD HEYBROOK. (To the Borzoi, sibilantly) Come along, Alcibiades. Follow your master.
He goes out. MAINGOT and the taximan follow. JACQUELINE collapses with laughter on KIT’s chest. The OTHERS begin to laugh also.13
This ending caused problems at the dress rehearsal, when the Borzoi dog grew fonder of a table leg than the Lord Chamberlain would have allowed. More substantially, Rattigan had begun to feel that this use of an easy stereotype to get a laugh left an ‘unpleasant taste’, would kill the lines immediately after it, and was ‘out of character with the rest of the play’.14 In its place, Rattigan had realised that since titles could be inherited at any age, Lord Heybrook could easily be revealed as a young boy. But as this conversation was taking place after the first dress rehearsal, it was now very late to make such a substantial change (to say nothing of the fact that George Astley, the actor hired to play Lord Heybrook, had dyed his hair specially for the part). Albery was sure to refuse.
And indeed he was not pleased. But cheered that one child actor was considerably cheaper than an adult actor and a hired Borzoi dog, he assented. A few further changes were required before the second dress rehearsal – Rex Harrison’s costume was comically small, the cast carried out their moves as if startled by the furniture, and Roland Culver’s wig appeared not of this world – but everything was otherwise ready for the opening. The rehearsals had proceeded well, the cast enjoying rehearsals, their confidence in the play growing.15
The second dress rehearsal was a grim experience. Before a small invited audience, including the backers, Rattigan’s boss at Warner Brothers, veteran of the Aldwych farces, Ralph Lynn, and Rattigan’s mother, the performance stumbled from disaster to disaster: ‘Trevor Howard “dried” on his second line, Rex Harrison played as though he were constipated and didn’t care who knew it, Roland Culver put in more “ers” than he had done at the reading, Jessica Tandy was so slow she might have been on a modern strike, Percy Walsh forgot he was playing a Frenchman and every now and then lapsed into an Oxford accent.’16 Albery immediately made plans to bring in another show which was touring the regions; Alban Limpus, one of the backers, offloaded his share in the production to a theatrical agency, and Rattigan’s own agent wandered between members of the cast trying to sell his £500 stake for a fifth of its original value.
French went backstage and berated his cast for their appalling performances and announced that there would be third dress rehearsal in fifteen minutes and went in search of Rattigan. He found the author looking dejected in the foyer. He took the news of the third dress very badly: ‘I . . . I . . . don’t think I could stand it again’.17 Reluctantly, Rattigan was led down to the stalls and watched the cast pull together a credible semblance of the rehearsed play. But he was pessimistic about his play’s chances. When the curtain rose on the first night, Rattigan had all but written off any chance of success.
In the event, the audience, led by the ‘deep-throated gurgle’ of Cicely Courtneidge, laughed at the very first joke, and were soon laughing at every gag, every piece of business.18 Only Harold French was concerned, feeling that the actors were rushing the piece, cutting through laughs and mistiming cues. But when Roland Culver, his sole gamble in the casting, entered, and took a laugh with the right leisurely pace, the cast found the correct rhythm. At the curtain call, the house was calling for the author, but Rattigan was nowhere to be found. French searched the building until
I found him, white-tied and tailed, green-faced and dithering, being supported by a convenient back wall.
‘They’re yelling for you, go on and thank them.’
‘Come with me,’ he hiccuped – a child to a nannie. I relieved the wall of its reluctant support, took him by the scruff of the neck and threw him on to the stage.19
Rattigan accepted the audience applause, but the stage hands had not been alerted and as he stepped forward to make a short curtain speech, the curtains swung together trapping in their folds the brightest new playwright of the West End.20 As the cast celebrated, Bronson Albery, the man who had spent the previous evening arranging to bring a touring show to replace it, told them ‘Well, it looks as though you will be here for some time’.21
The approval of the audience was r
eflected in the reviews, which were almost entirely positive. W. A. Darlington in the Daily Telegraph wrote that ‘the gift of real lightness is a rare one in the theatre, and Terence Rattigan is a lucky young man to have it’, observing that ‘this is an unpretentious entertainment; but it gets just about full marks in its class’. The same theme was picked up everywhere: the Evening Standard called it a ‘little masterpiece of frivolity’ and the Morning Post called it ‘a brilliant little comedy’, while Herbert Farjeon in The Bystander speculated that, ‘if, by any mischance, I had fallen asleep at this, I believe my own laughter would have woken me up’.
The only dissenting voice came from James Agate in the Sunday Times, who wrote, ‘This is not a play. It is not anything. Six Marie Tempests and six Charles Hawtreys would not be able to redeem it, because there is not a crumb of redemption in it. It is not witty. It has no plot. It is almost without characterisation’. (Agate was said to have arrived after the start to and have left before the end.) Not satisfied with panning the play’s first night, he spent the next eighteen months punctuating his columns with disparaging asides directed at the play. Eventually, John Gielgud wrote a letter of protest to the newspaper, urging that critics had a duty to support new writers. The same day saw the annual Gallery First Nighters’ dinner and in his speech Agate attacked Gielgud and the play. Cast member, Percy Walsh, leapt to his feet in protest and had to be ushered out. The following week Agate replied to Gielgud’s criticism more formally in his regular column, insisting that the kind of theatre he longed for would ‘never emerge from the critical encouragement of things like French Without Tears’. However, he stopped attacking the play in print.22
French Without Tears Page 3
