Bruce Gardner
‘War Horse’
My wife and I went to Bedfordshire to visit our grandchildren. We never allow our Scottish patriotism to interfere with our family life: any razor-wire border around Berwick-upon-Tweed would not suit us.
Part of our southern journey was a planned trip to London. It was a treat for my wife. She had never gone to see Spielberg’s CGI-faked version of Michael Morpurgo’s children’s novel ‘War Horse’, because she had been impressed by a TV programme about the stage play by the National Theatre. I hatched the plan that, while visiting our southern family, I would whisk her away to see this magnificent production of ‘War Horse’, at Drury Lane. We decided on a day there, from a mid-morning arrival to a late-night departure.
I assumed, from my last trip in the 1980s, that London would be full of commuters with glazed eyes trying not to make visual contact with each other in dirty trains plunging through dark tunnels into bigger tunnels called stations, full of jostling, dodgy drifters and other lost souls. Like T S Eliot on Westminster Bridge, as he echoed Dante’s ‘Inferno’, I expected to murmur: ‘I had not thought Death had undone so many’.
I was pleasantly surprised. This time, the trains were clean and, while some people looked vacant, many others were kindling happily, even chatting. The modern station was beautiful, spacious, a trifle under-staffed and over-mechanised but a pleasure to use. The hopelessness of Thatcher’s era had scrubbed up well, with a smile. People were polite, helpful, offering seats to others. I asked myself: is it really London?
On arrival, my sense of direction was immediately tested, as our train unexpectedly crossed the Thames to the south, while my map showed us arriving at the north end. Luckily, my wife photographed me on the Embankment. There, plainly, was a dome (no, not mine – I have hair – but St Paul’s). Thus, my good wife realised we were on the South Bank. There was another clue: we stood beside the South Bank Gallery.
Having been convinced by my wife and the evidence, in that order, I agreed to re-cross the Thames after a brief visit to the gallery. There was a painting of pigeon-holes containing string: only £3,500. I decided it would be far less expensive to build a set of pigeon-holes in my shed and place string in them myself: it would save a fortune and the string might prove handy. Anyway, artless, we walked north by the bridge.
We went to Trafalgar Square. Our kids once fed pigeons there, counting it the highlight of a 600-mile trip, but such an edifice-compromising practice, a sign said, is now forbidden. However, the nearby National Gallery was superb. I was impressed, among others, by ‘The Baptism of Christ’ by Piero Della Francesca. I have seen it in a print, but there is something about standing eye to brush-stroke which transforms the experience – like the difference between a good CD and the orchestral vibrations of a live performance.
The attic room, the hive of copyists where the dictionary came together, was another highlight, along with a painting called ‘Dr Johnson’s Penance’, which showed him, head bowed, standing in a market, his hat under one arm, leaning on a staff with the other. The portly personage had a guilty secret: as a young boy, he had been requested by his father to go to that market, but refused. As an adult, it weighed on his conscience, so he decided to pay the penance of going to that market to stand – uncomfortably in the rain, as it happened – to reflect on his failure. It is a heart-warming reminder of our common human weakness.
We then found a pub by Drury Lane. Its walls were decorated with pagan scenes but it had very humane prices. This was a relief, for two parsimonious Scots had wandered past others that seemed to inform the customer that, as he dined on their nouveau cuisine, the management would feed off his arm and a leg.
Later, we found ourselves slipping through the theatre crowds with tickets I bought on the internet. The only night that week that was not fully booked, when I inquired, was Thursday 25 October. I had an email from the theatre before we left Scotland to say that there would be a change to the curtain call, as, apparently, the 25th was the show’s fifth anniversary. No other information was given. In any case, we enjoyed a moving night of pure theatre by dedicated professionals practising their art. Then, at the curtain call, a co-director came on-stage to introduce a special guest: Michael Morpurgo himself.
He spoke for 20 minutes on the brilliant conceptualisation of the National Theatre’s production, which uses astounding, life-sized puppet-horses. (Their operation is so subtle, you virtually edit out the integral puppeteers, mentally, as you watch these ‘horses’). The equine behaviour is so realistic and expressive – down to the flicking of ears and tossing of heads – that you can almost tell what the horses are thinking.
Michael Morpurgo created the story to be narrated by a horse called Joey, but a talking horse was not an option for a serious play. The National Theatre’s directors, actors and artists spent two years developing a credible presentation, with humans and puppets expressing the novel alternatively. Morpurgo told us that, including preparation, it was nearer the seventh anniversary than the fifth: no other theatre company would have risked investing so much in a project that, finally, might have seemed pantomimic and risible.
As he went on, Morpurgo said that it was a show about peace. So he was delighted to announce that the German version was due to go on in Berlin. He wrote the novel based on conversations with first world war veterans in Devon about the one million British war horses sent over to France, only 65,000 of which returned, but its message could easily be conveyed by exchanging the British and German perspectives: the message would be exactly the same – a lament about cruel wars and a fervent plea to love instead.
Having seen great art, the humble penitent Dr Johnson, and Morpurgo’s remembrance elegy, I returned from England with greater reverence and deeper respect for a fragile beauty worth protecting: our peace.
Bruce Gardner is a writer and commentator
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