Two Planks and a Passion
All you need to make good theater, according to an old maxim, is two planks and a passion–a sturdy yet portable stage and a soul-deep belief in the power of drama. That catchphrase has inspired generation after generation of artists, yet history shows it’s also been routinely disdained by egotistical producers and audiences thirsty for spectacle. Today’s off-Loop theaters wrestle with whether they should–or can–compete with the high-tech extravaganzas that dominate the for-profit entertainment marketplace, but the conflict dates back to long before theater became a commercial enterprise.
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In his 1983 comedy Two Planks and a Passion, being given its U.S. premiere by Famous Door Theatre Company, Anthony Minghella casts a genial, thoughtful eye on the transformation of the mystery cycle from a truly participatory spiritual and cultural phenomenon into, well, showbiz. A charming, well-acted ensemble piece originally written for the Northcott Theatre Company in Exeter, England, the play doesn’t belabor any analogies with cultural crises in our own time. It isn’t a thinly disguised Thatcher-era plea for increased arts funding, for example, though the tension between extravagant directors and penny-pinching civic leaders is a running theme; and Minghella is hardly advocating a return to the days when theater was a completely amateur endeavor. But he reminds modern audiences that a precious sense of communal values and connections was lost when theater’s spiritual, artistic, and financial aspects diverged.
The odd relationship among Richard, Anne, and Robert–played here as a variation on Noel Coward’s “design for living” in his play of the same name–stirs rumor among some but not all of the townsfolk. “Most men love most men more than their wives,” snaps Geoffrey Le Kolve, sponsor of the painters’ guild, to his gossipy wife Kathryn, who’s banned her husband from her bedroom. She prefers to seek spiritual guidance–and other forms of stimulation–from Father Melton, the frisky priest directing the passion play Le Kolve’s guild is producing. But though the Le Kolves are sexually estranged, they’re both status-seeking social climbers united in their lust for prominence, adding the French “Le” to their name out of pure pretension. When they learn that the king is in town, the normally stingy Geoffrey throws cost-conscious conservatism to the winds in an aim to put on the best-looking show in the cycle. His principal rival is the mayor, William Selby, whose political position entitles him to play host to the king and his party. Some entitlement: the mischievous monarch toys with blustery, buffoonish Selby by forcing him to dig holes in his most prized possession–a beautiful green yard–so Richard can play a newfangled game he calls golf.
