Theatre in Review: What the Public Wants (Mint Theatre)

There are exactly two scenes that really crackle in Arnold Bennett's 1909 drama What the Public Wants, and both of them involve Rob Breckenridge and Ellen Adair. He is Sir Charles Worgan, kingpin of a British newspaper empire that turns out tabloid fodder for the masses. She is Emily Vernon, a young widow who keeps body and soul together by working, not very effectively, as an actress in a repertory company. The first scene comes when Sir Charles -- full of bluster, a man of decision in all things but love -- tries to propose to Emily without actually saying any of the conventional endearments. As he shuffles, stammers, and grows red, disasters seem to loom. However, Emily, as well, is incapable of too much sentiment -- the fierce emotion in her eyes makes a marked contrast with her ironic smile and nervous hands -- and their embarrassed, yet mutually delighted, progress toward closing the deal is an altogether charming thing to see. Later, when the relationship sours, Emily, heretofore the junior partner in the relationship, proves to be a surprisingly tough-minded judge of the man she loves, and Sir Charles, so ruthless in business, is revealed to have an especially tender heart; as rendered by Breckenridge, the character's normal composure gives way to the fear and anger of an animal at bay.

In both these scenes, an otherwise stodgy Edwardian drama is temporarily loosed from its stays; the rest of the time, What the Public Wants is a slightly plodding account of an early 20th-century media mogul, a character who must have seemed quite novel at the time. Sir Charles' empire, which extends to 40 newspapers, is equally divided among those that deliver religious uplift ("Ought Curates to Receive Presents from Lady Parishoners?") and sex and gore (such as the Crimes of Passion series, which rehashes old murders); the only requirement in either case is that the writing be "snappy." Unlike today's tabloid tycoons, who use their power and wealth to become players in society and politics, Sir Charles is portrayed as just another manufacturer of goods for the common man; he may as well be in sewing machines or dry goods for all the cachet his work brings. And, aside from a certain titled lady who is forever on the other end of the telephone, hoping to make a date, society has no use for him -- nor he for it.

Nevertheless, Sir Charles does experience a vague yearning for some kind of recognition, which leads him to seek out the company of artists and intellectuals -- not the least of whom is Emily, a fetching, if slightly lost, acquaintance from his West Midlands youth. To win her over, he invests heavily in her theatre company -- but, in matters of culture as elsewhere, his will must reign supreme, and he ends up expelling the artistic director when the latter refuses to produce a revival of The Merchant of Venice instead of a brooding modern drama. This act of bullying should set off warning bells, but it isn't until later, when Sir Charles' family begs him to kill a story dredging up a murder case to which a family friend is connected, that Emily realizes her fiancé has a set of account books where his soul should be.

Bennett was famous as both a novelist and playwright, but, based on the evidence here, his dramas were defined by a leisurely gait and a willingness to cover various subjects at length -- qualities better associated with prose. (A West End hit, it didn't make it to Broadway until 1922, where it lasted three weeks.) Funnily enough, a play about a man who traffics in sensation lacks anything of the sort. Each of the four acts is loaded with discussion, but very little of it scintillates; what may once have been a sharp satirical commentary has faded with age. (You do have to wonder what Shaw might have done with this material; surely he would have found it to be congenial.) Listening to the dialogue, you can guess where the laugh lines once were, but time has deprived them of their vigor.

None of this is the fault of the cast, which, under the direction of Matthew Arbour, delivers as polished a performance as one could possibly want. (One of the real pleasures of attending a Mint production is to realize, once again, how Jonathan Bank, the artistic director, has built a company of actors and directors with such a solid grasp of period style.) Breckinridge provides a full account of Sir Charles' character, making him as hard to dismiss as he is to embrace. Adair's Emily, despite her considerable charm -- and her precarious place in the world -- is nevertheless a woman of strong and uncompromising opinions. ("We differ as to the precise point where shame ought to begin," she says, by way of ending her engagement.) Marc Vietor is a most apt commentator as Sir Charles' wandering brother, who joins the firm for a time. ("My dramatic criticism is said to be snappy without being vicious and now I've been made head of the obituary department," he notes proudly.) Laurie Kennedy is a warm presence as Sir Charles' not-terribly-approving mother. And Jeremy Lawrence executes a trio of comic cameos as a snippy drama critic, an outraged theatrical manager, and a dimwitted earthenware manufacturer.

Roger Hanna's ingenious set, marked by a series of arches, transforms neatly from Sir Charles' London offices to the library of his mother's home; Arbour has staged the scene changes especially cleverly. Despite one distinctly odd detail -- a fur hat for Vietor that looks like it was stolen from Greta Garbo's Anna Karenina -- Erin Murphy's costumes are distinguished by some excellent men's tailoring (the script calls for many different types of suits drawn from different levels of society) and an elegant evening gown for Emily; Murphy also dresses a blowsy actress in an elaborate purple outfit complete with an alarmingly vivid black feather boa. Both Marcus Doshi's lighting and Daniel Kluger's sound designs are solid and unfussy.

For all the good work, however, the script stubbornly refuses to come to life. As a piece of character observation, What the Public Wants gets the job done, but it does so in such repetitive and uninspired fashion that it's hard to care too much about the people in it. --David Barbour