So...I bought this only for Private Lives, because I knew I'd be going to a well-reviewed DC production, and, if possible, I like to read a play before I see it - an acquired preference from classical theater and opera.
And speaking of acquired, Coward's that kind of taste, isn't he? Particularly 70-90 years after he wrote these confections? Well, it's a taste - for dry, bantering, cleverly corrosive wit - I acquired long ago, before Coward, and so I found Private Lives HOWLINGLY funny on the page and on the stage. I sat up late last Saturday to read this, and I feared I'd wake up the house with my whoops and guffaws. Coward cracks wise about every third line, and it's just so...so...so...black tie-wing collar-patent leather pumps-English. (I wanted to say Wildean, but that would be Irish, wouldn't it?) This is what Elizabethan comedy's superabundance of clever clever clever words words words evolves into in London's West End between the Wars. So demmed smart (as in "smart set" smart, not smart as "intelligent" - although it's that, too, in trumps). And so trippingly like what every bright Oxbridgean wants to sound like at the cocktail party.
Of course, the story is ridiculous. But with a neatly balanced three acts, which takes reader or theatergoer up a clever hill and down a similar, similarly bright, hill for a somewhat predictable conclusion, handsomely wrought, at a pace, even on the page, that's racehorse brisk.
In the theater, the play literally crackles, throws off sparks, shimmers like shook foil. There we sit - we're Victor and Sybil, wholly conventional, in our conventional little lives, supermarket-rack best-sellers on our night tables, with our comfy jobs, and comfortable incomes - watching these upper-crust Wildings toss the conventional order, between sips of bubbly, as it suits their whims, with an insouciant noblesse oblige and without a care concerning who or whom they may run over by accident.
Delightful. Delicious.
I'm now a new Noel Coward fan and look forward to exploring his plays, prose, music, and interesting life. (Mad "coincidence": I was laid up sick as a dog in the same Shanghai hotel in which, also sick as a dog, Coward wrote Private Lives in 1930. Right: no real coincidence, okay, okay, but I felt a little more grounded in his world, in a memory of my looking out the window on similar Shanghai streets and the Huangpu River: the Cathay was an elegant venue, the brightest light on the Shanghai bund, in 1930. Fifty-some years later, the carpets were threadbare, the brass tarnished, the water somewhat rusty, but it still had a perceptible, albeit faded, Art Deco elegance. And fabulous "puffs of cream" from the ancient pastry chef of the famous restaurant...perhaps descendants of the same puffs Coward might have enjoyed in 1930 after recovering from his ailment...)