By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Shaw's plays would be mere walls of words if he hadn't carefully inserted such cracks to let in the light of laughter. He also, cunningly, made a point of playing his word game by a strict set of rules: The speeches must represent the characters' opinions and not the author's, but those opinions must be given at white heat, and they must play a role in clarifying the author's own beliefs. Then they must be organized into a valid narrative sequence, and this sequence must equally support a valid musical structure. The opening scene of Barbara, superficially one of Shaw's looser plays, is as elegant as an 18th-century opera ensemble: First a duet for Stephen Undershaft and his mother; next a sextet as his two sisters enter with their prospective husbands; the butler's recitative marks the key change that, with Andrew Undershaft's entrance, turns the sextet into a septet, which modulates back into a sextet, presumably on the subdominant, when Cholly exits to fetch his concertina. His reentry brings it back to the tonic; the septet blazes up full for a while, then fades out as the characters exit one by oneleaving Stephen and his mother alone to reprise the duet theme with which the act opened. Mozart himself couldn't have done it more elegantly, though the particular source of Barbara's musical structure is probably the composer whom Shaw pointedly both quotes and names in the Salvation Army act, Donizetti.
The latter's bifurcated musical personality gives the key to Shaw's paradoxical play. The Donizetti tune that Barbara Undershaft's West Ham Salvation Army band has adapted is the wedding chorus from Lucia di Lammermoorthe story in which the bride, a trapped pawn in the war of two Scottish clans, goes mad and murders the groom. The score is the contradictory essence of the bel canto style: lightly tuneful and floridly decorative, but strongly grounded in the most violent of bloody passions. As is Shaw's drawing-room comedy, in which each of the two drawing-room scenes is followed, like the castle scenes in Donizetti's opera, by a trip to a dangerous outside reality: In lieu of the park where Lucia meets her lover and the wolf-haunted crags of Ravenswood, we get the yard of the West Ham shelter and the Undershaft munitions factory. Like Lucia's brother, Barbara's father is a charming deceiver, who uses false arguments to trick her into switching sides. But Shaw is modern and Donizetti is not: Barbara's lover, as false as her father, has already switched sides too. Andmodern thought being a bottomless pit of ironiesthe other side is the only side. Barbara's dream of a world where the souls of the poor can be saved without taking the devil's blood money is the adolescent dream of a sheltered, idealistic girl. At the end she puts it asidenot to inherit a munitions factory, but to find a new way to save souls.
Like most of Shaw's bigger plays, Major Barbara provoked moral disquiet as well as aesthetic confusion when it premiered in 1905. While the latter has abated, the former seems to run ever deeper. Two world wars, and the rest of the 20th century's towering chronicle of techno-carnage, have soured us on Undershaft's enthusiasm for improved killing machines; and while Shaw made his arms manufacturer an honest merchant who gave value for money, our contemporary Undershafts are chiefly con artists promoting epic boondoggles like the missile shield, in which only retards like Dubya believe. Even the arms dealer's rival, Christianity, for Shaw a misguided but infinitely powerful force, has dwindled in our time, to a mere tool hijacked by bigots for cheesy political purposes.
These thoughts come out because Daniel Sullivan's production, for once in the Roundabout's pockmarked history, is both straightforward and emotionallythough not always verballypellucid. Sullivan takes the play on strictly traditional terms, with no directorial funny business, off angles, or deconstructive interferencenothing like, for instance, the visual tilt of his Broadway Moon for the Misbegotten or the Freudian creeps of his Lincoln Center Ah, Wilderness! Apart from two mild experiments in casting that don't work outHenny Russell as a strangely brusque, tough-minded Sarah, and Zak Orth as a cartoonlike, slightly sissified Stephenthe characterizations are entirely traditional, and often extremely good within the tradition. (Among the minor roles, David Lansbury's Bill Walker, Rick Holmes's Cholly, and Beth Dixon's Mrs. Baines are especially well played.) The most successful of them is also the simplest: Dana Ivey's Lady Britomart. What wonderful body English, as well as vocal English, this great comic actress has. Surely her neck hasn't always moved in this peculiar way, giving her head the effect of a Bunraku puppet expressing displeasure. Bergson would rejoice: Here is his comic theory of mechanism come to life. Ivey's triumph is that of the actor as über-marionette. Watch her turn around in the last act's doorway, when Lady Britomart thinks Billson has called her "explosive," and you'll see a human attain the puppet's higher reality.