Theatre in Review: A Picture of Autumn (Mint Theatre Company)

	Helen Cespedes and George Morfogen. Photo: Richard Terming

It's conventional wisdom that the Mint Theatre Company rescues lost plays; more recently, it has been salvaging playwrights. Most prominent among these has been the forgotten Teresa Deevy; A Picture of Autumn introduces us to N. C. Hunter, and once again it is something of a revelation.

Hunter, a leading light of the West End in the 1950s, wrote plays that attracted the starry likes of John Gielgud, Edith Evans, and Peggy Ashcroft, among others. (Gielgud's arrest for soliciting, the crisis that shaped much of his adult life, took place while he was starring in A Day by the Sea, one of Hunter's biggest successes.) But because he was charged with being a Chekhovian, and because of his fascination with the increasingly frayed existence of the genteel poor in the postwar era, Hunter was left behind as John Osborne and company led the forced march toward kitchen-sink drama. He was in good company, as Noel Coward and Terence Rattigan, among others, were also consigned to the dustbin of theatre history for a while; the difference is, they recovered their reputations while Hunter languished. Waters of the Moon, possibly his best-known work, was revived in the '70s as a vehicle for Ingrid Bergman, but even in the UK his plays are revived only rarely.

Interestingly, the Mint has chosen one of this obscure author's most obscure works. A Picture of Autumn got a well-received tryout performance in London in 1951 but was bypassed in favor of Waters of the Moon, which made Hunter's name in the West End. It's a pity, because A Picture of Autumn is a lovely, haunting work, filled with echoes of The Cherry Orchard, yet populated by a distinctive, and very British, set of characters. The portrait it offers of elderly gentry quietly fading away in a crumbling country house is a metaphor for Britain itself, adrift and impoverished after years of war. Because his characters didn't swear, swill liquor, or beat up women, Hunter was dismissed as a knitter of theatrical tea cozies, but there's nothing reassuring about A Picture of Autumn; indeed, its characters are living out a slow-motion disaster.

The lights come up on Winton Manor, in Wiltshire. It is 1951, and this once-grand house is afflicted with mold and dry rot. There is a hole in the landing, and if one isn't careful, a bad accident might happen. Because the world has changed, and because of Winton Manor's remote location, servants are impossible to come by. (The fact that the driveway is nearly impassable is no help.) The place is enormous -- there are 18 bedrooms and "acres of gardens," and its inhabitants are reduced to living in a handful of ill-tended rooms. Sir Charles Denham is ineffectually trying to start a fire, but, not having sufficiently dried the wood, everyone has a cold morning in their immediate future. The others are Lady Margaret, Charles' wife, who is worn to a frazzle by household chores. "I was looking at my hands this morning," she says, sadly. "Hideous lumps!" Harry, Charles' older brother and something of a professional eccentric, wanders in with the corpse of the pigeon he has shot. Dropping it on the refectory table, he says, "Dinner! Let no one say I'm not useful around the house." The only help, if you can call it that, comes from the elderly Nurse, whose main contribution to the life of the house is to make vast amounts of hot chocolate whenever while singing old-time hymns. ("We're cocoa drinkers now," says Charles, wryly. "Nurse insists on making it, so we have to drink it," he adds, with the logic of the easily cowed.)

No one in this fragile and slightly batty menagerie is looking forward to another winter in a home without adequate heat, but no one has the faintest idea of what to do about it. The hope of deliverance arrives with Robert, Charles and Margaret's son, a go-getter who has been living in Africa. He immediately sizes up the situation and offers a way out: He can get the government to buy Wilton Manor and turn it into a technical college. And why not? As the agent who comes to close the deal says, "Indeed, I like to think that, all over the country, fine old houses like this, that have been taken over by the government for one purpose or another, are, as it were, being reborn. As symbols of the new Britain."

But there is still the old Britain to contend with. At first, the plan is embraced by Margaret, and even Harry, who everyone worries will object to the plan, admits that the time has come to leave his lifelong home. But, to Robert's mounting frustration, activity slows to a crawl. When asked about setting a date, Charles becomes vague, his conversation trailing off. The others are not much better.

Other complicating factors present themselves. Frank, Robert's ne'er-do-well brother and the family pet, shows up, stealing focus and inciting bouts of fraternal jealousy. Felicity, Robert's adolescent stepdaughter, is revealed to be the double of Harry's late wife, who died young; suddenly, he is romping around the estate with a young woman less than a quarter of his age. It's pretty clear that stasis will overwhelm this little tribe, but Hunter's treatment of them -- a combination of clear-eyed affection and brutal candor, mixed with a slightly surreal sense of humor -- keeps us vitally interested in their communal fate.

Under Gus Kaikkonen's finely wrought direction, you'll believe that the residents of Wilton Manor have been quietly driving each other mad for years. Jonathan Hogan's Charles is a master at avoiding conflicts, ready to nod off the second a situation becomes too sticky. Jill Tanner's Margaret is briskly candid about the family dilemma, but she is also all too ready to make a fool of herself over the feckless Frank, who lacks a career, and, usually, any visible means of support. George Morfogen's Harry is a cold-eyed old duffer -- on moving day, he pronounces them all "aristocrats waiting for the tumbril" -- but he has a gleam of mischief in his eye whenever confronted with Felicity (a charming Helen Cespedes). Paul Niebanck makes clear just how much a prig Robert can be -- "It seems old age separates people from the adult world just as childhood does," he sniffs, uncharitably -- but we also see how he yearns for his parents' approval; in the play's most touching scene, he painfully, awkwardly admits to his wife, Elizabeth (Katie Firth, a most appealing voice of reason) how badly he needs her love. Barbara Eda-Young is delightful as Nurse, belting "All Things Bright and Beautiful" to the rafters as she performs unnecessary chores.

The production values at the Mint have been on the rise over the past few seasons, but it's still a marvel to see how Charles Morgan has managed to get a large, curving staircase into the theatre's low-ceilinged auditorium. Without any fussy detail, Morgan manages to suggest a large country manor going to seed. Sam Fleming's costumes are well-suited to each character; the contrast between the dress of the younger generation -- Robert's neatly tailored suits and Elizabeth's quietly chic outfits -- and the dowdy, well-worn clothing of the residents of Wilton Manor speaks volumes. William Armstrong's lighting and Jane Shaw's sound design are both solidly professional.

It's strange to think that N. C. Hunter was more or less put out of business by the likes of John Osborne and his angry young colleagues. A Picture of Autumn is a far more playable work than, say, Look Back in Anger, which has looked distinctly arthritic in recent revivals. And for all its gentle manners, A Picture of Autumn, in its presentation of a country suffering profound spiritual drift, is as pointed and devastating as anything Osborne ever wrote. Say hello to N. C. Hunter, and let's hope we hear from him again soon.--David Barbour