“An unholy marriage of Noël Coward and Enid Blyton...”
The Guardian
I've always been a peculiar child fascinated by the 1920s' and 40s'; reared on a diet of Richmal Crompton, Enid Blyton and Poirot I loved everything about the war periods from the music to the fashion to turns of phrase - even blatantly ropey TV series such as Cluedo and House of Eliot I viewed as portals to a more sophisticated era. But then again, I did grow up in Devon.
I don’t know about you but however cultured I like to think I am, I’m aware that a large part of how I regard myself, my Englishness, my sense of humour and sense of self owe a great deal to World War II and to Noël Coward.
Self-indulgent introduction
In 2007 I found myself dejected and lonely in a library in Venice. Despite having worked for years towards my dream trip to study in Italy it wasn’t long before I was suddenly and horribly homesick. It was unexpected and severe; no matter how beautiful or fascinating I found Italy I couldn’t shake the constant feeling that I was, well, just in the wrong place. I slept badly and barely ate, I was literally sickening with an uneasiness and longing that seared through me like a constant grief. Perhaps worst of all, I couldn’t bloody understand why.
I’d never liked England that much, I thought patriotism was a dirty habit reserved for skinheads, old biddies and Daily Mail readers - none of those being teams I’m keen to bat for. I’d planned to romp around Byzantine squares in the moonlight with a chiselled Italian lover so why did I end up watching box sets of Spooks alone whistfully thinking about marmite?
Because deeper than missing friends or family I was homesick for newspapers, Jeremy Paxman, Ribena, sarcasm, the BBC, rainy afternoons, baked beans and apologising when someone bumps into you. I became acutely aware that I was painfully English. What I missed was English-ness. But what even is that?
Our dirty little past.
It was in the midst of all this that I took an Imperial Cinema course largely consisting of jaw droppingly racist films where the English colonists swan around barking orders in RP, demanding unquestioning servitude and tiffin. The Italians seemed convinced this was a docusoap from the 1990s and I disagreed as vehemently as I could until it dawned on me that the English soldiers on screen were invading Afghanistan, a bit like, umm, now.
2007 saw England still wading through the quagmire of the War Against Terror with invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq both of which I’d protested against in my sixth form politicised fervour. And here it was, history literally repeating itself in my university class.
I became obsessed with these films, like rubbernecking an historic car crash; The Drum, Gunga Din, Elephant Boy, Clive of India, The Northwest Frontier, The Black Narcissus, a role call of an imperial past that we don't like to talk about, even in school, even whilst we’re still doing it.
But side by side with the deplorable events depicted was an incredibly defined sense of national identity which struck a chord in my little lost and homesick brain. All this led me to the Ministry of Information and dear old Noël.
Stiff upper lips and all
It's a curious thing when you start investigating English national identity that a great deal of what is said to be intrinsic 'Englishness' was actually very deliberately popularised by the Ministry of Information as a propaganda tool to galvanise the masses during World War II.
Stoicism, a sense of irony, restraint, deference, determination, manners, whether you agree or not that these define the English national character - or if there even can be such a thing in a country comprising of hundreds of different nationalities, traditions and hair cuts - these are the qualities that reputedly saw us to victory through two world wars.
Time and again these are the qualities spewing forth in abundance in the cinema of the 1930s’ and 40s’; In Which We Serve, The Way Ahead, Mrs Minniver, Scott of the Antarctic, Brief Encounter and even the Ealing Comedies.
Generally in these films plucky young Englishmen and women, whether stereotypes from the regions or London drawing rooms, all pull together with cheery resolve and quiet determination to defeat a common enemy often at great personal sacrifice.
It all started to coalesce and fascinate me - what if these characters with their certainty, their faith in their governments actions and their blithe patriotism were fighting our war, the war against terror?
Furthermore, in amongst all this pomp, pluck and jingoism I’d also discovered something English I could feel truly proud of; Mr. Noël Coward.
"We're talking about a style that became a way of being for a lot of people. English cultural history between the world wars is, in some extremely large part, Noël Coward. He put himself into the narrative the English tell themselves about their struggles, their suffering, their triumphs.”
John Lahr
Many more educated people than I have said many more eloquent things about Coward’s work which ranges from songs to sketches, plays, performances and films.
But I will say that what I found pervading Coward’s work was a prescient satire and a patriotism that is proud but chiding, affectionate yet insightful, it’s instructional, astute, witty, charming and compassionate and in this way I think comes closer to describing how I feel about England than anything else.
I became an absolute Coward fiend and any lurking afficiandos will find a wealth of influence, homage and breath taking plagarism of his work in my play.
And so came The Darkling Plain, the bastard child of a homesick brain missing England yet furious with it for a continuing Imperial legacy.
A strange stew pot of Blyton and Coward, Round the Horne, Donald Rumsfeld and David Lean.
Above all, whatever you feel about dear Blighty, I hope you will enjoy the play and maybe even recognise a little truth in it.
TTFN.
Bea
