The Voice of the Turtle (1943)
THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE
by John Van Druten
directed by Carl Forsman
Sally Middleton … Hanley Smith
Olive Lashbrooke … Mega Byrne
Bill Page … William Connell
Time: A weekend in early April, 1943.
Place: An apartment in the East Sixties, near 3rd Avenue,
New York City
by John Van Druten
directed by Carl Forsman
Sally Middleton … Hanley Smith
Olive Lashbrooke … Mega Byrne
Bill Page … William Connell
Time: A weekend in early April, 1943.
Place: An apartment in the East Sixties, near 3rd Avenue,
New York City
I caught the final Saturday matinee of John Van Druten’s THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE at Merrimack Repertory Theatre, and I’m glad I did. I had read this charming war-romance light-years ago but had never seen it performed, and any regional or community theatre company looking for an audience pleaser with a small cast and one setting should consider this valentine about an aspiring young actress, a handsome soldier on leave, and the catty sidekick who has stood him up – and need I mention that TURTLE chalked up a Broadway run of 1,557 performances? (The lead role – Sally Middleton – was played by the popular stage and screen actress Margaret Sullavan, best remembered today as James Stewart’s love interest in THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER (1940).)
In his friendly, informal manual PLAYWRIGHT AT WORK (1953) – recommended reading for all playwrights – Mr. Van Druten offers the following to those who want to create “universal” characters: a Mr. or a Mrs. Smith with whom everyone can identify:
I would like to take an illustration from The Voice of the Turtle. In Sally, the heroine of that play, I drew what I considered a somewhat odd girl. Or, rather, she drew herself for me. I liked her, I was amused by her, but there were times while she was writing herself, when she seemed to be getting close to being a goon-girl, a near half-wit, though she remained consistent and appealing. The one thing I never thought of her as being was Everywoman. I never thought she could be identified as Miss Smith. But she was. I have had letters and comments from women telling me that Sally was themselves, and asking how I could possibly have known so much about their insides and thoughts and dreams. The play had achieved that kind of universal identification that is every playwright’s best desire, which can almost never be achieved by aiming at it.
When Mary McCarthy reviewed the original Broadway production, she was lukewarm about TURTLE itself but added:
… John Van Druten has discovered for the theatre a new American type, a type with whom we are all familiar in life but have not seen behind the footlights. This is the character played by Margaret Sullavan; she is the well-brought-up American girl who, at twenty-one, has had two affairs, yet remains at heart a virgin, an innocent, a perennial spinster who will always be more in love with her apartment, her flowers, her possessions, her treasury of quotations from poetry, than with any man she sleeps with, whose bed the morning after a sexual adventure will always be made up, with the spread indented under the pillows, while coffee for two drips in the Silex and toast pops out of the electric toaster. This is the eternal college girl, who will be windswept and hatless at forty, and whose old age no one so far can predict.
… which could well describe many a chick-flick heroine of today. No doubt, Sally must have raised a few eyebrows back in 1943 by having had two affairs (one, with a married man) before the curtain has risen and is now delightfully worried she might be turning promiscuous (Olive, the sidekick, indulges in guilt-free sex) – I’ve not seen the 1948 film adaptation (with Eve Arden as Olive, natch) but I wouldn’t be surprised if the era’s censorship had scrubbed away Sally’s past till she was spotless as the Lamb …
The original Broadway production of TURTLE must have been an immediate and poignant entertainment, what with New York being filled with aspiring actresses and soldiers on leave, making Times Square seem like New Year’s Eve, night after night, yet it holds up well, today – Act One shows Mr. Van Druten at work, closing many little doors so that the big door can (must) open: Sally and Bill going out to dinner en route to romance; when Sally enters in Act Two, giddy from a cocktail on an empty stomach, the fun kicks in (much laughter, here), and the closing duet of Act Three is genuinely tear-inducing (happy tears, not sad) – the play allows its designers to wax nostalgic: Theresa Squire’s 1940s costumes (right down to Olive’s snood) were pleasing, and Bill Clarke’s three-room apartment seemed period, enough (rose-pink for Sally’s bedroom, soothing-blue for the living room where Bill spends most of his time, mint-green for the kitchen that they share).
Carl Forsman’s direction was smooth, smooth, smooth but humanly so, though missing a desperate urgency (after all, Bill is being shipped off to war!) – only once, did the face of Neil Simon poke through the valentine when Sally fled from Bill’s embrace-and-kiss, leaving him in a frozen clinch to milk out a laugh – and a nice little chuckle could have occurred in Act Three had Sally flourished only half a stick of butter instead of a whole one, the humor stemming from such fuss over so little but – ah! – think of how many ration stamps such smallness would have cost Sally! In all my years of reviewing, I’ve yet to see a local production, set in New York, where the actors’ body rhythms evoke crowds, subways, small apartments … nor did I see it on the Merrimack stage … but I still hope to see it, someday, rather than a suburbanite’s view of the Big Apple.
Speaking of rationing, Mr. Forsmans’ cast of three was appropriately trim and quite likeable – in today’s theatre, where new plays are collections of sound-bytes and whisk-away scenery, where HOT-ness and closed hearts have replaced emotional danger and sincerity, what a pleasure to have watched this trio perform for long stretches at a time with nothing but each other’s give-and-take (thus, they had to constantly edit themselves to remain stylized and on pitch) (I wonder, in rehearsal, did they ask Mr. Forsman, “Gee, were people really this NICE, back then?”) Hanley Smith, tall and willowy, frisked about as Sally – I was glad to see she did not distance herself from her “goon-girl” nor did she mug to the point of dementia – plus she was feminine – since today’s woman-iconography boils down to a pair of crossed arms, a thrust-chin and a defiant stance, again I declare that Ms. Smith is a feminine actress, as creamy as a vanilla milkshake.
The role of Bill Page can best be described as Operation Dreamboat, a sensitive swain who cooks and rolls the poetry-ball back on cue (not unlike a Jane Austin hero – but, then, Mr. Van Druten was an Englishman in America), and William Connell filled the bill handsomely; still, Bill is a drone – as Mr. Van Druten wrote, “The man in the play seemed more usual to me, more like the ordinary man. Perhaps that is why he was less individual, and why few men have identified themselves with Bill Page.” (Years later, after creating the role of Paul to the ditzy Corie in Mr. Simon’s BAREFOOT IN THE PARK, Robert Redford summed up the Sally-syndrome, “All the guy ends up doing is looking at her with his hat in his hand and saying, ‘You’re wild and you’re mad, and I love you.’ ”) Sally was a fresh creation but Olive was already a stock character, and Mega Byrne could have scrunched up her face and coasted on wisecracks, alone, but (happily) buffed them to a sparkle and gave her role a touch of class (Olive is not a villainess).
At the performance that I attended, the main floor was filled with members of Sally’s generation (i.e. those who remember the 1940s); the side balconies became a peanut gallery with bussed-in students of junior-high age – and, oh, the contrast! The elders smiled and remembered and enjoyed themselves; the youngers sat in puzzlement, most of the time, uttering oooooEEEEE’s each time Sally and Bill kissed; during the two intermissions, they reached for their cell-phones and ‘pods as if they were lifelines. But at least they experienced good, solid Live Theatre – now, how many of them will want to see more? (And where were the 20-somethings? Here was a play right up their alley, having experienced their own recent war ... )
In closing, should I mention that Mr. Van Druten also wrote I REMEMBER MAMA, I AM A CAMERA (featuring another Sally: Sally Bowles of (later) CABARET fame) and BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE, you may (hopefully) say, “Ah, that Van Druten!” Yes – that Van Druten – and his plays deserve resurrecting.
“The Voice of the Turtle” (5-29 January 2012)
MERRIMACK REPERTORY THEATRE
Liberty Hall (adjacent to Lowell Memorial Auditorium)
50 E. Merrimack Street, LOWELL, MA
Tickets: (978) 543-4678
website: http://www.merrimackrep.org/
In his friendly, informal manual PLAYWRIGHT AT WORK (1953) – recommended reading for all playwrights – Mr. Van Druten offers the following to those who want to create “universal” characters: a Mr. or a Mrs. Smith with whom everyone can identify:
I would like to take an illustration from The Voice of the Turtle. In Sally, the heroine of that play, I drew what I considered a somewhat odd girl. Or, rather, she drew herself for me. I liked her, I was amused by her, but there were times while she was writing herself, when she seemed to be getting close to being a goon-girl, a near half-wit, though she remained consistent and appealing. The one thing I never thought of her as being was Everywoman. I never thought she could be identified as Miss Smith. But she was. I have had letters and comments from women telling me that Sally was themselves, and asking how I could possibly have known so much about their insides and thoughts and dreams. The play had achieved that kind of universal identification that is every playwright’s best desire, which can almost never be achieved by aiming at it.
When Mary McCarthy reviewed the original Broadway production, she was lukewarm about TURTLE itself but added:
… John Van Druten has discovered for the theatre a new American type, a type with whom we are all familiar in life but have not seen behind the footlights. This is the character played by Margaret Sullavan; she is the well-brought-up American girl who, at twenty-one, has had two affairs, yet remains at heart a virgin, an innocent, a perennial spinster who will always be more in love with her apartment, her flowers, her possessions, her treasury of quotations from poetry, than with any man she sleeps with, whose bed the morning after a sexual adventure will always be made up, with the spread indented under the pillows, while coffee for two drips in the Silex and toast pops out of the electric toaster. This is the eternal college girl, who will be windswept and hatless at forty, and whose old age no one so far can predict.
… which could well describe many a chick-flick heroine of today. No doubt, Sally must have raised a few eyebrows back in 1943 by having had two affairs (one, with a married man) before the curtain has risen and is now delightfully worried she might be turning promiscuous (Olive, the sidekick, indulges in guilt-free sex) – I’ve not seen the 1948 film adaptation (with Eve Arden as Olive, natch) but I wouldn’t be surprised if the era’s censorship had scrubbed away Sally’s past till she was spotless as the Lamb …
The original Broadway production of TURTLE must have been an immediate and poignant entertainment, what with New York being filled with aspiring actresses and soldiers on leave, making Times Square seem like New Year’s Eve, night after night, yet it holds up well, today – Act One shows Mr. Van Druten at work, closing many little doors so that the big door can (must) open: Sally and Bill going out to dinner en route to romance; when Sally enters in Act Two, giddy from a cocktail on an empty stomach, the fun kicks in (much laughter, here), and the closing duet of Act Three is genuinely tear-inducing (happy tears, not sad) – the play allows its designers to wax nostalgic: Theresa Squire’s 1940s costumes (right down to Olive’s snood) were pleasing, and Bill Clarke’s three-room apartment seemed period, enough (rose-pink for Sally’s bedroom, soothing-blue for the living room where Bill spends most of his time, mint-green for the kitchen that they share).
Carl Forsman’s direction was smooth, smooth, smooth but humanly so, though missing a desperate urgency (after all, Bill is being shipped off to war!) – only once, did the face of Neil Simon poke through the valentine when Sally fled from Bill’s embrace-and-kiss, leaving him in a frozen clinch to milk out a laugh – and a nice little chuckle could have occurred in Act Three had Sally flourished only half a stick of butter instead of a whole one, the humor stemming from such fuss over so little but – ah! – think of how many ration stamps such smallness would have cost Sally! In all my years of reviewing, I’ve yet to see a local production, set in New York, where the actors’ body rhythms evoke crowds, subways, small apartments … nor did I see it on the Merrimack stage … but I still hope to see it, someday, rather than a suburbanite’s view of the Big Apple.
Speaking of rationing, Mr. Forsmans’ cast of three was appropriately trim and quite likeable – in today’s theatre, where new plays are collections of sound-bytes and whisk-away scenery, where HOT-ness and closed hearts have replaced emotional danger and sincerity, what a pleasure to have watched this trio perform for long stretches at a time with nothing but each other’s give-and-take (thus, they had to constantly edit themselves to remain stylized and on pitch) (I wonder, in rehearsal, did they ask Mr. Forsman, “Gee, were people really this NICE, back then?”) Hanley Smith, tall and willowy, frisked about as Sally – I was glad to see she did not distance herself from her “goon-girl” nor did she mug to the point of dementia – plus she was feminine – since today’s woman-iconography boils down to a pair of crossed arms, a thrust-chin and a defiant stance, again I declare that Ms. Smith is a feminine actress, as creamy as a vanilla milkshake.
The role of Bill Page can best be described as Operation Dreamboat, a sensitive swain who cooks and rolls the poetry-ball back on cue (not unlike a Jane Austin hero – but, then, Mr. Van Druten was an Englishman in America), and William Connell filled the bill handsomely; still, Bill is a drone – as Mr. Van Druten wrote, “The man in the play seemed more usual to me, more like the ordinary man. Perhaps that is why he was less individual, and why few men have identified themselves with Bill Page.” (Years later, after creating the role of Paul to the ditzy Corie in Mr. Simon’s BAREFOOT IN THE PARK, Robert Redford summed up the Sally-syndrome, “All the guy ends up doing is looking at her with his hat in his hand and saying, ‘You’re wild and you’re mad, and I love you.’ ”) Sally was a fresh creation but Olive was already a stock character, and Mega Byrne could have scrunched up her face and coasted on wisecracks, alone, but (happily) buffed them to a sparkle and gave her role a touch of class (Olive is not a villainess).
At the performance that I attended, the main floor was filled with members of Sally’s generation (i.e. those who remember the 1940s); the side balconies became a peanut gallery with bussed-in students of junior-high age – and, oh, the contrast! The elders smiled and remembered and enjoyed themselves; the youngers sat in puzzlement, most of the time, uttering oooooEEEEE’s each time Sally and Bill kissed; during the two intermissions, they reached for their cell-phones and ‘pods as if they were lifelines. But at least they experienced good, solid Live Theatre – now, how many of them will want to see more? (And where were the 20-somethings? Here was a play right up their alley, having experienced their own recent war ... )
In closing, should I mention that Mr. Van Druten also wrote I REMEMBER MAMA, I AM A CAMERA (featuring another Sally: Sally Bowles of (later) CABARET fame) and BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE, you may (hopefully) say, “Ah, that Van Druten!” Yes – that Van Druten – and his plays deserve resurrecting.
“The Voice of the Turtle” (5-29 January 2012)
MERRIMACK REPERTORY THEATRE
Liberty Hall (adjacent to Lowell Memorial Auditorium)
50 E. Merrimack Street, LOWELL, MA
Tickets: (978) 543-4678
website: http://www.merrimackrep.org/
posted by Carl A. Rossi at 7:04 AM
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