Talking Heads

Alan Bennett is an easy man to impersonate. His stock-in-trade is specificity, documenting an English universe of rhododendrons, pantries and chicken in lemon sauce. Combine that with a soft Yorkshire accent and you’ve got a simple caricature for comics to run with. Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon rally 'their Bennett' back and forth in The Trip; Harry Enfield does him as Stalin; and Stewart Lee, in his current tour show, closes the first half by having Alan read Sharknado. Putting low-key Bennet in a high-stakes situation is, of course, very funny. 

This, however, is a two-dimensional view of Bennett. A lot of people confuse his titles for the work. ‘A Chip in the Sugar,’ ‘A Cracker under the Settee,’ ‘The Lady in the Van.’ Wholesome names. Understated. Small. Reserved. Peculiarly British. But like the nation's preserve, marmalade, the sweetness comes from bitter oranges.


I’m talking about Bennett because this week my mum and me went to Talking Heads at Watford Palace Theatre. The show was originally written for the BBC in 1988 and 1998, but was soon adapted for stage. Many people are aware of it because they’ve studied it for GCSE or A Level. It’s perfect for analysis because it’s the very embodiment of ‘show don’t tell’ writing. In a dramatic monologue a character speaks their thoughts aloud; consequently it’s full of digressions, non-sequiturs and minor details. They’re not – it’s important to state - confessional booths. The character does not want to reveal themselves- typically they’re proud and private- but in time they expose themselves. Robert Barrett Browning’s 1842 poem My Last Duchess is an early example of this.

In tonight’s performance we see three monologues. The first is ‘A Lady of Letters,’ performed by Jan Ravens. Irene Ruddock appears to be a pleasant kind of nuisance. Her raison d'etre is the composition of complaint letters. She writes to funeral directors, local councils and even Buckingham Palace. (The dog mess outside is appalling!) There’s a feeling that it empowers her, gives her agency in a world where she has none. She is isolated and alone. (It’s revealed her mother died recently.) It all seems very harmless though with Ravens playing the punch-line, ‘So I wrote a letter’ for hearty laughs. However, Bennett is a devious so-and-so. At drawn-out intervals, he drops in lines about the family across the road. (‘See we’ve got a new couple that have moved in opposite. Don’t look very promising. The kiddie looks filthy.’) At first, Irene seems a simple curtain-twitcher, someone requiring distraction from the humdrum of life. Over the course of the monologue though this drip-drop of information becomes a rushing tap that engulfs. Ravens, a comic performer in Dead Ringers, brilliantly rings out the comedy whilst retaining the horror that lies beneath.


The second ‘A Bed Among the Lentils’ is performed by Julia Watson. It begins with the line, ‘Geoffrey’s bad enough, but I’m glad I wasn’t married to Jesus.’ Soon we learn that Susan is a Vicar’s wife. The opening brilliantly establishes how she’s in a loveless marriage with God and her husband. When you marry a Vicar you’re entering into a trinity – a trinity Susan does not wish to be a part of. She too wears a dog collar, but unlike her husband hers doesn’t empower, but shackles. For him, his job affords him a status. Each week he stands and delivers his thoughts. These sermons are lapped up and licked clean. He is the star attraction. For Susan, she isn’t even secondary: she's well behind God and the flock. As a result, she finds communion in the bottle. Her Jesus is the blood of grapes or the grain of wheat – vodka is quite nice. Again, just as in ‘A Lady of Letters’ we discover her issue quietly. (‘The woman served me. Didn’t smile. I can’t think why? I spend enough.’) With Bennett it can be just the odd line, the moment where the character’s guard drops. From then on, the levee breaks and the truth gushes forth. In time, it isn’t just booze that exposes Susan, but an off-license owner too. Hindu: he isn’t a man of God, but Gods. The bed she finds among the lentils is Susan’s spiritual awakening; a union that brings her more pleasure than marriage and God. Julia Watson’s ascension from defeated wife to reclaimed woman is incredible. A bravura performance.

Watson (left) and Ravens (right)

The final monologue is ‘Soldiering On’ with Ravens returning to stage. Muriel is upper-class and cut-glass. She is mourning the loss of her husband. However, her grieving is typically British. With a lip stiffer than a corpse, she ‘nip(s) into the pantry to staunch the flow.’ To be seen to cry would be to admit defeat. In Bennett’s work the women are tough. They may be drowning, but want to appear waving. He was writing strong women long before other dramatists woke up and realised they’d existed. Even with further setbacks, Muriel soldiers on and keeps on going. 


At 85 and surviving cancer, Bennett seems to have gained inspiration from his creations (his recent collection was called Keeping On Keeping On). Let’s hope that happens; for he is one of the greatest dramatists we have. One ripe for parody and pastiche, yet whose genius can't be imitated.


Talking Heads is at Watford Palace Theatre until 29^th March.