It seems the whole middle class population of Melbourne has seen the long-awaited National Theatre production of War Horse. I looked around, amazed by the variety of ages I rarely see at the Arts Centre. There were teenagers with their feet on chairs; oldies dressed in their best; children impatiently waiting for the horsey. What do I, a 29-year-old playwright, need to do to appeal to such a mass audience? My list began as follows: life-sized puppets, a cute kid, his pet horse and a world war. I was ready, armed with my faux, socially conscious political scepticism to see what everyone was seeing and determined that no tears would fall for this mainstream, big-budget commodity I would have died to be a part of.
I must confess that my cynicism crumbled under the power of astounding performers, whose seamless movements bring the innocently charismatic horse to life. Even ruthless dictators would be sucked into investing emotionally in this coming-of-age tale set in Devon in 1912, where a poor, young boy, Albert, grows up with his beloved horse, Joey. It is impossible not to be seduced by this beautiful love story; the way that Joey finally starts to open up to Albert and tilts his head towards him just makes you feel all warm inside.
When WWI breaks out and Albert has to give up Joey to the British forces, he enlists in the army at the tender age of 16 to ensure his horse is safe. His blind determination made me realise how old and bitter I had become, while Joey’s strength and resilience made me wonder why I’m starting to give up on life too easily.
This is puppetry on a new level, beyond my Being John Malkovich understanding. Besides the horses, there is a very cheeky goose that steals the show and offers some much needed comic relief.
Just like the projection screen designed to look like both a torn page from a sketchpad as well as the sky, this show is a simple story told in an epic way. The soundscape and design were simply phenomenal, especially the use of gun shots that seemed to be a waking reminder that with innocence and beauty comes darkness and brutality.
Wonders can be achieved with high theatre budgets, but I couldn’t blame the horse any longer for my bitterness because I, in a very cheesy way, saw myself in him. Who among us have not been used to plough fields or fight wars? Joey’s struggles reflect how the world changes us all as well as how we can change the world. Yes, I can write. I can really write, and I do not need life-sized puppets or money to do it.
One leaves the theatre wondering whether the random acts that defined Joey’s life, from an auction to a coin toss, were acts of Providence or just dumb luck. Either way, you cannot help but reflect on all the Joeys and Arthurs that were lost. It was at this point where the lump of middle class guilt formed in my throat and I remembered why I love the theatre; it always reminds me that I am both lucky and truly insignificant.
‘War Horse’
National Theatre of Great Britain
Based on the book by Michael Morpurgo, adapted for the stage by Nick Stafford Directed by Drew Barr
Arts Centre Melbourne, State Theatre Until 3 March
