A new play about a family gathering, in a great dramatic tradition
TILL THE STARS COME DOWN BETH STEEL National Theatre, London, until March 16
BETH STEEL’S LATEST PLAY belongs to the dramatic tradition of the long dark night of reckoning that began, in modern realist terms, with the likes of Ibsen and Chekhov, before progressing, via Federico García Lorca, Eugene O’Neill and Arthur Miller, to Harold Pinter, Edward Albee and Mike Leigh, then on, this century, to Conor McPherson, Jez Butterworth and Polly Stenham. The setups are simple enough. A family, or quasi-family, is brought together for an event – a reunion, say, or a dinner party, or a barbecue. Things may seem jolly at the outset, but soon the sniping begins: lightness with an edge. There may be a “difficult” character, around whom the energy revolves, and a “good” one, who later turns out to be more murky. An outsider may arrive, or be already in the midst. Gradually – and often fuelled by alcohol or other catalysts of candour – the veneer of bonhomie is peeled away. Then it goes suddenly, like bankruptcy. An apparently solid marriage is revealed to be built on deceit or hatred; a close friendship on resentment or the desire for revenge. Children have uncertain, then shockingly certain, parentage, or never existed in the first place. The money’s been spent. Love never came into it. A final scene may take place in the pale early light of day, among the broken bottles.
Till the Stars Come Down is set in contemporary Mansfield, in the East Midlands, a former mining town that has been hollowed out first of its coal, then of its aspirations. It is the morning of a wedding and the bride, Sylvia, is with her two sisters, getting ready. Maggie is the chaotic middle child, with four weddings behind her. “It gets easier”, she reassures Sylvia. Hazel is the proud and uptight older sister. Her husband, John, has recently lost his zero-hours job and she has no hope of promotion at the facility where she works: “The team leaders are all eastern Europeans. They’ll look after their own”. Hazel’s xenophobia is casual, credible. It even contains the odd amusing gag: “That’s not a language. It’s a wifi password”. But Sylvia’s groom, it emerges, is a Pole who came over on a bus with a few quid in his pocket and now runs a successful business. A reckoning is brewing.
For now, though, we are entertained with mini dramas (“I’ve got a spot!”) and lewd wisecracks. It is all very sitcom, with shades of Shameless or, looking further back, the 1980s Scouse hit Bread. Life is tough, but there is fun to be had. Next door has a “sex pond” (hot tub) and Estée Lauder lipgloss can be nicked to order. The sisters’ Aunty Carol arrives to muscle in. “How ya doing, sugar tits?” she asks her fourteen-year-old niece by way of entrance. There is a brief moment when we worry who the
