What a glorious evening! Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound is playing together with Sheridan's The Critic at Britain's National Theatre. Since both these plays expose the pretensions and platitudes of theater critics, one might initially feel restrained in one's commentary; but the ebullience of these productions, their most extraordinary parodies of theatrical writing, makes caution needless.
Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound, written in 1968, opened the evening. A seventy minute, one-act show, it is expressed through two dimensions, the world of the critics and the world of the play. (similar to Woody Allen's recent Purple Rose of Cairo). Roy Kinnear and Eleanor Born, whose reputations from the satirical television shows of the sixties extend beyond the theater, are magnificent. (Though some may deem it an unnecessarily gratuitous comment, I understand why Kinnear's character Birdboot risks deserting reality to be with Byron's Lady Cynthia Muldoon.)
It is as an ensemble, however, that the company most completely shines. Selina Cadell is sickeningly funny with the small speaking role of the abysmal Mrs. Drudge, and each caricature is played to the fullest in what becomes a travesty of an English country house "Whodunit." The production is directed by the author.
Sheridan's ninety-five minute satire was written in 1779, when he was twenty-eight years old. It is interesting to contrast the two pieces, separated by two hundred years. The Critic is noticeably slower in its text but Sheila Hancock's direction ensures it doesn't flag. In the preliminary pillory of critics, Jonathan Hyde is excruciating as the sardonic Mr. Sneer,
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