War Horse, and: Stovepipe (review)

Ten years into the conflicts in Afghanistan and Iraq, it is not surprising that some playwrights have their minds on war. Unfortunately, giving war its due has been historically difficult for the stage; there are only a few plays (most readers will be able to name them quickly) that render the terrors of combat and the ignominy of warfare with anything approaching the intensity of the best films on the subject. Frequently, the more warlike a stage production wants to be, the more filmic it is apt to become, as is the case with two recent productions in London, although in all other respects they differed greatly.

The phenomenally successful War Horse, based on Michael Morpurgo’s children’s book by the same name, had two separate runs on the National Theatre’s Olivier stage, starting in 2007, and continues

The cast of War Horse. (Photo: Simon Annand.)

to play to sold-out houses in the West End. In October 2009, even their Royal Majesties attended a performance, the highest imprimatur of mainstream theatrical entertainments. War Horse certainly has marshaled elements that ensure popular appeal: a boy (real), his horse (not real), grand spectacle, a thrilling quest, stirring music, and a rousing ending that—depending on your tolerance for such matters—is either a deeply satisfying denouement or sentimental claptrap.

The story concerns Joey, a young mount who, against the wishes of his owner, sixteen-year-old Devonshire farm-boy Albert, is recruited into the British cavalry at the outset of the First World War and sent to France. Although too young for combat, Albert boldly enlists to go in search of his horse. Several scenes later, Joey has fallen into the hands of a German captain and Albert has become a lance corporal. When a tank kills the German, Joey wanders alone through no man’s land until he is spotted by both British and German troops. The British win him in a wager and return with him to camp. Meanwhile, tear gas has temporarily blinded Albert, and when fate—or predictable plotting—brings horse and rider together in the same location, Joey recognizes him by his voice. The war ends, and they return to the farm, scathed but triumphant.

Adding narrative complexity are Albert’s strained relationship with his stern, alcoholic father, a young French girl’s protective love for Joey, and the German captain’s inner turmoil over his decision to desert. To the writers’ credit, they resist the easy depiction of the English characters as entirely heroic and the Germans primarily as snarling Huns (still a prevalent trope of British pop culture). Still, the play, told in rapid scenes that strip down the more expansive original material to emblematic vignettes, cannot quite deny its derivation from juvenile literature, in which the moral compass clearly divides those who love animals (good) and those who don’t (bad). War is shown to be a monstrous occasion that maims and kills, and is evoked here with consummate theatrical skill—at one point, a full-sized tank burst onto the stage of the Olivier like some demonic juggernaut—but it is more akin to a natural catastrophe that is objectionable mainly because it keeps boys and their horses apart.

War Horse had its equine heart in the right place and I was predisposed to like it, but to pursue the tale of a wayward horse for the better part of three hours was a test even to the indulgent theatrical attention. What made it largely worthwhile was not the human cast; with their salt-of-the-earth ruggedness and their hammy Devonshire accents,

The cast of War Horse. (Photo: Simon Annand.)

they represented mostly folkloric conceits. In a theatre that has in my experience upheld a high standard...