t e l e v i s i o n f o o t n o t e

 

"An Englishman Abroad"

 

BAFTA Best Actor Award, 1983 for Bates
13 other international awards for this superb drama by Alan Bennett

Review Guy Burgess - a tragicomedy by Arthur Unger The Christian Science Monitor October 29, 1984. About 25 years ago, a drunken Englishman stumbled into Coral Browne's dressing room in the Moscow theater where she was playing Gertrude in the Old Vic production of "Hamlet." He threw up in her sink, stole her soap and her cigarettes, then proceeded to groom himself with her powder. Later she discovered he was the diplomat-traitor Guy Burgess. When he invited her to his "pigsty" of an apartment for lunch, she learned that he wanted her to take his measurements so that she could visit his tailor in London and order him new clothes. This true encounter has been turned into an hour of sparkling tragicomedy presented by "Great Performances": It is the first-ever cable/PBS joint premiere. Guy Burgess, as played with impeccable eccentricity by Alan Bates, is a pitiful yet amusing character, overflowing with the quixotic idiosyncrasies of his class, his type. Miss Browne's encounters with British Embassy personnel (she plays herself brilliantly) are almost as devastating as her meeting with Burgess in his slovenly apartment. She finds him charming but sad and lets him know she pities him in no uncertain terms. There is some very explicit language in this drama, but it is used with pithy precision. Written by Alan Bennett, directed by John Schlesinger, this BBC Television production is tautly crafted yet still poignant in a chin-up British kind of way. To the ironic strains of Gilbert & Sullivan's "He remains an Englishman," the final scene sums up the dilemma of an exceedingly improper Englishman, determined to remain English at any cost. This is a unique exploration of the private world of a public distrace - the awful truth told with cold perception mixed with warm humor and sensitivity. copyright The Christian Science Monitor, 1984 Read Alan Bates's tribute to Coral Browne, from her memorial service, here.

 

The mirror crack'd from side to side...

This is the poem that Guy Burgess was reciting as Coral Browne climbed the
stairs to his flat, in An Englishman Abroad. The part we hear is highlighted.

The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson   On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road run by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. Only reapers, reaping early, In among the beared barley Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly; Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy The Lady of Shalott."   There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care heat she, The Lady of Shalott.   And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal Knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.   But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.   His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.   She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining. Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And around about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.   And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance - With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.   Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.   Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame, And around the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.   Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot; But Lancelot mused a little space He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."

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