[In the following review, Clurman derides the acting in the 1961 New York production of Becket and asserts that the play is “intellectually (as well as historically) skimpy; of true religious sentiment there is barely a trace, and its morality is without real commitment.”]

Readers may have noticed that I frequently omit discussion or appraisal of actors from my notices. In view of my belief that acting is the crucial ingredient of the theatre as theatre, my failure to comment on the acting of many of the plays I see must seem peculiar.

The reason for this contradiction is that in most productions the acting is reasonably competent rather than creative. The actors—usually chosen because they physically approximate the characters the dramatist may have had in mind and because they have formerly proved some ability—illustrate the play acceptably, lend it body. In these circumstances the play presents the actors instead of the actors making the play.

It is not always the actors' fault that they commonly serve chiefly as attractive mouthpieces and models for the dramatist's text. The conditions of theatrical production on Broadway and in the commercial theatre generally are not conducive to creation. The director—even when he is an artist—also is burdened by limitations which make it difficult for him to lead the actor toward creative goals.

There can be little pleasure or gain to the reader of a review to be told that an actor is “O.K.” or “will do”—which is how one feels about most performances. Nor does it serve any purpose to make the actor bear the brunt of sharp criticism when he is an actor of middling stamp, chosen for the wrong reasons, directed by a harassed gentleman who is required to deliver a “smash” within three and a half weeks for an audience with few considered standards.

We may learn something about acting, and the critic may usefully spend time discussing it, when the performance is very fine or when a splendid actor fails to act well. This latter is the case of Laurence Olivier as Henry II in Anouilh's Becket (Hudson Theatre).

In the first place, the return engagement of this play is something to be studied. Despite a generally enthusiastic press and more or less packed houses, the original (New York) production—with Anthony Quinn as Henry II and Olivier as Becket—lost an estimated $100,000. Olivier generously undertook to do the play on the road to help the producer recoup some of his losses. The actor would also have the opportunity to play Henry, the more colorful of the two leading roles. On the road the show did enormous business; Sir Laurence won great acclaim. The second batch of notices in New York have been ecstatic and the three-week engagement is a sell-out.

The first thing which must strike the most casual eye is that the production now seems shopworn: even the scenery looks shabby. The original director, Peter Glenville, could not have supervised the present proceedings—or if he did, he must have been listless or powerless. I suspect that a stage manager was nominally in charge while the star “arranged” his own interpretation.

Arrangement is the proper word, because Olivier's Henry is a congeries of characteristics or playing points rather than a unified portrayal. Leaving aside the harsh fact that Olivier may be too old for the role—the play is in some measure the story of two young comrades—Olivier has no conception of Henry as a person because he sees him only as a fat part, a series of acting opportunities. Because he is brilliantly endowed, because he speaks beautifully, moves beautifully and has a thorough command of the stage, Olivier enacts some of the part's “moments” with impressive power; but, for lack of direction or thought, he enacts them without much finesse. Here he is coy, there he is fierce, now he is devilish, again he is hysterical. None of these turns are genuine (they are often transparent tricks) because they are not related to a center of meaning.

Anouilh's Henry is a naive, healthy, natural, instinctive “peasant” with the capacity to grow in understanding. He loves Becket in whom he beholds the perfection of his own best qualities—a high liver with the education and sophistication of an intelligent and disciplined worldling. Henry's personality is deeply rooted in what we think of as normal. He is innocently and savagely sensuous, he is trusting though wary, he is not at all stupid, he is curious and he is brave. He wants to rule and despite the impediments of his average selfishness he will become a man of considerable stature. There is no element of caricature in him, for all Anouilh's temptation in the direction of buffoonery, and when he cries out in anger, frustration or pain, his agony is never that of a neurotic.

From all this Olivier selects the elements of the most conventional comedy and outbursts of emotion (indicated through bold muscular violence and neurasthenic outcries copied from previously praised performances), all of them irrelevant to the composition and intent of the whole play. The result may make the groundlings applaud but must “make the judicious grieve.”

I shall say little of Arthur Kennedy's Becket. He is a sensitive actor, but has had scant preparation (or careful guidance) for this part. His long soliloquy proves how little effect sincerity alone can have in such a play without careful training in simple dramatic reading.

As to the play itself, now that I have seen it three times (once in Paris), I cannot agree with those who maintain that it is one of Anouilh's best plays. It has many of Anouilh's virtues, as well as some of his worst faults: the Roman scene between Pope and Cardinal is atrociously vulgar.

Those who are respectful of the play on intellectual, moral or religious grounds are fooling themselves. It is intellectually (as well as historically) skimpy; of true religious sentiment there is barely a trace, and its morality is without real commitment. Instead of speaking of the “honor of God,” Anouilh might more fittingly have spoken of the honor of one's job. Becket, as Chancellor, had defended Henry (that is what the head of a state is supposed to do); so, as Archbishop, Becket fights for the Church (or God) against the state, since that is what is demanded of a prince of the Church. If the play espouses a precept it is: stand for some principle. Perhaps even this is helpful at a time when no principles beyond success and self-interest seem to obtain.