Those seeking a gently witty, old-fashioned entertainment will be delighted by this stately revival of Dodie Smith’s portrait of a family from 1938. Four generations gather in a gaslit rural home to celebrate the golden wedding anniversary of formidable Dora (Lindsay Duncan) and solid, supportive Charles (Malcolm Sinclair) – leisurely, luxurious roles that fit these actors like chamois gloves.
Loss, age, and thwarted or budding romances surface through the Randolph clan’s default air of warm exasperation, but there’s not much plot. The tone and pace of the play are monotonous and Smith’s wit is feather-light rather than stiletto-sharp. Though Emily Burns’s production is impeccably cast and handsomely mounted it rarely provokes more than a a wry smile. Especially when a home that can accommodate ten adults and four children, plus a servant, nanny and a lady’s companion, is described as “ordinary”.
That’s sort of the point. Dora and Charles lost their elder son in the First World War, and one of four daughters in unspecified circumstances in Singapore. The cosy existence they’ve preserved for their grandchildren and first great-grandchild will soon be upended by another war, which Smith clearly saw coming. They’re already moving slowly with the times: Dora realises love trumps morality when it comes to daughter Cynthia, who’s stayed away for seven years out of shame.
The Randolphs are not perfect, or perfectly happy. Dora is catty to Belle, her widowed sister-in-law and sometime rival for Charles: another daughter, successful estate agent Hilda, has what we’d now call OCD; surviving son Nicholas is an oafish ad-man, blind to the adoration of Dora’s helpmeet Fenny (a superbly diffident Bessie Carter). All are acutely aware of passing time.
Although everyone argues, the keynote of the acting is understatement, and Frankie Bradshaw’s set and costumes duly feature muted pastel shades. The lighting, too, is soft, ostensibly from log fires and gas lamps. The play passes agreeably enough and it’s a joy to watch Duncan draw out the delicate acidity of Dora, but also her goodness. And to see Sinclair’s Charles, so used to shaping himself to his wife’s will, actually slot himself into a niche by the piano when she’s in full flight.
There is a reason, though, that Dodie Smith is chiefly remembered for her novel I Capture the Castle and a certain story about a lot of Dalmatians, rather than for her eight interwar stage comedies. Dear Octopus was the most successful of these but despite the merits of Burn’s revival, it feels incurably quaint and dated now.
National Theatre, to 27 March; nationaltheatre.org.uk
