Hollywood star Julian Sands gets to the heart of some of the great playwright’s lesser known poetry in a one-man show, writes Lorne Jackson.
Poetry is a subjective business.
One man’s ode is another man’s odious. And while the admirer of Keats will delight in the splendours of a Grecian urn, a casual browser of Romantic lyrics may conclude it’s merely a jam jar with pretensions.
Then there’s my attitude towards the poetry of Harold Pinter.
I’ve always enjoyed the Nobel Laureate’s plays, with their blustering blend of sinister characterisation and simmering dialogue.
But the other stuff?
Well, to be honest, his verse always seemed a bit daft. A few years ago, while perusing the poetry section of a local book store, I came across this little ‘gem’, where Pinter celebrates a famous English cricketer: ‘I saw Len Hutton, in his prime. Another time. Another time.’
And that’s it folks. The poem in its entire majestic splendour.
Was Mr HP taking the P?
At the time, I had no idea, or inclination to find out. Though perhaps that was about to change, when I got the chance to meet Hollywood movie star, Julian Sands. Sands – who came to pubic prominence in Merchant Ivory’s A Room With A View – is currently starring in a one man show, A Celebration Of Harold Pinter, which focuses on the author’s poetry.
The act visits Coventry’s Belgrade later this month, though I decided to catch an early gig, during the first leg of the tour in Edinburgh.
When I arrived in the Scottish capital, the Fringe Festival was in the prime of its pomp, with hundreds of theatrical extravaganzas wafting their peacock plumage in one square mile.
Even with all this competition, Sands’ show, which is directed by John Malkovich, was proving hugely popular.
To see it, I stood in a queue as long and unwieldy as a boa constrictor. (Though this being an Edinburgh queue, it was an exceedingly polite and gracious boa constrictor).
The man behind me in the line, who looked like the actor, Art Malik, turned out to be the actor, Art Malik. Everyone turns out to be who they seem to be at festival time.
And that includes Sands, who strode onto the stage like a Sting for the chattering classes. All sharp edges and bristling blond bits.
With no hint of introduction, he started to perform – and what a performance!
In a Pinterish black suit, he seemed to channel the personality of the playwright. Not quite a pin point precise impersonation, though not far off, either
Then he sleekly slipped out of character to share witty anecdotes about the author of the poems, who Sands knew quite well towards the end of his life.
It’s a stellar act. One that just about changed my opinion about Pinter the versifier – no mean feat.
Sands even made me (almost) appreciate the pinched poem about Len Hutton, which he recited, though also gently mocked, by sharing a comic tale about its less than enthusiastic response from an early reader.
(I won’t relate the story here. See Sands for more info.)
The performance is pitch and Pinter perfect, and Sands on stage is smooth, warm, amusing and urbane.
Though downstairs in the theatre bar, where we meet after the show, he is more brittle and twitchy. Also slighter than he appears treading the boards. Six foot, perhaps. Though only on tippy-toes.
I ask how warm was his friendship with Pinter, who died in 2008.
