THE APOLLO OF BELLAC
Essentially plotless, this famous one-act “antiplay” parodies the pointless lives of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, two respectable middle-class London suburbanites with a definite fondness for wayward logic: “A conscientious doctor must die with his patient.” On the night of the play, the Smiths entertain their friends, the Martins (who have either dropped in unannounced or are four hours late to dinner). The Martins have a few quirks of their own, the most unusual being their habit of behaving as if they hardly know each other.
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“Excuse me, Madam,” Mr. Martin asks his wife meekly, as soon as they’re comfortably seated in the Smiths’ living room, “but it seems to me . . . that I’ve met you somewhere before.” “I, too, sir,” Mrs. Martin replies shyly. “It seems to me that I’ve met you somewhere before.” They compare notes and to their mutual astonishment discover that not only are they both from Manchester originally, and both live in the same apartment building in London, but they also happen to sleep in the same room in the same bed. “It is perhaps there that we have met!” Mr. Martin boldly declares. To which Mrs. Martin can only reply, “It is indeed possible. . . . But I do not recall it, dear sir!”
Thankfully, for the most part the show moves at quite a nice pace. If anything, it ended much too soon. If there had been a second performance of The Bald Soprano that evening, I would have stayed for it–Martins and all.
Perhaps Giraudoux’ quiet wit is too gentle for a generation raised on absurdity. Perhaps the play can never quite overcome its patronizing message to women. Yet even this production gives off hints of the wit and charm and dignified humanism for which Jean Giraudoux is famous. Maybe, one day, with the right cast, and the right direction, The Apollo of Bellac will seem almost as funny as The Bald Soprano.
