The Pitmen Painters
Written by Lee Hall
Directed by BJ Jones
At TimeLine Theatre in Chicago
A review by M. D. Ball of the performance on Nov. 6, 2011
The best plays keep their messages at least one level below the surface. No one likes being preached to, least of all when banality is detectable, but nearly everyone responds warmly to a cautionary tale, a parable, or an allegory -- even if it's aggravating -- that presents itself humbly but confidently. If sanctimony, pedantry, or pontification is present, then defenses go up: arms cross, brows furl, eyes roll, and resentment rises. This play, The Pitmen Painters, came very close to stirring that reaction within me, but saved itself through characters whose collective sincerity not only softened the sermonizing but also exemplified the very reason that condescension is so objectionable.
In short, this play tells the real story of a small cohort of coal miners in 1930s Northumberland who, under the auspices of the Workers' Educational Association, take a class in art appreciation. Soon they're arguing about the meaning of art. And going beyond theory, they take up the paintbrush themselves and together become a sensation in the world of avant-garde art, rubbing elbows with collectors and patrons, all the while continuing to work down in the mines. For about 50 years, they meet weekly in a wooden hut to share and discuss with each other what they've painted. Meanwhile, their debate expands -- exactly as one would hope -- into other questions that impinge on their lives: capitalism, socialism, individuality, community, talent, celebrity, aspiration, disappointment, naivete, sophistication, genuineness, hypocrisy, and so forth. The play is almost an embarrassment of philosophical riches.
Among innumerable others, this play confirms Shakespeare's abiding right to gloat with a smug "I told you so". Identifying the surface themes in this play is too easy: the meaning of art, the appeal of socialism, the pretentiousness in high culture, the compromise of principles, and so forth. These questions do make for meaningful conversation, of course, but they feel flat against their corollary issues bubbling right below them, issues that, by virtue of their greater psychological immediacy, are more engaging. The characters themselves struggle with these issues right before our eyes, with some of them going so far as to offer answers. How does one face a personally cataclysmic decision? How should one react to condescension or patronization? What price loyalty to one's friends? What does it mean to acknowledge the truth about oneself? Or, more to the point, what does it mean to be true to oneself, especially when charged with talent but trapped by circumstance? And on that very point, Painters could be interpreted as another in a long line of echoes, old and tired, of Polonius' very first warning to Laertes about being true to himself. But this play gets the message across more smartly than that. It distinguishes the truth of a platitude from its delivery, by both being a platitude and delivering it.
In the United States, there's currently a resurgence of interest in the philosophical system of Ayn Rand, called "Objectivism", which teaches that man, being an end unto himself, should neither sacrifice himself to others, nor others to himself. This particular tenet of her system leapt to mind as I watched the story of the pitmen unfold, a story in which self-interest and sacrifice loom large. Oliver Kilbourn is a miner who proves to be aggressively thoughtful about art and the changes it's bringing to his life and increasingly aware of his own wants and fears, all the while trying to reconcile opportunity from a potential patron with loyalty to his comrades. In this important role, Dan Waller showed us what really happens as diffidence gradually yields to wordliness, and knowledge supplants ignorance, including the excitement and discomfort the process of self-discovery entails. But Waller's Oliver retained his basic simplicity even as his sophistication matured, giving a touching credibility to his struggle, especially between his inveterate humility and his growing self-confidence. The cogency that burgeoned within Oliver did not overthrow his profound practicality, but did give him a new perspective on his own ideals and prejudices.
The most endearing character in this production was fashioned by Steven Pringle in the role of miner Jimmy Floyd. He was unembellished genuineness in a single person, a man who was quicker to listen and learn than he was to speak and teach. To me, his mien early on was that of a mentally slow man with a good heart, a mistaken impression that crumbled when he revealed his first untraditional painting at one of the pitmen's weekly meetings -- a "blob", as his colleagues called it. In the story, that blob sets a new course for the group, a shift in the philosophical, cultural, and psychological direction these pitmen painters would take. In effect, Jimmy's blob is the pivot point of this play. Pringle seemed to understand this by bringing out the interesting paradox in Jimmy's personality, by which I mean his self-presentation as a simple man whose knowledge base is substantial and whose reason is sharp. I kept asking myself whether Jimmy's interpersonal strategy -- if he had one at all -- was to mislead people into dismissing him as a simpleton so he could politely stun them later into reconsidering their own assumptions. Here, in the hands of this well-seasoned actor, was a wise man uncorrupted by having recognized his own wisdom.
In the pitmen's tutor, Robert Lyon, this play has a foil. And the foil is difficult to like because he represents the darker side of the bourgeoisie's high-art culture that the pitmen themselves are confronting. Lyon is an ambitious academic who's playing the game of career advancement, but who, to his credit, knows he's playing the game and isn't altogether proud of himself. Furthermore, he wants to be an artist himself, but his desire has too little leverage over his mediocrity. Lyon's resulting frustration, which is palpable, brings his genuine love of art into sharp focus for us, clarifying him as a pragmatic man with a noble passion, but a man who nevertheless isn't above exploitation. Andrew Carter played the role in such a way that my dislike of Lyon at the beginning gradually lightened up as he came to terms with his own reality over the passing years. In his pursuit of recognition, Carter's Lyon was an effective foil for the miners, especially with that hint of desperation that made him pitiable.
Like this play, Rand's novels are homiletic. But unlike this play, the novels oversimplify their characters and make it absurdly easy to identify each one with some question, that is, some element of Objectivism. Despite the weighty issues Rand raises, which are interesting and important, her characters are barely more than one-dimensional. Painters, apart from its preachiness, is a respectable play with multidimensional characters whose lives deliver the meaningful sermons. In fact, the explicit debate is dull. Answers to questions are all the standard ones: predictable, unproductive, and superficial, answers that we have heard many times before. The implicit debate, however, the one that unfolds within the characters' lives, suggests answers that have depth and breadth -- and impact.