OF MICE AND MEN, PERTH THEATRE
BY MARK BROWN

John Steinbeck's novella Of Mice And Men (the title of which was inspired by Robert Burns's poem To A Mouse) is a classical tragedy; albeit one that finds its setting in the desperate conditions of casual agricultural workers in California during the Great Depression of the 1930s. There is drama inherent within the story of George Milton (intelligent, humanistic, yet hardened; somewhat like Steinbeck himself) and his travelling companion Lennie Small (who has profound learning disabilities, and is a childlike giant).

The book is full of symbolic premonitions and fateful events, and it came as no surprise that it was adapted for stage and screen within two years of publication. The close living of the labourers' bunkhouse and the boredom of a young woman (married to the boss's son) are a patently fatal combination. An agonisingly tragic conclusion could not have been more certain had the story been written by Euripides himself.

One of the most frustrating aspects in director Ian Grieve's workmanlike, but uneven, production is that he appears to conceive of the piece not as an inevitable tragedy, but, rather, as a thriller. Consequently, his staging owes more to the simplifications and emotional manipulations of Hollywood cinema than to the techniques of classical theatre.

Stuart Graham's music and sound, for instance, seem intended to generate a sense of tension and expectation where there is none. There are points where the sentimental cacophony is in danger of distracting audience and actors.

One yearns for a bit of Brechtian clear-mindedness as Lennie - ensnared by the economic realities and the desperate circumstances of his birth - stumbles towards his doom. But while Brecht's epic clarity would have been more profound, Grieve ladles on the pathos until the character is drowning in sentiment.

The great pity of this is that the production is blessed with some tremendous actors. Jimmy Chisholm (George), Liam Brennan (Lennie) and Neil McKinven (farm worker Slim) are top-class players, but their intelligent, nuanced performances seem to go against the grain of a production that prefers hyper-real, almost cartoonish, caricature.

The boldness of Gareth Thomas's cackling old man, Candy, and Tom McGovern's jealous boss's son, Curley, are more in keeping with the tone of the presentation. To his credit, John Macaulay - who plays the physically disabled black worker Crooks (the subject of casual, unthinking racism) - gives a fine, sophisticated performance which transcends the insidious "house negro" stereotype.

The ultra-naturalism extends to the set design and, even, the casting of a real dog on stage. In fairness, Robin Peoples' bunkhouse set is wonderfully detailed. However, the overblown realism of his forest (at the beginning and the end) verges on the risible; not least when a stagehand is visible pushing a clump of bushes onto the stage.

The less said about the dog (character name Old Dog real name Seamus O'Reilly) the better. When will theatre directors realise that putting a real mutt on stage in Scotland is fatal? At the first sign of a four-legged friend, the dog lovers start cooing over the creature, leading to disruption. Heaven help anyone who actually wants to hear the play.

The production does hold the attention; partly through some fine acting, partly through the raw, primal power of the story. What the piece lacks is the pull of Steinbeck's prose. Once again, one watches a novel adapted to the stage, and yearns to see a real play instead.

Runs until February 16