Five British soldiers are posted at a 40 mm. gun battery in Germany in 1954. David Warner is in charge. He's supposed to be sent to officer's candidate school in England the next day. Nicole Williamson is a mad Irishman who seems to hate everybody, himself most of all, and who kills himself on guard duty to foil Warner's transfer.
It wasn't so much boring as it was relentlessly nasty. Warner aside -- he tries to keep calm and reasonable because his promotion depends on it -- the four men are constantly nettling each other and they gang up on Warner because he represent authority. The air is filled with sneers and insults. One man gets punched in his most sensitive parts.
The performances are good, given the thinness of the material, and Williamson is memorable as the manic depressive who can't stop trying to destroy everything around him. But Williamson is always good at playing maniacs. His Sherlock Holmes was a deranged cocaine addict. His MacBeth was a panting nervous wreck. That's about all he has on his instrument.
I found it exhausting and depressing. It's as if the writer, McGrath, had figured out the beginning and the end of his play and then had to fill in the space between. There isn't any wit in the dialog and little suspense.
Williamson falls on his bayonet at the stroke of midnight, his thirtieth birthday, with chimes ringing in the background.
Why?
It wasn't so much boring as it was relentlessly nasty. Warner aside -- he tries to keep calm and reasonable because his promotion depends on it -- the four men are constantly nettling each other and they gang up on Warner because he represent authority. The air is filled with sneers and insults. One man gets punched in his most sensitive parts.
The performances are good, given the thinness of the material, and Williamson is memorable as the manic depressive who can't stop trying to destroy everything around him. But Williamson is always good at playing maniacs. His Sherlock Holmes was a deranged cocaine addict. His MacBeth was a panting nervous wreck. That's about all he has on his instrument.
I found it exhausting and depressing. It's as if the writer, McGrath, had figured out the beginning and the end of his play and then had to fill in the space between. There isn't any wit in the dialog and little suspense.
Williamson falls on his bayonet at the stroke of midnight, his thirtieth birthday, with chimes ringing in the background.
Why?