Kevin Saving



Under Milk Wood: An Appreciation, Sixty Years On



The fourteenth of May, 2013, will mark the sixtieth anniversary of the Dylan Thomas 'Play For Voices'' first public performance -at least in something close to its currently accepted form- in The Poetry Center, New York. Legend has the writer being locked in a room by one of the center's staff, his sometime lover Liz Reitell, in order to complete the work on time. The final scripts were handed to the performers as they applied their make-up, prior to 'going on'. Although initially received in silence, this debut performance was eventually honoured by fourteen curtain calls: the audience hadn't quite grasped, early on, just what they were getting. Thomas, who left the venue alone, would readily agree to the provision of a fully revised script but, of course, he never lived to finalise it -dying of alcoholic overindulgence (and medical incompetence) less than six months later.


There is a recording still in existence of this theatrical debut, with Thomas himself taking the part of 'First Voice' (or narrator) -a role later made his own by the young Richard Burton, who knew the writer but seems not much to have liked him. The classic (1954) BBC 'Third Programme' version is thoroughly improved through this (necessary) substitution. Thomas was always inclined to 'ham' things up: he would habitually greet his fellow poet, the 'Overseas Literary Producer' (and future cricket broadcaster) John Arlott, by inquiring if he (Arlott) wanted someone to 'Boom' for him. Thomas -contrary to myth- affected a somewhat plumy English accent for his radio work. He would call Under Milk Wood 'prose with blood pressure'.


The origins of the play are, similarly, shrouded in Thomasian mythology. Old school friends would later remember him mentioning a similar project way back in the thirties. (One, Daniel Jones, would go on to 'set' the songs to music). More persuasively, Thomas recounted having been inspired by the basic idea whilst living in his bungalow, 'Majoda', close to the Cardiganshire town of New Quay in 1944. He wrote an account of this in 'Quite Early One Morning' (recorded for BBC Wales that December). To start with, he felt that that town should be depicted as 'mad'.


New Quay and Laugharne (pronounced 'Larn') vie for their laurels as the prototypes for the small welsh fishing village, Llareggub ('bugger all' spelt backwards). One 'Rosie Probert' was a previous inhabitant of Laugharne, but 'Cherry Owen' was fairly definitively based on the New Quay builder, Dan 'Cherry' Jones. Whether the 'Sailor's Arms' was really  'Brown's Hotel' no one, now, can ever truly know.


In early versions of the script, Llareggub was spelt 'Llaregyb'. Thomas certainly sailed pretty close to the wind in those far-off, prudish fifties. Captain Cat muses to his dead lover, Rosie


The only sea I saw was the see-saw sea, with you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy -let me shipwreck in your thighs.


The warring couple, Mr and Mrs Pugh, are two of the great comic creations. She, a


needling, stalactite hag and bed-nag of a poker-backed, nutcracker wife;


he, with his


nicotine, egg-yellow, weeping walrus victorian moustache worn thick and long in memory of Dr Crippen.


And, always, there is the poetry. Whether it is the lush, punning, compound-adjectival 'impasto' of the prologue, lisping


down to the slow, black, sloe-black, crow-black fishing boat bobbing sea


or the observational incongruence of


The owls are hunting. Look: over Bathesda gravestones one hoots and swoops and catches a mouse by 'Hannah Rees, beloved Wife'.


Just as in The Canterbury Tales, all humanity is here -if you care to listen for it. Under Milk Wood is as fully achieved as anything by Shakespeare: as timeless, as great and much, much funnier. All that prevented Thomas from reaching comparable heights of sustained grandeur was a chronic personal indiscipline. He is known to have lost/misplaced the play's manuscript on at least three occasions.


You don't need Mrs Dai Bread II's chrystal ball to project how, if Dylan Thomas had lived, the sixties and seventies would have loved him; how their burgeoning t.v. culture would have have quickly recognised a 'natural' performer. And Oh how he would have enjoyed hob-nobbing with 'The Beatles' and 'The Stones' (and another 'Dylan', too) before, most probably, stealing their shirts. Certain aspects of his humour (P.C. Attila Rees peeing into his helmet, for example) prefigure the anti-authoritarian, surrealist comedy of the Monty Python era. Would we have seen more works of similar stature? This appears unlikely: by the end, Thomas had run out of ideas almost as completely as he had run out of time. Under Milk Wood -alongside perhaps a handful of lucid poems- will remain his masterpiece. Both rib-tickling (and sad), sagacious (and sexy), affectionate (and affecting) it will long survive its author. Happy birthday, sweet buggeralL.





Kevin Saving © 2013