I was curiously disengaged by the current Broadway revival of the 1995 play, Skylight, by David Hare. The political symbolism rang as clear as a bell, but the emotions evaded me. Skylight concerns the reunion of a wealthy businessman, Tom Sergeant (Bill Nighy) and his former mistress, the principled, but penurious pedagogue, Kyra Hollis (Carey Mulligan). They were an ideal team once: the upper class (him) and the lower class (her) conspiring against the middle class (his wife). Now, he's a widower and they have no use for each other.
No ultimate use, that is. Tom may want the sex - and, perhaps, even the affection - he once had with Kyra and she would appreciate the standard of living to which he helped her become accustomed, but neither will compromise to get it. You might say they've grown apart, but the truth is that she has grown after he split them apart. (Their idyll ended when Tom betrayed Kyra by indirectly informing his wife about them.) He has, since then, gone on to even greater success as a restaurateur. While she has forged a career as a teacher who works - and lives - in the slums of London. Any rapprochement, though, is bound to be short-lived because Tom resolutely clings to his status and privileges
(think England under Margaret Thatcher) and
shows undisguised contempt for Kyra's liberal sympathies. They can't even return to their previous roles because who would they gang up on? The poor? That would make Kyra middle class - something neither wants.
Swept, as they are, by confused alarms of struggle and flight, why do Tom and Kyra continue to clash by night? Her appeal is obvious: she's intelligent, spirited and - dowdy as she appears - looks like Carey Mulligan. His appeal is a good deal more dubious. One the one hand, he's vigorous, intelligent, self-possessed and - as embodied by Bill Nighy - tall. On the other, he's completely lacking in character. He couldn't be more of an empty suit if he was Clause Rains prancing as "The Invisible Man." It doesn't matter if the suit is by Anderson and Sheppard, Tom Sergeant is a monster of entitlement and treats Kra Hollis as if she were a balky appliance. How much, though, does that matter? How much of their relationship is predetermined - by class or their history together - and how much is controlled by them?
I watched the entire play - carefully - and I still don't know. Whatever emotions draw them together aren't as powerful as the tastes and opinions that drive them apart. Oh, there's hunger here, but not for connection - it's for power. If the director, Stephen Daldry,
knows what mysterious force bins them, he's not letting on. Nor does the initial scene between Kyra and Tom's grown son, Edward (Matthew Beard), shed any light.
It may be useful here for me to admit a certain handicap. I find sometimes that British people speak with a self-effacing harrumph that swallows a lot of information before it reaches the American ear. A crucial impediment when - as in any play that has one set and two characters - the dialogue takes on great importance. Most of the audience, however, responded heartily. They even laughed.
I wasn't moved to either tears or laughter. I wish I was.
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