David Hare describes his latest play Gethsemane, which opened on 11th November at the National Theatre, as "pure fiction." Nonetheless, it features Alec Beasley, a Labour prime minister responsible for the absence of social progress at home and the prosecution of a disastrous war abroad; Otto Fallon, a party fundraiser with a background in pop music; and Meredith Guest, a cabinet minister whose husband has been accused of shady financial transactions. Yet, if the purity of Hare's fiction is open to doubt, Gethsemane aspires to be more than glib Blair bashing; at the play's conclusion, he outlines some ways that Westminster in particular, and politics in general, might become less detached from the people.
"Politics in a work of literature," wrote the 19th-century French thinker Stendhal, "is like a pistol shot in the middle of a concert, something loud and vulgar, and yet a thing too which it is not possible to refuse one's attention." Yes, all literature is "political" insofar as it discusses power. But fiction about how actual politicians use power is surprisingly rare; artists tend to focus on the elevated private sphere of relationships, identity and the oh-so-troubled self. As a result, contemporary Westminster fiction is usually second rank work produced by third rank politicians: a battle to the bottom between Jeffrey Archer and Edwina Currie, with the saving grace of Michael Dobbs thrown in. New Labour's place in this pantheon, meanwhile, bounces between low comedy and high conspiracy. ITV's Confessions of a Diary Secretary (2007) provided the unedifying spectacle of a felating, Sid James-like John Prescott, while Robert Harris's novel The Ghost had the Blairesque lead character supporting the Iraq war largely because his wife was a CIA agent. Serious art, this is not.
Hare, therefore, stands alone as a critically-regarded playwright interrogating politics with serious intent. Gethsemane is the third such play, after he dealt with privatisation in The Permanent Way (2003) and the Iraq war in Stuff Happens (2004). Early reports said Gethsemane would focus on a minister's offer to divorce her embattled husband, so she might remain in office—a clear nod to Tessa Jowell's 2006 separation from David Mills, after accusations of tax fraud. But these reports were either incorrect, or Hare changed his mind.
As staged, Meredith Guest (the home secretary) decides to stick by her man. And in any case, this is a distraction from the central story of Guest's relationship with her 16-year-old daughter, Suzette, and in turn Suzette's bond with Lori Drysdale, a former music teacher. And, despite much anticipation of further railings against New Labour from Hare, neither the Lord Levy nor the Blair doppelganger get much attention, merely contributing to Meredith and Lori's own pain when their personal Gethsemanies finally arrive.
Hare still makes clear his opinions on Blair's last days. At one point, a newspaper columnist declares to Meredith's adviser: "Something's wrong. We all know that. Something's deeply wrong. I can't say if your government is the symptom or if it's the fucking problem. Whichever it is, it's ugly." Lori's husband similarly announces: "There's a general sense of weirdness—wars which last forever and are going nowhere, and policies which are nothing but rhetoric, just rhetoric—they bear no relation to the facts."
Hare, then, is no Blairite. But it is the calm Otto Fallon, facilitating the prime minister's donor meetings, who most embodies this weirdness. Hare doesn't see the donors as corrupt per se. But the objective puzzles him: financing a party with no ultimate ideology. As Fallon says at one point: "There's only one question worth asking. What works? What will work? That's the only question. And whatever works—then, right, that's what you must do." Prime Minister Beasley is similarly uninterested in the substance of politics. Power for both men is all means, no end. They are ideologues without an ideology.
Such criticisms are banally familiar to an attentive Today programme listener. Hare, though, seems content to represent Guardian readers' disenchantment, keeping enough anti-Blair barbs to keep the audience laughing with self-satisfied knowingness. That Gethsemane is more than a few easy hits at New Labour's expense is thanks largely to the three female characters, who embody what passes for hope.
Meredith Guest is the only fully realised character: a "make a difference" idealist who still believes in the system, despite being overworked and harried by the Daily Mail. The pressures of office begin to affect her home and public life. But, even though her husband is possibly playing fast and loose with the law, Meredith remains honest. Ignorant of Fallon's attempt to stop the press reporting her daughter's drug habit, her Gethsemane comes when she resists pressure to abandon her husband, discovering a "curious kind of freedom" through the realisation that, whatever politicians do, the press will always hate them.
Lori Drysdale, meanwhile, is a former teacher, driven from her profession by form-filling and targets. Married to one of Fallon's aides, she articulates an audience-friendly rejection of politics. But she has an empathy with her pupils, a bond with Suzette, and is consequently called in to help when the drug taking comes to light. It's a shame that Suzette herself is little more than a cipher, having gone off the rails when her mother put her in a posh private school. Lori thinks children like Suzette are not as cynical and apolitical as their parents believe. Ultimately, it is Suzette who reminds Lori of the true meaning of Gethsemane: not to give up in the face of doubt, but to soldier on despite them.
The play ends on an uncertain note. Hare doesn't tell us how Meredith uses her new freedom, if Lori returns to teaching, or if Suzette pulls herself together. But he seems guardedly optimistic. Through Meredith's redemption he gives a surprisingly sympathetic account of a politician under pressure—a good person battling public mistrust and press cynicism. Perhaps, Hare suggests, we might understand our politicians a bit more, and condemn them a bit less. But they should treat people as adults. If they did, they might just find that the kids are alright.
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