At last, it’s reached the West End. Lee Hall’s hit play, The Pitmen Painters, tells the heartening tale of some talented Geordie colliers who won national acclaim as artists during the 1930s. Hall, who wrote Billy Elliot, has done extremely well from a pretty limited set of dramatic techniques. He draws each of his coal miners from a couple of opposed attributes: youthful but jobless; single-minded but foolish; erudite but insensitive; unhealthy but idealistic. His dialogue consists of gentle interrogations and nothing else. It’s like a cop show for kids. Every scene involves a misunderstanding — caused by ignorance, stubbornness or some cultural confusion — which has to be resolved by characters cross-examining each other. Once the conundrum has been explained, another one pops up. Very repetitive. The script is sprinkled with innocuous chumminess so the drama has lots of charm, of course, but absolutely no emotional weight.
When Hall looks for real passion all he can find is Marxist dogma and class prejudice. His world outlook is as complex as a Harry Enfield sketch. The poor are loyal, articulate and indomitably brave. The rich are aloof, pansyish, a bit thick but desperately keen to help. One of the aristocratic birds in this play has two of the silliest ‘posh’ lines I’ve ever heard. She meets the local pitmen and says to one, ‘You mean you’ve actually been underground? How awful!’ Later she tells her favourite miner, ‘You can’t help being working class.’
The play’s central action concerns an opportunity offered to this trusty pitman (played by the wonderfully lugubrious Trevor Fox) to abandon the mines and become a painter on better wages. Rather than jump at the chance he launches into an embarrassing rant about class-pride and class-loathing.
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