A Haunted
Lighthouse Against the Winds of War
In the 1938 Munich Agreement, wherein Great
Britain, France, and Italy ratified Nazi
Germany’s annexation of the Sudetenland,
playwright Robert Ardrey read the certainty of a
coming war. Passionate about rousing his
complacent countrymen, he conceived a stirring
ghost story, Thunder Rock. In the
play, a cynical observer of a broken world in
1939 takes solace in the company of sentimental
phantoms from what he thinks is a more hopeful
age. But gradually, the frustrations with the
resignations and retreats embodied by these
spirits drive him to cast off such ashen comfort
and embrace the challenge of a world that needs
his participation.
The Group Theater, recognizing the play’s
inspired urgency, brought Thunder Rock to
life on Broadway in November of 1939, under the
direction of 30-year-old Elia Kazan. But,
perhaps because a period of relative calm in
Europe had convinced many an isolationist that
fears of European war were overblown, the play
closed after 23 performances.
Beacon of
Hope
Meanwhile, across the ocean where the threat of
war was known to be very real indeed, Ardrey’s
agent had secured a British production, with
Michael Redgrave in the central role.
Opening in June of 1940, just days after the
fall of Paris, Thunder Rock was one of
only two plays running in a London whose
theaters had shuttered for the duration. Critic
Harold Hobson lauded the inspiration he found in
the play, drawing a comparison to nothing less
than Winston Churchill’s “We Shall Fight on the
Beaches” address to Parliament:
“though
inevitably on a much smaller scale, one night
in June 1940, simultaneously with the collapse
of France, inspiration of the same quality was
to be found in the tiny Neighbourhood Theatre
in Notting Hill Gate. It came from a play
written by an American, and played by British
actors. Its name was Thunder Rock.”
Churchill himself called the play
“the greatest contribution to British morale
there has yet been” and arranged for the British
treasury to support a transfer to the far more
prominent Globe Theatre in the West End. The
play ran through the Blitz, survived a bombing
raid that destroyed the theater next door, and
toured the UK with Alec Guinness in the lead.
Rising from the
Rubble
Following the war, the play found a new life in,
of all places, Berlin. One of the first
two productions in the defeated city, it was
staged by American forces in their occupied
zone. Patrons were obliged to walk over rubble
to attend the premiere, where they were met by a
set built from that same rubble, taken from the
street. Post-war Berlin’s reception equaled that
of pre-war London’s. In Ardrey’s own words:
“The curtain rose on
the interior of the lighthouse. And just as it
had happened in besieged, isolated London over
five long years before, an unaccountable
emotion gripped an audience in Berlin. Behind
the gowns, behind the white ties, lived a
people sheltering an equivalent despair.”
Subsequent productions played in over
40 cities through Germany, and one opened in
Vienna within six weeks of V-E Day. Since
then, the play found life in such diverse places
as Norway and Australia; in Harare, Zimbabwe; in
Alexandria, Egypt; and in Nairobi, Kenya.
Thunder Rock also found life in other
media: a 1940 BBC radio broadcast featuring the
original cast; a film adaptation in 1942,
starring Michael Redgrave and James Mason; and a
BBC Television adaptation by Peter Simms,
starring Robert Sansom, in 1946.
Clear and Present Theater
New York has seen occasional revivals of Thunder
Rock, but it has never seemed more
poignant than 2020, 80 years after its London
triumph.
The immigrant characters of the play itself
sound unexpected echoes in our own time.
Ardrey's ghosts of 1849--immigrants seeking
opportunities in America that are closed to them
in Europe--include a defeated British
suffragist, despairing of hope that women will
ever find respect, let alone equality, in a
world run by men. Her doubts seem too apt in
today's continued and more complicated struggles
for gender equality. Likewise, an Austrian
doctor on the brink of developing anesthesia is
hounded from his home by a suspicious
establishment that is more invested in retaining
power than the embracing scientific discovery.
In our day when science must defend its progress
against climate deniers and flat earthers, his
dilemma is disturbingly familiar. And an
uneducated worker's family, risking their and
their unborn child's lives for an uncertain
chance of an education and wealth in a new land,
stand for many braving our increasingly
unwelcoming borders.
If the circumstance of the play's characters
find their parallels today, so does the
circumstance of the play's creation. The
divisions, both abroad and at home, that
inspired Robert Ardrey’s admission of despair
and his valiant assertion of hope, stalk us
today like the ghosts that haunt Thunder Rock's
lighthouse. We may well wonder if we are
on the brink of another catastrophe. We grapple
with forces of nationalist isolationism pitted
against an inexorably shrinking globe. We feel
the same helplessness in a world increasingly
straining against itself.
Metropolitan Playhouse is devoted to embracing
the perspective of those visions from the past
that can help us see our present more
clearly. All the more apt that the theater
should present Thunder Rock, for the
very perspective that Thunder Rock
offers its tormented protagonist is insight
gained by comparing the present with the
past. In his isolated reckoning with
humankind’s failures, he appreciates the
progress made since the era of his defeated
phantoms. It is a small step, then, for him to
conceive of a future whose achievement is
unimaginable from the point of view of the
present. Much has changed in the world
since 1939; our global oppositions and fearsome
technologies make even the battles of that era
appear almost quaint—but that was exactly
Ardrey’s message in 1939. In our very blinkered
frustration, we may find hope.

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