In-house review by Colin Smith

Before retirement, Colin Smith was a BBC Radio producer specialising in poetry and drama for schools. For BBC Worldwide he edited and co-produced Noel Coward - An Autobiography, which was voted Best Production in the Spoken Words Awards 2001.

In his autobiography Ruling Passions, Tom Driberg explains how he came to attend the Potsdam Conference as a British journalist, and records the incident from which Stephen Churchett's play Tom and Clem originates. "At Potsdam, in the hall in which press briefings were held, the Russians in accordance with their custom, had put up enormous portraits of Stalin, Churchill and Truman. I caused an incredulously derisive stir by asking whether a similar large portrait of Attlee was being prepared to replace Churchill's when the [1945] election result was announced."
From this engaging apercu, Churchett successfully develops a whole dramatic role for Driberg, drawing on his known, not to say notorious, career as journalist, radical Labour MP and homosexual adventurer, as recorded by Driberg himself and even more explicitly by his biographer (Tom Driberg - His Life and Indiscretions : Francis Wheen, 1990). The playwright fills in the immediate postwar background of the Conference of the Allies, no less than that of social changes on the Home Front. In so doing he presents us with an amusing, affectionate and largely accurate likeness of Clement Attlee, whose fastidious sensibilities and frugal habits were wildly at odds with Driberg's assured, colourful hedonism. Attlee lived at Missenden, whence his wife would drive him to the station in a small car, wholly unattended; earnest, responsible and emotionally reticent, his outside interests were crosswords and the current Test score (via the office teleprinter). Attlee's terseness - in itself a potential problem for a playwright - was legendary : once, harangued movingly and at some length by a minister who felt he had been overlooked in a reshuffle, he pulled at his pipe and uttered the verdict : "Just not up to the job, I'm afraid".
The inevitable incomprehension and clashes between two such characters as Attlee and Driberg presents a running sequence of enjoyable incidents, though occasionally the author oversteps the demands of public propriety then operating. There is a noteworthy comic misunderstanding involving language differences between fiery radical ex-docker Ernest Bevin and the po-faced Soviet top brass. Engaging as all this is, it would make a slim basis for an entire evening. However, the author adds weight by introducing two secondary characters involved in personal dilemmas of asylum and betrayal. We also hear, verbatim, Driberg's sense of outrage as he recalls being posted as a Parliamentary delegate to inspect the liberated Buchwenwald concentration camp. Here, his measured account stands beside Richard Dimbleby's radio report on Belsen.
Keith Hill's well rehearsed production had the advantage of an arresting opening: the splendidly atmospheric interior by Jude Chalk of the Cecilienhof Palace. Its compelling shape proposed an additional downstage window in ground plan, thrusting out into the audience - a feature capable of further exploitation in the characters' moves. Upstage through a mullioned window was heavy, lowering cloud suggestive of the oppressive atmosphere of those last war years, the 40-watt interior lighting and imminent power cuts being an accepted way of life - in spite of which Hilary Allen's lighting design ensured that no detail of facial expression was lacking. A steady opening tempo was welcome while the initial situation and characters unfolded, though as the first half developed it did seem to call for variety of tempo from incident to incident.
Paul Rutledge was perhaps not obvious casting for Tom Driberg, but he brought clear authority to the complex role, highlighting the character's radical idealism no less than his personal indulgences. Throughout a lengthy and demanding part he projected a man who, while critically self-aware, had largely come to terms with what he found there. Ian Recordon's contrasting portrait of Clement Attlee realised what was commendable to less than what was comical in his nature. Though necessarily more verbose than the Attlee of history, his precise manner and controlled emotion created the illusion. His speech about the need to accept and work with compromise was persuasively handled, and I found his unexpected "England, Arise!" emotionally compelling, for all its oddity.
These two principals were nicely complemented by two key secondary roles. As Kitty, Attlee's attaché, Emmeline Winterbotham gave an authentic picture of period speech and manners along with a sly humorous awareness. Later, she presented a chilling duplicity and intransigence in betraying Alexei, her Russian counterpart who was secretly seeking asylum. Here Stephen Brown combined easy naturalism with a convincing accent and (apparently) fluent Russian, while the chilling final moments as he realised his betrayal rang true.
So here we had a confident, accomplished production of a comparatively little-known and fascinating piece - doubly on target, and once again, deserving bigger audiences.