Nov. 18 (Bloomberg) -- At the end of Alan Bennett’s new play, a character mentions all the “purgatorial and preposterous” works that have been performed at London’s National Theatre. Rarely can a grateful reviewer have been handed such a primed revolver to point back at an author.

“The Habit of Art” is about an imaginary meeting in 1972 between the poet W.H. Auden and the composer Benjamin Britten. In reality, their friendship ceased in the 1940s after a period of youthful collaboration. Bennett, the witty author of such successes as “The Madness of King George III” and “The History Boys,” imagines what these two might have said to each other about friendship, art and homosexuality if they had met in old age.

That’s not all. This meeting between Auden and Britten is presented as “Caliban’s Day,” a play within a play. This substandard work has been written by an arrogant young pup called Neil, and we watch it being rehearsed on a makeshift set in a large studio.

The actors forget lines and props. They ad lib, request background information, and step out of character to complain about their roles. They question the talent of the author.

I soon began to know how they felt. Bennett’s work flits between so many styles and tones that each seems to cancel out the other. Sometimes it’s a deconstruction of the playwriting process, for example. One of the inner-play characters -- a narrator who provides chunks of expository material -- protests to the author that he’s just “a device.”

Cheap Cake

For Bennett to provide background material in such a bald way and then put clever quote marks around it is like having his cake and eating it. And it feels like cheap cake at that.

Then the tone shifts gears to something more biographically serious when Auden taunts Britten about being in the closet, and Britten complains about Auden’s bullying. It’s impossible to care, though, after so many irony marks have built up a wall of theatrical detachment.

There are parodies of bad playwriting too. At one point, Auden’s furniture, impersonated with fey gestures by two stagehands, begins to talk in ridiculously flowery language. It was so amusing, I almost woke up.

In addition, there are moments of underpowered farce, bleeding chunks of poetry, snatches of Britten’s music, long monologues about art, privacy and fame. Three consecutive endings drag out the play into excruciating interminability.

Jabbering

Worst of all, nothing happens. There’s no crucial conflict. The emotional stakes are so low they could slide under a doormat. People just jabber away, and then it’s over.

Alex Jennings works hard to find some truth in his portrayal of Britten. He’s fastidious, detached, buttoned-up, and his work is the high point of a low evening. Richard Griffiths flounders as Auden, and fails to shape the long, oracular speeches his character is given. Nicholas Hytner’s direction looks makeshift and as unfocused as the material.

The supporting actors are good. Husky-voiced Frances de la Tour enjoys playing a seen-it-all stage manager who peppers her conversation with the word “darling” a lot. And Stephen Wight makes the most of being a chirpy rent boy whose theatrical nature is to represent the voice of working-class exclusion from art. He’s fine, though the role is as tiresome and fake as it sounds.

This is one piece of art that won’t be habit-forming. Rating: *.

“The Habit of Art” is in repertory at the National Theatre, London. For details, see http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk or call +44-020-7452-3000.

What the Stars Mean:
****      Excellent
***       Good
**        Average
*         Poor
(No stars)Worthless

(Warwick Thompson is a critic for Bloomberg News. Any opinions expressed are his own.)

To contact the writer on the story: Warwick Thompson, in London, at warwicktho@aol.com.

Last Updated: November 18, 2009 05:22 EST