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"A love affair pulled apart at the roots"

This may well be a risky declaration to make in January, but I wager that — come next December — The York Realist will rate as one of the finest productions of 2002. Written and staged by veteran Peter Gill in the Royal Court's main house (for the English Touring Theatre Company), this new memory play is set in a traditional tithe cottage in the Dales. As the farm labourer, George (Lloyd Owen), washes himself over a butler sink and his devoted mother (Anne Reid) hangs his towel to dry over her coal-burning range, you might suppose you're back in DH Lawrence's era.

However, she talks of mod cons and George's nervous guest, John (Richard Coyle), sports a leather jacket. It's the early Sixties and he's a young assistant director up from London, working on a community production of the York Mystery Cycle (attributed to the anonymous medieval realist of Gill's title). John is keen to persuade George back to rehearsals, not solely for professional reasons. And George, though bluff, is discernibly smitten by him (and not Doreen, his prim, would-be wife from down the lane). As time passes, an undying ardour welds these men together although their roots look set to pull them apart.
Obviously this isn't the sort of raw, cutting-edge fare most commonly associated with the Court. Indeed, Gill pointedly embraces old-fashioned elements from theatrical history. Yet in so doing, he produces an exquisitely crafted drama that actually cleverly ties-in with the Court's long-term blend of the vintage and the new.

As a love story, The York Realist is riveting and heart-rending, performed with fine-tuned naturalism that's quiet and unhurried. Gill is always terrifically perceptive about male tenderness — as evidenced in his previous pieces, Certain Young Men and Cardiff East. Here, the men's hesitant passion is full of telling details — as John, for example, unconsciously fiddles with the airing towel then jolts back in embarrassment, as if George is wearing it. This is also a domestic comedy that satirises rustic ways and cosmopolitan superciliousness. What's great is Gill's ensemble manages to be funny while steering clear of potential caricatures, moving instead towards complex emotions and surprising mores. My only real cavil is that the closing speech — suddenly quoting from the Mysteries — feels strained. Overall, the personal and political are subtly united in a study of English masculinity, class and culture. Such outstanding work makes one eager to see the Peter Gill retrospective season, scheduled for late spring at the Sheffield Crucible.