Noel Coward's "Design for Living" - now in revival by the
Shakespeare Theatre Company - shocked audiences when it premiered
on Broadway in 1933. It's not hard to see why.
The play, about a polyandrous relationship between two men and a
woman, makes no apologies for its liberationist view of sex and
relationships and could hardly be more direct in its sympathetic
presentation of gay attachment. "Design for Living" was considered
so risque that Coward had to wait until 1939 before staging a
production in London for fear of offending British censors.
Seen today, the play shocks, but for an altogether different
reason: Its message is so outdated that it's bewildering why any
theater would put it on except for its curatorial interest as a
period artifact.
The story begins in a dilapidated Paris garret shared by Otto, a
painter, and his lover Gilda, a sprightly, if aimless young
interior designer who proudly expresses her view that marriage, at
least for her, is "repellent." She wishes she could believe "in
God, the Daily Mailand Mother India" but instead leads a life of
carefree bohemianism and free love. Gilda, you see, isn't just in
love with Otto. She's also in love with Leo, a wandering playwright
who has just returned to Paris. This isn't a typical love triangle,
however, in that Leo also is in love with Otto, and Otto is in love
with them both. Together, they are waging a "private offensive
against the moral code," in the words of a 1933 Time magazine cover
story about Coward. The upholder of this code is Ernest Friedman, a
stately and punctilious art dealer who faults Gilda for leading a
"dreadfully untidy" life. (His first name isn't incidental.)
The trio's fragile harmony is upset by the unexpected and early
return of Leo, who shares "an unpremeditated roll in the hay" with
Gilda. Otto becomes distraught and furious when he discovers this
infidelity, and the betrayers express what appears to be sincere
guilt about "cheating" on him. Otto storms off, while Gilda follows
Leo to London, where he soon becomes a very successful playwright
and the toast of the town. (The play is loosely autobiographical;
Coward had a similar, though nonsexual, relationship with the
husband-and-wife acting team of Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne, and
the three performed together in the play's Broadway debut).
What makes "Design for Living" even more defiant of prewar
social mores of its time is that the characters do not view their
domestic arrangements as anything of which to be ashamed; to the
contrary, it is society's expectations that they deem immoral. "I
shouldn't feel cozy married!" Gilda tells Leo when he
half-seriously proposes that they elope, if only to make gliding
along the London society circuit less awkward. "It would upset my
moral principles." Leo, for his part, confesses that there's "no
use making any of us toe the line for long" when confronted with
the prospect of matrimony.
This all made for very interesting stuff in the 1930s and could
accurately be said to characterize a certain gay sensibility of the
era. Decades before a concept like same-sex marriage was in the
consciousness of gays, it was understandable that gay artists would
mock the sort of conventional social arrangements that were closed
off to them (unless, of course, they sublimated their nature).
Indeed, those rare gays who sought to "couple" were mocked for
"playing at" traditional heterosexual life, not just by straights
but by their fellow "inverts."
Much of the "Design" protagonists' dialogue can be read as
inchoate yet by now dated arguments for tolerance of homosexuality;
Otto defends the threesome as immoral "only when measured up
against other people's standards" and speaks of seeking "our own
solutions for our own peculiar moral problems." In a line that the
latter-day gay rights movement could borrow without alteration from
Coward's script, Otto admonishes Gilda for worrying about societal
disapproval by stating that their lives are "none of their
business, we aren't doing any harm to anybody else."
The three lead characters were curiosities in the 1930s, so rare
was the openly bisexual or gay person, never mind the proudly
polyamorous. Today, however, they just come across as
self-obsessed, vain and cruel.
"Design for Living" premiered in an era when traditional ideas
about sex and the role of women in society were being challenged,
and the play's notoriety almost surely had something to do with the
audience's vicarious envy of the characters' ability to break free
of oppressive conventions. In the ensuing 70-plus years, however,
America has witnessed the wages of free love, and we've decided
they're not pretty. The play's controversy is obsolete; there
really is no serious constituency these days arguing for the virtue
of non-monogamous relationships. And as much as gays have been
cultural iconoclasts, it's difficult to imagine a leading gay
playwright of Coward's artistic stature today endorsing the sort of
message presented in "Design for Living."
Indeed, I don't think I'm speaking out of turn in my presumption
that "Design for Living" would stick in the craw of most gays
today. Its unsubtle conflation of polyandry and homosexuality as
"lifestyles" equally deserving of social approval is the very sort
of "slippery slope" argument proffered by religious conservatives
to which gay marriage proponents so strenuously object.
The play is not as antiquated as art deco, swing dancing and
other artifacts of the 1930s. It even might have served as a
socially relevant statement in the 1960s, during the American
cultural revolution, and as late as the 1970s or early 1980s, the
age of gay liberation, when activists argued that frequent (and
anonymous) sex with multiple partners was more than just a civil
right; it was a fundamental part of being gay. AIDS made hash of
that viewpoint, as did the general ideological maturation of a
community that, while still fighting for equal rights, has earned a
societal tolerance that neither Coward nor any gay person of his
time ever could have imagined.
I suspect that today's more enlightened understanding of
homosexuality as something wholly natural to the human experience
and unthreatening to society had something to do with the
audience's confused response to the play's fundamental moral
darkness. This reaction was most apparent during the final scene,
when Gilda must decide between her two young lovers and Ernest,
whom she has married and with whom she has decamped to New York. In
a sputtering and pathetic spectacle, Ernest condemns the play's
putative heroes and their uninhibited ways, yelling that he "could
never understand this disgusting three-sided erotic hotchpotch."
Red in the face, he farcically trips on a stack of recently
acquired paintings as he stomps furiously out of the room.
Until this point in the production, it isn't entirely clear
which side in this fundamental dispute Coward will endorse. But by
the end of the play, his ambition is obvious: a rejection of
monogamy as a societal ideal in favor of whatever floats one's
individual boat. As Ernest storms off the stage spewing invective
like machine-gun fire, Leo, Otto and Gilda lie erotically curled
over one another on the couch in a fit of hysterics, and we're
meant to laugh with them in this victory of independence and
bohemianism over bourgeois constrictions. But the audience at the
performance I attended viewed this triumph with bewildered silence,
and I have no reason to believe its reaction was in any way
unique.
In times like these, with commentators of all political stripes
bemoaning the divorce rate and speaking of out-of-wedlock birth
rates with alarm, and when gays are fighting for the right to marry
and join the nation's armed forces, as opposed to pursuing lives of
sexual abandon, it is the studiously old-fashioned Ernest with whom
we naturally sympathize, not the egotistical and emotionally
frivolous Bright Young Things, no matter how glamorous and
sophisticated they may seem. Here, an inverted adaptation of Marx's
observation about the repetition of history makes sense: What's
intended as farce winds up as tragedy.