London Journal: From the Engine Room to the Dacha

Johan Persson Charles Edwards in “The House” at the National Theater in London.

It was with a leaden sense of duty that I dragged myself - through a stinging snowfall, no less - to the National Theater the other night to see “This House” by James Graham. What lay before me was nearly three hours of re-enactments of life in the House of Commons four decades ago. What did I know from Parliamentary politics, especially from the 1970s

My heart sank a bit more when I opened my program to find a two-page glossary with terms like “the ceremonial mace,” “wrecking amendment” and (oh, my prophetic soul) “nodding through.” I have never been the kind of guy whose idea of rollicking un was a night spent with C-Span.

Apparently, though, there are plenty of people in London who are just that kind. Tickets were unobtainable for “This House” during its earlier run at the smaller Cottesloe Theater at the National. And it has been selling out fast now that it has transferred to the larger Olivier. Even on the snowy, glacially cold night I was there, you couldn’t see an empty seat.

Well, sometimes the people are right. Directed by Jeremy Herrin with the kind of rat-a-tat, dialogue-slinging energy associated with Howard Hawks movies, “This House” turns out to be one of the most purely entertaining productions in London. And if you’re near a cinema screening it as part of the National Theater Live broadcast series on May 16, by all means, go. Buy popcorn, too. Really, it’s that kind of show.

Now for the tricky part, wherein I explain to you what “This House” is about. For starters, its l! eading characters are the whips of the Tory and Labor parties - that is, vote wranglers who try to herd their members into the semblance of a united front. “This House” deals with the inordinate difficulty of those jobs from 1974 to 1979, when majority votes on anything (including who should be prime minister) were tenuously slim. Labor was in power during those years, but only just.

Achieving consensus became an arduous process of begging, borrowing and (arguably) stealing. The results sometimes led to behavior on the floor suited to a “Boys Behaving Badly”-type reality show. Remember that ceremonial mace It winds up being used quite memorably, as a potential weapon of mass destruction.

So, you may say, that sounds pretty much like what happens in Congress all the time, except for that mace. Why should I watch foreigners of some 30 years ago do the same thing, except with different accents (It’s true that only the Tories, with their received pronunciation, may be entirely comprehensibe to uninitiated American ears.)

The presence of a ceremonial mace and its kindred totems make a difference, though. This is a governing body ruled not by a constitution but by ceremony and, you should pardon the phrase, gentleman’s agreement. And the wily bending and flexing of unwritten rules, while accommodating centuries-old ritual, turns out to be great spectator sport.

So do the absurd lengths to which whips go to ensure that their party members appear on the floor to vote. Some are brought in on their death beds, or drunk, or toting newborns or, in one case, by deadline-beating helicopter.

This is all quite suspenseful, even if you don’t always understand the exact nature of the bills at stake. I imagine, though, that most audience members will at least catch references to the increasingly long shadow cast by a rising (and never seen) Tory described as “the lady” and “the grocer’s daughter.” (Yes, that would be Margaret Thatcher.)

The show percolates with ! some of t! he same insider’s knowledge of backroom â€" or engine room, as they call it here - goings-on that made “Game Change” a best-seller in the States. Never mind that Mr. Graham, who was born in 1982, wasn’t alive when the events in “This House” occurred. That’s what history books are for.

The large ensemble is as lively as a pot of Mexican jumping beans. And unlike the divided squabblers they portray, these performers achieve a fine synchronicity, especially in their musical numbers. That’s right, a House of Commons that, on occasion, sings and dances. How can you resist

Paul Coltas Heather Headley in “The Bodyguard” at the Adelphi Theater in London.

Folks also sing and dance in “The Bodyguard,” at the Adelphi Theater. That is to be expected, since this is a musical about a singer. And what a singer she is. Playing the role of a pop goddess created by Whitney Houston in the 1992 movie on which this show is based, Heather Headley gives great diva.

Ms. Headley, who won (and deserved) a Tony as the title character in Disney’s “Aida,” scores another personal triumph as the celebrity in jeopardy in Alexander Dinelaris’s lumpy adaptation of Lawrence Kasdan’s original screenplay. As the superstar Rachel Marron, Ms. Headley is a carefully modulated, fire-and-ice blend of professional extroversion and personal guard! edness.

In addition to being the requisite raving beauty, as Ms. Houston was, she’s a far more nuanced actress than her predecessor. I won’t say Ms. Headley is a better singer, since I have no bodyguard of my own. But she makes Top 40 standards â€" including, but of course, “I Will Always Love You” - sound brand-new, with a voice that twists notes into unexpected, shimmering shapes.

Unfortunately, the real diamond that is Ms. Headley has been set in a ring out of a Cracker Jack box. Directed by the reputable Thea Sharrock, “The Bodyguard” is a what-the-heck mélange of by-the-numbers dialogue, jukebox songs, square-frame staging, video projections and choreography (by Arthur Pita) that would have seemed old-hat in the early days of MTV.

The plot has been brought into the present and rejiggered to expand the roles of Rachel’s competitive sister (Debbie Kurup, who sings well if more conventionally than Ms. Headley) and Rachel’s personal psycho-stalker (poor Mark Letheren, whom the audence boos at the curtain call; it’s that kind of show).

Lloyd Owen is a hoot as the studly title character, a figure of such wooden stoicism that he makes Kevin Costner, who played the part on screen, look as emotive as Liza Minnelli. His character is also so incompetent, with that stalker sneaking in everywhere, you wonder why Rachel keeps him on. Oh, is that why Never mind.

Manuel Harlan Tamsin Greig and Natasha Little in “Longing” at the Hampstead Theater.

More subliminal currents of sexual attraction animate “Longing,” an adaptation of two Chekhov stories at the Hampstead Theat! er. The a! dapter is no less than William Boyd, the estimable and popular novelist (“Restless,” “Any Human Heart”), in his first outing as a playwright.

It’s an honorable debut. Set on a Russian country estate that has fallen into disrepair (sound familiar), “Longing” is built sturdily around the Chekhovian staples of thwarted love, lost illusions and passing, hope-stunting time. Unlike Chekhov’s own, ineffably organic comic dramas, Mr. Boyd’s version wears its themes a shade too visibly. It’s for people who are usually somewhat baffled by Chekhov.

The show has been directed with clarity and elegance by the playwright Nina Raine (“Tribes”), and it features lovely performances by Iain Glen as a vacillating, unwitting heartbreaker from Moscow and by Tamsin Greig and Eve Ponsonby as rivals, of sorts, for his affections.

Unlike Rachel in “The Bodyguard,” which I saw on the same day as “Longing,” these women are not the sort to break out into “I Will Always Love You” whn the mood strikes. But you can imagine some muted Slavic variation on that song playing quietly in their heads for as long as they live.

Or I can imagine that, anyway. Such speculative mash-ups happen during a couple of weeks of non-stop theatergoing.