‘Humphrey: ‘If the right people don’t have power, do you know what happens? The wrong people get it. Politicians. Councillors. Ordinary voters.’
Bernard: ‘But aren’t they supposed to, in a democracy?’
Humphrey: ‘This is a British democracy, Bernard!’

― Yes, Prime Minister (1988)

A Labour government that doesn’t know where it stands; a populace increasingly wearied from the status quo; a firebrand ready to swoop in from the right and tear up everything we thought we knew. In This House, the Callaghan government of the 1970s faces many of the same uncertainties that characterise British politics 50 years later. However, while the foibles and frailties of Westminster are played out onstage to great effect, James Graham’s real triumph comes in what he leaves unsaid about the last knockings of Old Labour.

The plot is ambitious from the outset. Deputy Chief Whip Walter Harrison (Reece Dinsdale) and his Labour colleagues are tasked with pushing through the government agenda in spite of their parliamentary minority, and the Tory whips have to oppose them. Despite the seemingly simple premise, the arcane, uncodified conventions of British political life generate a remarkable amount of tension. This is helped by Graham’s subversion of the typical perspective on politics. Instead of guiding the course of events, party leaders and Cabinet ministers are no more than pawns for the parliamentary whips, who must maintain cohesion within and between parties at all costs. 

At the very heart of the action is the informal practice of ‘pairing’ – an agreement between the two major parties dictating that ill or absent members from one side are made up for by voluntary absences on the other during any given vote. At the very end of the first act, the Opposition refuses to grant pairs, only relenting when a Labour MP suffers a fatal heart attack mid-speech – the line “Nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster” turning from a hoary politician’s in-joke to a cry of outrage. Even after that, the casualty list nearly lengthens. ‘Doc’ Broughton (Christopher Godwin), dying of bronchitis, has to be talked out of coming down from Yorkshire for the climactic no-confidence vote – and it’s his absence that ultimately forces Labour out of office, after they lose the vote by one.

Perhaps the most incredible thing about this desperation is its basis in fact. John Stonehouse (Andrew Havill) really did fake his own suicide while a sitting MP; Walter Harrison, trapped in the door while entering a committee room, indeed proved decisive in a vote won 22 and ¾ for to 22 against; future Conservative luminary Michael Heseltine (Mathew Pidgeon) did famously swing Parliament’s ceremonial mace at the government benches over a defeat on the Aircraft and Shipbuilding Industries Bill. Integrating all these episodes into one coherent narrative still seems a considerable task for any playwright – but Graham, who has since won two Olivier Awards, is equal to it.

All these individual political skirmishes are set against the backdrop of the collapsing post-war consensus, a period of agreement between the major parties on key social and economic issues. On stage, the growing party divisions are personified by Humphrey Atkins (Julian Wadham), Conservative Chief Whip, and his prophecy that “We are not built for cooperation.”

Of course, it’s not all so smooth. Graham leans heavily into old stereotypes for comedy value: Stuck-up, aristocratic Tories trading barbs with uncouth Labourites, vowel sounds a greater sign of party division than policies. Old hat as it is, though, the script is witty enough to carry the day, in combination with some inventive staging. The warm lighting and sparse set take the audience inside the whips’ offices, and the live band – a pleasant surprise – offers period- and plot-appropriate covers from David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust album, lending this particular production a slightly surreal element.

The key figure driving this drama, though, is barely even mentioned. Margaret Thatcher’s name only appears at the very end of the play, in a pre-taped radio broadcast; before then, she remains ‘the Lady’, or ‘the Member for Finchley’. After all, she was never supposed to be that close to power – not in the 1975 party leadership contest, where nobody gave her a chance, and “not in her lifetime”, as she said so memorably in a 1973 interview.  In the play as in reality, she begins as a non-entity and ends up an almost totemic figure. 

Her eleven years in power marked the longest tenure of the century. Social conservatism, private industry and a focus on public order replaced the status quo of permissiveness, government spending and workers’ rights – 25 years of convention undone at a stroke. Throughout the play, Harrison and Atkins both prove themselves to be skilled political operators, but even these old stagers are taken by surprise at the new Conservative vision.

Graham’s refusal to identify Thatcher is more than a dramatic conceit, it’s a portent of doom. Her predecessor Ted Heath is referred to by name – Thatcher isn’t, because she doesn’t have to be. For anyone of a similar background to Graham, the scars are still there. A cursory look at male suicide rates in former mining areas, or unemployment figures in those areas left to ‘managed decline’, provides a clear enough picture. It says everything about Thatcherism’s impact on the country that 40 years after the end of the miners’ strike, Graham’s play can build its entire tension around her without saying her name.

James Graham’s This House premiered at the National Theatre from 2012-13, directed by Jeremy Herrin. This performance is available online for a fee.

The play as propaganda has a long history. From the regime-affirming productions of Hieron, tyrant King of Syracuse, to Lucy Prebble’s play The Effect, we can understand that theatre has consistently been used throughout history to promote ideologies and propound beliefs. In the case of Hieron, he was attempting to promote cultural unity over conquered peoples. Prebble, somewhat less tyrannically, aimed to provoke thought over medical ethics. However, from these examples a question immediately arises: What exactly defines a play as a piece of propaganda?

The term propaganda often evokes connotations of tyrannical government, press censorship and blatant political messaging. These ideas are clearly represented in some works focused on specific regimes. For example, after Mao’s revolution many propagandist plays were performed, such as The White-Haired Girl, which criticised exploitative landlord classes, and Dragon Beard Ditch in which communists save the characters from neglectful and corrupt government officials. However, this kind of propaganda was rarely effective. The idealisation of the communist government was immediately recognised as just that, an idealisation, unrelated to and unappreciative of the real problems people faced. 

The actual definition of propaganda according to Oxford Languages is ‘information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote a political cause or point of view’. This definition complicates matters somewhat. Take Nazi Germany’s emphasis on staging the German ‘greats’. Repeat performances of Kleist’s Prince of Homberg, Beethoven’s Egmont and Mozart’s Don Giovanni filled stages across the Third Reich. However, these plays and operas are not in themselves ‘biased’ or ‘misleading’ nor do they promote the Nazi ‘political cause’. Could the case therefore be made that this was not propaganda? Probably, but perhaps not very well. The key lies in the term ‘repeat’. The constant staging of the classics of German theatre, and only German theatre, meant there was an emphasis being placed on the ‘greatness’ and ‘superiority’ of German culture throughout history. The frequency of these performances was the Nazis’ attempt to prove the truth of their Aryan ideology and consequently it amounted  to propaganda. Similarly, in Fascist Italy plays tended not to be overtly propagandist. Instead, theatre generally emphasised classical Roman themes as a way of demonstrating the greatness of Italian culture and previous Roman imperial ambition. It is noticeable both the Nazi and Fascist regimes did not use overtly propagandist plays to support their message. Rather the careful selection of plays which promoted patriotic sentiments and the context in which they were performed led to a more subtle political manipulation, encouraging citizens to buy into the political ideology of the governments.  

We have seen how plays can be overtly propagandist and contextually propagandist. However, plays can also be shaped and re-interpreted to support certain political messages. In Laurence Olivier’s 1944 adaptation of Henry V, Olivier cut key scenes from the play such as the beheading of Richard of Conisburgh, Henry Scrope and Sir Thomas Grey; Henry’s threat to rape Harfleur; and the massacre of French prisoners at Agincourt. Each of these scenes cast doubt upon Henry’s honour and nobility, which Olivier did not wish his performance, dedicated to ’the Commandos and Airborne Troops of Great Britain’, to reflect. Instead, Olivier stuck to a portrayal of Henry as noble, virtuous and valorous, idealising the warrior and supporting the war effort. Plays, therefore, can be manipulated by interpretation to hint at certain messages, messages which their authors may never have intended.

Returning once more to the original definition of propaganda, it is interesting that there is no reference to government. Could it therefore be argued that individual playwrights produce propaganda plays, supporting their own political beliefs? Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, ostensibly about the 1692 Salem witch hunt, is in fact a stunning indictment of the McCarthy trials. This fits within the definition of the propaganda play. Miller presents his own political views through the allegory of the Salem Witch trials in a biased light, never considering alternative views about the Second Red Scare. But why was this propaganda play successful, when so many other overtly political plays failed? One reason is its allegorical nature. The political messages aren’t being shouted in the audience’s face. For a play to be effective propaganda the audience members cannot be saying “oh another propaganda play”, there needs to be subtlety. However, perhaps the main reason, the reason which makes all successful propaganda plays, is that the play tapped into the ongoing fears and anxieties surrounding the McCarthy trials. It voiced concerns which people felt but were too afraid to express. The play not only allowed audiences to feel connected to the thoughts and ideas of the characters on stage, but also to each other. 

Theatre and propaganda have gone hand in hand for millennia, although with varying degrees of success. The most successful propaganda plays are both subtle and relatable. They must reflect ongoing anxieties and problems faced by their community, creating a shared sense of “yes, I feel that too” across the audience. When used in this way, plays have the power to inspire people, showing them they’re not alone in their beliefs and empowering them to stand up and fight.