Few things are more infuriating than being interrupted at dinner by a ghost. I say this not from experience – at least, not in the spectral sense – but because I’ve spent a good portion of my life watching Noël Coward’s Blithe Spirit with the growing suspicion that I, too, may one day be haunted by the unfinished conversations and resentments of former companions, romantic or otherwise. Coward simply got there first.
Blithe Spirit, penned in a miraculous five-day flurry during the Blitz (because why not summon the dead while actual bombs are falling), is one of those plays that wears a monocle over one eye and a smirk under the other. It is camp, yes. Witty, certainly. But beneath the feather-light touch is a satire so sharp it might as well be made of bone – specifically, the brittle rib bones of the English middle classes.
The plot, for those unfamiliar or merely forgetful, revolves around Charles Condomine, a novelist so full of himself he practically levitates. He invites the eccentric Madame Arcati to conduct a séance for entertainment, only to summon the ghost of his first wife, Elvira. She proceeds to haunt the living room and, more crucially, his second marriage. What follows is not so much a love triangle as a poltergeist sitcom penned by Freud and directed by Wilde.
A Haunting Comedy of Manners
Now, I’ve always thought that death, when treated too reverently, becomes something of a bore. Coward understood this instinctively. His ghosts don’t moan or rattle chains – they bicker. Elvira is less a tragic wraith than a mischievous ex with nothing better to do on the other side. She sashays through the drawing-room in gossamer gauze, offering commentary like a posthumous wine critic. One gets the impression she’d haunt a Waitrose if only to critique the cheese selection.
Ruth, the second wife, is the very model of pragmatic English womanhood – sharp, cold, and unflinchingly grounded. The only thing more terrifying than Elvira’s ghost is Ruth’s steely glare when Charles tries to wriggle out of responsibility. It’s this dynamic – two women, one man, and a medium with questionable ethics – that forms the spine of the play, a ghost story not about spooks but about ego, marriage, and the unbearable smugness of men who think they’re in control.
The Afterlife, According to Coward
Coward’s afterlife is, mercifully, not theological. There’s no heaven, no hell, not even a decent purgatory lounge. The dead just sort of hang about. It’s all frightfully middle-class. One can imagine Elvira sipping dry martinis in limbo, waiting for a social invitation. If anything, Coward’s vision of the spirit world feels more like a National Trust property: genteel, haunted, and difficult to escape.
But there’s something deeper lurking beneath the comedy – a kind of spiritual nihilism in silk gloves. Elvira and Ruth are both casualties of Charles’ narcissism, summoned and dismissed at his convenience. That they become literal ghosts seems merely symbolic of how women in his life have been made invisible all along. The haunting, in this case, is not supernatural – it’s psychological.
Arcati and the Id in a Hat
Then there’s Madame Arcati, perhaps my favourite character in all of Coward’s works. A bicycle-riding medium with the spiritual gravitas of a jam roly-poly, she’s at once a figure of ridicule and strange wisdom. Dismissed by the rationalists around her, she ends up being the most honest character in the play. Arcati channels not only ghosts, but the id itself – primitive, unconscious, cucumber-sandwich-consuming chaos.
Like all great clowns, she dances on the line between fool and prophet. When she mutters about vibrations and trance states, it’s easy to scoff. But in a world where reason has led only to war and deceit, perhaps the babbling mystic has something to teach us. Arcati is the kind of woman who talks to her furniture and probably wins. I aspire to her confidence.
A Ghost Story for the Age of Divorce
The brilliance of Blithe Spirit lies not in its plot, which is charming but flimsy – it’s in the psychological excavation beneath. This is a play about a man who cannot escape the consequences of his own charm. Charles, like many Coward protagonists, is the embodiment of the well-spoken cad: witty, elegant, utterly irresponsible. He collects wives like rare books, then leaves them on the shelf, unread and gathering resentment.
There’s something bitterly modern about that. Today’s hauntings arrive via text message or passive-aggressive social media posts, but the principle remains: our past loves linger, and not always silently. Ghosts, in Coward’s hands, are metaphors for regret, ego, and the things we thought we’d buried – but which come tapping at the French windows when the gin runs dry.
On Being Blithe, and Other Illusions
I’ve always found the title curious: Blithe Spirit. It suggests lightness, airiness, a kind of carefree existence. But as with all Coward’s works, the light masks the shadow. The ‘blithe spirit’ is not Elvira – it’s Charles himself, breezing through life without consequence. And the play is, in the end, a rather damning portrait of such blitheness.
By the final curtain, Charles is a man alone, haunted by the echoes of two women he never truly understood. It’s a cautionary tale, really – though wrapped so charmingly in silk robes and sharp dialogue that you barely notice the bones beneath.
Final Thoughts, from the Séance Table
If Shakespeare gave us ghosts as moral reckonings – Banquo with blood on his face, Hamlet’s dad with a grudge – then Coward gave us ghosts with pearls, martinis, and immaculate timing. And in doing so, he reminds us that the dead may not rest if they’ve still got something to say… or if the furniture hasn’t been properly dusted.
So here’s to Blithe Spirit – a comedy that laughs at death, marriage, and the smugness of men, all in one shimmering breath. It remains proof that even the most spectral of comedies can have real substance. And if I’m ever visited by a ghost, I hope she wears chiffon, critiques my wine, and tells me – just once – that I was right all along.
Though knowing my luck, she’ll be wearing tweed and carrying a clipboard.
Wording 