rise and shine
by Douglas Messserli
Tennessee Williams The Glass Menagerie / this production
premiered March 24, 2010 at the Laura Pels Theatre, New York / the performance
I saw of this production was on October 17, 2010 at the Mark Taper Forum, Los
Angeles
Although Williams' wondrous The Glass Menagerie is a seemingly
simple play, it is one of the most difficult to perform because it depends
almost entirely upon the actors' interpretations and, most particularly, on
tone. If the characters, particularly the dominant mother, Amanda, are too
harsh we lose much of the author's comedy; I agree with Frank Dwyer's statement
in the theater program, that Williams is a comic writer. Yet Amanda cannot be
simply a comic figure or the audience will not be able to comprehend her son
Tom's desperation and his final act of leaving his mother and sister to fend
for themselves.
Laura must be shy, almost invisible, yet be able to stir up one's
sympathy and even love. Finally, the right balance between these three figures
is extraordinarily difficult to attain, a problem I perceived as early as 1966
when I saw a production—also proclaimed as a comic portrayal—at the Milwaukee
Repertory Theatre.
After a successful run in New Haven at the Long Wharf Theater and rave
reviews from New York critics for its performances at Roundabout's Laura Pels
Theatre, I looked forward to its reincarnation in Los Angeles. Judith Ivey's
Amanda Wingfield had been described as a performance of a lifetime, and few, if
any, critics found fault with the whole.
Tom is at best a dreamer, at worst a slacker, a man, who like his
father, is soon to desert her. Laura is nearly agoraphobic, so shy that she can
hardly communicate; accordingly, there no hope that she can ever land a husband
or a job. As Tom repeats throughout the play, she does nothing but play old
records and care for her little glass treasures, made up mostly of small
animals which her mother describes as her "glass menagerie."
It is a miracle, accordingly, that despite the fact that
things—including her children—have a "way of turning out so badly,"
that Amanda meets each day with the humor she does. Ivey captures both her determination
and her almost girlish delight in living with a great gusto. If you cannot
exactly call her performance naturalistic or even natural—the continual
dropping of words at the end of sentences and long pauses in those same
sentences often make her art feel affected—we nonetheless believe her acting, and we come to comprehend the
woman behind.
Yet this play is far from a perfect rendition of Williams' great art. In
my estimation several aspects of director Gordon Edelstein's production take
the work in a wrong direction from the very first instant of the play. Whereas
most of the action of Williams' reading version of his work occurs in the
Wingfield house, Edelstein begins it in a hotel room where Tom, now a budding
young writer, attempts to type out the play's first passages. We recognize the
autobiographical details in Williams' published version of the play, but by
exaggerating these, by insisting that what we are witnessing what was written
by Tom, he moves the play away from its dream-like quality and puts it into the
mundane world of script writing. In the published version of the play, Tom is
dressed in this first scene as a Merchant Seaman, not as an aspiring author.
The fusing of the hotel room and a livable house, moreover, distracts from what
I see as the focal point of the play, family life.
At the same time, Edelstein and set designer Michael Yeargan have
abandoned Williams' suggestion for a screen or scrim on which words and images
appear, announcing each scene, which parallels Tom's nightly activity of
attending the movies, and further takes us into the delusional world of the
Wingfields. The screen also adds another dimension of humor to the play.
Having determined that Tom is
a young Tennessee, actor Patch Darragh, as if channeling Williams, twangs away
in high southern, slightly effeminate voice that I found rather irritating. In
my reading, Tom, in some respects, is as dreamy as his sister, despite the fact
that he is the narrator. It is, after all, described by the author as a
"dream play," in the manner of Strindberg.
While in the earlier scenes, Keira Keeley found a good balance between
Laura's severe shyness and the gradual revelation of an inner life, in the
important scene of "The Gentleman Caller," Keeley seemed to transform
her character into a borderline histrionic, which turned that important
breakthrough encounter into an even more painful experience.
The hyped-up energy of Ben McKenzie's Gentleman caller did not help.
Yes, in Williams' original, he does stretch his body out in shadow upon the
wall, but need he turn the act into a series of jumping jacks to make his
point? Not only did we fear that he might break Laura's glass collection but,
in his vigorous antics, that he might crush her as well. That scene is all
about two young people discovering and sharing a certain affectionate
gentleness that family life has never before offered—at least to Laura. He may
indeed have another woman to whom he is engaged, but for the moment all his
intentions are focused on the young woman in front of him, who comes
momentarily alive; it is perhaps the only moment of potential sexuality that
she will have in her life. If she is to psychically survive she must carry this
moment in her imagination. But in his energetic portrayal of the young man with
a future she can never have, McKenzie drew our attention away from Laura at the
very moment when Keeley nearly buried her character in her portrayal of
clinical "avoidant personality disorder."
It is utterly amazing that the play did still survive somewhat intact,
and strongly moved its audience. Ivey clearly kept the play alive simply by her
captivating acting, embodying the comical survivor—equal almost to Beckett's
Vladimir and Estragon—Williams created.
Los Angeles, Halloween 2010
Reprinted from USTheater, Opera, and Performance (November 2010).