getting martin’s goat
by Douglas Messerli
Edward Albee The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia? / the production I saw was at the
Davidson/Valentini Theater of the Los Angeles LGBT Center, on Sunday, October
12, 2014
As Billy himself later reiterates, he has been well educated in one of
the best of schools that money can buy, and is blessed by nearly ideal parents.
In short, they are kind of family one encounters throughout the
correct-thinking contemporary Manhattan yuppies and now millennials—as well in
the wealthy suburbias of Chicago, Minneapolis, Seattle and Los
Angeles—self-satisfied, if artfully modest members of the cultural elite, at
home in their empire of the gods.
In the domestic banter of the play’s first few moments, indeed, the
audience might almost imagine that they have accidently wandered into a play,
as The New York Times Ben Brantley
suggested in his 2002 review, written by one of the most beloved playwrights of
these ruling class member’s parents, Neil Simon. But we also immediately sense
something is amiss, as if the jokes are there but the actors keep missing their
lines. In fact, Martin not only seems absent-minded, but is fearful that he is
developing Azheimer’s Disease. About to meet with his old friend, Ross, for an
interview celebrating Martin’s 50th birthday and his two recent achievements,
he cannot remember, for example, the name of Ross’s grown son. He enters the
room but forgets for what he has been searching. Stevie jokingly reassures him,
but soon their “banter” gradually is transformed into a kind of comic inspired
sketch about sexual infidelity, ending with Martin’s unexpected and somewhat
inappropriate quip that he is seeing someone named Sylvia and that she is a goat. If the audience laughs at
Stevie’s comeback—“I’ll stop at the feed store on the way home”—it is an uneasy
twitter, since by the very title of the play we already know that Martin is
telling her the truth: that, as a modern-day Zeus, he has fallen in love with a
being outside of his own kind.
Suddenly we recognize that we have entered Albee territory, and that any
laughter the play elicits hereafter will not emanate from punch-lines as much
as it does from our ill-ease with the subject and the characters involved. In
the very next scene, as his friend Ross attempts to interview him, we observe
that Martin is almost purposely subverting any attempt at “real”
communication—meaning, in the context of this play, any attempt at a
preconceived and canned vision of reality that the media often whips us for its
listeners. A man who has never cheated on his wife and, therefore, unlike so
many of his male friends, Martin has never had an opportunity to brag about his
sexual conquests, and he suddenly seems like an adolescent jock desperate to
reveal his newly-discovered sexual prowess.
Although Martin quickly knows that he about to tread on dangerous
ground, he cannot resist revealing the source of his new-found sensations of
what he describes as “love.” The tale he tells is similar to all such tales set
in bucolic setting in which, along with nature itself, the would-be lover
catches the wide-eyed gaze of his soon-to-be lover, with a sudden urge to reach
out and touch her, with all the wonder and excitement of not knowing what joys
might lay ahead. It might well describe the events of mid-life crisis that
strike down many an everyday male where it not that Martin, as he and Albee
keep hinting, is not an ordinary being, but a contemporary Zeus, and the object
of his affection, accordingly, lies outside of everyday “normality,” while very
much within the Greek god’s recorded assignations. Self-satisfied to the point
of delusion, Martin simply cannot comprehend why it could be wrong to fall in
love again, even if, this time, it is with a goat! After all, the goat does not
truly contend with his love for his very human wife.
Surely, we inwardly gasp, Martin must realize—despite Ross’
reassurances, as his best friend, he is to be trusted—that as a member of the
media, whose definition of reality is always the most narrow one, will not keep
quiet about Martin’s revelation. But then, the gods of our society are often so
used to working hand in hand with members of the media who have helped them to
achieve their god-like status, that they are brought down by those very women
and men. The shocked Ross rushes out to immediately write a letter to Martin’s
wife, outlining, with the expected rhetorical flourishes, his word-for-word
encounter with his life-long confidant. If Martin has jokingly thought that he
has heard the voice of the Eumenides earlier in that scene, Ross describing it
as “a kind of…rushing sound, wings, or something,” it is nothing compared to
the fury he is now about to face.
Exhausted, the audience along with her, Stevie, like Nora, slams the door for what appears to be a forever, despite Billy’s terrorized insistence on knowing where “his mother” has gone. Although a lesser fury, he too rants about having what appeared to be an ideal mother and father, before the latter began digging in the metaphorical basement of their home, hallowing out a hole from which he can never return. But in his youthful angst, we more clearly perceive that Albee is attempting to explore the larger issue of where human beings draw the limits of love. If Billy, who as a now socially-accepted gay, can only realize that in another day his own definition of love would have been damned, he must now, far more than his mother, question, at least, his father’s seemingly absurd search. And that leads them, if nothing else, to admit their own love for one another, expressed painfully in hugs of sorrow and protective embracement, which suddenly for the confused adolescent explodes into a momentary series of full-lipped kisses with his dad—at the very moment when the voice of conventionality, Ross, creeps back to their doorway to observe what he calculatingly perceives as another unforgiveable transgression.
Billy pulls away in a self-hating pang of senseless shame, with Martin
attempting, with fatherly love, to relieve the situation by describing a friend
who admitted to being aroused temporarily while cradling his infant child, yet,
soon after, realizing it was simply a natural and innocent moment that had no
sexual component.
For Ross, obviously, it is simply another explanation of degradation of
the former “god-like, friend” a representation of pedophilic tendencies, yet
another taboo to be tied to Martin’s tail/tale. “Where do you people stop?” he
cries out. Yet Martin, challenging him, makes it clear that it is not the
behavior which matters to Ross, but the possibility of public exposure, of the
inability to “get away with it.” In short, for people like Ross, for the media,
for example, it is not ever a really moral issue but a matter of defining a
nonexistent “public” limit, of creating an invisible line that cannot be
crossed. The question, of course, really concerns “when is it a sin to love?”
Where the society draws those lines, the playwright suggests, defines the
limitations of the society’s abilities to express what is perhaps the most
important of all emotional and physiological responses to life.
Despite any chortles of discomfort that some audience members may still
utter, we all now realize that this work is a tragedy without an ending. A
moment later, covered in blood, Stevie drags in Sylvia’s corpse. Vowing
revenge, she has destroyed Martin’s innocent love for her own values and
others’ personal definitions of where love has crossed the boundaries of
decency; and, in so doing, she has doomed herself to the conventional limits of
the living. Suddenly she becomes a being
as dead to love and living as the holy beast she has just sacrificed.
As Martin hugs his dead goat-lover to his breast, his tearful silence
sings out like a “goat song”—the root word of Greek “tragedy”— a knell for any
possibilities for a return to his or any other Eden.
As my husband, Howard, expressed it: “everything is so sad—all of them,
so basically innocent and yet so full of hurt.” In limiting its borders, love
has been drained from their lives.
Los Angeles, October 13, 2014
Reprinted from USTheater, Opera, and Performance (October 2014).