Long Day’s Journey into Night appears on the scene: shaggy, heavy-footed, a creature of the last century. Yet it brays prophetically. Eugene O’Neill wrote the play between 1939 and 1941 as an act of “old sorrows written in tears and blood.” He did not want the film to be performed, but his third wife, against his wishes, authorized a posthumous production in 1956. This completely autobiographical work features a mother who is addicted to morphine, a father who is fascinated by his own memories as a classical actor, and a father, one with tuberculosis and the other with tuberculosis. alcoholic son; The pain of this can be measured by the fact that a dead baby was named Eugene. It also offers a haunting image of an American mother: a “drug addict” sitting in a rocking chair.
Jeremy Herrin’s production is careful, slowly assembled, and clocks in at three and a half hours. The opening scenes are quiet, more suspenseful than painful; Lizzie Clachan’s nautical finish design is simple and restrained. The magnificent sound of a foghorn at sea – the key note of a family adrift – is nothing more than a ghostly whisper, and the dialogue often falters; At first it happens in monologues when the power is turned on. Confessions alone are the engine of the play, but here they gain intensity because of a greater sense of family (hereditary and inevitable dysfunction). The wounds appear serious, not fatal as they should be.
And yet, oh, the sheer power of writing and acting: what other playwright could have come up with the description “foggy people” for characters so disconnected from reality and each other, dazedly daydreaming about the past? Laurie Kynaston and Daryl McCormack fight convincingly as two restless siblings. Louisa Harland, Derry Girlshas been very strong lately Ulster Americanshines like the maid who sees the truth and smiles in its face. Yet the heart of the drama lies with the parents. Brian Cox, in suspenders and shirt sleeves, strong and bluff, well-versed in the cues of the old ham but still too quick to spring into action from the start: his own journey doesn’t seem long enough and the echoes of his past Subrogation the role is very clear (there’s even a line about being trapped in a familiar role). But Patricia Clarkson brings extraordinary sophistication to the role of the mother: lost, manipulative, liar. Delicately vague, suddenly flashing violently. It provides a heart-pounding moment at the end of the play, which O’Neill calls “the greatest scene I’ve ever written.” She sits on the edge of the stage and swings her legs up to deliver the final line—a dreamlike moment of sparkle. It’s like he’s become young again.
Harold Pinter wrote In love And Collection for television in the early 1960s. They may have been written to contrast with O’Neill’s drama. Short, stripped of exposition, driven by sharp speeches rather than monologues, these scenes offer a wry argument for a little daze in the theatre.
Sex games are essentially what happens. Not like pampas grass and inflatable dolls (though some tom-tom drums are oddly expressive). It’s the winking, bullying, cheerful encouragement, and crushing disappointment that couples inflict on each other not only to wake up from bedtime, but also to find out who they are.
These are more than just period pieces, but Lindsay Posner directs with an eye to reconstructing the period perfectly. Rightly so, although Pinter’s plots are known for their verbal tension, they are also full of visual clues: a gift of a pair of high heels is a big deal. The opening line of the night: “Will your lover come today?” – due to the effect of being torpedoed into a highly respectable living room. Peter McKintosh’s set and costumes are immaculate. Inside In love A couple playing doubles has a couch with two headrests and two cigarette boxes. Inside Collection Claudie Blakley—better for disguise—is a fashion designer in a Mary Quantish bob and geometric-print tunic. There are Hockney touches in the tulip vase.
Blakley uses the distinctive rustle of her voice like a cat’s tongue; caressing but not smooth. She’s also perfect for what could be called an Angela Rayner moment, when she crosses her legs and makes the entire audience believe they can hear the rustle of her socks. Matthew Horne Gavin and Stacey (“There’s Gavin!” an excited woman outside the theater shouted into her phone) is also very good: flat, too blank to read. And David Morrissey is making a bold innovation. He comes in a three-piece suit and speaks as if his words were in a vest; The smile on his face could be that of a news anchor conveying calmness when he is about to announce a disaster. He slowly crumples in surprise. With jokes on the way. There is less threat than ever in Pinter: here the playwright enigmas spring.
April De Angelis, author of the book full of life 30 years ago Playhouse Creatures She touched on another rich theatrical subject for her new play, Sarah Siddons, about 17th-century English actresses: Divine Miss S. Painted as the Tragic Muse by Joshua Reynolds in 1784 and said by William Hazlitt to have inspired more curiosity than admiration, Siddons was an innovative artist and a celebrity trapped in being a working mother at a time when actresses were constantly being hounded. Women who resisted courtesy from their bosses were seen as crazy. When could this happen?
The casting of Rachael Stirling as Siddons fuels Anna Mackmin’s uneven production. Stirling draws the viewer in with aplomb. His intelligence is instinctive; it’s not just in the delivery of the lines, but also in the way he holds himself and moves in a graceful spiraling motion. It is difficult for him to demonstrate the new naturalism of Siddons’ acting in the age of humming and twitching television, but it was a striking contrast to the ritualised 18th-century style that Dominic Rowan performed with panache. As Siddons’ brother, theater manager and actor John Philip Kemble, Rowan sings his vowels and, with his legs taped and his arms in the air, looks as if he’s stuck in a perpetual fencing match.
Despite delightful episodes of behind-the-scenes liveliness, De Angelis’s investigation can often be heard going on behind the action. Poet and playwright Joanna Baillie (1762-1851), who was in danger of being lost in the vortex of women’s disappointments, is commemorated with a plaque near the theatre. Baillie, convincingly presented as a ‘edgy’ (De Angelis cleverly jokes with anachronisms) playwright deluded by acclaim, is the most interesting character on stage. Her body, embodied with mesmerizing intensity by Eva Feiler, seems only a temporary receptacle for the words that must flow from her.
Star ratings (out of five)
Long Day’s Journey into Night ★★★
Lover / Collection ★★★★
Divine Miss S ★★★