Superfluities Redux

by George Hunka
Artistic director, theatre minima

A Theatre Surrounds a City:
Vienna's Burgtheater


Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Organum

O'Neill's radicalism. With his late plays O'Neill burrows through realism and the Expressionist stage to come out upon a darker landscape: significance and meaning are shattered. The drunks in the back room of Harry Hope's bar in The Iceman Cometh are exaggerations of the audience as collective: sharers not in individual pipedreams but within the cultural construct of ameliorist and personal illusion (literally so in the character of anarchist Hugo Kalmar). Hickey the dramatist/salesman to express his shattering experience, in talking, constant talking, a thrashing against his experience's own lack of utilitarian meaning. Hickey's secret is the pain and violence of action based in love. His effort to draw the drunks back into the light again, as the dramatist tries to draw the audience into blinding recognition, is doomed to failure: years of illusion have condemned them to failure, however jolly their retreat into drunkenness, or the culture, may appear. But Hickey knows, as do the individuals Don Parrit and Larry Slade; Slade is embedded in this culture, too much of a coward himself to dare action, Parrit through suicide seeks his way out. (Hickey is a skilled salesman and marketer: he sells happiness to his wife; her gain is her death; she "sleeps with" the iceman, who comes; his profit is his arrogant so-called truth. He should have been a PR consultant in the theatre.)

Retreat is denied to the Tyrones in Long Day's Journey into Night, the great dream play that anatomizes the cancer at the center of the Tyrone family and at the center of the theatre. Tyrone, an actor, offers Mary a theatre of family and affection as much an anaesthetic of experience as her morphine dreams. Her own sexuality has produced three children; the two who survive shore up the house as the decay continues within. At the final curtain, in her wedding dress, she denies the experience that began with Tyrone's love, seeking virginity again. It is unrecoverable, of course, but her illusion holds her husband and children wrapped, and rapt, in her dream, even as they remain torn, bleeding and dying.

Duration is the avenue of revelation: these are high masses that require more than three hours (more than four hours, in the case of The Iceman Cometh) for their uncut production; three times the length of most contemporary American plays. But these are surgeries that can't be performed sloppily: language and performance as scalpel, not machete. As if O'Neill wanted to send the audience not into the late evening for a drink or dinner or the post-show panel discussion, but into a world past midnight: into the black morning, without appeal.

Below, Jason Robards delivers the opening of the long monologue in Act IV of The Iceman Cometh, from Sidney Lumet's 1960 television production:

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