by A Long Day’s Journey into the Night own shoulders on the stage: shaggy, heavy-footed, a creature of the last century. But braying prophetically. Eugene O’Neill wrote the play between 1939 and 1941 as an act of “old grief, written in tears and blood”. He did not want it to be done but his third wife, against his wishes, authorized a posthumous production in 1956. The truly autobiographical work features a mother who was addicted to morphine, a father whose memories are of himself as an actor classic, one tuberous and another disturbing. alcoholic son; the pain involved can be gauged by the fact that a dead child is called Eugene. It also provides an unforgettable image of the American mother: a “dope fiend” in a rocking chair.
Jeremy Herrin’s production is meticulous, slowly building – and three and a half hours long. The opening scenes are muted, less worried and anxious; The design of Lizzie Clachan’s sea-coloured board is austere and restrained. The wonderful sound of the mist out at sea is no more than a spectral whisper – the key note of the family stream – and the dialogue often breaks down; when the power is turned on, it is first in the monologues. The drama is driven by individual confessions but it unfolds with a greater sense of family – a dysfunctional legacy and inevitability – than here. The wounds look gruesome, not fatal – as they should be.
But, oh, the sheer force of the writing and acting: what other playwright could come up with the description of “fog people” for characters so cut off from reality and from each other, dreaming of the past? Laurie Kynaston and Daryl McCormack spar convincingly as two brothers who don’t love each other very much. Louisa Harland, of Girls of Derrywhich was so strong recently i Ulster American, shines like the maid who sees the truth and laughs in his face. Still, the heart of the drama is in the parents. Brian Cox, in trousers and shirtsleeves, strong and bald, good at the old ham’s tips, but too quick to light it from the start: his own journey doesn’t look long enough, and his echoes. Succession too obvious a role (there’s even a line about being caught in a familiar role). But Patricia Clarkson brings exceptional subtlety to the role of the mother: lost, manipulated, lied to. Sensitively vague, she suddenly flashes into a great. She provides a heartwarming moment at the end of the play, which O’Neill considers “the greatest scene I’ve ever written”. To deliver the final line – a moment of dreamlike clarity – she sits on the edge of the stage and swings her legs up. It is as if she were young again.
Written by Harold Pinter The Lover and The Collection for television, in the early 1960s. They may have been written in contrast to O’Neill’s play. Briefly, without explanation, based on crisp exchanges rather than monologues, they cheerfully provide an argument for being a little sad in the theatre.
Sex games are the most happening thing. Not the same as pampas grass and blow-up dolls (although some odd tom-tom drums are welcome). This is the teasing and bullying, the exhilarating excitement and overwhelming disappointment that couples inflict on each other, not just to spend time sleeping but to discover who they are.
These are more than period pieces but Lindsay Posner directs with an eye for the perfect reconstruction of the era. Rightly so, since Pinter’s intrigues, while renowned for verbal wit, are also laced with visual cues: a pair of high heels is essential. Opening line of the evening – “Is your lover coming today?” – depending on its effect on being torpedoed into a completely respectable living room. Peter McKintosh’s sets and costumes are immaculate. I The Lover a couple playing doubles has a sofa with two headrests and two cigarette boxes. I The Collection Claudie Blakley is a fashion designer – best at hiding – in a Mary Quantish bob and geometric print tunic. Hockney is involved in a vase of tulips.
Blakley uses the distinctive rasp of her voice like a cat’s tongue, caring but not gentle. She also excels at what could be called the Angela Rayner moment, when she crosses her legs and makes the entire audience believe they hear her socks being raised. Mathew Horne from Gavin and Stacey (“There’s Gavin!” exclaimed an excited woman on her phone outside the theater) also very good: fair, no blank reading. And David Morrissey has hit a bold new record. He comes in a three-piece suit, speaking as if his words were also waistcoated; the smile on his face might be that of a newscaster calmly transmitting as he is about to announce a disaster. Slowly crumples into bewilderment. With funny stories along the way. There is less threat than usual with Pinter: here the playwright turns spring into an enigma.
April De Angelis, the author of the animation 30 years ago Creatures Playhouse about 17th century English actresses, he landed on another rich theatrical material in Sarah Siddons for her new play, The Divine Mrs S. Painted by Joshua Reynolds as the Tragic Muse in 1784, and said by William Hazlitt not to inspire as much admiration and wonder, Siddons was an innovative performer and celebrity caught in the trap of being a working mother at a time when women -actors working regularly. by their bosses, and women who were against niceness were considered crazy. What time could it be?
Rachael Stirling’s casting as Siddons adds fire to Anna Mackmin’s agile production. Stirling draws an audience to her without being clammy. Her wit is instinctive, not only in the delivery of the lines but in the way she holds herself and moves, with a graceful spiral. She finds it hard to portray the new naturalism of Siddons’ acting, which is less severe in the age of televised talk and guts, but which was a striking contrast to the 18th-century ritualistic style portrayed with panache by Dominic Rowan. With Siddons’ brother, John Philip Kemble, a theater manager and actor, Rowan shouts his vocals and, with his feet up and his arm up, looks like he’s stuck in a perpetual game of fencing.
Despite enjoyable episodes of backstage bubbliness, De Angelis’ research can often be heard lagging behind the action. The poet and dramatist Joanna Baillie (1762-1851) is in danger of being lost among the disillusioned glare of women, who is commemorated by a plaque near the theatre. Convincingly presented as someone who was seduced by praise as an “edgy” playwright (De Angelis is keenly anticipating the anachronism), Baillie is the most interesting character on stage. Incarnated by Eva Feiler with a stunningly bunched-up intensity, her body seems to be only a temporary receptacle for the words that need to burst forth.
Star ratings (out of five)
A Long Day’s Journey into the Night ★★★
The Lover/The Collection ★★★★
The Divine Mrs S ★★★
