Richard
Eyre has called Eugene O’Neill’s autobiographical magnum opus "the
saddest play ever written", which is overdoing things only a little.
The fictional Tyrone family so resembles the historical O’Neills
circa 1912 that it is impossible to
doubt that the playwright was meditating upon his own family, and that
this was why he refused to have it published until 25 years after his
death or ever staged at all. (His widow circumvented these prohibitions
in 1956, three years after O’Neill died and 15 years after the play’s
composition.) The portrait of addiction and dysfunction is harrowing:
the Tyrone men share a seemingly congenital alcoholism, Edmund (the
authorial surrogate) is falling prey to consumption, and wife and
mother Mary nurses a morphine habit that generates a form of paranoid
schizophrenia even when she is not actively using.
Anthony Page’s production (staged just next door to the Lyric which saw
the play’s last West End outing in 2000) pulls off the considerable
achievement of making it
not
a gruelling experience to watch. Without betraying the aggression,
manipulation and general mental imbalance that pervade the family, Page
gives equal weight to sincerity and compassion. The two strains feel
much more evenly balanced, which makes the repeated tipping-over to the
dark side more poignant. Right from the opening breakfast-time scene,
we see that James and Mary Tyrone are genuinely affectionate and
regretful when they lapse from this mode. Tyrone is not the domestic
tyrant of usual portrayals: David Suchet (now surely Britain’s premier
interpreter of the 20th-century American classic repertoire) shows him
to be a prisoner of his various insecurities but not their willing
slave.
However, for once this is Mary’s play. Laurie Metcalf rigorously
eschews all operatic signals of mental collapse; she delivers Mary’s
increasingly frequent, increasingly cracked verbal riffs in a temperate
key, only the rapid delivery and the obsessive content suggesting that
she is a woman letting go. When she seems in Act Three finally to have
abdicated her reason, Page finds a powerful contrast between her skewed
homily and the three menfolk – James, drunkard elder son Jamie (Trevor
White) and the tubercular Edmund (Kyle Soller) – sitting silent and
immobile, bereft of any meaningful response to this relapse. There
will, to be sure, be tears before bedtime, but for once they will be
not racking shrieks but muted, heart-deep sobs.
Written for the Financial
Times.