"Long [really long] Day's Journey..."

Last night Gigi and I attended a performance of Eugene O'Neill's "Long Day's Journey Into Night". Pulitzer Prize-winning, considered by most to be one of the greatest American plays of the twentieth century; many would say the greatest. Never afraid to think - and speak - for myself, to form opinions that run recklessly counter to the consensus opinion, I would strongly disagree. I don't really think this is a great play; I don't really think it's even terribly good.

I know that's fairly blasphemous to say but chacun à son goût, dammit! If you enjoy this sort of thing, then by all means go. We all have things that we enjoy greatly, and need make little effort to try and sync them up with those of others. But I certainly did not "enjoy greatly" Mr. O'Neill's celebrated play; honestly, I left the theatre feeling battered. And pointlessly so. I am quite willing to be tortured artistically if I get something out of it. An insight, some mesmeric image, a subtle wisdom. G and I talked for hours after getting home about what we were willing to endure for the sake of art. A lot, actually. And we're both very willing to accept a work in its own context, taking into account the world it was born into, and how the world has changed since then. And we're also always very careful to monitor our own limitations, what our expectations are, having been born into the world we know. And we're not afraid of "dark", either; G's favorite play is "Streetcar", for crissakes. So we'll always try and give a play a break. But, comparing this with a lot of the other great theatre we've seen, and with the writing of the playwrights we admire, we both felt this was rather awful.

Bloated and self indulgent. G liked a lot of the language, but there was no discernible structure; if I were to wax metaphorical, I'd say it was like taking all the materials for a building and dumping them into a heap at the construction site. You can't live there! It went on and on, repetitive in the extreme. I can see no reason for it to be as long as it was. I understand that, in a striving for naturalness, O'Neill has the characters repeat the same concerns and stories over and over again, because that's what people really do. But this is theatre, not real life. There is a job to do, in a (hopefully) fairly limited space of time. As I've said before, I believe art is always about some sort of communication. If, in the service of naturalism, the play runs on for an inordinate length of time, structureless, with the characters repeating the same not-very-interesting business in not-terribly-interesting language and, at the end, the audience really doesn't know anything more about these people than the clichés presented as their motivation, what have you got? What can you feel for these people besides some vague pity? What is the point? Andrew Upton, the director of this production, says, "Even though by the end of the play nothing has been resolved and their lives are difficult, there is real wisdom in it. There is humor and wisdom that leavens the darkness." I agree entirely - except that I find no wisdom here. Only "recording", no understanding or insight. And what humor might be written into the play, is flooded out by the physical and emotional discomfort the audience is forced to endure. There is, sadly, no useful/usable leavening.

I believe I'm fairly able to keep my opinion of the play and the performance separate, but the current production can't have helped the situation much. This was a co-production of the celebrated Sydney Theatre Company and Portland's own Artists Repertory Theatre. Being performed in both cities, this is a pretty high-profile endeavor, not the least part being that James Tyrone is played by William Hurt. So one would expect to find something that felt better worked-out, more polished. It doesn't seem casual as a "choice", it just seems half-baked. Visually, it manages to be both confounding and boring. The strangely flashy set, extremely pared down, all "Expressionistic" angles, seems meant for some other play. It doesn't relate to or service this one at all. And the costumes are as misunderstood and incomplete as what one might expect from a high school production - and they only had five actors to dress! The lighting was flat and used to no real effect. I will say that the final tableau was beautifully posed and lit. And all the more striking as, in comparison with the rest of the production, it seemed thoughtful.

Though I think some of the casting choices were not entirely wise, all five of the actors did admirable work. But none of them were in the same play; there was a jarring disunity of acting styles. And both Hurt and Luke Mullins, who played Edmund, were very frequently unintelligible. I have excellent hearing, but their diction (and, often, projection) was so poor that much of the text was lost. I thought both of them gave rich, interior performances, but if you can't understand what the actor is saying...? By contrast, local Todd Van Voris, as James Jr., and Emily Russell, as Cathleen, might have been playing in Vaudeville. Gesturing and mugging, you could "read" them out in the lobby. But, by God, you knew what they were saying. Robyn Nevin as Mary Tyrone gave probably the most subtle and comprehensible performance. And the most theatrically balanced; nuanced but still audible.

So why didn't the very lauded director pull this together better? Why couldn't he guide his very capable actors into a unified whole? It's fairly shocking, such negligence. And, whether I liked being subjected to this particular play or not, I feel bad for the actors. This is a long, strenuous, naked play; no actor would approach this lightly or without the utmost commitment. It takes great courage and trust to sign on for something this "big". I feel Upton let them down.

Which leads me back to Hurt, the "star-power" of the production. Obviously, a fine, respected actor. Awards, money in the bank, etc. And also obviously, not one who seems particularly interested in the "star" business; an actor, he wants to act. He wants to work. And I think he gave a very interesting performance last night. I don't think he was exactly right for the part, but he gave such an intelligent, particular interpretation. The odd way he made long, quick rolling passages, all his words run together, was fascinating. He's a very specifically interior actor. And in perhaps all of his roles you feel that coiled energy and intelligence. I can't think what occurred in rehearsal but, if his director had helped him, technically, to better get that interiority out to the audience - and made sure of a fully-functioning diction - I feel his might have been a great performance.

Language is the problem

Most artists - and probably anyone else who ponders such things - would say that art is about communication. It may do other things as well, but most people would say that art will always say something. Fine. I can easily agree with that.

The problem - as I see it - is that, preparing to wade into the twentieth century, artists decided that in order to be Modern - the great addictive striving of the technological age - they needed to remake the vocabulary of visual art. They needed to devise a new language. New languages, actually: Impressionism, Post-Impressionism, Expressionism - all the "isms" - down to abstraction, Pop art, conceptual art. Schools of art that attempted to "break the mold" - you always need to break a mold in order to make anything good, you know - to show the world something new. And then another school, another new. Or just individuals following their own path, but always with the goal of making something new.

This has also been the age when artists went from being craftsmen to being something else. To being something special, something different. Visionaries. Celebrities. Artists. When artists were content to record "what is" - or even an imaginary "what could be", based squarely on "what is" - they were craftsmen, striving to be the best at their established craft. Even the revolutionary "art stars" of the past - the Michelangelos, Leonardos, Caravaggios - still worked within a fairly prescribed framework of pictorial representation. When artists decided that it would be better - newer - to imaginatively interpret "what is" - or more, "what isn't" - all bets were off. Anything was possible and, eventually, anything was permissible. Anything came to be accepted as art. At least anything new, anything approved by whatever current art establishment. That very rarefied strata that has eventually changed the definition and understanding and reputation of art.

Collecting fine art, living with it, has always been the privilege of wealth, but the imagery was always comprehensible to anyone; wealth and sophistication weren't prerequisites. But in the last century, art has become less and less accessible to the general public. Artists and the art establishment make art for themselves; they don't really make any effort to communicate beyond their own sphere. They have devised their own language. If you take the time, you may be able to learn that language; I'm sure it's worth the effort. But it is "elitist"; it has earned that criticism. If you demand that people must be instructed, that art must be explained, if you often refuse to give them anything of what many feel is the greatest purpose of art - beauty - then you leave many, perhaps most, of the world out. You have excluded them.

(Which is fine, I suppose. I see nothing wrong with strong-willed individualism. Do what you want. Make what you want. But don't be surprised or indignant when the public has become so disconnected from and/or uninterested in the arts that schools don't see a need to teach them and that our government looks on them with such disdain that they don't really care to support them financially.)

And so here's where I fall off the edge of the world. The edge of the art world, anyway. Because I believe art should be - relatively - accessible. It can be many other things: thought-provoking, beautiful, ugly, tranquilizing, incendiary, things I might not want to see, or something I just can't understand. But I believe at least I should be able - without instruction or explanation - to access the question. That is what I want in art and I really believe that most of the world wants it, too. If they even remember what art can be.

I don't mean this to be dogmatic; I think there should be room for everything, all forms of artistic expression. Chacun à son goût, as the French say. Each to his own taste. But the balance is horribly off. Craftsmanship needs to celebrated at least as much as nouveauté. And it isn't. And comprehensibility and accessibility should be seen as virtues. You can speak the language of the public - of "real people", people who need art, even if they don't know it - and still manage to say something meaningful.