Theater Review: Roundabout Ends Milestone Season With 2 Tony Winners

The Roundabout Theatre Co., one of the real gems of the New York theater scene, closed out the 50^th season of its long and illustrious run with two estimable revivals. The two productions could not differ more in tone from each other, but they spotlighted what the company does best.

Long Day's Journey Into Night ended its run in late June, not long after Jessica Lange won a well-deserved Tony for Best Actress in a Play. I have seen several fine versions of this posthumously produced masterpiece by Eugene O’Neill—the 1962 film adaptation by Sidney Lumet, a British production shown on American TV in the mid-1970s starring Laurence Olivier, and a PBS telecast of the 1994 Stratford Festival production starring the great Canadian actor William Hutt. 

But in none of these did matriarch Mary Tyrone appear so central to the tragedy enveloping her family, as her deep but frustrated love for her husband and two sons pull them close even as it pulls them down into a whirlpool of substance-abuse co-dependency.

Lange masterfully depicted the progressive stages of Mary’s descent: seeming good health masking fragility, mounting anxiety (signaled by fluttering hands), paranoia, desperation, and a childlike reversion to teen innocence that, with enough morphine, settles on her like the fog off the coast of the family’s Connecticut cottage. The two-time Oscar winner was especially effective in a scene with the tragedy’s comic relief, the family maid Cathleen (played by Colby Minifie), when several minutes of joking reminiscence about her husband abruptly end, as it undoubtedly has countless times before, with the vehement (and self-contradictory) denial of any health problem of hers.

Two of the three male actors provided excellent support for Lange. The best of the trio, Michael Shannon, as the older son, alcoholic Jamie Tyrone, stalked the stage with his 6-ft.-three-in. frame like a mad stork. With his unblinking, sorrowfully accusative squint, he rendered wordlessly the character’s aching love for his mother at the heart of his guilt-ridden self-laceration.

Gabriel Byrne wisely ignored the temptation that undercut Ralph Richardson onscreen: to play hammy matinee idol James Tyrone like—well, like a  hammy matinee idol offstage, too. Byrne focused instead on James’ miserliness (residue of his grim childhood as a Potato Famine immigrant) and deepening anguish, as he watched everyone around him seemingly collapse—a wife relapsing into morphine addiction, an older son into cynicism, indolence and drink, and a younger son contracting tuberculosis.

The weak link in the quartet playing the doomed Tyrones was John Gallagher, Jr. Despite a mustache meant to suggest the young Eugene O’Neill, he did not adequately convey younger son Edmund’s sickliness nor his emotional slide into the family maelstrom.

Director Jonathan Kent did not attempt a radical reinterpretation of the drama, as was done elsewhere on Broadway this past season with two other 1950s classic tragedies, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible and A View From the Bridge. But he understood, as did O’Neill, that raw honesty was enough to compensate for the lack of pyrotechnics. In respecting his source material, he also respected the intelligence of his audience.

If anything, She Loves Me, which closed this past weekend, might have even longer antecedents than O’Neill’s tragedy. Its premise—two clerks, Amalia and Georg, who argue constantly with each other in their store, unaware that they are romantic pen pals—was based on the play Perfumerie by Miklos Laszlo, later to furnish the same essential plot onscreen in Ernst Lubitsch’s The Shop Around the Corner (1940), the Judy Garland-Van Johnson musical In the Good Old Summertime (1949), and Nora Ephron’s You’ve Got Mail (1998).

In the year of its original production, She Loves Me—created by lyricist Sheldon Harnick and composer Jerry Bock—was wiped out at the Tonys by bold, brassy Hello, Dolly!, with only Jack Cassidy coming away with Best Featured Actor in a Musical for playing the charming, duplicitous clerk Kodaly. 

With the passage of a half century, however, as well as the broad acceptance of even more challenging fare by Stephen Sondheim, it’s easier to appreciate the manifold small pleasures of this character-driven musical. Scott Ellis, who directed the Roundabout’s far bigger, busier On the Twentieth Century, demonstrated his versatility and reliability in this much more intimate show.

In the original production, the role of Amalia provided Barbara Cook with one of her signature roles, but it’s hard to imagine it being done much better than Laura Benanti did here. She met the multiple challenges of “Vanilla Ice Cream” square on, both dramatically (the number marks the hinge moment when Amalia softens toward Georg) and vocally (the tune is a showstopper—and Mt. Everest—for Broadway sopranos).

Zachary Levi invested Georg with the requisite amount of longing to balance the revelations in his character’s big songs, notably through romantic longing (“Tonight at Eight”) or swooning love (the title tune).

The remarkable thing about this musical that concentrates on two young people in love is that so many others in the cast got their moment to shine. First among equals was Jane Krakowski, who was nominated for a Tony for best featured actress in a musical for this show—and no wonder.

Fans of 30 Rock on TV may have chuckled over her character Jenna Maroney’s musical aspirations, but in real life her musical-comedy resume is extensive and accomplished. Her prior turn at the Roundabout, in Nine, won her a Tony, but her big number from that, the lascivious “A Call to the Vatican,” is a far cry from her wide-eyed unlucky-in-love, can’t-I-find-a nice-guy Ilona’s here, “A Trip to the Library” (“A trip to the library has made a new girl of me/For suddenly, I can see the magic of books”).

Another Roundabout veteran, Michael McGrath, previously in On the Twentieth Century, lent a great wry tone to Georg’s friend Sipos in his extended musical advice (“Perspective”). Byron Jennings made cuckolded store owner Maraczek a figure of sympathy. And, as the oily Kodaly, Gavin Creel limned a master portrait of a first-class heel.

The 1993 Roundabout revival of She Loves Me not only was the organization’s first musical, but helped kick off its most recent golden era. This new production introduced this small-scale show with a big heart to a new generation of theatergoers, and maintained the Roundabout itself as a vital venue.

This Day in Theater History (O'Neill's ‘Long Day's Journey’ Published)

Feb. 20, 1956—When Yale University Press issued Long Day's Journey Into Night, it capped a nearly two-year backstage drama that saw the widow of playwright Eugene O'Neill disregard the express wishes of her husband and the protests of his longtime publisher that the heavily autobiographical tragedy not be made available for scholars until 25 years after his death.

But under the terms of the will of O’Neill, who had died in 1953, the manuscript was left in the hands of Carlotta Monterey O’Neill. When Random House editors Bennett Cerf and Saxe Commins balked at going against his long-expressed wishes, she withdrew the manuscript from their hands and submitted it to Yale University Press.

Perhaps just as important, in the same month, despite her husband’s desire that the heavily autobiographical tragedy never even be performed, she allowed it to be staged in Stockholm by the Royal Dramatic Theatre, whose productions he had admired.

Many regarded Mrs. O’Neill’s actions not just as high-handed, but even as a betrayal of the man for whom she had been mate, muse and, as his health declined, nursed. (In particular, Cerf was so incensed by her move that he unsuccessfully used Random House director Frederick B. Adams, Jr. to urge fellow members of the Board of Governors of the Yale University Press not to publish the play.)

But had Carlotta not taken this course, it’s an open question whether O’Neill’s reputation would ever have come out of the decline into which it had sunk since he won the Nobel Prize in 1936.

As an example of the posthumous fate that could have awaited O’Neill, one need only look at another Irish-American, Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright just a year his senior: George Kelly. Like O’Neill, Kelly’s name had shone brightly on Broadway in the 1920s, and he had sought to leave a thumbprint on his plays so distinct that directors felt self-conscious about departing from this vision. (O’Neill wrote extraordinarily detailed instructions about sets, costumes, even line readings; Kelly simply cut out the middle man and directed his own plays.) Both experienced critical and popular failures in the following decade. Both attempted comebacks right after WWII, but receded from the stage when their effort failed.

But unlike O’Neill, Kelly lived on until 1974, a single (and, likely, gay) man with no widow who would fight to keep him in the popular memory as tenaciously as she had once fought her husband himself. The result, as I explained in this prior post, is that when a Kelly play is performed again, as New York’s Mint Theater has done in the past few years, an air of fustiness and datedness clings unfairly to the production, even when it is staged admirably.

Over the years, a host of questions have gathered around both O’Neill’s original embargo on the play and Carlotta’s decision to relax it. Let’s deal first with the various explanations for what may have motivated O’Neill:

*He didn’t want members of his family to be hurt by the play. Both Commins and critic George Jean Nathan recalled O’Neill having told them this. But the three people with the most cause for concern—his parents and brother—had all died in the early 1920s, and in his last play staged while he was alive, A Moon for the Misbegotten, O’Neill disclosed some of the most embarrassing details about Jamie’s alcoholism, including a bender as he escorted his mother’s remains on the train back from California after her fatal stroke. Nor were Eugene’s own children too young to deal with the highly personal disclosures: Eugene Jr. had predeceased his father by three years (and, in any case, had read and been moved by the play in 1941), Shane was in his early 30s, and Oona had become permanently estranged from her father and stepmother because of her marriage to the much older Charlie Chaplin.

*Another person not associated with his immediate family could have felt hurt. O’Neill’s cousin, Agnes Brennan, is not depicted in the play, but her family is alluded to. Most theatergoers or even those more familiar with O’Neill would not have guessed this, but the citizens of New London—and especially Ms. Brennan (the only relative that her husband ever saw, Carlotta acknowledged)—would have known. In the play, the character modeled on O’Neill’s mother, Mary Tyrone, declares that she hates New London “and everyone in it”—which, in the real-life Connecticut community in 1912, included Brennan (privy to all the details of the morphine addiction of Eugene’s mother). Indeed, Agnes, when Carlotta showed her the manuscript before publication, spent “hours weeping,” according to O'Neill's widow.

*O’Neill felt too much disgust with theater contemporaries to trust them with his plays anymore. While the last reason may be most likely, this one cannot be dismissed. Unsuccessful productions of The Iceman Cometh and A Moon for the Misbegotten confirmed O’Neill in his longstanding dislike of actors. More than that, he believed that postwar audiences were not ready for material that challenged, disheartened or disillusioned them, as his almost always did.

As for why Carlotta disobeyed O’Neill’s ban on releasing the play, a recent biographer of the playwright, Robert Dowling, offers cogent evidence, pro and con, for the following reasons:

*Carlotta needed or wanted the money. This motive was frequently proposed by people who disliked her—a very sizable group. The only problem was that she did not live lavishly, and she even donated the proceeds of the Swedish premiere to charity.

*Carlotta wanted publicity. But she largely avoided giving press interviews.

*She wanted to forestall any financial claim by O’Neill’s second wife, Agnes Boulton. Eugene and Carlotta both felt that his second ex was, with her escalating alimony and child support demands, bleeding the playwright dry. In Agnes’ possession was his preliminary treatment, all the way back in 1927, of the play. By having the play published—with, at Carlotta's insistence, his inscription of the play to her, on their 12^th wedding anniversary in July 1941—she would get a jump on her rival for any future financial claim on the work.

*Even following Eugene’s death, she wanted no competition for his love. One of the couple’s major blow-ups, as Eugene’s physical condition deteriorated, occurred over his close, if non-physical, relationship with the young woman hired to be his nurse. Carlotta’s discovery of his love poem to the nurse led to grappling that could easily have ended in either’s death (her, by his loaded handgun; him, by her butcher knife). His death would have brought to the fore biographers who would inevitably turn up past lovers. She wanted no doubt about who had been there for him when it counted.

*She realized how truly great the play was. A former actress, Carlotta knew great theater when she saw it. She agreed with her husband that it was the best thing he had ever written.

*By reaffirming Eugene’s importance to the world, Carlotta implicitly underscored her status as his muse. One after another, the playwright’s friends and even children had found themselves cut off by Carlotta, who not only carefully guarded his health but also his access. All the revelations that were to come out about him, if she had anything to do with it, would, nevertheless, have to admit that the playwright had done his deepest, greatest works with her as his mate.

But Carlotta cannot necessarily be seen as the only individual responsible for her abrogation of her husband’s wishes. One of O’Neill’s biographers, Barbara Gelb, believed that he had even expected Carlotta to do so. After all, she told the makers of a PBS documentary about the Irish-American playwright, he knew well what kind of woman Carlotta was—and, more specifically, that she was fully capable of turning around almost immediately after his death and releasing the play to the world.

In a sense, Carlotta may have released this tragedy populated by the ghosts of her husband’s family because she herself felt haunted by his memory. Jose Quintero, who directed Long Day's Journey for its first Broadway production in the fall of 1956, told New York Magazine in a 1977 interview that, before she gave him the exclusive American rights to stage the show, Carlotta met him in her apartment, where she conducted raging arguments aloud with O’Neill, whose ghostly presence she was certain was in the room even then.

After the final curtain at the Broadway premiere of Quintero’s production, the cast stepped onto the stage for their bows. For more than a minute, an unsettling silence fell over the Helen Hayes Theatre.

What the cast and crew may not have realized is that there was such a heavy silence because so many sobs were being stifled in the audience. As soon as this could be processed, what began as scattered claps gathered in intensity into a continuous roar. One curtain call after another followed for the five-member cast, exhausted by their four-plus hours onstage with perhaps the most emotionally shattering lines they’d ever had to learn and repeat. 

Then something even more extraordinary followed: For the first and only time in his six-decade theatrical career, Jason Robards Jr. (who played the character based on O'Neill's older brother, Jamie) remembered, a mass of theatergoers flocked toward the stage.

Theatergoers that night sensed correctly that O’Neill had dispensed with masks, drumbeats, stream-of-consciousness soliloquys, and the other devices of his earlier plays. There was no distance between them and this raw material, any more than there was between them and the actors this night.

Long Day's Journey Into Night won for O’Neill, posthumously, his fourth Pulitzer Prize for Drama, as well as a Tony Award for the Best New Play in 1957 (and another Tony for Best Revival of a Play in 2003). No matter the circumstances in which it came before the world, we have his third wife and literary executrix to thank for it.

This Day in Theater History (George Pierce Baker, Teacher of US Drama Giants, Dies)

Jan. 6, 1935— George Pierce Baker, an academic who influenced more than a generation of notable American playwrights—including Nobel, Pulitzer and Oscar winners—through innovative theater courses at Harvard and Yale, died in New York City at age 66.

I alluded briefly to Baker in a prior post on the unsuccessful playwriting experiences of student Thomas Wolfe, who caricatured him as “Professor Hatcher” in his 1935 novel Of Time and the River. But I have felt that the professor deserved a more extensive treatment that did justice to his career—and made his name known to people who had no idea he existed.

Before Baker arrived, the U.S. theater scene, influenced by Henrik Ibsen, was moving away from melodrama, spectacle and farce and more toward realism, but there were no significant counterparts to Ibsen, Strindberg, Shaw, Synge, and other European giants of the stage. Starting in 1905, however, with the introduction of his famous Workshop 47 course, the likes of Eugene O’Neill, Philip Barry, Sidney Howard, S.N. Behrman and Edward Sheldon began to write in a strongly personal mode while learning the rudiments of practical dramatic construction in his class.

In an introduction to a collection of the plays of Barry, States of Grace, New Yorker critic Brendan Gill noted that students in Workshop 47 “met in cramped quarters in Lower Massachusetts Hall and acted out plays on a makeshift stage in the little Agassiz Theatre at Radcliffe.” The quarters were unprepossessing, but this also meant that the stakes were low.

The advantage that meant to his students was summed up by one, drama critic John Mason Brown, nearly 30 years later: “As a rule, the good plays that Baker's more famous pupils wrote were written long after they had ceased to work with him. They were helped in writing these good plays because of the patience he showed in dealing with the bad ones they had written for him.”

The photo accompanying this post gives a pretty good impression of Baker in class: peering gravely at students from behind his pince-nez. That look, initially, could appear cold. But students soon found what they needed here: a forum where, free to experiment, they could make mistakes and learn, and, throughout the process, encouragement to continue.

Baker’s perception could, in fact, be quite acute. In Barry’s case, he urged the young man to “amuse in such a way that one is thinking about the play afterwards—not exactly in amusement, but thoughtfully and pleasantly.” This, in fact, became the template of the creator of such sparkling but rueful comedies as The Philadelphia Story, The Animal Kingdom and Holiday.

A graduate of Harvard himself, Baker began at his alma mater as a professor of rhetoric. Especially in the first years of Workshop 47 (named for its place in the school’s catalog), many in the university’s administration undoubtedly wish he had stuck with rhetoric, for they remained suspicious of the utility of his playwriting class.

In 1925, after a generation of wearily enduring this placement at Harvard’s periphery--and unable to persuade it to offer a degree (not just a class) in playwriting--Baker took up Yale’s offer to become first chair of its Department of Drama in the School of Fine Arts. There he remained until 1933, when illness forced him to cease teaching.

Howard, who had his first Broadway success a half dozen years after taking Workshop 47—and who would go on to write the Pulitzer Prize-winning play They Knew What They Wanted as well as the screenplay for Gone With The Wind—paid tribute to Baker by observing that “he taught his students truths more valid than technique. He taught them that plays are important and hard to write; that few subjects are worthy of dramatization; that characters must be imagined beneath their words; that art is an obligation, not a Sunday suit."

This Day in Theater History (August Strindberg, Influential Swedish Playwright, Born)

January 22, 1849—August Strindberg, born in Stockholm, Sweden, grew up in a household marked by parental differences over class and temperament, leaving the hypersensitive youngster scarred for life, possibly insane at points, and in such need of expunging his feelings about the war between the sexes that he poured it out into 62 plays, along with novels, essays, short stories, memoirs, poems, and theses on science, philosophy and philology—collected works amounting to 50 volumes.

Biographer Olof Lagercrantz has questioned just how dire the future playwright’s birth and upbringing were. While his mother was, for a time, a servant, she and her husband, a businessman, had become members of the medium-income bourgeoisie in his youth. But his mother’s death when he was 13 subsequently colored his feelings about growing up, to the point that he later lamented having been born under the sign of Ram, destined to be butchered, with “Every success a consequence of suffering, every trace of happiness tainted by dirt; every encouragement a mockery, every good deed punished by crucifixion.” If nothing else, he came to have a world-class temperament for raising every minor annoyance of life into Greek tragedy.

In a prior post, I discussed Strindberg’s similarities with Eugene O’Neill, an American acolyte who also suffered childhood traumas related to a mother, attempted suicide in youth, battled with loss of religious belief, and experienced problematic productions of his plays during his lifetime. But O’Neill wasn’t the only playwright influenced by the melancholy, mad Swede; you only have to look to the works of Harold Pinter, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, and Edward Albee to see how his path-breaking concern with the psyche entered into the DNA of the modern drama.

Two major film auteurs also harked back to Strindberg. Ingmar Bergman, who was familiar with the other great Scandinavian’s work at the tender age of 12, thereafter regarded him as his “companion for life,” according to an essay by Egil Tornqvist, professor emeritus of Scandinavian studies at the University of Amsterdam. Indeed, Bergman would be responsible for 28 Strindberg productions for stage, television and radio throughout his lifetime. Even a screenplay of his own, Persona, features a plot point borrowed from Strindberg’s one-act The Stronger: an actress who suddenly stops talking.

Yet another figure looking back to Strindberg is Woody Allen. Isaac Davis, the principal figure of his 1979 film, Manhattan, remarks, “When it comes to relationships with women, I’m the winner of the August Strindberg Award.” It’s a comic summary of a character who struggles with relationships with a lesbian ex-wife who exposes his shortcomings as lover and husband in a bestselling tell-all, Marriage, Divorce and Selfhood; with the mistress of his married best friend; and with a 17-year-old high-school student. And, for a screenwriter famous for writing so many great roles for women, Allen’s own offscreen relationships mirror Strindberg’s in their turbulence. 

(Even before the two-decade tabloid war with ex-lover Mia Farrow, Allen was sued several years after their divorce by first wife Harlene Rosen, who understandably took exception to being made the centerpiece of his nightclub act with jokes such as this: “My first wife lives on the Upper West Side and I read in the paper the other day that she was violated on her way home—knowing my first wife, it was not a moving violation.”)

As might be expected from one of the most wildly misogynistic creative artists of all time, Strindberg persistently depicted men at bay. The principal male figures in two of his most frequently performed plays, The Father and The Dance of Death, collapse with strokes, a kind of psychological unmanning at the hands of a gender that, he believed, held the mental upper hand in any relationship and therefore did not require the reforms urged by the feminist movement. This was all par for the course for someone who regarded women as an “army of whores and would-be whores—professional whores with abnormal inclinations.”

Well, as for “abnormal inclinations,” it takes one to know one, I guess. This is a fellow with three wives whom he ended up divorcing, one woman to whom he was engaged for 24 hours, numerous other mistresses, and a sister, Anna von Philp, for whom, biographer Michael Meyer believes, he harbored a strong physical attraction. (That didn’t prevent him from tossing her out of the house when she took pity after listening to his ceaseless complaints about his terrible cooks and came to help for a week.)

Strindberg fascinates me for another reason: he might have been the most unlikely writer to work in a job I held for two decades: librarian. Journalism did not appeal to him, and he came to feel that university life at Uppsala represented “a nest of owls.” But, at least for a while—eight years—he found a congenial home, at age 25, in a position procured for him by friends: Sweden’s Royal Library. It not only provided him with the income to marry his first wife (which, admittedly, the two of them might have eventually regarded as a mixed blessing), but with much-needed intellectual subsistence. He became especially interested in anthropology and, as a result of learning Chinese to aid in cataloguing, the Far East, inspiring his A Dream Play.

Influenced by the head of the library, the mystic Gustav Klemming, Strindberg also first became interested in the occult. Nearly two decades later, the playwright gave full vent to this interest in what has become known as his Occult Diary, a 12-year record of his dreams, coincidences, correspondences between seemingly unlike things, and events that could not be explained by rational means. Even at the start of this psychological exploration, the playwright, used to controversy by this time, wrote: “This diary must never be printed!” (A fascinating post on the Yale Books Blog discusses what this meant for his art.)

The dramatist of instability and altered states, Strindberg broke free of the tradition of the well-made play in a manner that even his great Scandinavian theater rival, Henrik Ibsen, couldn’t approach. His plays offer actors the opportunity to play complicated characters with larger-than-life but still recognizable dimensions, as in the production of The Dance of Death I saw at Broadway’s Broadhurst theater in the fall of 2001 starring Ian McKellen and Helen Mirren.

Strindberg departed from the poetic, historical epic dramas characteristic of the Scandinavian theater world of his time in favor of forays into naturalism, symbolism and even hints of expressionism. In particular, Miss Julie, his 1888 psychosexual drama of a wild fling between an aristocratic young woman and her servant, has proven quite a touchstone for contemporary class-conscious playwrights, with two adaptations that translated its setting into later times. I reviewed the Roundabout Theatre’s 2009 production of Patrick Marber’s After Miss Julie (set on the night when Conservative Winston Churchill lost to Clement Attlee’s Labour Party) here, and two months ago Washington’s Shakespeare Theater Company staged Yael Farber’s Mies Julie (set on a South African estate after apartheid).

(The accompanying photographic self-portrait, done around 1892, captures the dark, haunted nature of Strindberg better than any other image I can think of.)