Eugene O’Neill’s A Long Day’s Journey into Night may be the one play whose title is also an accurate review of the work itself. Clocking in at four hours long, Journey is part deep dive into an autobiographical tale of compromised family dynamics via rampant substance abuse, and a narcissism display endurance test.
My views on the play are unpopular, and I’m fully aware that they can be shouted down by many astute dramaturgs. They run perpendicular to Pulitzer Prize judges and most critics who’ve prostrated themselves in the service of its classical grandeur.
Before I unlock the comments section where I’m torn apart, let me say I do get why it is labeled important – and I do believe there are subjective reasons for my diminishing opinion of the work. This is, I should remind all, a review of the performance I attended. My opinions of the play are simply context for what I thought was possible to get out of it, and the heroic attempts to elevate it past a whining tantrum of self-indulgence.
Oof, right? It gets better. I just needed to get that off my chest.
O’Neill entices us to a join a tight-knit family (all proxies for his actual real-life family members) in a summer house in Connecticut. Each of the four people struggles with their individual demons. They spar with the others’ devils like a slap fight using blame, resentment, contempt, and self-absolution as the verbal weapons of choice. It is one looong argument that many of us have been through in our own family units – or witnessed in the worlds of friends and partners. The degree to which it is triggering (and it really can be) has a lot to do with how relatable it is to your experience. Eugene O’Neill is not in the habit of pulling his literary punches.
He creates a particular circle of hell where the only setting is the family’s living room – static, unchanging, and completely unconcerned with the teeth-gnashing cries for help going on inside it. The house is situated in a frequently foggy location that obscures the landscape outside and insulates this hell from onlookers, but also cages them in a claustrophobic prison of their own choosing. The tolling ‘bell’ of a distant foghorn marks the inexorable march of their shared sentence – a reminder of their inability to move forward. This setting delivers a pressure cooker effect that exacerbates the conflicts the characters have with each other.
All of this is prime real estate for grand speeches and towering revelations of gripe and spite. What we get though, is a timid back-and-forth of needling and retreat. This one blames the other for a trauma in one breath and retracts it over a swig off a new bottle just liberated from the whiskey cellar. This rings true to human experience. We often blast our loved ones and swiftly apply the triage needed to ensure a future blasting is possible. We rely on those relationships as punching bags and mend their broken seams because they’re irreplaceable. Whether or not it is truthful to the human condition is for naught when the product of the sentiment is repetitive, long-winded, and a grind to endure. It is a work of art intended to discomfort – prolonged to the border of torture, and resolved with an ending that leaves us back at the beginning. I said I understood why the play is important, and I truly do. I just don’t enjoy it.
In the very capable hands of Anna Johnson and Laine Satterfield’s Cadence Theatre, “A Long Day’s Journey…” fulfills its promise, as it were, ably. First of all, and I know this is the most basic praise ever for actors, but dammn, that was a lot of dialogue to memorize. At least with Shakespeare there’s a lyrical rhythm to tap your mental foot to while reciting. Just had to mention it, because whoa, that was impressive.
Every actor has the job of putting on the skin of a character in voice, movement, and quirk that goes beyond just speaking the written words. One of the finest aspects of the job is the wide lanes of choices the artist has to choose from when embodying their character. All can be faithful to the source material – but not all choices are created equal. Some are confusingly applied. Some are exhilarating to watch. Some are just there, kinda boring, begging the question of “why bother?” With a play that requires attention spans suited to decades past, the room-temperature options can be worse than the uniquely confusing. We get a little bit of a lot of this here.
Matt Radford Davies’ James Tyrone Sr. falls into the aforementioned exhilarating category. He plays Eugene O’Neill’s fathers’ avatar, and does so with a compelling naturalism. He understood this character and clearly has the capacity to portray him with compassion. He was riveting. James Tyrone Sr. is a retired actor, having dragged his family all over the world in support of his consistent career playing the same character over and over again to great commercial success – if not artistic fulfillment. Mr. Davies morphed into the role with aplomb and was the node upon which the entire production powered itself.
Robin Arthur had the task of imbuing Mary Tyrone with a dynamism not found in your average morphine addict. As such, the character herself is defined by an apologism for her addiction, which manifests as a blame game for the family that condemns her frailty, and a denialism of the true gravity of her descent. The morphine-induced detachment such a performance requires may be accurate, but it creates a tarpit of sameness in line delivery that is unfortunately flat and difficult to stay engaged with. Ms. Arthur should not be judged by this professionally. My opinions of the work are more expressed here than my opinion of how she managed the role. It’s just not primed for much growth. There’s no arc, no change, just malaise.
Edmund Tyrone – and oh my God, the emo award goes to Mr. O’Neill again here. Edmund is the name of the infant that would have been Eugene’s older brother had he survived, well, infancy. In the play, the deceased infant is named Eugene, and the surviving character and protagonist (O’Neill’s avatar) is named Edmund. Much of the daylong timeline of the play centers around this character receiving a diagnosis from the local (quack?) doctor for a persistent and troubling cough. This puts him at the center of the family’s concern and sparks a number of the works’ arguments thick with finger-pointing – and resolved with whiskey. A lot of whiskey. Trace Cole’s interpretation of Edmund is there. He shows up. He delivers the obligation, if not the potential, of the character. He leaves a lot on the table for a person going through such a tense and foreboding experience. He does find a groove opposite Matt Radford Davies late in the play, where they share a bottle and revelatory explanations for past disappointments. If the rest of the play rose to this occasion, I’d put even money on Mr. Cole riding its crest.
Last amongst the leads is Axle Burtness’ Jamie, Edmund’s older brother. A whoring drunk, a less interesting Biff (of Death of a Salesman), and disappointment to all involved, Jamie is as unflattering a character as one’s little brother could possibly write. Axle plays Jamie a bit disinterestedly, which in a production this long can only breed the same from the audience. I give him props for not going full stage drunk by the end of the show, and only wish his co-stars would have taken the bait to show any kind of degression in their sobriety as Axle was bold enough to even try. Seeing the entire family fall prey to their addictions’ quicksand would have actually taken this single-setting group therapy session and made it a battle royale with a crescendo.
Rusty Wilson, the Director, has some of the hardest work to do here. Blocking this play must have been a parade of Spohie’s choices on when a character gets up out of the chair they’re currently sitting in and decides to walk across the stage and go sit in the other chair on the other side of the room. There isn’t much room for anything else. Sometimes, this induced action is obviously done so that something, anything, can be kinetic. It seemed restless, which I guess is fitting, but like I said earlier, doesn’t necessarily create an enjoyable experience. It reminded me of caged tigers that would remind themselves every so often that they were, in fact, in a cage. Like the performers above, I don’t blame Rusty, I blame Eugene O’Neill.
All in all, I applaud the effort. I truly want to give special consideration for Mr. Davies’ Tyrone Sr. because that was a masterclass. To all the rest, I’m sorry I couldn’t find what I know you were hoping to show. I believe in Cadence and I believe in Firehouse. You can’t win ‘em all.
Photos by Jason Collins
See the play, tickets on sale HERE
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