Americans shrink from the painful and complex in art, and yet they distrust with equal contempt the light, the straightforward, and the simple. If we fear the serious because it might be pompous and obscure, we also rush, usually unwisely, to respect it: Works that are heavy and somber and overlong are obviously art; works that are slyly inventive and fast on their feet are suspect. Both Mamet and O’Neill are playwrights whose work comes with that reassuring heaviness attached—though both, in their very different ways, are playful and even sly in spirit. O’Neill, who had the harder struggle articulating his intentions in dialogue, produced massive dramatic structures, weighed down with thick, repetitive speeches. Mamet’s frequently parodied machine-gun repetitions, in contrast, feed into dramas that are short, quirky, and built for speed—the seriousness of our later, hurry-up era.
People put off by Mamet’s quirkiness and brevity tend to read past the substance of his plays in search of something else: He’s the poet of this or the indicter of that. When American Buffalo had its second New York production (the 1977 Broadway one, with Robert Duvall), the mainstream media were touting him as a spokesman for working-class America. I remember a batch of old lefties from the Voice‘s front-of-book staff complaining, “This guy don’t know how working people talk.” But there aren’t any working people in Buffalo—the characters are a fence, a thief, and a recovering junkie who’s an apprentice thief, professional criminals who see themselves as business entrepreneurs. The word business, proliferating in the dialogue, is one of the script’s hidden refrains. “We’re doing business.”
This irony cuts, lightly and comically, both ways. You can, if you insist, take the play as an allegory of American business practices. At the same time, the claim is a joke on the characters’ own tendency to inflate their actions: No business, not even criminal business, actually gets done; the one transaction, which takes place offstage, is that quintessentially American act, a purchase at face price, with borrowed money. The moral might be “crime does not pay,” except for the script’s utter lack of sententiousness and the dense pileup of other matters, psychological and social, under its ping-pongy verbal surface. Or even on that surface: The pivotal role is that of a man called Teach, whose full name can only be found in the published text. Knowledge and the act of teaching are intimately bound up with the action, and the verb teach is another of those openly hidden refrains. (“The only way to teach these people,” the irate Teach says early on, “is to kill them.”)
Teach, who wheedles his way into the business that doesn’t come off, and whose paranoia brings on the climactic disaster, is the play’s tonal as well as dramatic center. Varicolored, the role’s open to a wide variety of interpretations—a mark of the play’s quality. W.H. Macy’s been knocked for playing Teach lightly, but who ever said Teach was a heavy character, or the play a ponderous piece of work? Even more curious, who would think that Macy, a Mamet specialist—he created the role of Bobby in the play’s very first production—wouldn’t know how to make the character tough and menacing if need be? (Full disclosure: At the Guthrie, in 1978, I directed him in Mamet’s comic monologue Litko.) Robert Duvall, Broadway’s Teach, was indeed a scary figure—a borderline psycho who, from his very first entrance, seemed more than likely to kill someone by the final curtain. Al Pacino’s Teach, some years later, was one of the oddest exhibitions I’ve ever seen: A heavily stylized portrait of underworld disappointment, with a windup-toy walk, a glassy-eyed stare, and hands held, finlike, at shoulder height, it suggested a penguin playing Mamet at the Comédie-Française. Better than either of them, for my money, was New York’s first Teach—salty, gnarled Mike Kellin, who poured a streak of Duvall’s savagery into a sardonic sense of failure far realer than Pacino’s.
Macy, more skilled than any of these as a light comedian, has enough harshness to make his own, slightly upscale version of Kellin’s balance. A little classier and younger than his predecessors, he links the character’s out-for-blood drive to his sense of inadequacy. The jittery body and the final smashup suggest a jailbird on a rampage; the hapless, perplexed line readings evoke Bob Hope. Director Neil Pepe clearly intends this comic lightening, for it’s seconded by Philip Baker Hall’s Donny, a graying, aging figure, more sincerely paternal and less ostentatiously crooked than usual. Taking away the signals of previous versions, Pepe’s staging reveals other motives: Donny’s personal resentment of the customer who found the rare nickel; his increasing weariness with the illegal grind; the hint that Teach, like Bobby, was once a boy Donny nurtured. While seeming to make Buffalo bouncier, gentler, less “significant,” this lightened version ends up showing you more rather than less of its complex material. Tickling the brain instead of punching the gut, the performance reminds me of something Mamet inscribed on the flyleaf of a copy of Buffalo: “The only way to kill these people is to teach them.”
I wish I could speak as well of A Moon for the Misbegotten, but I suspect I’ll have to wait and see it again before that’s possible. Cherry Jones, the press rep advises, has been performing despite flu, and I can’t tell how much of her performance that explains. Certainly this is a tenderer, more soft-spoken version of Josie Hogan than we’re used to, or than O’Neill calls for—but is that interpretation or illness, or both? O’Neill’s play, for all its boxy bulk, is a set of nested illusions, at the heart of which is a fervently lapsed Catholic’s malicious parody of the Church’s central dogma: In this play’s miracle, “a virgin bears a dead child in the night, and the dawn finds her still a virgin.” Josie, a farmer’s daughter who poses as brutal and promiscuous, is the virgin, tender-hearted and maternal. The dead child is a living adult male—her landlord, James Tyrone Jr., O’Neill’s cruel yet forgiving portrait of his older brother. Josie’s father, a rowdy sadist frightened only by her, is another sheepish sentimentalist in wolf’s clothing; he schemes to pair Jamie and Josie because he fears the rich man next door, who wants to get rid of the Hogans by buying the farm. But the drunken night that landlord and farmer’s daughter spend together is one of confession and removal of masks, not sex. Sick with guilt at having betrayed his mother, by picking up a whore on the train that brought her corpse east for burial, Jamie is no suitor. Part shrink—the play contains several allusions to the talking cure—and part maternal surrogate, Josie works an act of absolution on this self-crucified creature, forming a topsy-turvy Pietà, cleansing him of guilt and freeing herself from her father’s schemes and her own poses.
The play’s theatrical machinery may clank, but the substance passing through it is both big and variegated. The hard part, nowadays, is not getting put off by the machinery. Dan Sullivan, a director strongly committed to old-style naturalism, builds the machine too heavily for my taste: Eugene Lee’s elaborate naturalistic set, almost aggressively un-grand, shoves the dowdy farmhouse up to the curtain line, backing it with rocks and foliage till there’s no glimpse of the Connecticut sky, though moon and sunrise are important reference points. In similar vein, Sullivan allows Roy Dotrice free, and lengthy, rein to take stage, treating the role of Hogan in typical Roy Dotrice fashion, as an Irish-dialect music-hall act. It’s a first-rate act of its kind, and O’Neill, who loved vaudeville comedy, would have been the first to applaud, but its jolting lack of relation to the somber drama building between the lines paradoxically makes the evening lumpier, not lighter. When Gabriel Byrne’s Jamie comes on, we get a different phase of showbiz, a dashing, actorish leading man, exquisite of profile, who can evoke many of Jamie’s emotions—he caught my heart three or four times—but doesn’t create Jamie, neither the dissipated exterior nor the deadness at the core, for more than a few minutes.
And then there’s Jones. I want this performance to contain everything—God knows, the playwright demands everything an actress can give—and maybe at some point it will. Right now, leaving aside all questions of illness, what we see is the sweet and girlish side of the role, as if Jones had been painstakingly instructed to make clear, for the sake of less-than-bright tourist audiences, that Josie is not a trampy wild girl, dangerous with a tire iron, but a golden-hearted idealist. The forgiving smile comes early, the bold and bawdy gestures are gentled down or made less than convincing; in the two intense scenes with Jamie, the soft voice often catches Byrne’s pitch and comes in under his volume. These qualities, too, belong to the role, and when Josie can pour them out openly, Jones is stunning. (Her peak moment, obviously, is Josie’s confession of her virginity to Jamie.) For the rest, we’ll have to wait and see. This isn’t New York’s first Moon, but there’ll be time to compare Jones to other Josies when she’s more herself.