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THE
ENDURING O’NEILL: THE EARLY
PLAYS The Preview Issue of
The Eugene O’Neill Newsletter published four
discussions of “Which Plays Will Survive,” which had been
presented at the O’Neill seminar at the Modern Language Association
Convention a year before. Most of these were by younger scholars who
had little good to say about the early plays--those written before
1935. Now Frederick Wilkins has offered me the opportunity to make
rebuttal. For I believe that many of these early plays will
survive--indeed many have already been revived many times--and
that some will continue to rank very high. Scholars sometimes
forget that a generation gap exists in literature as in life. The
judgments of one generation are often reversed by the next. When
American Literature was first taught sixty years ago, Longfellow and
Whittier were major figures, Emily Dickinson was a minor poet and
Melville was briefly mentioned. Yet every generation continues to
judge the past in the conviction that its judgments will be final.
Now, none of O’Neill’s early plays makes even the next-to-top
rating in John Raleigh’s six categories of excellence, while
Virginia Floyd judges that, “with the exception of Desire Under the Elms, they can be classified as mediocre,
indifferent, and really awful.” --Well, I disagree. About 1930 Mr. Leon Mirlas directed a production of The Great God Brown in Buenos Aires. Recently he wrote an introduction to the Spanish translation of my Twayne book on O’Neill (Buenos Aires, 1972). But he took a strenuous exception to my judgment that Long Day’s Journey was O’Neill’s most perfect play. Not so, he objected, Desire Under the Elms remained the best. And I suspect that many voices out of the past, if they could still be heard, would echo his protest. In moods of nostalgia I would agree--the very perfection of Long Day’s Journey, which in part derives from the author’s disinvolvement from his material, sometimes creates a feeling of coldness. Some of the early plays had more of the throbbing pulse of life in them. Take my own
experience with Desire. When I first saw the play I identified
strongly with young Eben Cabot, and hated his stubborn, selfish father
with a purple passion. (Incidentally, young Perry Miller acted as one
of the chorus of townspeople in the first New York production.) Later
after rereading the play, and especially after studying Emerson, I
realized that Ephraim Cabot was also an embodiment of “The New
England Mind” in action--a farmer in the company of Emerson’s
“Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Merriam, Flint.” Now I believe
that Ephraim Cabot is the most interesting and the most powerful
character created by O’Neill--infinitely more interesting, of
course, than the moon-calf Eben, more real than any of his
contemporaries, and finally a kind of incarnation of the old Puritan
God. Negatively, I find
Doris Falk’s charge that Desire suffers from the bar-sinister
of melodramatic ancestry beside the point. Melodrama is the raw
material of myth, (and also of opera), and some of O’Neill’s best
plays achieve greatness by means of what Mary Mccarthy (in criticizing
A Moon for the Misbegotten) calls
their “mythic powers.” When O’Neill attempted to create pure
myth, as in The Fountain, he failed; when he sought
consciously to adapt ancient myth, as in Mourning Becomes Electra, he seems contrived; but when he allowed the actual
materials of his Irish and New England origins to create their own
myths, he sometimes achieved greatness. One difficulty which tradition-minded critics, such as Eric Bentley and Doris Falk, find in O’Neill stems, I think, from a dislike, and perhaps fear, Of the irrational and the unconventional. When O’Neill transmutes melodrama into myth, they imagine a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. If they had been writing in 1605, they might have labeled Hamlet a melodramatic ghost story. I do not mean to compare Desire with Hamlet, but the creative process by which melodrama may be transmuted into tragic myth is the same in each. Or take a less
successful play of the early period, Strange Interlude.
From the beginning, Interlude has labored under the obvious
faults of extreme length, dubious psychology, and Freudian
jargon--faults which time has only emphasized. Moreover, it too
derived from a contemporary melodrama, which later resulted in an
abortive lawsuit charging plagiarism. But in 1929 it overcame these
faults to achieve an incredible success in the theatre. And this
success, I believe, also derived from its transmutation of melodrama
into myth. Nina’s invocation of “God the Mother,” and the
utterly unrealistic scene in which she addresses, in turn, “my three
men,” appeals to an imagination beyond reason. To speak
autobiographically, that scene moved me more profoundly than any other
which I have witnessed in a lifetime of theatre-going. And so, beyond
reason, I believe that Strange Interlude also will
survive. To go back to the
beginning, in 1923 and 1924 when O’Neill’s early plays were
achieving prominence I was writing drama reviews for the Harvard Crimson. I do not remember reviewing any of O’Neill’s
plays, but I do remember seeing them, and I particularly remember my
absorption in a performance of Beyond the Horizon.
But most significant was my feeling of identification with the
audience as we emerged, from the theatre after that performance,
walking in a kind of trance, and wondering how anything like this
could ever have happened in America. It was an almost religious
experience of being born again--a renaissance of the theatre in the
new world. It may be a waste of
time to construct a hierarchy of O’Neill’s plays, because
different plays will survive for different reasons. By the formal
standards of traditional criticism, Desire may rank with Long Day’s Journey, and certainly with
A Moon for the Misbegotten. Emperor Jones
remains perfect in its own way, as Hughie is today. Ah, Wilderness
and Anna Christie survive on their own terms. But the
final greatness of O’Neill’s plays lies, I think, in their
dramatization of the irrational elements of human nature--a
dramatization successfully realized (but not successfully formalized)
in Strange Interlude, and achieving final, formal
perfection in The Iceman Cometh. --Frederic I. Carpenter Walnut Creek, California |
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