Of course any production of Long Day's Journey stands or falls on the basis of its actors, who, along with the director, tip the seesaw of guilt and innocence, and of audience sympathy, this way or that. And the PSC's cast was fully capable of the assignment, especially the older generation.

Helen Stenborg was the bitterest Mary I have ever seen. (I missed the Geraldine Fitzgerald performance, which, according to reports, may have been its equal in that area.) Oh, there were moments when Stenborg's Mary aroused our sympathy: she seemed sincerely, even fiercely protective of her "baby" whenever physicians or state farms were discussed; and at moments like the end of Act One, when she was seated alone at the central table, her left hand grasping the lace of her bodice, her right hand frantically kneading the tablecloth as the darkness enveloped her, she revealed an inner vulnerability that evoked abundant pity. But through the evening, as her roving eyes grew more and more roving, the most telling moments were the bitter ones--frequently a sudden shift from tearful candor to gelid façade, as the mask clicked back into place. This Mary, being the toughest, thickest-skinned battler of the four, and seeming quite content with her lot, ultimately earned less pity than any of her three men.

Ford Rainey, true to the nice-guy image nurtured in decades of work in television and regional theatre, was a nice-guy James, put upon by a wife and sons who had let him down all too often. Like Stenborg, he seemed a little old for his role, and his periodic stumbling around did little to suggest either parental authority or theatrical command (James's, that is). And he sometimes reached too hard for pity (ours, that is), especially in his scenes with Mary. But he had splendid vocal power and range, with just enough brogue to reveal James's origins; and in the last act, in the confession duo with Edmund, when declaring his love of Shakespeare and extending the "dreeeeams" in Prospero's line, we caught,_, for just a moment or two, the stance and voice of the towering, promising star James Tyrone once had been. Ford Rainey showed clearly why he is one of the best and most respected actors in the American theatre.

As the sons, Paul McCrane (Edmund) and W. T. Martin (Jamie) looked plausibly fraternal. Martin was too neatly clean-cut and proto-preppy for someone supposedly ravaged by intemperate consumption. He succeeded in conveying the aura of the Broadway sport, and was touching in his warmer moments {e.g., the "we're all so proud of you" scene with Mary in Act One); but he failed to catch the diabolic and self-laceratingly sardonic sides of Jamie's character, so his fourth-act monologue had no visceral impact. Paul McCrane shared with Martin a tendency to shout too loud at accusatory moments (usually followed, on McCrane's part, by brooding stares at the floor). But he demonstrated again the extreme sensitivity to language and ideas that he had revealed as Don Parritt in last season's Iceman Cometh on Broadway. Edmund may be the most difficult role of the four to render believable, since his eccentricities are more of the mind than the body, and it's harder to "play" a mystic, intellectual and creative artist than a ham, an alcoholic or a dope fiend. But McCrane brought Edmund's words and feelings to palpable life, making his scene of shared confessions with his father in the last act the highlight of the evening.

Sarah Bedner, a PSC acting intern, completed the cast competently as an unobtrusive Cathleen, representative of that. simpler world where the only threats are the hands of the chauffeur and the tongue of the cook, and in which snoring is a sign of sanity, fog is beneficial to the complexion, and drink is just "a good man's failing"! The Portland Stage Company deserves congratulations for providing its subscribers with a moving, faithful and virtually uncut production of O'Neill's masterwork.

--Frederick C. Wilkins