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"The Glass Menagerie' at People's Light
Escape is not an option
ANNE R. FABBRI
Before The Glass Menagerie catapulted Tennessee Williams to fame and fortune in 1945 he was just another young, promising writer striving for recognition. Now, 63 years later, Williams is venerated, imitated and quoted. But is he still relevant?
The current revival now playing at the People’s Light and Theatre Company should reassure us. His essential truth— that families want to shape us in their image, and if we don’t break away, we’ll suffocate— still touches our hearts.
The Glass Menagerie is a memory play, so autobiographical that the playwright gives the poet/narrator his original name, Thomas, before he changed it in memory of his grandfather’s birthplace. The format is classical, with roots in the oral tradition memorialized in Homer’s Odyssey. It opens with the narrator smoking on the fire escape of his family’s tenement apartment in St. Louis across the alley from the Paradise Dance Hall.
“Yes, I have tricks in my pocket,” says Tom. “But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.” He then sets the stage: The time is the mid-’30s when, Tom says, “The huge middle class was matriculating in a school for the blind.”
Irony and vulnerability
Tom then describes the staging he envisions and the characters: His mother, Amanda; his sister, Laura; the gentleman caller and Tom himself, brilliantly played by Kevin Bergen. His narrations strike just the right touch of irony, coupled with a vulnerability that claims our sympathy.
Although Tom’s father deserted the family years before, he is omnipresent through his framed photograph in a World War I soldier’s uniform. Amanda, Tom’s mother, was left (stuck) with the task of raising two kids during the Depression– no job, no money, sustained only by memories of a Southern girlhood that seems more idyllic with each desolate year. Laura, Tom’s sister, has retreated from life, walking with a limp and unable to meet any challenge. Tom, the burgeoning poet, works in a shoe company warehouse to pay the rent, buy the food and dream of the day he can escape.
Sympathy for a nag
Amanda, a strong character, is ably interpreted by Marcia Saunders. “She means well,” is the common definition of such a person. What is usually left unsaid is that she is a nag and a pain in the neck. You just want to get away from her; but, in retrospect, even the put-upon Tom can summon a certain sympathy for Amanda’s plight.
Since Laura, Tom’s sister, seems unlikely to support herself, their mother becomes obsessed with the idea of Laura meeting and marrying someone who will be their support. It must begin with a Gentleman Caller invited to dinner by Tom from among his co-workers at the warehouse. The play builds to this crescendo and then it breaks your heart.
Remember the high school hero: the basketball star, captain of the debating team who had the lead in the class play? We all hoped some day he would notice our existence. Sadly, years later he was a non-entity, still living on memories. That is the Gentleman Caller, Jim O’Connor, who shatters the Wingfield family’s existence. As played by Darren Michael Hengst, Jim conveys just the right amount of braggadocio to conceal his growing self-doubts. As Tom says, “He is the long-delayed but always-expected something that we live for.”
A credible Laura
Although Williams specified that a special spotlight should always shine on Laura, she has relatively few lines to speak. However, she must hold your thoughts and attention. As played by Elizabeth Webster Duke, Laura does not limp too much nor seem too abject to be believable. There is still hope. Tom’s presentation to her of a rainbow-colored scarf betrays a certain intimacy that has filled their lives. Laura’s reaction to Jim’s kiss suddenly releases all the sexual tensions in the play and prepares us for the ending. Jim has broken the horn of her beloved glass unicorn, the medieval symbol of virginity.
Ken Marini’s expert direction conveys the reality of illusion, and the play turns out to be dated only in terms of its decade and century. The timeless lesson is that we’re all trapped; escape is never possible. In this realization rests the genius of Tennessee Williams.
ANNE R. FABBRI
Before The Glass Menagerie catapulted Tennessee Williams to fame and fortune in 1945 he was just another young, promising writer striving for recognition. Now, 63 years later, Williams is venerated, imitated and quoted. But is he still relevant?
The current revival now playing at the People’s Light and Theatre Company should reassure us. His essential truth— that families want to shape us in their image, and if we don’t break away, we’ll suffocate— still touches our hearts.
The Glass Menagerie is a memory play, so autobiographical that the playwright gives the poet/narrator his original name, Thomas, before he changed it in memory of his grandfather’s birthplace. The format is classical, with roots in the oral tradition memorialized in Homer’s Odyssey. It opens with the narrator smoking on the fire escape of his family’s tenement apartment in St. Louis across the alley from the Paradise Dance Hall.
“Yes, I have tricks in my pocket,” says Tom. “But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.” He then sets the stage: The time is the mid-’30s when, Tom says, “The huge middle class was matriculating in a school for the blind.”
Irony and vulnerability
Tom then describes the staging he envisions and the characters: His mother, Amanda; his sister, Laura; the gentleman caller and Tom himself, brilliantly played by Kevin Bergen. His narrations strike just the right touch of irony, coupled with a vulnerability that claims our sympathy.
Although Tom’s father deserted the family years before, he is omnipresent through his framed photograph in a World War I soldier’s uniform. Amanda, Tom’s mother, was left (stuck) with the task of raising two kids during the Depression– no job, no money, sustained only by memories of a Southern girlhood that seems more idyllic with each desolate year. Laura, Tom’s sister, has retreated from life, walking with a limp and unable to meet any challenge. Tom, the burgeoning poet, works in a shoe company warehouse to pay the rent, buy the food and dream of the day he can escape.
Sympathy for a nag
Amanda, a strong character, is ably interpreted by Marcia Saunders. “She means well,” is the common definition of such a person. What is usually left unsaid is that she is a nag and a pain in the neck. You just want to get away from her; but, in retrospect, even the put-upon Tom can summon a certain sympathy for Amanda’s plight.
Since Laura, Tom’s sister, seems unlikely to support herself, their mother becomes obsessed with the idea of Laura meeting and marrying someone who will be their support. It must begin with a Gentleman Caller invited to dinner by Tom from among his co-workers at the warehouse. The play builds to this crescendo and then it breaks your heart.
Remember the high school hero: the basketball star, captain of the debating team who had the lead in the class play? We all hoped some day he would notice our existence. Sadly, years later he was a non-entity, still living on memories. That is the Gentleman Caller, Jim O’Connor, who shatters the Wingfield family’s existence. As played by Darren Michael Hengst, Jim conveys just the right amount of braggadocio to conceal his growing self-doubts. As Tom says, “He is the long-delayed but always-expected something that we live for.”
A credible Laura
Although Williams specified that a special spotlight should always shine on Laura, she has relatively few lines to speak. However, she must hold your thoughts and attention. As played by Elizabeth Webster Duke, Laura does not limp too much nor seem too abject to be believable. There is still hope. Tom’s presentation to her of a rainbow-colored scarf betrays a certain intimacy that has filled their lives. Laura’s reaction to Jim’s kiss suddenly releases all the sexual tensions in the play and prepares us for the ending. Jim has broken the horn of her beloved glass unicorn, the medieval symbol of virginity.
Ken Marini’s expert direction conveys the reality of illusion, and the play turns out to be dated only in terms of its decade and century. The timeless lesson is that we’re all trapped; escape is never possible. In this realization rests the genius of Tennessee Williams.
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