Arthur Miller and the art of the possible.
Centola, Steven R.
While commenting on the difference between playwriting and
screenwriting in his Preface to Everybody Wim, Arthur Miller used the
following illustration to illuminate his point about the subtextual
dimension of the theater:
If a telephone is photographed, isolated on
a table, and the camera is left running, it
becomes more and more what it is--a tele
phone in all its details ... Things go differently
on a stage. Set a phone on a table
under a light and raise the curtain, and in
complete silence, after a few minutes, some
thing will accrete around it. Questions
and anticipations will begin to emanate
from it, we will begin to imagine meanings
in its isolation--in a word, the phone
becomes an incipient metaphor. Possibly
because we cannot see its detail as sharply
as on film of because it is surrounded by
much greater space, it begins to animate,
to take on suggestive possibilities, very
nearly a kind of self-consciousness.
Something of the same is true of words as
opposed to images. The word is not and
can't be any more than suggestive of an
idea or sensation; it is nothing in itself.
("On Screenwriting and Language" vi)
Indeed, in itself a word is nothing. If we believe the
structuralists, a word is a symbol, a signifer or sign, a marker of
meaning that points to something, some referent or vast reservoir of
negotiable meanings beyond itself. The diacritical nature of language
inevitably means that even small differences in sound and sense will
produce tremendous variance in the determination and reception of
meaning. Even more significantly, and perhaps more problematically, if
we take a post-structuralist approach to language, a word points to an
endless chain of linked signifiers, and given the arbitrary nature of
the signifier and the system of which it is a part, this endless linked
series of associations inevitably multiplies the potential meanings of
every word and every sequence of words forming sentences in written
texts. The nuance that every word takes on and generates in the
reader's mind is affected by the nuances all these words have in
combination with each other, and all of this is then complicated by
unanticipated associations which generate a host of linked associations
and impressions, which collectively form unexpected meanings as they
stimulate the reader's imagination and even tap into the
unconscious. Perhaps for this reason, then, Miller, almost sounding a
little like a deconstructive theorist, characterizes the word as
nothing, but for Miller in its very, nothingness lie the richness,
density, and infinite possibilities of the word. After all, Miller tells
us, "a description in words tends to inflate, expand, and inflame
the imagination, so that in the end the thing or person described is
amplified into a larger-than-life figment" ("On Screenwriting
and Language" v). And that is the crucial part of the equation (or
the playwright: how to generate, shape, and string together words; how
to invent and hone theater language in such a way that what is created
constructs metaphorically an impression of reality that is powerful and
suggestive enough to stimulate an imaginative response within the
audience. As Miller recognizes, the possibilities inherent within the
whole dramatic event are limitless, for the fundamental indeterminacy of
meaning--an indeterminacy that Roland Barthes says inevitably results
from the plural nature of the play text as a discourse that can be
experienced only in the art of production- poses no nihilistic threat in
Miller's world. Such indeterminacy instead opens up the possibility
for rich speculative and imaginative discovery and generates endless
opportunities for creative and diverse interpretations--possibly, even,
a reinscription of oppositions, both with his own work and in the life
and condition of humanity he depicts in his art. Miller's comments
on the limitless and constantly mutating accretions accumulating around
the words spoken and objects presented on the stage not only call
attention to the subtextual dimension of the theater, but also show why
this very important feature of dramatic art makes the theater what
Miller described in 1999 as "the art of the possible" (Echoes
312).
Although in his commentary on the difference between the cinema and
the theater Miller does not give enough credit to good film directors
who can skillfully use the camera's eye to capture, isolate, and
present certain aspects of individual objects or scenes on the screen in
such a way that endows these scenic images with tremendous symbolic
significance, he does make an important point about the special nature
of theatrical presentation that causes words and objects on the stage to
gather accretions around them and take on a subtextual dimension that
knows no bounds. Whether it is the word or the scenic image, lighting or
sound, gesture or action, the language of the theater resonates with
extraordinary suggestiveness at almost any moment in a good play. And
that suggestiveness resonates with a stream of endless associations and
impressions that change not only from performance to performance but
also for every new audience. Christopher Bigsby effectively describes
the magical transformation that occurs during a theatrical performance:
Theatre is a form of alchemy and if the end-product
is not always gold at least certain transformations
have been effected. Frederick March, Lee J. Cobb,
Dustin Hoffman, and Warren Mitchell have all
played the part of Willy Loman in Death of a
Salesman. They spoke the same lines to the same
characters but they spoke them differently to different
audiences, in different sets, in front of different
people, in different theatres, at different times on
different continents ... Whenever any of us open our
mouths we speak the past. The words we use have
passed through other mouths. They've been shaped,
over time, by pleasures not our own. They're like
our own, but they're not our own. They've shed and
accumulated meanings. Perhaps that's the reason
we're drawn to the theatre. It enacts our own central
dilemma as actors inhabit someone else's words
and struggle to make them their own, just as we try
to imprint ourselves on the given. ("British View"
19-20)
As Bigsby points out, the theater is a place of transformation. The
theater is a place where nature is transmuted into art, where reality
meets and fuses with illusion, where text and subtext, character and
action, word and gesture become one, where opposites are held in
balanced suspension, and that, of course, is why the theater is the
realm of the possible.
The theater, unlike everything else--the cinema, the novel, and the
poem--is a living spectacle. That is why Clive Bloom says that the
visceral, three-dimensionality of the theatrical space,
at once muscular presence and fragile voice, is the
sinful nature of raw knowledge. Unlike film and
television, even and especially unlike commercial
radio, the theatre offers an authenticity which is
shocking and peculiarly distressing ... a type of primary
authenticity which unravels or questions the
inauthenticity of popular consumer culture and the
values of the American system." (Introduction to
American Drama 2-3)
"The sinful nature of raw knowledge," the peculiar
"authenticity" of the theatrical event, as Bloom puts it,
derives mainly from the fact that it is a live performance and therefore
its success depends on the performance, and oftentimes the
interpretation, of the performer who responds to cues within the script
and directorial decisions, and helps to turn word into speech and
action, which transmutes art into life and makes a text a living
presence on the stage for a live audience. The theater is not limited to
of constrained by the script. That is certainly the play's
beginning, but that is most definitely not its end. Undeniably, because
it is a collaborative art form, the play, even more so than the novel,
the cinema, or the poem, transcends the author's intentions and
understanding and essentially takes on a life of its own in each
performance. The world of the play can never be entirely circumscribed by the playwright's intentions any more than an author writing in
any other genre of literature can completely know of predict the
implication, association, or interpretation of every single word for
each individual reading, and reacting to, a particular work. To borrow a
phrase from John Barth, who used it in a different context, focusing
more on the art of narrative composition than on the act of reading or
responding to literary works, we can accurately characterize the genre
of drama as "a literature of replenishment" (The Friday Book
206). Text and subtext, word and gesture, speech and action--all of
these are fused into a remarkably coherent orchestration of sound and
silence, light and darkness, time and space, past and present, reality
and illusion. Opposites maintain a steady equilibrium in a carefully
balanced and beautifully suspended presentation that momentarily, almost
magically, transports us not only to an imagined world inhabited by
invented people, but that also mysteriously invades our deepest
consciousness and somehow suspends our individual ego while facilitating
a group consciousness that affects us not only in the theater but also
long after we experience the magic of the theatrical event. "What
the performance of a play gives an audience," says Robert A.
Martin, "is less a set of ideas, propositions, or abstractions
about life and how to live it than what Arthur Miller has called a
'felt experience,' the imaginative sharing and participation
in the lives and action of imaginary characters" ("The Nature
of Tragedy" 97). "The performance is mythic; our sensibilities
are enlivened by imaginary characters and we become engaged in their
conflicts ... {and by vicariously living through the characters'
conflicts in the theater} we also see how their lives illuminate, by
association, our own lives as individuals and as members of a larger
society" (98). For all of these reasons, Arthur Miller is right in
calling theater "the art of the possible" (Echoes 312).
What about Miller's own theater--a theater that has addressed
the problems of war-profiteering crimes, anti-Semitism, the Holocaust,
the Salem Witch Trials of 1692, the Great Depression, the inherent flaws
in the American Dream of material success, mental illness, memory loss,
infidelity, bigamy, incestuous desire, corruption in the American
criminal justice system, censorship and the invasion of privacy in
totalitarian countries, and other problems threatening to diminish the
value of human life in the modern age? His theater emphasizes the tragic
conditions of human existence, a theater that oftentimes depicts
frustration, anguish, and failure as the prevailing condition of people
trapped by circumstances and the crush of overwhelming forces in their
society or within their own psyche. Can we justifiably call
Miller's theater the art of the possible too? I believe that we
can, and my purpose in this essay is to attempt to explain why I believe
that his humanist values and postmodernist perspective provide audiences
worldwide with a vision of humanity that is uplifting and
life-affirming. His plays offer hope and solace for a world desperately
seeking to find a glimmer of hope in a world of darkness. In spite of
his tragic vision and brutally honest confrontation with the dark forces
of human depravity, Miller's plays show the possibility for
redemption, transcendence, even triumph in the face of seemingly
overpowering odds and adversity most inimical to human enterprise and
achievement.
Miller's theater is not escapist in nature, but neither is it
fatalistic, pessimistic, of nihilistic. It is a drama of hope not
despair, transcendence not reduction, and, above all else, the limitless
potentialities and possibilities of the human spirit.
When I interviewed Arthur Miller in August 2001, he spoke of one of
his more recent creations: Mr. Peters' Connections, which was
produced at the Signature Theater in 1998. The play is set in a
dilapidated nightclub, which Mr. Peters has entered to meet his wife. On
one level, it seems as if they may be interested in purchasing and
renovating the establishment for future use, but during the course of
his conversations with other characters, it becomes clear that Mr.
Peters seems uncertain of why he's even in this particular setting.
On another level, though, it is easy to view the set as completely
symbolic, representing the interior consciousness of Mr. Harry Peters,
an elderly man on the verge of death, trapped somewhere between life and
death, between consciousness and unconscious reverie. As the play
progresses and Mr. Peters engages in spirited, but sometimes puzzling
and even depressing, conversations with both real and imagined
characters, some alive and in the present and some dead and resurrected
from memories and images of the past, it becomes evident to the audience
that Mr. Peters is primarily concerned with finding some thread to his
life experience that ties everything together into a neat package, an
orderly and meaningful whole that has purpose, design, definition, and
clarity. His obsessive interest in finding the unseen inherent order is
blatantly shown through his repetitive questioning of both himself and
the others about the "subject" he searches for in their
conversation. Early in the play, Mr. Peters, on the verge of
understanding his dilemma but never completely coming to full conscious
awareness of his insight, says: "I just cannot find the subject!
Like I'll be strolling down the street, and suddenly I'm
weeping, everything welling up.--What is the subject? Know what I mean?
Simply cannot grasp the subject" (8). Clarifying the significance
of this repeated insistence by Mr. Peters on finding and understanding
"the subject," Miller, in his Preface to the play, tells us
that Mr. Peters is searching for "the secret, the pulsing center of
energy, what he calls the subject--that will make his life cohere"
(viii). By the play's end, Mr. Peters is no more certain of what
the subject is than he was at its beginning, and this lack of
resolution--this failure to reach a definitive position about the
subject--was not received well by Miller's critics, and is perhaps
even primarily responsible for the play being greeted with what Robert
Brustein has characterized as "the worst reviews of Miller's
career" ("Still Searching for Theater" 29-30).
Undoubtedly, one of the negative reviews Brustein refers to is his
own. Writing for the Neu' Republic in 1998, Brustein describes Mr.
Peters' Connections as "windy, tiresome, self-conscious, and
full of moony maundering." Associating what he views as the
play's structural flaws with the playwright's inability to
articulate his vision coherently, Brustein assumes that Miller
unintentionally creates a formless play that lacks resolution. Brustein
writes:
Miller is so eager to get things off his chest that he
hasn't bothered to provide his new play with a plot,
a form, or even much effort at characterization ... Mr.
Peters' Connections is like a long confession to a friend
which has yet to be proofed of edited.... He {Mr.
Peters} is looking for some continuity with his history
in "the hope of finding a subject." It is like
watching Arthur Miller at his typewriter wrestling
with the same elusive goal. ("Still Searching for
Theater" 29-30)
Brustein is not alone in identifying Harry Peters' struggle
for certitude with Miller's own personal frustrations, both as a
writer seeking to find the perfect form for his vision and as an
alienated artist who has sadly witnessed the terrible transformation of
the world surrounding him. Writing for the Village Voice, Michael
Feingold argues that Harry Peters is nothing more than a mouthpiece for
Arthur Miller. Feingold writes: "Like his hero, the 82-year-old
Miller barely seems to be connecting to the outside world these days.
His connections are to his memories, to his puzzlement over the
countless ways life has changed in this half-century, and to whatever
method he uses now to get words on paper" ("The Old Miller
Stream" 147). Making the same assumption, Nina Raine and Frances
Stonor Saunders, reviewing the play for the Neu' Statesman during
its production in London during the fall 2000 season, also identify the
playwright with his character: "thoughts of a dry brain in an
off-Broadway season. As Mr. Peters (or, rather, Miller) repeatedly
exclaims: 'There is no subject any more'"
("Miller's Tale" 30). This brief sampling of the critical
response to the New York and London productions of Mr. Peters'
Connections reveals two trends in the reviewers' response to the
play: one, the tendency to identify the author with his character and,
two, the conclusion that Miller, and his play, present the audience with
a grim, maybe even pessimistic, view of the human condition, a view in
their minds undoubtedly invited by the play's unsettling approach
to its central thematic interest, which echoes jarringly in the phrase
"There is no subject any more." While many have taken Mr.
Peters' Connections to be a radical departure from Miller's
other works and have read the play as a depressing conclusion to a long
and distinguished career, the play's thematic center can actually
be seen as perfectly consonant with the playwright's vision
throughout his career and, in fact, offers its audiences a vision of
hope and human possibility, not despair.
In our discussion in August 2001 Miller confirmed that there is a
subject in Mr. Peters' Connections; the playwright identifies it
for us in his play. Humanity, as Miller put it in our conversation, the
human mind, is the subject. Miller does not find it disturbing or
depressing that there is no inherent order or purpose to life and human
existence. The greatness of humanity lies in its ability to forge
meaning out of chaos. The human mind, Miller believes, shapes, defines,
clarifies, orders, and gives purpose and meaning to life and human
existence. In its unmediated state, life is chaos. Entropy is more than
just a theory; it is the fundamental condition of the expanding
universe, within which we struggle to resist the forces of chaos and
destruction and to elevate and ennoble the human condition. The human
mind alone brings light into a world of darkness, and because of its
power of transcendence and capacity for reason and logical discourse,
the human mind is worthy of celebration. "What is the
subject?" asks Mr. Peters. Miller answers: we are--and his play
implicitly provides this answer by showing us Mr. Peters'
thoughtful attempt to wrest some meaning out of his life's
experiences. In essence, his quest parallels that of Oedipus and other
great tragic figures who seek to understand the conditions of life and
their own unique role in shaping their personal destiny. Mr. Peters is
no tragic figure, but his efforts are noble and commendable and comment
positively on the potential of humanity for honest self-exploration. Mr.
Peters' Connections, like so much of Miller's work, is
ultimately a tribute to the art of the possible.
Earlier in his career, Miller wrote plays that more forcefully
explored this subject in the tragic mode and seemed, even more so than
Mr. Peters' Connections, to have little to do with human
possibility. In All Bly Sons and Death of a Salesman, for example, we
are presented with characters who clearly seem to be and even controlled
by environmental forces that severely diminish their capacity for free
choice. However, nothing is that simple in Miller's world. There
always remains a strong interplay between freedom and fate, a
paradoxical balance between deterministic forces at play in the lives of
individuals and the exercise and expression of one's own free will
that invariably triggers some catastrophic event.
All My Sons tells the story of a successful Mid-Western
manufacturer of airplane parts who knowingly allows defective engines to
be shipped to the United States Army during the Second World War. As a
result of his war profiteering crimes, twenty-one American pilots die
when the cracked cylinder heads cause their planes to malfunction and
crash. Exonerated by the courts for his role in the catastrophe, Joe
Keller, the play's central character, triumphantly returns to his
community and futilely attempts to return to a life of normalcy,
pretending the crime never occurred. The semblance of family harmony is
maintained until his son, Chris, himself under pressure as his
fiancee's brother forces him to acknowledge his own acquiescence,
questions Joe about his role in the sordid business transaction. Chris,
who fought bravely in combat during the war and had seen many of his
troops perish under his command, has a different outlook from his father
on the question of an individual's social responsibility. After
several powerful scenes of intense debate over the individual's
relation to society, Chris finally discloses his father's guilt and
challenges him to accept responsibility for his actions. Until his son
forces him to acknowledge his wrongdoing, Joe Keller steadfastly
maintains his innocence and justifies his anti-social behavior by
proclaiming his right to do anything necessary to keep the business from
collapsing and ensure his family's survival. Ultimately, as a
suicide letter discloses that his older brother preferred death over the
ignominy that issued from his father's war crime, Chris convinces
his father that he has an obligation to others in society as well.
Tortured by his guilt and unable to deal with the shame in his
son's eyes, Keller tries to escape from his intolerable situation
by putting a bullet in his head. The play ends with Chris facing with
horror his own complicity in his father's death With Joe
Keller's suicide, the play forcefully repudiates anti-social
behavior that derives from the myth of privatism in American society.
So why should we see this play as exemplifying what Miller calls
"the art of the possible"? Where is the hope and possibility
in a man's suicide following his realization of the enormity of his
anti-social behavior? In an interview with Henry Brandon in 1960, Miller
made a statement that seems to point toward an understanding of the
process of indirection that enables his drama to leave us with hope,
while presenting his audiences with portraits and chronicles of despair.
Miller said: "a playwright provides answers by the questions he
chooses to ask, by the exact conflicts in which he places his
people" (quoted in Theater Essays 227). In All My Sons, as in the
rest of his drama, Miller conveys a sense of possibility for humanity by
showing his audience the opportunity for choice; for the selection of a
different course of action in his characters' lives. Like Willy
Loman in Death of a Salesman, Eddie Carbone in A View from the Bridge,
and Maggie in After the Fall, Joe Keller chooses to see himself as a
victim of others, and of circumstances imposed on businessmen like
himself during the Second World War. He adopts a counterfeit innocence
and embraces the illusion that he is a victim of society, of the
competitive business world, of the culture that makes it imperative for
a man in American society to feel driven by the need to prosper, provide
for the family, and succeed in attaining the forever elusive,
unquestionably mythic American Dream. Keller denies his personal
culpability so that he can preserve his false image of himself and
maintain the illusion that he has regained his rightful place in
society. He blinds himself from the impulses that make him a danger to
himself and others in his society. Keller cannot face what Miller calls
"the murder in him, the sly and everlasting complicity with the
forces of destruction" (quoted in Theater Essays 256). Keller
chooses his behavior; it isn't chosen for him or forced on him. His
betrayal of trust and refusal to accept responsibility for others sets
in motion the chain of events that lead to his self-destruction. Through
showing us what happens when a man nullifies the value of the social
contract through the performance and justification of indefensible
anti-social acts, Miller emphasizes the importance of socially
responsible behavior and makes clear why crimes against society must be
censured. The sense of possibility in All My Sons derives from one
simple fact: Joe Keller chose his late and could have chosen
differently. Among other things, All My Sons shows that the impulse to
betray others and deny responsibility for the welfare of society, when
left ungoverned, can run rampant and wreak havoc on the individual, his
family, and his society--even, perhaps, civilization as a whole. The
Kellers, and many of those around them, choose to blame everyone else
for their dilemma, but the play actually shows its audiences that they
are the authors of their destiny and failure to accept the tremendous
burden of their freedom and responsibility is itself the cause of their
personal tragedy.
In an essay published in 1964, Richard Loughlin offers an
interesting perspective on the way All My Sons leaves its audiences with
a sense of hope for the future. Discussing the play as a tragedy in
Aristotelian terms, Loughlin argues that
The spectacle of the crimes and sufferings of another
stimulates our sympathy; it reminds us of the perils
and uncertainties of the human condition and of the
golden thread of strength of character that ties us all
together. Such meditation on life's challenges and
values may prompt us to rededicate our lives to
those ideas of the good, the true, and the beautiful
that any work of art enshrines. What ideals are
apparent or implied in All My Sons? Honesty,
brotherhood, patriotism, and true love, to mention
the most obvious ones. ("Tradition and Tragedy in
'All My Sons'" 27)
More recently, Hersh Zeifman discussed the play's
extraordinary fusion of form and vision as deriving from the
playwright's "rage for order, for an anodyne to {our}
'helplessness before the chaos of existence'" ("All
My Sons. After the Fall: Arthur Miller and the Rage for Order"
107). In its "relentless Ibsenite ... linearity, chronology,
causality ... the quest for order is dramatized in the play ... not only
formally but thematically: the conflict between Chris Keller and his
father is precisely the struggle between order and chaos"(108). In
their life-and-death struggle of ethics and values," the Kellers
present audiences with an important lesson about "relatedness"
and the necessity for "a connection with the larger family of
humanity" (108). The conflict they experience speaks directly to
every member of the audience, for as Robert A. Martin points out,
Miller's great achievement as a playwright allows us
to see and understand particular characters or groups
of characters as possessing universal, human traits,
even as we also see how their lives illuminate, by
association, our own lives as individuals and as
members of our larger society. In recognizing these
larger concerns, we recognize as well that Miller's
plays are not exclusively about individuals, but more
precisely, are about humanity and human societies
with all their contradictions and complications.
("The Nature of Tragedy" 98)
Nowhere is this aspect of Miller's drama more evident than in
his masterpiece, Death of a Salesman, for in its searing portrait of a
family in conflict, Miller achieves a near-perfect synthesis of the
social, moral, psychological, personal, and metaphysical levels of
experience, and shows how the death of a single individual touches
everyone in his family and audiences that witness his tragic collapse.
Much like All My Sons, Death of a Salesman presents us with an
individual, and a family, that have lost their ability to separate fact
from fiction, truth from lies, reality from illusion. The Lomans are so
deeply entrenched in the life-lie they have embraced that they find it
nearly impossible to communicate with each other without resorting to
the cliched rhetoric they have imbibed from the prevailing success myths
in their capitalistic society. Death of a Salesman is possibly Arthur
Miller's greatest play. It has been called the quintessentially
American play, and perhaps it has generated more critical and scholarly
discussion over the efficacy of the popular concept of the American
Dream than any other work of literature dealing with American society.
Studies of this play invariably discuss Willy Loman's self-delusion
and moral confusion in relation to Miller's indictment of the
competitive, capitalistic society that is responsible for dehumanizing
the individual and transforming the once promising agrarian American
dream into an urban nightmare. But whether it is approached as a tragedy
of the common man, a social drama indicting capitalism and American
business ethics, a sociological consideration of work alienation and its
impact on identity, a cultural critique of the American family and
stereotypical gender roles in American society, a modern morality play about today's Everyman, of a complex psychological study of guilt,
repression, and psychosis, Death of a Salesman is a compelling drama
that makes for an intensely moving and hauntingly memorable theatrical
experience. Despite its overwhelming sense of tragic inevitability, the
play gains most of its power from Miller's ability to turn the
self-destructive journey of Willy Loman into a tribute to the worth and
nobility of the human spirit. Even in the very process of showing the
devastating consequences that result when the individual succumbs to the
lure of denial and self-delusion, Death of a Salesman somehow manages to
affirm the value of human life and the potential for every individual to
strive to achieve the impossible dream of human perfectibility.
Miller's masterpiece tells the story of the irrepressible
sixty-three year-old traveling salesman, Willy Loman, who strives to
retrieve his lost dignity and his family's love on the last day of
his life. This icon of the American theater represents every person,
both in American society and throughout the world, who has ever felt
displaced from his rightful position in his society and longed to attain
a sense of peace and belonging in a world that suddenly seems foreign
and even hostile to his pretensions. Using a highly suggestive multiple
set to emphasize the subjective nature of the play, Miller collapses
past and present and takes us inside the mind of Willy Loman to show us
how an individual nurtured on success-formula platitudes and
get-rich-quick schemes buys fully into the notion of the American Dream
without ever really evaluating of understanding how false and incomplete
are the values he embraces in his venal American society. Desperate to
make sense of his life and to avoid seeing himself as a failure, both as
salesman and father, Willy Loman tries to escape the burden of
responsibility for the choices he has made and, instead, seeks facile
solutions to complex personal and economic problems. Willy's
painful struggle "to evaluate himself justly"
("Tragedy," Theater Essays 4) is what grips audiences around
the world, for everyone, not just people who are culturally or
ideologically predisposed to embrace the American Dream, can understand
the anguish that derives from "being torn away from our chosen
image of what and who we are in this world" (Tragedy," Theater
Essays 5).
During this last day in his life, Willy drifts back and forth
between the past and the present, groping for answers to his problematic
relationship with his son Biff, and futilely trying to ease his
conscience about past indiscretions and missed opportunities that he
fears have cost him the love, respect, and honor that society has
trained him to expect as customary entitlements for male heads of
household in the American family. As he sets up and then destroys
opportunities for disclosures that would reveal his role in creating the
destiny he seeks to avoid, Willy repeatedly attempts to deny his role in
any wrongdoing in the past that would demand his acknowledgment and
acceptance of responsibility for his own, and his sons', failures.
He tries to preserve an inflated image of himself as both salesman and
father and convince others that the identity he has manufactured is
real. As a result of submerging himself so thoroughly in his life-lie,
Willy experiences a complete disengagement from reality and virtually
drives himself mad. His psychological disorientation is strongly evoked
in the play's setting, lighting, music, and dramatic structure,
particularly in director Robert Falls' postmodernist set design for
the play in 1999, which vividly conveys and externalizes the
fragmentation rending Willy apart and driving him inevitably to his
tragic suicide.
Again, one has to wonder how a play that depicts the unmitigated frustration and failure of delusional and desperate characters can
succeed in conveying any sense of hope and possibility for its
audiences. According to Zygmunt Adamczewski, Willy's tragic suicide
"gives poignancy to existence in protest" as an individual who
senses "the loss of his self," the fact that "he is not
what he is" (Tragic Protest 190, 191). In other words, Willy's
tragic protest comments on the paradoxical condition that defines human
existence: the constant struggle within the individual between self and
society, right and wrong, love and hate, joy and sorrow, consciousness
and unconsciousness, work and play, success and failure, past and
present, life and death. Life is flux, and human life is frequently
characterized by internal conflict. It the value of a human life may
ultimately be determined by the extent to which an individual struggles
against contradictory and entropic impulses in an effort to give
existence purpose and meaning, then it is easy to see why Death ala
Salesman is so popular and successful and moves audiences around the
world with its searing presentation of the Loman tragedy. Willy
Loman's battle is everyone's battle, for despite his
particular failings and annoying eccentricities, Willy's futile
attempt to resist reduction and atomization, and his constant flight
from his alienated condition, reflect a universal need for personal
triumph over the forces that deny individuality and threaten to diminish
our humanity. Life is change: conflict, tension, a war of wills and
desires, an everlasting struggle to bring order to chaos and impose
meaning on a fundamentally absurd world. It is the entropic condition
that Willy Loman resists, and because of Willy's fierce
determination to fight an impossible battle against the inherent
conditions of human existence, Miller tells us that "There is a
nobility ... in Willy's struggle" (Beijing 27). Willy,
explains Miller, "is trying to lift up a belief in immense
redeeming human possibilities" (Beijing 29). That is the attraction
and glory of Willy Loman: his limitless hope in the face of hopelessness
and refusal to accept defeat even when thoroughly defeated. Willy's
persistent struggle to resist the force of entropy in his life is
ultimately what defines the tragic spirit of Miller's vision in
Death of a Salesman.
Miller's play gives us an unblinking look at the terrifying darkness that lies coiled within existence. Attendant to this dark
vision is the discovery that the light enkindled by human kindness and
love can give human life a brilliance and luster that will never be
extinguished. Willy dies, but death does not defeat Willy Loman; as the
Requiem demonstrates, Willy will continue to live on in the memories and
lives of others. Through his remarkable fusion of opposites that express
both the form and the vision of the play, Miller reveals the condition
of tension that is life and human existence. Because of its perfect
integration of form, character, and action, Death of a Salesman is a
modern masterpiece that celebrates, as Chris Bigsby eloquently states,
"the miracle of human life, in all its bewilderments, its
betrayals, its denials, but, finally, and most significantly, its
transcendent worth" ("Poet" 723).
"The Crucible," writes Miller, "is, internally,
Salesman's blood brother. It is examining the questions I was
absorbed with before--the conflict between a man's raw deeds and
his conception of himself; the question of whether conscience is in fact
an organic part of the human being, and what happens when it is handed
over not merely to the state of the mores of the time but to one's
friend of wife" ("Brewed in The Crucible," Theater Essays
172-173). The powerful manner in which The Crucible explores these
questions explains why it is also regarded as a masterpiece of the
modern stage. The Crucible is Arthur Miller's most frequently
produced play and speaks to people all over the world of the need to
resist tyranny and oppression. Miller's play transcends cultural
and geographical boundaries with its inspired depiction of one
man's heroic struggle to preserve his honor when threatened by a
corrupt state authority. With its intense dramatic action and its
absorbing look at the debilitating effects of guilt, fear, repression,
personal betrayal, mass hysteria, and public confession, The Crucible
shows how an individual can rise above the conditions surrounding him
and transform guilt into responsibility and thereby defeat the
deterministic forces, both within and outside him, that threaten to
destroy his identity as well as his humanity.
The Crucible dramatizes one of the darkest episodes in American
history: the Salero Witch Trials of 1692. Making just a few alterations
to the historical record in the interest of intensifying the play's
dramatic action and clarifying and revealing the characters' hidden
motivation, Miller shows what happens when girls in the repressive
Puritan community of Salem Village in 1692 make unfounded accusations of
witchcraft against their neighbors. Hundreds are arrested and convicted
of witchcraft and nineteen innocent people are hanged. Among those
incarcerated is John Proctor, a citizen of the community, a successful
farmer and landowner who has committed adultery with Abigail Williams,
one of the principal accusers and witnesses for the state.
Proctor's guilt over his infidelity and conviction that he is a
sinner, and therefore not like the falsely accused, temporarily causes
him to sign a phony confession of witchcraft in an effort to save his
life and protect his family. But when he realizes that his confession
must be made public and therefore will be used to damage the credibility
of his friends and neighbors and justify their persecution, Proctor
fiercely denounces the court and tears up his confession. In a powerful
dramatic scene, Proctor insists that his name not be used to damage the
reputation of others, and even though his inspiring act of courage and
nobility leads directly to his execution, it simultaneously becomes the
basis for his own personal redemption.
Ironically, because of Proctor's defiant act of heroism and
decision to die a noble death rather than live ignobly, it is easier to
see how The Crucible demonstrates the possibility for human
transcendence than is at first evident in both All My Sons and Death of
a Salesman. Yet the conditions for such individualistic behavior are
certainly far less favorable in the Puritan community of 1692 that
Miller dramatizes in The Crucible than in the American society of the
1940s he depicts in All My Sons and Death of a Salesman. Because Salem
Village was a theocracy, every facet of an individual's life in
that community could arguably be seen as demonstrating the inevitable
intersection of the societal and personal dimensions of a person's
experience. In essence, everything a person said or did in Salem Village
in 1692 could have been construed as having a direct bearing on society
and, therefore, would unquestionably receive the close scrutiny of the
larger community. Yet, in spite of the strong limitations and
constraints placed on an individual's personal liberties and
freedoms in that society, John Proctor is able to rise above the
deterministic conditions surrounding him and find the courage and
strength needed to denounce the court's inane proceedings. Through
the crucible of his personal suffering, Proctor embraces values that are
life-affirming, and with his acceptance of his personal responsibility
for the welfare of others, Proctor defeats death and wins a victory for
humankind.
Perhaps the situation that was most inimical to the potentialities
of the human spirit in the twentieth century was the Holocaust. Yet,
even in this most disturbing spectacle of human depravity and
unspeakable atrocity, Miller finds hope for the triumph of the human
spirit. As Edward Isser rightly asserts, "Arthur Miller is perhaps
the foremost spokesman for a universalist and humanistic interpretation
of the Holocaust" ("Arthur Miller and the Holocaust"
155). This horrible testament to human depravity and the capacity (or
evil and despicable acts of human aggression looms large in three plays,
a novel, a screenplay, and even an autobiography by Miller.
Miller first tackles this subject in his novel Focus (1945), which
establishes strong parallels between the Nazi movement in Europe and the
Anti Semitism promoted in America by the Christian Front and other hate
groups who persecuted Jews during the Second World War. Only after
experiencing the unjust persecution that results from being mistakenly
identified as a Jew does the novel's central character find the
courage to stand up to the fascists persecuting Jews in his
neighborhood, and counter their barbaric behavior with socially
responsible action. In After the Fall, Miller creates even greater
discomfort for his audiences by asking them to find within themselves
the locus of evil that gives rise to such movements as nazism and the
terrible hate crimes associated with the Holocaust. To concretize this
direct association between private and public acts of aggression, the
silhouette of a concentration camp tower is illuminated periodically in
After the Fall, as the play's central character, Quentin, struggles
to understand why his own personal acts of betrayal and cruelty are
linked in his mind with the horrors that occurred at Auschwitz and other
concentration camps. Quentin ultimately accepts his culpability in the
horrors he detests because he realizes that no one is innocent after the
fall. In Incident at Vichy, detainees awaiting interrogation by their
Nazi captors are fearful that, it discovered to be Jews, they will be
sent in locked boxcars to concentration camps in Poland for
extermination. Each prisoner adopts what ultimately amounts to an
ineffective strategy for explaining his captivity and dealing with the
absurd impending interrogation. One by one, they are treated inhumanely by their captors, checked for circumcision, and then sent to certain
death in the camps. Only one prisoner, the psychiatrist Leduc, is able
to elude this horrible destiny as a result of the heroic and noble
sacrifice of an Austrian Prince, who hands over his pass to freedom and
courageously proves that it is possible to resist tyranny and oppression
by transforming guilt into responsibility.
The advent of the Holocaust is the subject of Broken Glass. The
play's central character, Sylvia Gellburg, suffers severe
hysterical paralysis as she learns that old Jews and young children are
being abused and ridiculed in Germany during Kristallnacht. Her anxiety
over their condition and unconscious association of the Nazis'
cruelty with her husband's abusive treatment of her and
condescension toward Jews triggers the emotional disorder that leaves
her physically incapacitated until her husband's unexpect ed death.
Perhaps, though, Miller's most disturbing and direct treatment of
the Holocaust occurs in his television screenplay adaptation of Fania
Fenelon's memoirs: Playing for Time. This brutally frank depiction
of the anguish and heroism of a woman captive in a concentration camp
during the Second World War celebrates the courage and nobility of
spirit exhibited by an individual who refuses to relinquish her dignity
and act in a way that degrades the human species. In spite of the
unspeakable horrors and ordeals she faces and the severe constraints
imposed on her by her captors, her environment, and her impossible
situation, Fania Fenelon, says Miller, shows that "it was possible
to exercise free will even in a concentration camp" (quoted in
Atlas 32).
Among other things, says Miller, his Holocaust drama teaches us an
important lesson about ourselves:
that we should see the bestiality in our own hearts,
so that we should know how we are brothers not
only to these victims but to the Nazis, so that the
ultimate tenor of our lives should be faced--namely
our own sadism, our own fear of standing firm on
humane principles against the obscene power of
mass organization. ("The Shadow of the Gods,"
Theater Essays 187)
The lessons do not end there. In his Holocaust drama, as in all of
his other plays, the twin pillars on which his characters' personal
morality rests are freedom and responsibility. As a character struggles
not only to survive but also to do so with honor and integrity, Fania
Fenelon demonstrates that it is imperative that the individual accept
the possibility for free, and responsible, choices and behavior. In
Playing for Time, Fania Fenelon counters the evil darkness of the Nazis
with her commitment to a morality that fosters and promotes compassion,
understanding, tolerance, honesty, and self-discipline. She selects and
upholds values that ennoble the human species and affirm the value and
importance of every individual life. In the most abhorrent conditions
that are most inimical to the exercise of free will, a concentration
camp prisoner finds it possible to prove that human beings are capable
of the most courageous moral action even when faced with the threat of
imminent death.
By writing so powerfully about the Holocaust, Miller may be
suggesting that though art cannot guarantee the survival of humanity, it
can help to justify and validate the worth of human existence. Miller
clearly creates art for life's sake. He once said that the Great
Depression made him "impatient with anything, including art, which
pretends that it can exist for its own sake and still be of prophetic
importance" ("The Shadows of the Gods," Theater Essays
179). For Miller, literature, and particularly the theater, must
"speak to the present condition of man's life and thus would
implicitly have to stand against injustice as the destroyer of
life" (Timebends 596). Nowhere is this commitment made more evident
than in his harrowing screenplay of humanity's darkest hour and
greatest triumph. In the midst of a hellish landscape of human suffering
and depravity, one woman faced the ultimate challenge to her dignity and
proved that nothing, not even the threat of a horrible death, could
force the individual to ace ignobly or relinquish her sense of personal
responsibility. Fania Fenelon's triumph is ultimately a triumph of
the human spirit--one that Miller presents dramatically to confirm the
possibility of giving meaning and dignity to human existence.
Regardless of the conditions and limitations on the individual in
Miller's plays, his characters have the ability to choose the
course of action that determines their values and behavior. The moral
truth that speaks so loudly in Miller's plays derives from a single
premise: we are free to create our destinies. His characters have the
ability to face and accept what is real and thereby to discover the
truth about their lives and identities. Although characters like Joe
Keller, Willy Loman, Eddie Carbone, and Lyman Felt do not exercise their
freedom to choose honestly and responsibly, that fact does not mitigate
the possibility for such expression of their free will to occur.
Bigsby has long maintained that for Arthur Miller the theater has
always been "a realm of possibility" (American Drama 248). By
creating plays that show the human will as inexhaustible and
irrepressible, Miller expresses a vision of humanity that shows that
transcendence is coexistent with consciousness, and this special
attribute of human existence both curses and blesses humanity because it
invariably sets us off on a life-long journey to attain the impossible
dream--a more-than-American dream for perfection. Struggle endows our
lives with meaning; the theater of Arthur Miller offers the following
message to his audience: as long as we continue to wrestle with our
givens, resist the forces of chaos and entropy, and struggle to impose
order on the natural world and our mental landscape, we will have an
opportunity, a possibility, for a meaningful life. No easy task, admits
the playwright, but entirely within the realm of the possible.
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