I’m not too well-versed in Broadway productions, as sitting through a musical for me is not exactly the worst thing in the world, yet I certainly don’t share the same enthusiasm as “theater kids” when it comes down to belting out “Defying Gravity” every two seconds. (I think I may have offended half my friends, but let me jus’ go a lil further and say I cannot, cannot ever bring myself to give a damn about The Greatest Showman. I love Hugh Jackman, but watching that movie was like riding Disney Magic Kingdom’s It’s A Small World for two hours straight — it makes no sense and is an insult to Broadway talent.) For myself, I watch a musical and go “oh, that was fun but also kinda weird” and then I go on with the rest of my life.
And though I may not prefer musicals and plays and all, drama is still a significant genre within literature, a genre emphasized over the last centuries, as Shakespeare is not only a household name, but a must in school curriculum (unfortunately so for us students, sorry Shakespeare). Despite my perhaps apathetic and unappreciative attitude towards drama, I don’t hate it. I mean, I love movies after all, and scripts are a form of drama, wholeheartedly a sprout from the seed that is literature.
I love the idea of taking dialogue and notes and music from page to face and expression, from a somewhat lifeless form to plastering words and characters to a human body. And within the drama-world of literature, we have two sub-genres, comedy and tragedy, which would have to be my favorites genres in any medium of entertainment, maybe because I’m a depressed, yet edgy, angsty teen. (God, I hate that disgusting combination of words. I guess it does some good to be self-aware.)
I think plays for me always caught my attention more-so than musicals because even though I like having fun, and singing, and all that, musicals just don’t have that same colloquial, realistic manner to them as plays. Musicals have always been too colorful for my taste, too grand and dignified, and I don’t get it. I fully understand you watch a musical to be transported to a world hardly ordinary because people do not, unless you’re a dedicated theater kid, randomly burst into choruses voicing their problems…but I can’t really get into musicals, take them seriously or relate to the characters at all. It’s just my opinion.
Les Miserables is awesome though. I’ve seen that production by students, by professionals, several, several times and it never gets old. I’ve never seen these live, but Sound of Music and Fiddler on the Roof are good ones, too — maybe because I grew up listening to my mother scream “My Favorite Things,” “Tradition” and “If I Were A Rich Man,” so perhaps it is more the nostalgia that accompanies those musicals that makes them, in my mind, great. Hairspray, Grease, High School Musical — these are all mediocre at best.
But I’m getting off-topic.
Nowadays, some people may argue Broadway has become a staple for the top one percent, an exclusive activity for the rich that is reminiscent of aristocratic times. Yes, I do see the point of those that may not have the financial stability to throw five hundred dollars to the feet of sometimes overrated productions — but, I also think Broadway stars earn their paycheck. Being just a small part of such a culturally prestigious production is no small feat. The people on and back stage worked their asses off to get where they are, and, let’s face it, would Broadway be as big of a deal if it didn’t come with that “overpriced” ticket?
It’s not like you’re paying a car down-payment to see a high school musical (no offense to my theater frens). Broadway is prestigious because lifetimes of dedication go into those performances…it would be an insult to those that have made the grade to say they don’t deserve the recognition or money. Broadway stars aren’t just some mediocre Soundcloud rappers that got lucky in the music industry (I’m looking at you, Tekashi!). And the acting/music is only one aspect of Broadway’s grandeur — can you possibly imagine the millions drained into designing the set, the costumes, light sequences and backstage magic? You could make the argument Broadway is so elite because of its mere visual spectacles.
I think we fail to remember that communities have talented students and locals putting up hundreds of theater productions every year. Musicals and plays are not completely unattainable. Instead of complaining about Broadway’s price-tag, why not support smaller productions so perhaps one day they can grow to the standard Broadway is at? I think most people gloss over student-led and local productions because they assume they’re not “good” enough. I’ve been to my local community arts theater dozens of times, and I can’t say I’ve ever walked out unimpressed. I think there should be just as much cultural value in the basis for prestigious talent like Broadway — we need to appreciate the talent we have just down the street.
Should Broadway be financially accessible to the general public? Imma say no. Trust me, there are options to see just as amazing talent in local theaters, and it is plain disrespectful to dismiss Broadway as not worth the money, because I’ve sat through The Lion King and goddamn was that truthfully a breathtaking experience; little Simba can take my wallet any day.
Continuing from that opinionated rant, here we go talking about drama as an important literature genre. Musicals? They’re okay. Plays? Like I said, I don’t mind a good play every once and awhile. Broadway? Cool for some, not always my cup of tea, but none of the Broadways I’ve seen have been disappointing in grandeur. So let me just get this disclaimer out of the way: I really don’t care that much for drama, and I was made to write this, so, yeah, thanks to my teacher I have to now think about these things and tell you my entitled and narrow-minded opinions.
I have this cute lil checklist of the things we have to include, and apparently I have to discuss the differences between the two, big genres of drama, two genres Shakespeare himself was known for tackling in his thirty-seven ole plays. We can continue with that I guess.
comedy and tragedy go hand in hand
So, we have two men walk into a bar. It’s open mic tonight, and there’s a whole line-up of some aspiring stand-up comedians, hearty New-Yorkers, god love ‘em, and these two get in line, respectively at the back, and no one really looks alike, because we have some fat, jolly men here, and long sticks of men there, and women who look ready to throw a punch, and some laughing faces and some serious ones, ones so bent outta shape, their faces all screwed up with lines and lines, and tan and weathered. And we have young boys, a kid maybe sixteen, and some grandfathers, accompanied by their own, faithful grandchildren, seeing as they really shouldn’t possess a driving license, let alone be at a bar.
And we have these two men, very much alike, wearing a grey shirt because that’s the only color comedians can wear (that and black), and one is texting his wife while the other hasn’t talked to his wife in seven years. And we have the one, it’s his turn, go on up, behind the mic, at the front of the bar, a standard brick wall behind him, the only thing to catch him if he falls backwards.
Boy, he’s not nervous. He stands there and rubs his hands like he is, but he’s not. His day job, an accountant, he is, is a pretty lifeless one. So every once and awhile, his wife’ll say, “Honey, I got the night from here, go on to Happy Brew.” She gives him a wink, and he loves her for it.
He pauses, every time. Every time, he stands there for a few moments, lets the audience catch their breath from the smooth lad’s jokes before. He stands there until it’s almost awkward. And then he cracks one big, toothy grin, and he can’t help himself because he’s already laughing at what he’s got to share.
And he gets them rolling, a very charismatic guy he is, clever and downright silly. He talks about his kids (loves them to death, he does), his embarrassing college moments, his lovely wife who’s far too good for him…he’s got this real sweet kinda humor, this real loving kinda touch to his comedy. Sometimes he stops midway through a joke and he laughs, and that makes this group of hearty New-Yorkers laugh too. We need that downright silly every now and then, by god.
And then we have the other man. He, too, has a method to his act. He stands real still, unmoving, hardly fidgets, his hands clasped behind his back. He has some sharp, thick glasses. As of now, he has no day-job. He’s very monotone when he finally begins, and people found it funny because when you stand up in front of a brick wall in a bar at eleven pm on a Friday night, every word out of your mouth, your tone, your appearance best be a joke…else why bother?
But tonight, this man talked about how tight money is, those IRS bastards, the futility of politics, and boy, those awful Geico car-insurance commercials…and there’s a small hint of sincerity behind the mask of a faux smile.
And everything in the world kinda sucks. That’s the punchline with this comic. Making money sucks. Humans suck. Car insurance sucks. People die. Good people. Good people aren’t truly good.
But in the context of a Friday night open mic, it’s easy to gloss over reality and transform the pessimistic realist’s words into a relatable, edgy humor. But this comedy, despite the eruption of laughs, has a grain of truth to it, something you won’t deny, and because you can’t deny reality, all there is to do for some is chuckle in forced unawareness.
And that’s the sadness of it. One of these men will go home high as a kite and the other may just jump off a building if he builds up enough cowardly courage.
The point of this story? You’ve just met Comedy and Tragedy. Comedy is the rose-colored glasses drama often dons, and Tragedy is Comedy’s serious counterpart, the truth that hides behind clever humor.
The way I view these genres, major genres of drama as they happen to be, comedy is the embodiment of the first man I described — easy, fun, lovable, playful, up-front a form of some engaging, pass-the-time kinda entertainment. Sure, a comedy drama may include some strife and conflict, but it wouldn’t be a comedy if it didn’t turn out alright in the end. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is exactly this. Comedy in drama is meant to showcase the power of some great scripted fun, as Shakespeare’s comedies often include clever puns, slapstick humor, idiotic characters, even some fairy dust here and there. On a side note, I think Shakespeare may have been ahead of the 70’s psychedelic era when he wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The man had to be on something when he was like, “And then this guy turns into a literal ass! Isn’t that just hilarious?!?!” It’s bizarre. But it’s fun.
And it has a good ending that makes for a memorable laugh and allows for the type of warm feelings to sit in your stomach after a nice hot cocoa.
As for Comedy’s big brother, I headed this section, “Comedy and Tragedy go hand in hand”…but why is that?
While comedy is typically very upbeat, tragedy is a genre that takes itself more seriously (this is all kinda obvious if you understand the definitions of the two). From the tragedies I’ve read, however, there’s always a bit of comedy somewhere, albeit it’s used fleetingly and is meant to create a harsh contrast against something serious all the while giving the audience a breath of relief — hence the term “comic relief.” Also noteworthy, the comedy found in tragedies is typically foreshadowing at work, as these out-of-place, witty remarks or actions may come with a certain underlying tone that falls into the context of the seriousness of a situation; remember my other comedian, the man that uses his disappointment with life as a sad stand-up bit. Comedy in tragedy often works out to be ironic, no longer funny but instead true.
And it is the second comic that embodies these traits. Tragedy is all about sorrow, and despair, and hopelessness, and as a dramatic and moving element within stories, it is a fitting genre for the stage. Just as we can experience the fun, witty expressions and slapstick action of a comedic drama, tragedy in drama plays just as crucial a role.
It takes some great effort, I would imagine, to play a large role in a tragedy. As an actor, tragedy is “the real deal,” as it’s what many people will have their talent as an actor based on, much opposed to comedy, where the audience will suspend their belief if only to undergo a fun experience. Watching a tragedy, an audience will expect the actors to allow them into an experience on their own.
A comedy is about well-timed execution and surrealism. A tragedy is about sustained connection and realism.
Tragedies can have fun moments. But they aren’t supposed to go down in the end as “fun.” They are the blatant comedy that reminds us life is not always hilarious happenstance, but rather cruel and unfair…tragedies should be revealing. At the end of the day, tragic musicals and plays allow the audience to see past a “glass-half-full” mentality. Tragedy is about the core of emotion, not just the light surface of feeling comedies may invoke. Tragedies should be so immersive as a drama that you forget that you’ve stepped foot in a theater in the first place. It’s not script these people have memorized — it’s life.
I wanna argue this based on my experience sitting in the audience of both types of performances — comedy reminds the audience of what they’re watching, not in a bad way, but in a way that is self-aware, in a way that says, “That’s clever!” You watch a comedy with the full expectation you’ll be watching some ridiculous actors or actresses showcase their use of well-timed comedy bits and their stone-faced talent when it comes to not breaking character by exhaling a laugh. You watch a comedy as a member of the audience knowing, “These are people who read a script and now they’re going to act out a funny situation.” And there’s nothing wrong with that fourth-wall attitude.
But watching tragedies, it is a significantly different experience. Tragedies should achieve their viewers’ complete focus and attention on what’s on that stage…they should allow their audience to forget about what a stage is in the first place. A tragedy allows for a more respected, more dignified take on drama and it is because of the stellar acting needed for a tragedy to work that drama remains as significant as it is today. Tragedies in drama allow me, a book-worm, to understand the sometimes necessity of putting the mask of our favorite characters on a real life person, on a real-life stage…to understand why drama is about taking the voice of literature and putting it onto something we can visualize.
And as I go on to discuss one of my favorite plays, I should acknowledge the importance of dialogue, an importance sometimes overlooked when reading a novel. But handed a script for a comedy or tragedy…drama breathes a life into literature that can’t be done via mere ink on a page.
Death of a Salesman – “an American tragedy”
Recently, I’ve been experimenting with reading some plays, because despite my love-hate relationship with just drama overall, I do want to experience literature through different mediums. Over the last summer, I started my excursion into drama territory with an obvious American favorite, the playwright Arthur Miller, first by reading his infamous play, Death of a Salesman, moving on to The Crucible, and, later, read All My Sons, my current favorite of his that I’ve read so far. Slowly but surely, I’m expanding into a new realm of literature, and I genuinely liked what I found.
It’s not my favorite of Miller’s, so why am I discussing Death of a Salesman? Once again, this is Miller’s best known work, so it was easier me to find clips of performances, as prior to this, I’ve only read his plays, not actually witness them come to life. That, and you can’t deny the driven point Miller makes that has haunted America ever since the American Dream was a concept. Yeah, sure, the play sounds depressing, and trust me, it is, but it upholds social, cultural, and historical value reminiscent of the Lost Generation’s efforts to expose American society for what it was. Miller voices a truth all too familiar in tune with what F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway had to say mere decades prior. Though Miller wasn’t technically a part of the Lost Generation (I have the internet and can’t bother to fact check myself) because he wrote plays mainly in the late 40s to 60s. The Lost Generation was more a Roaring Twenties concept. And despite this dissonance, Death of a Salesman in particular showcases the breakdown of the American Dream — yes, that age-old idea that if you work hard you go far in the Fifty States of Stars.
And, like Fitzgerald, Miller goes, “Screw that. How do you account for those whose dreams never became reality? How do you account for those that found more worth in their death rather than in their disappointment of a life?” And that’s pretty tragic.
We should also consider the fact that the term “mental health” was not coined until far, far later and is a relatively new concept…there was no such thing as “mental awareness” in the mid-twentieth century, as I also noticed Miller never uses the exact term “suicide” within this play, despite the literal death of a salesman was one. Miller is only one that begins to shed light on the self-destructive principles social concepts like the American Dream placed on its people, salesmen being the main victims to fall to this idea that business will treat the likable and hard-workers well.
This play isn’t just about the literal death of a salesman — it is about the death of dreams and identity, a death spurred by the idea we’re worth more dead than alive. It is a tragedy, and one that shook America, seeing as this play has earned a Pulitzer Prize and four Tony awards over its lifetime.
Despite the play focusing on one particular salesman, Willy Loman, it’s a general tale of the all-too-common American dreamer, a tale of an American salesman whose life has yet to take off at the ripe age of sixty-three, a tale even people today can identify with.
To give a quick synopsis, Death of a Salesman is pretty straightforward as it is relatively short in length. Now that our hero has to face the anti-climatic end to his career, Willy searches for the point in his life where things went wrong. As he continues down a path of insanity, the audience understands perhaps what Willy wants most; the reassurance that his failure as a salesman was not of his own doing. And because of this toxic mentality, Willy tears apart his relationship with his family and makes the decision to take his own life in hope he can still salvage his selfish dreams and pass them onto his children.
The play itself takes course over the span of a day, beginning one night and ending the next. Reading the actual play, the audience is getting the unreliable narrative of Willy’s deteriorating grip on reality, as Miller gives us a look into Willy’s hallucinations and memories that intermix with the reality the other characters are experiencing.
Though some may find this montage of flashbacks confusing, Miller was clever in how he interspersed dialogue of actual characters and dialogue of flashback characters to show Willy’s mental deterioration and his fading grip on reality versus the obvious concern and confusion his friends and family express in his dysfunctionality. This doesn’t just become confusing for readers of the play but also the characters outside of the flashbacks, as Miller makes it clear we are inside Willy’s head, a feat difficult as scripts rely on dialogue, not prose like a novel. It should be noted some of these are not really flashbacks in Willy’s life but rather scenarios that he plays out as he reflects back on what it is about his life that he made the wrong decision and didn’t instantly become an outbreak salesman. What Willy wants is to know it wasn’t his fault his life turned out the way it did, he wants to allow himself to slip beneath self-denial, and Miller’s non-traditional structure demonstrates this destructive internal conflict.
I truthfully love this script, as we get a sense of the tragic desperation Willy feels due to Miller’s gift with capturing dialogue — sure, there’s some older slang, but placing this script in context to the way people truly talk and interact, it is amazing just how realistic conversations between characters are. The only times when dialogue is more unbelievable is during Willy’s bouts of hallucination. Within Willy’s mind, he constructs what he believes happened during his life, thus we have a jumbled, unreliable narration of characters and situations that take place in his own brain. It is this contrast between the past/Willy’s own fantasies and reality that Miller creates a deliberate disparity in the tone of dialogue — real versus not real.
As far as watching Death of a Salesman come to life, I hadn’t actually watched anyone perform this play until I was forced to think about it for this particular blog post — and so, naturally, I decided to go to YouTube, the place best to go for illegal movie streaming. (I justify these criminal activities as a means of educating myself, so take that FBI.)
I found a full length upload of CBS’s 1985 rendition of the play, starring Dustin Hoffman as Willy Loman and my good bud John Malkovich as Biff Loman, arguably the second-most-important character considering he serves as Willy’s foil. For anyone interested in this play, I highly suggest reading Miller’s script first, as I think it definitely benefited my experience with watching how actors take on expressing Miller’s dialogue and helped me better understand the play’s significant frameworks and character relations.
Though this is a “made-for TV” movie, not an actual Broadway or theater production, director Volker Schlöndorff did a fantastic job keeping camera direction cinematically limited and instead scenes were made up mostly of wider camera shots on all characters of that scene, as if you, the viewer, were sitting among an audience looking upon an actual stage. The set design also gave off a very “stage” feel, particularly in scenes that take place in the Loman’s home/backyard. So while the movie is not the same as a live production, it is pretty damn close.
As for the actual acting, I’ve seen a couple critics claim Hoffman is too “over-the-top” with his interpretation of Willy Loman, but I beg to differ. If you understand the point Miller is trying to get across with his development of Willy, you’ll know it is Willy’s “over-the-top” extremities as an American dreamer that causes his demise. Willy Loman is dramatic in the sense he’s a man of big ideas yet has little to show for it, he’s a man that wants everyone to love him and remember him, yet he dies a man known for nothing — he’s a man at the end of his wits, thus he’s loud and angry and confused and delusional, and so I think “over-the-top” is a perfect way to describe Willy. In my opinion, Hoffman successfully brought to life the voice of desperation, that unanimous, inner voice of the tired “salesmen” of America, for which Miller writes this play.
As great as Dustin Hoffman is, it is John Malkovich’s performance as Biff that excels expectation, an expectation is already set pretty high seeing as Biff’s character is given the most important and well-known monologue of the play. Biff’s role as Willy’s foil is made incontrovertibly evident in Malkovich’s embodiment of Miller’s character. We see in Malkovich’s consistency in attitude towards his character’s father and later his sudden, explosive decision to be honest with Willy that Malkovich has a solid understanding of the dynamics of his role — he emotionally plays the part of a son coming to the realization that he can’t follow the path of his father, that to undertake the dream of his father would mean to surrender himself to a world in which he doesn’t belong. Malkovich had a pretty powerful character to take on, and it is because of his ability to convince me of Biff’s inner conflict between pleasing his father by selling himself to the life of a salesman and telling Willy what he needs to hear (the truth) that I discovered a new-found respect for his acting career.
As for arguably the best lines of the play, Malkovich gives Biff’s monologue the “oompf” and power it invokes on paper. I’ve linked below what I call “the confrontation” scene of the 1985 film adaption just to give you a better idea of the emotion Malkovich and Hoffman give off in this hair-raising and climatic moment:
I’ve made it pretty clear — read and/or watch this play. It seems like it has a pretty dull plot, but the colloquial style of dialogue and character dynamics Miller is able to capture in such a seemingly common premise is what makes Death of a Salesman a piece that tests time. I’ve read reviews acknowledging this play only becomes increasingly relevant as you age — and while many focus on the tragic fate of Willy Loman, there’s still hope tucked away in Biff’s decision to choose himself for who he is, not what he wishes he could become or what society may promise him. Miller hopes his audience will not allow the dreams curated by society to become their own noose, as our existence really boils down to what we’ve been given, and it is how we deal with our deck of cards that we discover a meaning to life.
Sources:
Miller, Arthur. Death of a Salesman. Penguin Books, 1949.
Schlöndorff Volker, director. Death of A Salesman. www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMqiCtq5VLs.
Piazza, Tony. “Death of a Salesman Hoffman.” YouTube, YouTube, 13 July 2011, www.youtube.com/watch?v=a1lazBK1Pec&t=148s.
the hourglass 