London Arts & Letters  

Latest Posts  |  Archive  | 

Separated by a Common Language

by Zoe Strimpel
Thu, 3 Apr 2008

Print

Send

RSS

Share:

It's a curious thing, the challenge posed by English-American accent
switching. Time and again have I sat in theaters both here and in the
States, all ready to enjoy myself, only to be confronted with mock accents so bad that all hope of enjoying the show vanishes instantly. I occupy myself thenceforth wondering how a director could have ever found this acceptable (had he or she never watched a Hollywood or, depending on the accent in question, a Merchant Ivory movie?), and fantasizing about what I'll have for dinner afterwards.

I confess that in London, land of the RSC and National Theatre, Judy Dench and Jeremy Irons and esteemed drama schools RADA, LAMDA and Central, my agony and outrage at laughably awful American accents is all the more acute. When I beat my way through the crowds to score a seat at the much hyped Arthur Miller play at the Donmar Warehouse (Ewan MacGregor recently played Iago in "Othello" there), I expect a little better than "Arr, gee" and "put the carr in the gararge."

Alas, it was not to be. "The Man Who Had All the Luck," Miller's play
about fate versus will, was passionately acted. But it took a good deal of discipline and forgiveness not to dwell on the unruly range of cartoonish American accents on display — one actor seemed barely able to disguise his posh English accent.

But to the play. This was Miller's first full-scale production, but when
it got to Broadway in 1944 it bombed. I can't see why (at least when the
actors are in their natural habitat), since it is a complex, playful,
upsetting, and above all, truly thought-provoking play. The good luck that continually befalls Daniel Beeves (played courageously by Andrew Buchan) is interpreted superstitiously, raising fundamental ontological questions.

What is at the heart of things? Why do things go in phases of good and
bad? Who or what is controlling our destiny? Is it really us? In Beeves's case — and this is what makes the play great — it is largely him. His luck is not so great. At the end we find out that his precious mink won't die of poisoning (unlike the stock of his neighbor, who fed them on the same feed) because he went through each and every fish that morning, as he always did, and removed all the ones with the funny black dots. "Who has the time?" wails his neighbour in disbelief. It is a profoundly banal reaction to a banal carefulness that fully merits its good result.

Miller is subtle: Beeves is the only one who becomes obsessed with the cosmic injustice of own good luck, and so creates an isolated anguish not encouraged (though understood) by his family and friends. He believes he doesn't "deserve" what he has, but the play leaves with the feeling that, in fact, you can earn your luck.

The best luck of all would have been perfect mid-western accents, but hey, you can't have everything.

London Arts & Letters Homepage