Arthur Miller Will Always Speak to Us

Antaeus' production of "All My Sons" in the L.A. area shows the power of art

A lightning strike snaps a tree, and a family’s trauma begins to unfold before our eyes, as a mother seems to sleepwalk through a nightmare, observed by her son.

The next day on a sunny morning, the father sits outside, reading the paper.

He is asked about the news by a neighbor, who inquires of the latest “calamity.”

The patriarch does not read the news because it is essentially all bad. He would rather read the classifieds, a part of our newspapers that has long since been supplanted by Craigslist, eBay and other entities online.

Given the diluted aspects of many of today’s newspapers, All My Sons, with its reference to classifieds and print editions, may seem dated. But the play could not be more relevant right now.

All My Sons, like so many of Arthur Miller’s plays, is about how fathers fail sons and how sons disappoint or fail fathers; it is also about the fissures between brothers and the fracturing of an American family.

Harold Bloom once said that when he read Miller’s plays, such as Death of a Salesman, he did not necessarily sense their profound tragedy.

However, Bloom pointed out that when he saw Death of a Salesman staged, he could not help but be moved.

Miller, like all great artists, was a prophet. He perceived that there could be just as much of a tragic dimension in the life of a man named Willy Loman, as there was in a Greek king.

This is not only true in Death of a Salesman; it is also true in All My Sons in the lives of the Kellers, whose patriarch, Joe, an aircraft parts manufacturer, has a terrible secret, a relatively open one, regarding the demise of young men sent off to World War II.

Not unlike the works of the Greek playwrights, All My Sons, like Death of a Salesman and The Price, two other Miller plays, which are being staged in the Los Angeles area, demonstrates that tragedy and trauma can reverberate from one generation to another.

The performances are top-notch in this revival of All My Sons at the Antaeus, a classic repertory theater company, which was founded nearly 35 years ago and which for some time now has been based in Glendale, Calif., north of downtown Los Angeles.

Overseeing the Antaeus is Nike Doukas, the artistic director, who led a discussion after a recent performance.

The actors in the ensemble, all of whom were excellent, appeared for the post-play discussion, as well.

Interestingly, Doukas indicated that All My Sons had been chosen for the season just after the November 2024 election.

In the revival of All My Sons, which runs through the end of March, Matthew Grondin does an outstanding job as Chris Keller, a role essayed by Burt Lancaster in the 1947 movie.

Grondin portrays all facets of a young man, who has more than complicated feelings about the war and his service in it, not unlike many veterans, going back to the Trojan war and earlier battles in Biblical times.

So many soldiers suffer from PTSD, including, one could argue, King David and Odysseus, both of whom I have discussed at length over the years and in recent pieces.

The same is true of Chris Keller, who is self-deprecating, self-effacing and even self-hating.

He feels contaminated by the war, by his very survival as a commander in the military.

Unlike some preening men, who are prone to swagger and poor pull-up form and who boast of showing “no mercy” to our foes, Grondin’s Chris is a modest man, riven with guilt at the morally compromising nature of war.

He says that he likes to read the book reviews to “keep abreast of my ignorance,” in Miller’s brilliant phrase.

And through much of the play, Grondin’s Chris steers clear of violence and confrontation.

For all of his imperfections, including his suppressed anger, he tries to be a peacemaker.

This does not mean that he does not have the ability to stand up for what is right.

We can see, through his silences, his periods of quiet in scenes with the other characters, that he is thoughtful.

We can also see that he has the physicality of a soldier.

And Grondin’s Chris has a moral compass, unlike his father, Joe Keller, played by Bo Foxworth, an acclaimed veteran of the stage, who has acted at the Antaeus for some years, as well as other local repertory theaters, including A Noise Within, which is staging Death of a Salesman in the next week or so.

Foxworth, like Grondin, is outstanding and gives a nuanced portrayal. He speaks often in a kind of drawl, and Miller created a subtle mischief in Joe, when the playwright layered in confusion over the pronunciation of the words “broach” and “brooch.”

This subtlety in language reminds us that Miller, a gifted storyteller and wordsmith, knew how to shine a light on evil, on glitter, on baubles and brooches, as well as false promises of jobs, champagne and celebratory dinners with tuxedoes and other ballroom attire, which cannot conceal the truth of Joe’s rotting soul.

Concerning the attire, the costumes, from the wingtip shoes worn by Grondin’s Chris, to the suspenders worn by Foxworth’s Joe, and the overalls worn by a neighbor, have an authenticity to the 1940s.

The lighting is quite effective, during the thunder and lightning scenes, as well as other parts of the play, which was one of the first written by Miller.

He started it during the war when he was in his late 20s, before it went onto success on Broadway, where he won the first of his Tony Awards.

Yes, Arthur Miller will always speak to us, in this generation and every other.

Audiences, young and old, would benefit from revisiting his works, reading them and seeing staged revivals, such as Antaeus’ production of All My Sons, directed by Oanh Nguyen, A Noise Within’s upcoming Death of a Salesman, and Pacific Resident Theater’s The Price.

Around the time that Miller passed away, in early 2005, I recall seeing The Price at A Noise Within, which at the time was based in Glendale, not Pasadena, where it is now located, another suburb north of downtown Los Angeles.

Back in 2005, A Noise Within staged its productions at the old Masonic temple in Glendale, where I saw Geoff Elliott and Robertson Dean, two of the best, contemporary stage actors, play the two brothers in The Price, one a police officer, the other a doctor.

Not unlike Antaeus’ All My Sons, which includes a deceptively simple set, a childhood home that appears to be All-American with a white picket fence, a porch and lawn chairs, A Noise Within’s The Price featured one room, the attic, I believe, of a childhood home, once again, where there are more than a few secrets lurking.

The tension between the two brothers, played exquisitely by Elliott and Dean, was quite palpable in ANW’s The Price, which was so popular that the repertory theater brought it back on several occasions for bonus runs.

In that play, it is the father, who is missing, whereas in Antaeus’ All My Sons, it is a brother, who is absent, while the relationship between Grondin’s Chris and Foxworth’s Joe Keller swings back and forth before it devolves into a tragedy, one that is felt not only by Chris and Joe, but by everyone in the play. Those who are deeply impacted include Chris’ fiancée, played quite well by Shannon Lee Clair, as well as Joe’s wife, Kate, a strong performance by Tessa Auberjonois, both of whom, like Willy Loman’s wife, are also tragic figures.

Years ago, in early 1994, I attended a workshop at Long Wharf Theater in New Haven, Conn., where Broken Glass, Miller’s play about Kristallnacht, was being rehearsed before it would go on to be staged.

Kristallnacht is the night of the broken glass, in which Jews were massacred in the streets of Europe in 1938, and it marks what many believe to be the beginning of the Holocaust when Nazis burned down synagogues, shattering glass and the lives of scores of Jews, who were arrested and killed.

In writing Broken Glass, which in the early 1994 version at the Long Wharf workshop starred Ron Rifkin and Ron Silver, before the latter bowed out, Miller dramatized the repercussions, still felt to this day, of the Shoah, which, as we all know, took the lives of roughly six million Jews.

Sometimes, we might all feel disempowered when we are victimized by evil, but Arthur Miller would never want us to give up.

His plays, such as The Crucible and A View from the Bridge, allegories on the McCarthy period, showed how he felt about turncoats, about so-called stool pigeons, who damaged the careers and lives of innocent people by naming names.

At a time when so many individuals, like Elia Kazan, the theater director and filmmaker, were cowards, who capitulated to the lies and bullying of Joseph McCarthy, a demagogue, Arthur Miller stood tall.

In the 1950s, Miller was called to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, where he refused to name names. His passport was revoked, and he was sentenced to prison.

But he kept his honor, something that should never be forgotten, particularly now, when once again we are living at a time, where our lives are being shattered by a demagogue and when so many cowards are caving into evil.

When I attended that 1994 workshop performance of Broken Glass, one of my classmates pointed out that Arthur Miller was seated all by himself near the back of the auditorium, far away from the rest of us, who were seated down below, closer to the stage.

At the end of the first act, I walked to the back of the auditorium, which, I might add, happened to be far to the left of our seats, and approached Arthur Miller, who was actually not alone. He was seated with his then-wife, Inge Morath.

They were both dressed elegantly, he in a suit, and she, I believe, in a dress with pearls.

I shook Miller’s hand and told him that Rabbi Robert Goldburg, who officiated at Miller’s wedding to Marilyn Monroe, was the rabbi at my synagogue, when I was Bar Mitzvahed in 1978.

Arthur Miller smiled and nodded when I mentioned Rabbi Goldburg’s name and referred to him as “Bob.”

They had been friends for years going back to the 1940s in New York, where, as I understand it, they were in a writing group together.

And Miller particularly perked up when I told him that I enjoyed the first act of Broken Glass.

He was curious as to my reaction.

A confident man, he nonetheless did not know how Broken Glass would be received.

I told him again that it was very good, which was true.

Then I departed for the lower seats.

Arthur Miller, the grand old man of letters, of American theater, remained there at his perch. He deserved that honor.

He stood up to evil, stood up to bullies, when he refused to name names and when so many people in this country showed no courage.

Decades later, we owe it to heroes like Arthur Miller to stand up to evil now and forever.

As I mentioned previously, Miller was in his late 20s when he started working on All My Sons, and he was nearly 80 when I met him at Long Wharf.

Arthur Miller’s body of work was extraordinary. And he will always be a beacon for so many of us, who believe in the power of artists and the power of art to guide us in this world.

Yes, he was a prophet in an age of cowardice.

It heartens me to know that, in our own era, where so many of our leaders sadly are once again behaving as cowards, we can still seek inspiration from one of the giants of American theater, who never flinched from and who always shone a light on the truth.

Tragedy can afflict anyone, from a king to a Loman, a president to an aviation manufacturer.

Miller limned these issues subtly, as he revealed that all of us make decisions, which can impact the lives of others, for good and for bad.

We are part of a community, of a planet, where we are all interconnected.

It goes without saying that we should plant a new tree, when one snaps.

And we must stand tall, like Arthur Miller, whose plays thankfully are being staged and appreciated once again.

Whether we are seeing his plays for the first time or revisiting them, like All My Sons at the Antaeus, attention must be paid to Miller.