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'.- ' AHTHUH MILLER! . . TBEOHT AND PHACTICE

KASEN BICKSLBERa

B* S*;^ lofVE State UnlTersity, 1968

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A nkSfm*S SKPQRX

•uVadttvd in partial fulfillamt of th«

B«qttir«gtttnt8 for ish9 dogroo

MASTER OP ARTS * :f%

DsfortiMnt of Engliih

KANSAS STATE tmiVERSITT Muhmttan, KantM

1966

Apfrored by;

Vc4 ^ V j^ (y\xr^ Major Professor '^ ,. UP

. 1^26 . . ' . ,,. ^ TABLE OF COKTHITS

TITLE • ',.4- PAOB

A£TBUB MILLERt THEQRT AND PRACTICE • • »• 1

rOOTROTES 88

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' '; «:' - ; AfiTHDR MILLBRi THBORT AND PRACTICE

;!;• The word "trftgody" Beems to hare oome into th« Miller Tooabulary with

the onening of Death of a^ Salesman* Early reTiews uaed the terms "tragic"

•ad "tragedy" aa a matter of aooepted oategorieation—-that was the way th«

play had etruelr people—and essaye range from 1949 to 1965 in a long itruggle

to finally settle the question: Is it or isn't it? Particularly, when Joseph

Wood Krutoh's study "The Tragic Fallacy" paralleled direct attacks on Death

of a^ Salesnaa in stating that there could be no modern tragedy because modem

audiences could not oonceire of a man as being noble. Miller was drawn to

counter with his "tragedy and the Common Wan«" It is an essay now nearly as

widely known as the play itself, but hardly an impressiTe esnple of Miller's

thought* Its rather inept bows to Aristotelianism do r^ore to indicate how

off-guard Miller had been caught than to successfully refute Krutch or to es*

tablish the stature of Death of £ Sale amen as tragedy* Miller does strike

some telling blows that are to remain solid in hit later theories, but care«

less application for his personal purposes of sueh a debated and rariously

Interpreted item as the "tragic flaw" leeres more precise consideration to be

desired*

In the sense of hsring been initiated by the hero himself, the tale always rereals what has been called his 'tragic flew,* a failing that is not peculiar to grsnd or eleTated characters* ?Jor is it neeessar* ily a weakness* The flaw, or crack in the character, it really nothing •-and need be nothinj—but his inherent unwillingness to remain passive in the face of what he conceiTes to be a challenge to his dignity, his Image of his rightful status*^

Vhile there is no contradiction of Miller's later theories in "Tragedy and the

Common Mem," it is obTious that the essay was an answer formulated for the

occasion* There is no indication that ?.!iller conoeiyed of

as tragedy or, in fact, had thought much about any formal requirements for tragedy at all before eudienoes categorized his creation as a fulfillment of

at least the popular conception of the distinguished art.

fit was not until 1955 when "On Social Plays" ma published as a prefao* to that Miller presented a precise, eomplete, and personal theory of tragedy. He had been previously knoim as a "social" iwiter

—•Ten plagued with the tag« His early Leftist associations, reform-conscious plays, and (a successful novel about aatl-SemitlSTr in American cities) had led people to expect to hear about social problems from .

A frequent cliche of modern theater links Miller and as the hope of American and comr)ares them according to the neat formula, Williams

I psychological poetry / Miller : social prose.

Arthur ?*lller's "On Social Plays" is a unique and rather extended treatise explaining from his point of view iftiat tragedy has been, is, and must be in a significant theater. It is clear when one views the progression of his critical commentary that Miller has had a particular way of thinking about what he was doing and hoped to do, that when the reaction of audiences to his work sug- gested the affinity of his goals with traditional ones, the intellectual: re-

sult ofixoe in the form of a theory that described Miller's Ideal social play as rising from the kind of social situation that produces tragedy and as being

identical in purpose and effect to that sought-after phenomenon.

Killer, in "On Social Plays," has gone back through the hase of critical

theory that has gathered since Aristotle without accounting for any of it, and

appears to have defined "his" kind of drama into the center of the tragic realm.

He finds the essence of tragedy to be its manner of eoeial erpressioni "That

Is, the relations of man as a social animal, rather than his definition as a

•eparate entity, was the dramatic goal /of the ancient Oreek]^."^ He derives

his explanation from the socio-political organisation of the time. "The Greek oltls«n of that tia« thought of hiniMlf «8 belonging not to « 'nation* or «

••tftte* but to « polit« *S The polis wm a unit of damooratio govemmant aoall

anougli to cell upon tho opinion of all Ita oltizana In all doolsiona* Baoh Mtt

«aa also oonaidered fit for any oooupatlon within the poli», and rasponsibitiat

for the variouB work shifted p«riodio*lly» "The thing of imoortanoe for ua it

that these people were enn;fliped« they could not imagine the good life excepting

as it brought eaoh person into close oontaot with olvlo T«attera»"* Thus« the

4r«Mfa was for them an expressinn of the combined needs aiul fulfillment of a

people* "In (Jreeoo the traglo rietory oonslated In denonstrntlng th«t the

20lis~the vfttole people—had dlsoovered sorie aspect of the OrwaS Rasign whloh

also w»« tho ri?;ht w«y to live to5ather»''6 And the central character, the tra^

glo herOf was not only a glorious indlTldual, but also the man who embodied the

spirit of and aohlaved the knowledge sou^t by the whole r>eor>le« "In every

dranatlo hero ^•r9 is ths idea of the Greek people, their fate, their will,

their dOstiny."6

Social drama, as it is understood In the inodem theater, is dranta that

attHcks the current society and arraigns Its evils* This kind of commentary

Is not what Miller wished to see produced, for It InvolTss a kind of "special

pleading" which hns no place in a genuinely social drwi»«

• • • when. In short, the dramatic form Itself is regarded as ineritably a social eznression of the deepest oonoems of all your fello«men»*your work Is bound to be liberated, freed of even the hypotheses of partisan- ship, if only because partisanship cannot thrive idxere the Idea of wholeness is «»0CMntad.I.*

Miller does not fwlvoewte a drama which ignores the problems of IMlvidual psychology, but feels that modern drama has turned eo far inward as to lose

all contact with the whole picture of Individuals as numbers of a body Invol^r*

ing more then themselves and, oerhaos, their fonilies* "The single theiae to aftil^ our 3tost SHi)ltlou0 plays can be reduced is frustratlona^B Drama other thmn th« genuinely sooial muct b« olMCvd m "aati-soolal," vron "enti-drmft*

tie" by »lll«r. "To put It •imply, ••n ov©r-»inpUfy, « dr«u» rl««« in

tftture and lnt»xuity in proportion to th* w*iig^t of ita upplieation to »11 ntaatr of ••o»"9 By "iill mmMur** Millor !• referring to the lAole mn, end

Bdt his •ubJeotiTe or «ooi«l quttlitlea i»lone. "Thue in euoh » eituntion

^^Rt of a genuinely coeif*! drewR or therefore, that of traged;^ *hat we oall

•ooial natters beooos inseparable from subjeoti^e psyohologioal natters, and the draaa is onoe again i^ole and oapable of the highest reaoha^lO

The failure of modern drama to attain trac*dy, aooording to Miller,

lies in its representation of a soolety irtiioh has failed to recognise th** iaportanee of the individual ntan. "The tragio riotory is always denied us because, I believe, the plays cannot project with any oonviotion what the society, in the playwright's irlews at any rate, has failed to prore."!! And though the Soviets have attempted to bridge the gap between man and his sooial unit with phraseology* the "Bussian draaa after the Revolution, moh as ours, is a trrnnk of frustration, the inability of industrialised nen to see themselves spiritually oospleted through sooial organisation*" 12 a»a^ ^n ^ war-riddon, iodustrielised soeiety, have booome sere Integers of no appreciable weight, and its Buoh oannot bo tragle* Killer dertonstrntes how even in ourront psyohiatrlo practice a single individual is considered less itsportant than his efflolenoy within his sooiety*

In short, the absolute volue of the individual human being ia believed

In only as a secondary value j It stands well below the needs of effi- oient production* • • • So long ns modem man oonoeives of hinself as raluable only beoause he fits into some niohe in the machine-tending

pattern, he will never know anything mora than t» pathetic doom. 15

Within such a situation there is little questi

Innate powers whleh he uses to pass over the boundaries of the Imowa sooial law—the ftoo©pted aiorea of the people— in order to teat and discover neoessi- ty,''14 And our condition does not allow for such a figure*

Be are so atomised sooially that no oharaoter in a play oan conoelrably stand as our vanguard, as our heroic questioner. • • • For deep down we no longer believe in the rulas of the tragic oontestj vro v.o longer believe that some ultimate sense oan be made of social causation, or in ^the possibility that any itidividual can, by a heroic effort, make sense *0f it.l5

The happiness we strive for in plaoe of heroic exoellenoe asiounts to a true* with and not a conquering of our environment. "We have abstracted from the

^eek drama Its air of doom, its physical destruction of the hero, but its victory escapes us»"16 * ^j.

He feels that ,: Miller sees, however, hope for the drama of our time. audiences have just about exhausted their taste for frustration simultan- eously with the near exhaustion of prose realism as a raedivDn for drama. The paradox of the struggle in current drama is that dramatists are trying to write of "private persons privately and yet lift up their means of expression to a poetic—that is, a social—level. "17 According to Miller, "verse reaches alwajrs toward the general statement, the wide image, the universal moment, and it must be based on wide concepts— it must speak not merely of men but of Man."18

Finally he asserts:

The social drama, as I see it, is the main stream and the anti-social drama a bypass. I oan no longer take with ulttriste seriousness » drama of individual psychology written for its own sake, however full it may be of insight and precise observation. 19

With the perfection of production and distribution techniques, Viller feels that men are beginning to realize that none of the ultimate questions have been answered by prosperity and automation.

There is a kind of perverse unity forming among us, born, I think of the discontent of all classes of peorsle with the endless frustration of life. It is possible now, to sxjank of a search for values, not solely from the position of bitterness, but with a warm eaibMice of mankind, with a sense that at bottom every one of us is a viotlm of this misplacement of aiiu«20 Th« new draaa that ean ootm of this n«w xmlty tod aearoh for Tttluea la th« ooial draoa that Millar vlshec to write*

It will be Greek In that the "men" denlt with In Its «oene»~the payohol- ogy and oharaoterlxatlona*-will be onee rnore ends In thenselTOS, and onoe again parte of a whole, a whole that is ?Jan» The world. In a word, !• TiwTing in the aarae boat. • • • Our drasia, llJco thoira, vflll, rb It snaat, aak the aame cjueationa, the largeat onea* tOtere are we going now that w« are together? For like vrery awt mm ooBaaits, the drama is a struggle agftlnst hla aortnllty, and imming la tli« ulti'tate reward for having llTed.21

Th««^ Miller* a theory doea Ignore the baaio mattera vaually diaeuaaed is

« eenalderatlon of tragedy, the uao of traglo vlotory being ^e only raailiii«r of trsdltional ooncepta, his ideas seem rather to absorb than to oppose ishat othera have had to say about tragedy* The notion of draaa as Inevitable aoolal exnresslon la perhaps the most time-worn of dramatic ollohoa, and David Dalchea haa offered theories about b "oonwunlty of belief that has existed for nrtlati to draw upon In many eultures, birt not in the twentieth oentury»22 T.s, Eliot would agree, also, that In our sooiety tl:e artist has been forced to design hla own ayatea of values, of eonvlotlons about the world and life, slnoo none of universally aeeepted algnlfloanoe has persisted. Arauslngly enough, Kruteh, with his essay "The Traglo Fallacy," way be called a spokesman for those ii«io hate looked to aome falling in aoolety to explain the dearth, perhaps the

Impossibility of tragedy In the modem world. .^

Krutoh complained that men were not noble, or at least that men couldn't oonalder other nen noble enough for the stature of the traglo hero, and Miller

«Buld agree th«t that la erectly the problera that our society wttst overeeiaei aen imst once rwre TWitter. Dlsoussions of trapedv have often turned to a con* that have produced great •Ideration of the hxaimnistic ntiture of the sooiet'^* tragedy—perhaps Just another way of coding at Miller's oentral prlnolple. the Certainly, tragic victory as Miller erplalns It enoompassee the ideas of Or«ek arete (ideal my of life) end the exaltation of man* a spirit* The ear»

Heat tragedy Is known to have been & part of public oeiebraticns, and Herbert

Muller in hia The Spirit of Tragedy describes the polls aiuoh as Miller does*

They were oitizens with recognised rights, subject to law but not sub- serrlent to arbitrary authority. The characteristic polls, or recublican

oity-at^te, wns essentielly ft free, »open' societyt . • • Ihe poets proceeded to write to and for the entire citirenry. Like the Parthenon, drama was in effect the creation of the city, not a class. Or if, more strictly, it Traa the creation of great poets, these were manifestly stim- ulated by the free, full life Athens offered its oitizens, and repeatedly expressed their pride in their city, their doTotion to its ideals of jus- tice and freedom.23

The question of the action of tragedy's being "necessary and probable" as

Aristotle insisted, and of its carrying the oonviotion of "de%tiny in the guit« of fate" —as a modern Aristotelian, Susan Langer, submits (in Fealing and Form)

«^i» less simply accounted for in ""©n Social Plays." *e may only look again at what Miller says about the hero testing and discovering necessity for hi*

society, about his victory being comprised of the ability of mere man to do so*

Miller has presented the social drama as tragedy la terms of what the ishole

action does for and says about the society, and technicalities of form (if.

Indeed, there are to be any specified) are either Incorporated Into the obser- vatlon of Triiole effects or are not mentioned*

The matter of "iriiole effect" upon the audlenoe, the catharsis of Aristotle,

that foremost test of tragedy. Miller has not slightingly regarded. His entire

theory so teeters on the condition of society tlmt one :night tend to wonder whether he is suggesting that tragedy can change society, or that when society

Is ehanged tragedy ean occur. A oarei\il exafflination of I£lllcr*a statements

regarding his belief that society Is oomlng to the mood in which dramatists

can again effectively explore vital questions should set this Irony In belance.

Ultimately, Miller understands that without an audience to feel It, to know lt«

there will be no tragedy, and he has always recognised his dependence upon th« partnership of a reoeotiTe public to write the Tflnd of drama he feels will be most fulfilling In our time*

In ft word, there lies within the dramatio form the ultimate possibility of riisin^ the tmth-ccnseicusneas of rfanlcind to a level of such inten- sity as to transform those who obserTO it* • • • In the profoundest sense I onnnot create that form unless, soTtiswhare in you, there is a wish to know the present and a demand upon jm» that I give it to you. 24

Miller's equation for tragedy, then, seems to be in an entirely different form from laost oorabinations of the items deaoribed by Aristotle, and seems also

r, to take into consideration items frequently igbred by the formula drafters and not noted by Aristotle sinee ho was not preparing a formula* The equation migjht be described as adding tJie most vital questions and discoveries of man within his social relationships to a social situation that allows uan the dig- nity of questioning aad the power of acting upon his disocrreries* »vii«n these two Ingredients are combined in the proper proportions, Killer holds, the re- sult will be tragedy.

He nay appear to be cleverly evasive in insisting upon a quantity such as the condition of society that he oonnot be held resnonsible for contribut- ing, yet the presence of this "situational" quantity is i?nTjlioit even in the aquations that attempt to ignore it. Ho matter how many rules a drama adheres to, it is never considered tragedy until an audience is moved to call it such, until someone is sure he has experienced a catharsis. In describing i«*iat tra- gedy does, Aristotle was allowing for this outlet, this ingredient of audience reaction that Identifies the real thing, tlie bona-fida tragedy.

In the examination of Miller's plays, it may be valuable to determine the extent to irtilch they meet his own qualifications, to determine iriiether any of

T*i« remain- them do -what he indicates they must in order to be important drama.

ing element of the equation, the social situation, remains to be seen, and for

Miller himself the greatest concern seems to be not vftiether he has produced tra2«dy« but i4i«th«r oontan^orwy audimoos ntay toon b« foiuadi 1& « tltttAtloii oon

"Q& Soelail Plays** was prssumably written after three of Miller's plays had been aclmowledged as -najor efforts by Anerloaa and foreign «udienoes« wrltt«a to eeooinpeLny a fourth* Helther within this treat lse« howerer, nor anywhere else does he offer to denonstrete his theory in operation or with operational qualities Istent—In his work or In anyone else*s« It retnslns for the inter- ested student to oonsider how Killer's plays may apply to Ms theory or Vow his theory may apply to his ploys. Thus the TRost vital questior for ^filler himself is also left unanswered and unexplored: Bow far has his vrork aoooBH pliohed ^at his theory says th&t {treat draina rrust aoootr^llJh?

As Is usual with theories that attempt to rationally express and oategor- ite art, t^e uillcaa«M involved are too lu'^s to penalt an eocsvot •jxt^mr to el* ther of these questions* In fitting the oharaoteriatios of any work into the

•tipulstions of a theory there Is always a dttoc*' ^^ deallac so roughly with the delicate matters of eroative aeleotion that wo ^ay be blind to the aotual artlstlo value of the work* Even in deinonstrftting that sobm works do appear to "do" (also an iaexaok tera highly dependent on wbjeotlve audienee reae« tion and subjective reporting of subject Iv© audience reaction) whst Miller thinks i^at they aust to be great, we still oannct prove and will never be sble to "nronre" that these works are great by universal atandarda* Still, the opportunity for nuoh exploration doea present it

lMt(|l|lil# Miller has alwigfH 1>(>«n eoneerned wil^ soelal astfeots of nan*o existenoe, but It was not imtil he fomulRted the oonoeptlon of the pli^ that v"?;iT-. :

w*» to be his first Broadway success, AU Mj; Sons, after "the eighth or ninth

I hnd witten up to the mid-forties, "25 that he discovered the dr#7ratlc idea

"Something was that was to suggest the essence of his mature productions i crystal clear to me for the first tine since I had begun to write plays, and it was the crisis of the seocnd act, the rerelation of the full loathsomeness of an antl-soolftl aotion»''26 ' ^

The anti-social action that provides the crisis in the second act of

All My Sons is th^et of a man who, to keep up his schedule of war-time produc- tion, allows twenty^one oraeked engine heads to be sent out. The course of

the play is centered upon Joe Keller's realisation of the horror of his crime

that reeu.ltod in twenty*-one dead pilots, an act that he could see only as a necessity to the prosperous preservation of his family. It becomes the part of

his sons, Chris and Larry, three years after Joe's partner has gone to jail for

the crime, to convince Joe that his responsibility goes beyond his own family,

that it extands, in fact, to all men's sons.

Ittien Joe, near the close of the second act, attempts toldefend his aetion

to Chris as having assured a business for his sons, Chris asks a number of the

perplexing questions that, when answered, may provide a way to live.

For mel ^Tiere do you live, irtiere have ycu cone from? For me I— I was dying every day and you were killing my boys and you did it for me? What the hell do you think I was thinking of, the Goddfjn business? Is th«t as far as your mind can see, the business? What is that, the '^'orld—the bus- iness? V.liat the hell do you mGan, you did it for me? Don't you have a eountry? Don't you live in the world? ^et the hell are you? You're not even an animal, no animal kills his oiim, -Aat are you? ^hat must I do to you? I ought to tear the tongue out of your mouth, i^at must I do?27

Joe recognizea a new point of view in Chris's outburst, but he cannot yet

accept it as meaningful In regard to his own life, flihen his wife, Kate, asks

him to tell Chris he is willing to go to prison, Joe clings to his conviction

that the needs of family are supreme. "I'm his father and he's my son, and If

there's something bigger than that I'll put a bullet in my heedr'28 Chris has '

n

««k«d th« queatlona, all right, but eannot find th« ttrai^th withoit th« help

of hi« brother to force the enetiere on • father he loree. Before that help

•rriTos, he displays the world Tlew of thwarted idealicmt

Do X raise the dead i«ien I put him behind bars? Then what* 11 I do tt forT We used to shoot a asu itio aoted like a dog, but honor was real there, you were protecting sosething. But here? This is the land of the great big *ogs, you donH lore a man here, you eat hiat That's the principlei the only one we lire by-it just hapoened to kill a few people this tine, ^at*s all. The world's that way, how oan I take it out on himT IQut sense 4«es that Bake? This is a soc, a sool^* _-,^

Larry* s help ooms at the elerenth hour in the form of a lettfr he wrt%« ,- ' V --0 three and a half years earlier to tell his flaneee «»at he would not be back

fron his next flying mission* He had gotten news of the conTietion of Joe and

his nartner, his fianoee's father, and had determined not to return. "They'll

probably r^ort me missing. If they do, I want you to know that you mustn't wait for me. I tell you, Ann, if I had him there now I eould kill hl»-"'® - .'^ '

. ; , v^ Joe, with this rerelation, at last sees what his sons hare meant. "—Sure, he wns my son. But Z think to him they were . And I guess they were,

I guess they were."'^ fie then quietly walks into the house to put a bullet in his head. Chris now oan answer his mother when she wants to know i*iat more they oan be than sorry. "Tou oan be better ( Onoe and for all you oan know there's a unirerse of oeople outside and you*r« responsible to it, and unless you know that, you threw away your son, beoause that's why he died."'^

When crowds thronged to fill the Coronet Theatre in January of 1947, and critios admitted the artistry of this nearly too well-made, Ibs«ne|^e drama,

^« "ost frequent and curious rmuurk was phrased "This play is important—it means something." The remark is a curious one, because in its seeming nftirete, it m^ rereal simnly a measure of suecess that no complex analysis could ex- plain. With a bit more sophistication, John Oassner undertook the explanation of just what was important about the drama and stated that the plot was not u

•imply oaloulat«d, not simply well*mad«t ''The argument, the idea* or the author's passion for something beyond the theater doTninatos our interest* . • •

Miller« in short, oreated his play rather than merely oontrived it* He present*

|^s ed life, as well as argument, on the sta^e.^SS

rlPerhaps the most significant Indioaticn that the importance of the sooial pl«y Miller insists upon in "On SooLai Plays'* has been realised within this first work revolving about an antl-sooial action is that no one thought to la-

idea of cracked engine heads may help to ^•^ ^};} Mi Sons a "problem play*" The cateh and hold the interest of an audience because of its topioal relevanoies, but the question of social responsibility extends even far beyond 4he problems of downtrodden workers and capitalistic en^loyers, or the problems of women's rights that have provided material for so many sooial "thesis" plays* There was little chance of audiences' splitting to either side of Miller's special ple»t Miller makes use of the situation set in a milieu of contemporary signl- fioenee to plead for an eternal value: human integrity* Within the mind of man aroused to heroism there is no nay to this plea*

As Miller's theory suggests, responsibility is discovered mid borne by a representative of the sooial unit, Joe Keller* That the major questioning is ostensibly done by his son LiO-ry may be confusing, and has led William Wiegand to devise an interpretation that divides the major action in this and other of

Miller's plays between two characters'—one ifto knows and one who discovert*

The interpretation is to an extent plausible, and the division of labor may be an effective means of dramatioally articulating the conflict between the easy choice and the heroic one* The important thing, however, is that Joe possesses the guilt that all of us do for any of o\jr selfish, snti-social action, end is led through the significant, the heroic question "TOio is ny sonT" to the dis- covery and ultimate action, retribution by death, that expresses for all society tht inqr In which to llv«»

Xf Jo* K«ller*s aotion m««n> lomothlng or is important to those i^o iflt- n«ts his story, if ha iusoMds in oonTinoing an stidiones thst his ehoioet

Mttt«r as irsll as in oominig to the realisation himself, then perhaps the eon- mm aaa ean be noble« perhaps Joe Keller oan stand as a heroie questioner for his polii, j>ei^haps Viller has begin to fulfill his theory, and in fulfilling it to denonatrate its ralidity in the twentieth eentury* ^' ^ -

^ It is interesting that while Miller exploits the faaily situation throu^-

r '',(•» out his , his purpose is to eacpress the Importanee of life outside the family* He sees modern man as haring retreated into the seourlty of his family

In the faoe of a hostile and warring world, irtiile modem drama has rejeeted that alim plaee (the world) in faror of ixuliTidual p^yehoanalysis* In a dis- cussion "The Family in Uodern Drama" (1966) Miller touehes on ideas ihtt pera*- ate his dramatie worirt , v i^?

Kow I should like to make the bald statement that all nlays we eall great, let alone those we eall serious, are ultimately inrol-red with some aspect of a single process* It is thisi Bow may a man make of the outside world a home? 84 le describes that dramatic form he aspires to as a dynamic blend of idiat we

"feel" in the family relation and iri\at we mast "know" in the social one*

As Joe Keller was forced to aoltnowledge his resDonsibility to his social hoM* the Lomans in Death of a. Salesmsn suffer from the attempt to establish the wrong kind of l^me in the outside world* There is perhaps no better known play in American draaia, and none about which more arguments hare raged in on cHompt to establish its status as tragedy* Though Willy nerer does realise that his dreams of becoming "well-liked" as the result of selling his own per-

•onellty—dreams that hare left him a brokm, lonely man and haTC all but his sonc* chances for fulfil Iment—are all the wrong dreams, he does '? ? •'. u

find the strength for hl« flnail act of delf-saorlfioe throvigh an aolmowltclg-

»int of the moBt solid ralue that is available to hiw— love» Hit wife Linda's

unquestioning derotion is nearly unbelievable, and the love of his son Biff

that has survived the crumbling of the castles Willy had built around Biff fin-

ally spurs Willy to the only redeeming deed he can imagine, one that demon-

strates his unwillingness to settle for half, (a quality that Villler believes

heroes isuflt h«ve)» w

. . > .!!«- . . If Willy's saorifioe can be no more than a negative statement about the

way to live in the world. Biff, at least, seems to have gained the kaowledge .

necessary for a positive stand when he tells Willy about his petty theft of a

pen*

I ran down eleven flights with a pen in my hand today* And suddenly X stopped, you hear mo? And in the middle of that office building, do you hear this? I stopped in the middle of that building and I saw—the sky* I saw tlie things that I love in this world* The work ai\d the food and tim« *»*o sit and smoke. And I looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for? Why sm X trying to become what I don't want to bet What em I doing in an office making a contemptuous, begging fool

i ef myself, T*9n all I want is out there, wsdting for me the minute I say I know irtio I ami 35

Here again, the message to be delivered by the dramatic conflict appears

to be distributed between two characters, Willy and Biff, and presents a oan-

pllcation for the conventional "search for the tragic hero and the traglo

triumph" by irtiich likely candidates for the supreme crown are dissected* Biff,

like Larry In All Hy Sons, stands ia a clearer light than his father, and is

able to articulate the central problem or vital error in the latter 's conduct

of life before the discovery that leads to the ellmasttlo catastrophe Is made—

the tragle aotica that precipitates the tragic victory or triumph*

At first, there seems a vast difference between the two plays In that

Biff's life has been so nearly ruined by the same lie that plagues Willy, ?*iile

terry appears merely to be casting disdain at his father from a morally super- .-7"-'

16

lor position* On second look, however, it is apparent that Larry stood to !>• ruined as a man Just aa Biff did, if the mistedce, the wrong in his father's iew, could not be recognized and corrected. Larry faltered Just as Biff did under the burden of renouncing the father that he loved and had trusted, but in both eases the denial of the father's faulty values frees the son from a life of hypocrisy and unmanly compensation. Larry will not accept partnership in a business whose tuoeess is tainted by corruption, and Biff will not go on ftttil*^ ly exaggerating his own inrjortanoe to the point of actually accomplishing less than nothing in his lifetime.

^ P^ft^-^ of *, Salesman, because Willy has degenerated so far In his delu-

sion many people find it difficult to grant him the dignity of tragio heroism, and for some Biff is therefore the likelier CRndidat*. Willy does not even make the discovery, it is argued; he does not die for the right resisonj be- cause h3 kills hiTTisolf while still under the power of his old dream of a glor-

ious future for Biff, his death is not tragic, only pitiful. It is true that

Biff expresses tho most complete discovery of the lie of ^ich their lives are oonstruotad^ and that Willy apparently goes to his death still refusing to recognise the whole truth, but it is perhaps questionable whether audiences would accept sudden clarity of mind from a man already so dononstrably disturbed.

Also, Willy does n«ke the discovery aiost vital for him at this point in his

life, aaithough he doss not fully recognise the logical implications of hit dis- covery, he dies for the right not the wrong reason.

Wot only would a full realization from Willy be improbable, it would serve

a destructive rather than a rede-nptive purpose. For Willy to be cruelly faced with the truth that his entire life has been a lie, would be to offer the death blow to a man already beaten by the real facts of life. This death would have nothing of triumph, but only whimpering despair to acoomoai^ it. Instead, K ' 16

'-^i. «^

Willy is raised to e joyful victory by th« positive truth he discovers, end^ by reason of his psyehotio stste he Is spared any aoknowledgment of the w*rpe4 creed of life that has heretofore obsoured the truth. At the height of Biff's impassioned denunciation of his father, Willy discovers that his son loves him.

At another time, the discovery of this positive and solid value, love, might have provided a basis from which deluded hypocrisy coxild bo dispelled, but here, at the end of Willy's possibilities for liviag, the discovery provides him with enough strength to offer all that he can to the son t*o loves hira, to affirm the new value with his last act.

With the recognition of the inport«inoe of Death 6f a Salesman and the oor» responding cries of "tragedy" from all sides, the inevitable conflict arose between what many recognised as a "social" play and the lofty, universal crea- tion, tragedy. Brie Bentley describes Driiat he finds an ineffective confusion of two forms in which the "'tragedy* destroys the sooiel dremaj the social drama keeps the 'tragedy' from having a fully tragic stature. "'6 Mr. Bentley's analysis night have a good deal of significance if it oould be accurately ap- plied to Death of la Salesman, but it is now generally recognized th^.t though

Willy*« story is not improbable and in fact is quite powerful in the given con^ text of the false values of salesmanship in the United States, the real problem is BJore that of Willy: delvided human than Willyi discarded entployee. As

John Ofassner has said, Willy Is a personality "too big in his feelings and nec- essary pretensions to be merely a case history soluble by social legislation. "ST

Indeed, as wo have seen, for Miller a tragedy is and must be a social play, though not in the immediate "problem" play sense to which ws are accus- tomed. The impact of Willy's plight is in no small measure powerful beetuse

of the details of his situation identifiable in the lives of thousands of mid- dle-olasa Americans ifiio have witnessed and will witness his dilemma, but the 17

vital disoovery of the play la a dlacoTory about retaining a grip on truly valuable things, a discovery that might or must be made by all people at all tiiMS* Miller himself irould like to be able to explain theourious suoeesa of his Death of a Salesman In Scandinavian countries* tApplanders who oame baok night after night as if In the observation of soine ritual are pussllng to those irtio irould limit Death of a Sftlesman to the proportions of a toploal problfa ;,''.'' P^'y* - . -/'^^^ ,

Ironically, In view of the scorn we have seen Miller display toward purely inward' looking psyohologioal revelations. Death of a Salesatan has, from its opening, drawn admiring ooTnients from members of the psychiatric profession regarding the accurate portrayal of the return of the repressed through the

•rtipting unoonselous of a perscm like Willy* Dr* Daniel S* Schneider in The

Psyohoanalyst and the Artist considers at length the significance and psyoho- logioal aoouracy of the problem of the less favored second son both in All U^

Sons and In Death of la Salesman* Suoh specialised approaches offer welcome witness to the validity of characterization in these plays, but they describe only facets of Miller* s Intention and of his accomplishment*

Though the critics continue to diseigree about the exact oategorlsetioa for Death of a Sa.lesman, few deny that it is one of the most important plays to oonas out of twentieth-century America* We have seen the problems involved in determining just tiho, if anyone, is the heroic questioner, the vanguard of society* The answer may basically lie in the detez^lnation of the discovery!

Is the discovery love? Or is it integrity of self? It appears that the whole statement of how to live in the world that is made by Death of a Salesman involves both these discoveries and cannot omit either and still achieve its victory*

It is gratifying to find that Death of a Salesman fulfills Miller's 18

requirements for important dr

its being tragedy and that Miller's concepts may be applied in saa argument that begins to establish the plausibility that Willy's discovery is a tragic one.

We must observe, however, that All My Sons fulfills Miller's requirements just as completely as Death of la Salesman, yet no one has suggested that it may be

a tragedy—neither do I intend to begin the argument* Though Miller's concepts of tragedy are not antithetical and may in some oases expreaa identical quali* tieS| tragedy does not necessarily result from oonformanoe to the stipulations of "On Soetal PlAy««*

In dealing with his next play. , Miller was glad to be able to work with more articulate characters* **! was dealing with people very conscious of an ideal, of iriiat they stood for • • • • They baew why they struggled • • • they know how to struggle • • • they did not die helplesslya^^S The ideals, the struggles, and the deaths were those of the seventeenth century citizens of

Salem, Massachusetts, who we'-e drawn into the fury of the witch trials. That soma honor and truth remained in the village at the height of mass delusion was demonstrated by the refusal of some of the accused to confess to having had dealings with the devil, and, thereby, to retain their lives.

Miller's drama focuses on the behavior of John and * farming people, and is the nearest of any of Miller's drama to the conventional fcrntula for tragedy. It differs from All My Sons said Death of & Salesman in

«Bd)pdyl£ig a eleer and foroeful human effort for the "right" from beginning to

•ni in the person of John Proctor. John* unlike Joe leller and , is allowed to see his place and act purposefully at the moment of orlsis, and not simply long after the ruinous damage has been done. John's recognition

Involves the realization that his action can be meaningful; he had considered a

hintVfflf a sinful m«a sinoe h« had ooTranitted adultery* "Z oannot mount the gibbet like a saint. It it a fraud* I am not that good mp.n« My honesty is broke, Eliiabethj I am no good 'nBn.''39 Elisabeth urces him to forgive himself.

"Whatever you do, it is a good man does it . • • I have sins of my own to ao- eotmt. It needs a cold wife to proirot leohery.^^O His wife urges him not to take her sins upon himself, but John decides to confess and have his life.

J . /, It is not until the Judgee demand that he name other innocent people that

John revolts, and he no soonor signs the confession to be displayed on the church thra he seises it* He cannot give up his name to a lie*

Beoause it is my namel Beosuse I cannot have another in iny lifel Because I lie and sign nyaelf to liesl Because I em not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without ray namet lay 41 I have given you soul; leave me my name. .^>.m

Since the Judge will not accept a confession of admitted lies, Johji tears and crumples the paper, realizing that there is enough of good in him to make hit action more than a mockery* When Reverend , who fears the sin of hav- ing convicted innocent people, pleads with Proctor that he cannot hang.

Proctor allows his intention a last positive statement*

I onn. And there's your first marvel, that I can. Tou have made your magic now, for now I do think I see some shred of goodness in Jchn Proctor. Not enough to wave a banner with, but -jiAilte enough to keep it from such dogs.*2

The Crucible deals most figuratively with a motif that many oommentatort have explicated throughout Miller's work—that of guilt. All My Sons and

Death of a^ Salesman dealt with the discovery of some wrong, the revelation of guilt and consequent self«punishneBt« Mueh of The Crucible' s positive inpaot

results from the fact that John ftfoetor is not wrong i he moves beyond his guilt. Beyond guilt that guilt may be looked upon as being merely the nega- tive incentive that precedes the positive resolution* Miller has explained this progression in terms of developments in his thinking as a dranatistt 20

^^ ^Q Cinicible • • . there w»t an atteaipt to moTe btyond the discovery and unveiling of the hero*» guilt, a guilt ttiat kills the personality. I had grown increasingly conscious of this theme in any past work, end ttware too that it was no longer for me to build a play, as it were, upon the rerelation of guilt, and to rely solely upon a fate which exacts pay- neat from the oulpable man. Now guilt apoeared to me no longer the bed- rook beneath ixhich the probe could not penetrate. I saw it now as a betrayer, as possibly the nost real of our illusions, but nevertheless a quality of mind capable of being overthrown.*3

John Proctor makos the heroic stand, perhaps the tragic staixd, in affir-

mation of raaa's need for dignity among men, but an unfortunate produotlon at ': the height of HcCarthyism appears to have blurred Broadway's reception of the play in January of 1953. The play had undeniable topical releiranoiss in view of the current Senate investigations, relevansiet nAiioh praoipitated a good deal of irrelevant praise and blame according to reviewer's sympathies in the oontemporary affair. Later performances have drawn more uuconditionally glow- ing reviews.

'; The remoteness of time and the consequent fact that the moral questions involved in the witch trials are all well settled in the ninda of oontemporary audiences, allow for the first time in Miller 'a drama the plausibility of a single, noble though "common," heroic Tuestioner -srtio aohieve* a cloar-out per- sonal victory in the name of the integrity tlxat remains in his coT.Traunlty»

Still, if the relationship of this remote material to certain fiery topical issues was disconcerting to some, to others it was an affii>mation that the esMt questions may rise to be answered time and agAin, and that a olear disoovery will always require the pitiable suffering of man and his integrity that It exacted long ago in Salem.

The disoovery that John Proctor can offer to his people speaks of the aeees- sity of truth, of the victory of truth, even when the choioe of it means the loss of life. Saoh a discovery would be common enough, but Prootor has not com* to his ehoioe eaeilyi he had first to consider himself worthy to stand for his f

peoole* In orerooming his guilt, in coining to see that he has ft rl^t to good« ness» John Proctor makes a discovery as in^ortant to those in his society and

in ours as it is to the developnent of Miller's philosophyi guilt is a des» truotive illusion; it nmst be overthrown before maa oan execute a responsible

action.

At any rate, with inuoh less stir than that caused by Death of a^ Salesman,

The Crucible has quietly taken Its place with many critics as an exanple of trftgedy in American draraa# D.D. Raohael in his The Paradox of Tragedy consi- ders it one Ansrican dreaa that has some "clala to sreataMf»" md iwAmU

Miller's anthology, Aaerican Dramatic Literature, quite simply defends Hm selection of The Crucible to represent tragedy and incidentally provides for the induction of the common man to the rolls of heroes*

As he dies, John Proctor raises human nobility to the level expected of of the tragic hero* Be was no *great* man, and his worldly pesition was of little consequence* But faced with the decision to keep his life and lose all human respect for himself, or to die in defiance of those idio would declare themselves his betters and thus redeem all the pain and sor- row he had caused within his limited world, he made the choice that broke the back of the power that executed him* And that is tragedy*^^

Thus, The Crucible presents a further development in Miller's thinking without violating the line of his social play theory* It also makes more readily dis- cernible use of the conventional tragic structure than any of his previous plays did* Eawvor, as with Death of a Salesman, The Crucible 's bid for the title "tragedy" aopears to depend on factors not accounted for—or not can- pletely accounted for~in "On Social Plays*" '

In A View From the Bridge, it is Eddie Carbone, the man irtio squeals to the immigration officials about his wife Beatrice's cousins, t*o will not set- tle for half, Eddie takes the two illegally entered "submarines," Marco aai

Hodolpho, into his home in accord with an understood policy in this Italian waterfront neighborhood. IQie Rodolpho, a handsome young blond tdio Eddie feels if highly effeminate, begins to keep constant company with Beatrice's niece,

' Catherine, trhom Eddie has raised and nov desires to Ke*p with him, Eddie re*

taliates first by trying to prove that Rodolpho is "not right."

' Xiller has in this case employed an articulate lawyer, Alfieri, to mate

explicit the ancient social meshes of these Dcople, and the intric?oies of

Htoral- social law that must govern them* When Eddie comes to him for help

ilgaiast Catherine's marrying Bodolpho, Eddie hears that the action he is beiag

driven toward will be a crime against society* *

'ill- ^ The law is only a word for what has a right to happen* ^en the law is

= wrong it's because it's unnatural, but in this case it is nattural and a vi,,, i river will drown you if you bucl? it now. Let her go* And bless her* Somebody had to come for her, Eddie, sooner or later* You won't have a friend in the world, Eddiel Even those w^io understand will turn against ©•Ji the ones who feel the same will i y®*** despise you|45 , V ;tt: 1

Eddie melees the anonymous call, however, and only at the last minute urges

Catherine to get the brothers out of the house* Marco, whose family was da*

.,,,. pending on the money he could earn and send home to them, spits in Eddie's

face and accuses him in front of the lAiole neighborhood as he and Kodolpho ^e

talcwR a»ay« and Eddie realises that he has lost his name* To be esi>osad la to

. , admit that he had ignored his social conscience to satisfy a selfish passion,

and Karoo must restore his name to him* Marop^ meainrhilaf caasiot understand a

law that allcfws a man like Eddie to livei

'* ,-> Rodolpho t Marco, tell the man* Marco: V^lhat will X tell him? He knows such a promise is dishonorable* Alfieri: To promise not to kill is not dishonorable* Marco: Ho? Alfieri: So. Marco: Then ^at is done with such a man? Alfieri: Nothing. If he obeys the law, he lives. That's all. Marco: The law? All the law is not in a book. Alfieri: Yes. In a book* There is no other law. Marco: He degraded my brother* My blood* He robbed my children, he mocks By work* I work to come here, mister I Alfieri: I know, Marco- Marco: There is no law for that? Where is the law for that? Alfieri: There is none* Marco: I don't understand this country**^ Karoo agrees to the dishonorable promis«« but hit honor oaanet be set aside

and he cosies to congront Eddie at soon as he is out on ball* . .

Eddie—h£ gradually comes to address the peot)let Maybe he cojne to apol- ogize to hmu Eeh« karoo? "Tor -what you said about me in front of the aelghborhood? He knows that ain't right. To do like that? To a fta«t • neighborhood with my naane like a dirty regl I want wf , • • Wlpia* the ;(»aB»e, Maroo* Now gimme my nsime and we go together to the wedding**'

In the struggle that follows Eddie pulls a knife and Maroo turns it back on

• .-' Eddie. :•,.'•;'. . K

Though Alfieri tells himself that it must be better to settle for half,

Eddie's action* yet he knows there wss something purely honest in ^. .

• • • ^or 1 eonfess ^at something perversely pure oalls to m« fren his sMBBory—not tmrely good, but himself purely, for he allowed himself te be irtiolly known and for that I think I will lor© him more than all my sensible clients**®

In A View From the Bridge we return to "the full lo&thsomeness of aa

anti-social action* that gripped Miller's conoeotion of All Uj Spna^ and this

revelation goes further than any of Miller's efforts toward relating the values

of two societies distant from one another in time and soace* Both the Oresk

form and the musings of the articulate chorus, Alfieri, allude to the invlslbls

ties that link the codes of the oontemnorary Hew Tork Italian polls to the

oodes of their ancient Adriatic ancestors* Bere, also, we are able to see the

dlehotomy that may exist between the eode of the polls and the laws of outsid-

ers that must allegedly govern the people. Eddie's call to the police was

loathseaw tad satl-soclal eroa though It was in aooord with the official "law,*

end for IKaroo to obey the law that says that he may not rereage hiaself on

Sddlo would be unsDcakable dishonor. The discovery of the overwhelming slgnl-

fleanoe of polls law Is made by Eddlo vAxen he realizes that he can bear any-

thing before he oan accept ditdionor in the polls, the loss of his name that

accompanies the revelation of his anti-soelal action. Victory is realised la th« retribution of hit death end the consequent reetteblishnMit of stability

" ' • the polis* ' ^ ^'. in " t

' A View Frorn the Bridge op«ied September, 1955, with another one-act,

^"Q^''y ^^*o Mondays, to mixed rerlevs* Some highly praised the atarkness L ^, SL

of Oreok tragedy, while others were oritioal of an artificial cofflmentator .

("chorus") ia Alfleri* Before a nuoh happier openizig in , I'.iller had

iaereesed the dialogue by some twenty minutes, making Sddie more sympathetie /

•nd simultaneously streagthening the parts of Beetrioe and Catherine, and h« had brought the Aot-one curtain down at 'tiie end of a high-pitchad scene ia

Eddie's aoiuNrsient. After having seen the Sew York production. Miller real- ised that much more of his own soirit and psychological life ware in the play thali he had realised* "low there «sr« additional things to say because I had

- » ' ' oome to the awareness that this play had not, as I had almost bellered before, been given to sm from without, but that my life had created it. "49 a new set aad corresponding action were designed with the central idea of bringing the

: - people of the neighborhood into the foreground of the action* . ,

Thus his ^^die*jv^*oddne8s* came to disappear as he was seea in context, as a creature of nis environment as well as an exception to it| and where originally there had been only a removed sense of terror at the oncoming catastrophe, now there was olty and, I think, the kind of wonder which it liad been my aim to create in the first place* It was fiaally possible to

. i , (iwura this man*^ ,

The ehangeA Uiller made in the re-working of this play identify the key to it« ffttceets in MjUler't tyvf aa wtll as on the boards* Viihile Mdie staadt apart, a weird oresture alienated even from his own people, he cannot stand as a respected questioner—for his people or for the audience* But if Miller has, indeed, succeeded in blending Eddie back into his environment until ho can be mourned by his neighbors, then w« too, can mourn, moura with wonder at the action that has taken place before us* ./ .' 25

Aft«r the opening of A yiear From the Bridge end £ Memory of Tttq Monday

In 1955, Wew York tree to w«lt nine years for another new Miller play, aad when

It finally came in 1964, many were not disappointed. The author hns said^

- "Thle play is not about eomethiiig; hopefully. It is something."

"is," indeed, a long two aots that guide the evidienoe through the tortuous

paths of a raan*s analysis of his life to tho acceptance of himself as lining

"after the fall" and to the possibility of hope and courage once the accept-

• u > ; " . ance has been made* . , ...f , 'U U^

. • • is the knowing all? To Vnow, and even hapriily, that we meet ua^ blessed} not in so-^e garden of wax fruit md naiated trees, that lie of

' Eden, bttt after, after the Fall, after mimy, many deaths. Is the know- lag allf And the wish to kill is never killed, but with some gift of courage one may look into its face when it appears, and with a stroke of

lore—as to an Idiot in the house—• forgive itj again and again • . • forever? 62

The play is the development of a structure that ooourred to Miller when h*

wms first thinking of Death of s Salesman. He was then thinking of calling It

' ^* Inaide of His Head, and of having the entire proscenium filled with a feee

that would open to reveal the action that took place Inside Willy's head. The

setting for action taking place in the mind, thought, and memory of Qumitla

includes three sculpted levels that provide for many separate acting areas rep*

resenting the parts of Quentin's brain nidaer© the people he thinks about appear

and dissppeer as they do in his thinking.

Quentin himself appears on the stage to wind through the soliloquy-narra-

tion interspersed with reenacted incident* involving family, clients, friends,

eolleagues* mistresses and wivts. The whole is heavy with highly articulate,

perhaps drily expository thought whose variety end depth can only be abused by

a concise outline. As In The Crucible, Miller takes up the question of guilt

to grapple with it until his hero can move beyond it* Quentin once possessed

a blissfully Innocent sense of certainty and purpose about life which has been 26

battered by the ooureo of hli living until he rauet see that little is elmply

good, that even love eannot be trusted, and that he himeelf la guilty of self-

ishneee and cruelty. At times Quentln finds eo-ne guide in truth: "Speak

tru^, not deoenoy— I ouree the iriiole high admlniatration of fake innooenoel

I declare It, I am not Innooentl Nor goodJ^^S His poeitive appeal for the

recognition of erll ie at one point ellueively reminiscent of Aaouilh^s eternal

ftlhtUetic "HO." "I em not sure i/diat we are upholding any more—are we good

by merely saying no to evil? Even a righteous 'no* bears some disguise. len't

It necessary ... to say ... to finally say yes ... to something?"^ And

finally. In anger to hit frenzied wife Maggie, who had lived by the declaration

that she wan all lovet "Do the hardest thing of all—see your own hatred, and

llvei"55 Perhaps the most poignant image of idtat Miller is saying it presented

by Holga, the woman whom Quentln would love if he could find some reason t©

believe in himself, in the promise he might give. '

I know how terrible It Is to owe what one can never pay. And for a long time after I had the same dream each night—that I had a child; and even in the dream I saw that the child was my llfej and It was an Idiot. And I wept, and a hundred times I ran away, but each time I came back It had the same dreadful face. Until I thdught. If I oould kiss It, irtiatever in face, and »s^:, It was my own, perhaps I oould rest. And I bent to Its broken it was horrible . • • but I klsted It. Quentlnt Does It still come beck? Eolgat At times. But it somehow has the virtue now ... of being mine. I think one must finally take one's life in one»s arms, Quentin.66

It would appear in regard to the success of Eugene O'Keill's Long Dwy's

Journey Into Hlght that audiences will allow any amount of soul-searching auto-

biography as long as It Is kept behind the footlights In unquestionable draaia-

tio form and is far enough removed from cutfent headlines to avoid being

embarrassing. After the Fall, however, oast In a form that must be labelled

more expository than dramatic and dealing deeply not only with the aathor't

life, but with the life and death of his very famous and recently deceased 27

wit9, Merllya Moaroa, wag more than etwld b« aoo«pt«d by aaay* 1Qiftt«T«r after*

taste of gignlflcaaoe and srtistry might have been derlTed from a performaae*

of the work was lost through » lack of emotional distasee in the audieaoe.

" . IllCalter Kerr begaa, After the Tall resembles a confessional whioh Arthur

"57 V*,-, Miller enters as a penitent and from whioh he emerges as the priest, ead

Jeta KoClaia was forthrightly offended by a "laok of taste*" "•-! thought \h*

girl might have been permitted to rest in peaee*"68 Normaa W*d«l ifae tmmg tkt

few who were able to see beyond or at least to olosa their eyes to aagr lamedi*

at« tnXSM^i^t "After the Fall is a soinber, fuasy« tragie, and terrifying

triin|iii of purposeful introspection*"^^ Condwmation of Miller for the inaMdi*

aey of his largely factual material seems rather futile, if not foolish, espe*

eially when one considers that if he wished merely to exploit his intimate

knowledge of Miss Monroe, he might have done so without such an exoruoiating

revelation of himself* Quentin is Miller, and he is working throu^ the most

eriotts of problems I how to recognize one*s guilt aiul yet live, and live rloh*

ly with love In the world* The material, the questions, the answers are power*

fttl* Whether so expository a form can live in the theattr^ i^ether auditaoea

OM be drstaa to find their own guilt and need for life in Quentla^t dtlesna

mat remain for future productions to demonstrate*

Hevertbeless, After the Fall earrles forth Miller's quallflcatioas for the

aeoial play, mrtn though it occupies Itself so oppressively with aa ladividuel

personality* As long as there Is something significant for people besides

Queatla in the aooeptenoe of the discovery he makes eboat his own life, he eaa

be described as a questioner representative of his people* Indeed, the guilt

which he recognises as something he nsast partake of, the guilt of Kasl crlaas

la whioh he must somehow share Is the guilt of soolety, of all manklad* The

realisation of his personal selfishness and cruelty Is only symbolic of and the 28

first st«p tcmard a realization of the eommoa guilt bora of humanity* Quentla

diaoovere, trtth the help of Holga, that «ie only way to live in the world, in

his society, ia his polls, and with himself is to accept guilt and to move be-

yond it* Love ia pestlble, for Qaentin and for all mem, only when one sees the

truth, the ugliness, and yet says "yes" to life, takes up his idiot child, tains

'''"' his life in his arms*

With the advent of the 1965 theater season, a iigh of relief imist have

risen from a Broadway uneasy with the agitation of Miller's 1964 offering* He

was for the second time 9n the boards of the new Unooln Center, and this tim*

with a short play that, though it was again heavy with debate and light of ac-

tion, was straightforward and undoubtedly fictional. takes

place among men waiting to \i9 called from a detention room in Tlohy, Prance In

1942* Through the nervous revelation of their various hopes and anxieties,

their beliefs and despair, the audience receives a stark portrayal of the ter-

ror foid dcstructiosi of Nazi hate*

Voa Berg, one of two gentiles among them who will bo given passes of

release, it a member of the Austrian aristooraoy who has been deeply offended

by the vulgarity of the Hasi oeoupation forces*

Bayard /ka electrici«a^; In other words, if they had good taste in art, and elegant table manners, and lot the orchestra play whatever it liked, they*d be all right with you* Von Bergt But how would that be possible? Can people with resoect for art go about hounding ? Making a prison of Europe, pushing themselves forward as a race of polloemen and brutes? Is that possible for artistic peoole? Monoean /Sa aotojrT't I'd like to agree with you. Prince Von Berg, but I have to say that the Oerman audiences—I've played there—no audience is as sensitive to the smallest nuance of a perfornanooj -Uiey sit in the theater wltii respect like in a church* And nobody listens to music like a German* Don't yon think so? It's a passion with them. (Pause) Von Berg ( appalled at the truth): I'm afraid that is true, yes. I don't know what to say* (He is depressed, deeply at a loss*)30

Many such beliefs must be trampled before Leduc, a psychiatrist, and Von Berg 19

Wf l«ft to «aoover the raw truth that remain*. In rebuttal to a Cornnmaistio

hfltfwieue oonduoted by Bayard that ha« been eilenoed by the fact that, ae Toil

Berg euggests, most Naala sre of the working olees. Von Berg aubmite that only

ft twm ladivlduala are not aubject to the influence of propaganda* ^.,': ' , I

Bayard : You're aa intelligent man, Prinoe. Are you seriously telling a* that fIto, tea a thouaaad, ten thousand decent peoT?le of integrity are all that staad between us and the end of everything? You Bieaa this iikole .j;«orld is going to haag on that threadT61

As the mea are oalled away oae by oae Ledue, a stony>-eyed realist, admits

to Toa Berg his eager at knowing the eril In tike world aad not hftTlag acted

reasonably upon his knowledge* ^

I am only angry that I should have been bom before the day when man has ftocepted his own naturej that he is not reasonable, that he is full of wurder, that his ideals are only theTTttle tax he pays for the right to hftte and kill wi«i a olear oonsoience. I am only angry that, knewiag

i :^la, I still deluded myself* That there wasnot time to truly make part of myself irtiat I know, and to teach others thb truth. 62

At Ton Berg's insistence upon a remaining idealism Leduo infonns him that no one is iramine from hatred and selfishness.

Saoh man has his Jewf it is the other. And the Jews have their Jews* And now, now above all, jrou raiist see that you have yours—the man whose death leaves you relieved that you are not him, despite your deeenoy. #4«d thPt is why there is nothing and will be nothing—until you faoe yoxar y «wn c^plioity witic this • • • your own humanity.63

And at Ton Berg's helplessness in comforting the man iriio will bo held while

Ton Berg goes free, Leduo utters thfr words that are the aacwer to t^e oonneo*' tion of all t^e preoccupation with gililt and Miller's larger purpose la sur* passing itt "It's not your guilt I want, it's your responsibility—that might here helped*"^

In Leduo, Miller has given us an intelligent and htmest, if setflsh mant one who sees as Quentin did that the evil and guilt in the world must be fteoepted* The individual man must recognize the part he has in the world's

•vil and urust do the most he can to remedy that evil if he would know the p«ft«« so

that respoBiible aooeptanoe brings* Leduc finds he must ehallanga Ton B«rg« /

' . th« man vho will not relinquish his belief in the existence of good, in the

solidity of true idealism, but viho oomes to see the necessity for a responsible

Idealism* one that has realized evil* tHhen Von Berg returns with nl8 tdiite pass

to freedom, he shoves it at Leduc and sits quietly back on the bench to meet ,

^ '-'"- '^'^^^^ ' hiff 4f«th, ..r-^:'

tt ieeai that Hillef has mored avay from the "eoiniton IMn*s" lattfug* t»

people his stage irlth characters capable of articulating his message* Perhaps

those who complained most loudly of the inadequate stature of his oolloqnial

heroes are those that are now protesting the stage as a debate platform*

Incident at Tiohy is certainly not derold of high emotions and exciting drsma-

tie sittiations, as well as of rital action, end there will be those who will

agree with Howard TaubmanJ "Arthur Miller has written a moring play, a searoh-

ing play* one of the most importent plays of our time* • • * It is a thunder-

ing try of angttish end warning that might issue frcnn the heart of a prophet."^

With Von Berg, Miller has come round to a clearly noble and heroic ques-

tioner, one that erea goes haXf'-way towards Xnitoh's stipulations in being a

BMber of an "enlightened nobility." Ironically, the effectiveness of Von Berg»s

• action depends upon his identifying himself as a part of the polls of nta •

ealled to acoouat for tkelr race, upon his aeeepting the responsibility for tiui

idiloh a oondsnined* In teklag his stony<-eyed stance in the , erll by these men re

detention room from adiioh he could eo easily and righteously haTO escaped.

Ton Berg declares himself one of those few thousand people who will stand out

from their society to discover for them that there is a decent, a good, a hero-

lo way to live In the world* In his ability to so declare himself lies his,

and our, rictory.

It would appear that Miller *s tiM«ry, as It Is presented in **0n Social #».:.-

;i|l

Playt," of iriiat iaportant drecna—tragio drama—muat bo in owe tiao !• rolatod

W

perhaps aa oluoidating frame through iriiioh to examine hi« work. It is anpar-

ont, alio, in the nature of Mr. Miller** comments regarding any indiTidual

vork, that he does not atteapt, nor does he presume to oonrinoe us that he at» ..':'' teopts to devise art from a formula*

Despite the fact that Arthur Miller has added considerable spioe to tho

debate that surrounds him by having a great deal to say about the nature of

tragedy, no one is more sware than he that his theories are after-the-fact of

his plajrt. R« has insisted, in fact, that he never knows all that his materi-

al as he wans handles it, that ho iiorks with the depths of reality as it pro-

sents itself to him end must complete a work before he can begin to ••• tta fdiole relevance and particular significance. "If I know that something neaas to «e, if I hare already come to the end of It as aa experience, I oanH write

It beesttse it seems like a twice-told talo."W

Xiller admits such a prooess is astonishingly costly, yet it is his naanar of working. "You can go up a dead end and discover that it»s beyond your ca- pacity to find seme orgainism imderneath your feeling, and you're left slnrply with a formless feeling which is not itself art.^e? Arthur Miller is first an artist, an artist who has given us the benefit of his thought regarding tho

Ideal goal and potential worth of the work ke and his fellow dramatists may produce. But this truth must be the first truth of tragedy as well as of the artist! He 4oesn»t start with priaoiplesf ke begins with a facet of his exper- ience that moves him. What evolves m^ or may not be good, and it may or nay

, _.--^,,.,:., , not be tragedy. ,^

The discussion of Miller's individual plays has revealed that what evolves from a mind conditioned towards the social play also may or may not be good S2

taA liagr or flMLj not be tragedy* It is eleu* that Miller* t attenpt to drnr a

simple identity between his idea of the social play and the traditional oon-

««pt ojT, tragedy is inaooarate* Though eritios ndll oontinue to ezeroise the

•rgwent "Is it or isn't it?" unon a few of Miller's plays, the suooess that

any of the plays hare in reaching the ooreted pigeonhole will remain inoiden*

'^' Hkial the idBs preseribed in his theory* / ' 1 -.. In his essay. Miller has shaped some iarpressiTO tenets from the similar-

ity between his aspirations for sooiety and the drama and the apparent state

of an aneient' society and its drama* The kind of thinking that shaped these

tenets has not proren irrelerant or impotent in the modem Ameriean theater*

As far as information is aTailable, none of Miller's nlays has failed to reaeh

Broadway since The Man Who Bad All the Luck was produced in 1946* lOkenerer a

Miller play has appeared, audiences hare been stirred—at tisMS to extraragant

praise, at times to Tiolent oondeimation, and quite often to both extremes re-

garding the same play* When a Miller play appears, chances are that audiences

will feel themselTOS eoaqpelled to affirm or deny some Tital principle of llTing,

and no sueh eoftpulsion could be aroused if the principle were not dellTcred In

a dramatie form effeetlYely molded for its purposes* Critics hare oft«a wel-

eomad Miller plays with fztra^professlonal warmth, gliding blindly OTor

artistic failings in their gratitude for contemporary Amarioan plays that

"say something important."

Miller's own theory suffers from the same gliding orer or eren Ignoring

of dramatic principles other than subject end purpose-effect* In his descrip-

tion of the social play Miller has neglected to Indicate anything about how

this meaningful drama will be effected, anything. In fact, about drama as aa

artistic form* He speaks In lofty phrases about the derating effect the ac-

tion of a social play will hare upon an audience adequately primed to percelTe ^!»^.—-y-:-'-

its 8lgnlfleano«, Imt he fails to desoribe nhat he means and doesn't nean by

"action, " how aotion is presented in a drama, how it is peroeiTod by the thea-

ter audienoe, or idiat plaee action holds in relation to other parts of dr«m»»

tie form such as dialogue, oharaoterlsation, theme, and subject* The list of

"left-outs" could continue until all asoects of structure ever considered by

drtaatle analysis had been numerated. In short, howerer. Miller has form-

lated a theory that considers only a few aspects of drama and that, as a result,

is not capable of fully eraluating his plays or anyone else's eren as drama,

let alone as tragedy*

Miller's shortcomings as a systematic theorist may well present themselTCS

as assets to his expansiTe growth as a dramatist* Eren the briefest assay of

his plays displays the exploratire and Tersatile mind of an experimenter at

work* All My Sons establishes a noriee' s success in the imitation of a «taa-

dard form of plot-maHng* Death of ^ Salesman two years later must be acltnow-

ledged as the work of an inTentire master i the intriguing form dereloped to

Arswitleally relate the operation of a disturbed man's mind utilised imagina-

tlTC directing, setting and technical effects to create a startling dramatic

illusion* The Cruolble reveals Miller exercising archaic sneeoh and a tradi-

tional form in the creation of a play -tiiat has seldom failed to strike with ft

powerful ImDact. A View From the Bridge carres from a New York waterfront

neighborhood teeming with and passion the lyric OTertones of an ancient

elTillsatlon, wearing into the muddled cries of confused humanity the musings

of an articulate chorus-commentator* After the Fall Is an experiment in area

setting, episodic staging, and expository dellTcry which some critics hCTC

declined to grant the name of drama* (Tet, we must recall that It does ful-

fill the qualifications of Miller's theory*) Incident at Ylehy, starkly

limited In Its setting, time and action, displays the range of humanity morlng .J

S4

1& fuQd out of th« d«bat« of It* life, a debate that terminates with a elople

•acrifIcial action* . r ^ -;

Perhaps ouch an ardent experimenter would say that every drama isust find

Itt own form, and no doubt for his own purpoues this view Is best* Bowerer^

. just a« an analysis of Miller's plays through his theory cannot distinguish

those plays with tragic potential, just as it falls to point out artlstlo

deficiencies, so It oannot begin to acknowledge anjrthing that Is outstanding

amidst his variety of dramatic form*. If Miller's excursions in form hare

be«B a "•ometlme thing,** his ideas, ideals, and purposes have followed a steady

•nd expanding pa«j that may be easily traced with the help of his stated inten-

' '>^- ^^ tion in "On Social Plays*" i"'^ .

We hare observed changing tendenoies through the progress of Miller»t i

work as well as seeing more or less extablished ideas about draasia in action*

Els belief in the "necessary* discoveries has remained, aliile the nature of

those discoveries has developed with his developing philosophy* Particularly,

U i It Is possible to trace the development of his thought regarding guilt. How

these Idea* and Miller's dramatic form will advance beyond 1965 is a revela*

tion to be eagerly awaited* H^ether all of the components that are blended in

the creation of a work of art will in Miller's case be worthy of the coveted

ory "tragedy" Is a question for all our sons* poonroTSS

^ i Arthur Mill0r« "Tragedy and tha Coomum Man,* FTT (Fab. 27, 1949), M« 2, {>p* 1, 8* -' ^ • . ; ^f-a 2 Arthur Miller, "On Social Plays," Intro, to A Ylanr From tha Bridge 1. " (Hew York, 1966), p. . ,.

ADia* * P» ••

1 . •) :, 4 Ibid. m^

'-. 6 Ibid. 5. » P» '^^4 6 Ibid. • P* S.

7 Ibid. • P« 4.

8 Ibid.

• 9 Ibid. •^. 10 Ibid. • P« 14.

11 Ibid. f P* 6.

12 Ibid. 6.

19 Ibid. 10. 13' 14 Ibid. » P* 8.

16 Ibid. * PP<» 6-9.

16 Ibid. » P» 9.

s^l7 ' 11 t^ Ibid. # P« 7* I ' i !

1 ' • 18 Ibid4 V .vKV^S^^v-^if ^•* ' >; 19 Ibid. • PP< 7-8. VKl;

20 Ibid. * PP<. 12*13. i',<'

81 Ibid. a PP<. 14-16*

22 Darid Daiohea, The Hovel and the Modem World (Chicago, 19S9), pp. 5-4.

2S Herbert Muller, The Spirit of Tragedy (Kew York, 1956), pp. 54-66.

24 Arthur Wilier, "The Family in Modem Drama," Atlantio, CatCVII (April 1956), p. 41.

-J ,' *^ Arthur Miller, Colleoted Play (New Tork^ 1957), p« 18»

26 lbid.# p« !?•

^^ ' Ibid*, pp. 115-116. . /„n .^ ' /:

28 Ibid., 110. p. \mV%i-'

^^ ' ,:, . p. ^^. . IWd.» m»- ^i\^ , ;.-.v. ^, ^.:v,:|. ^_

50 Ibid. 126, ';.= ,;,•' , p. ;'-'r .

31 Ibid ., _>/ ,-::•'•; !• ,;:4;

32 ,' • . . , Ibid. 126-127, ., r": ,;. pp. . , :^'^-^, ,

S3 John ffacsner. The Theater in Our Timee (Hew York, 1954), pp. 344-345*

3* Ifiller, "The Family in Modem Drama," p. 36* .,.

Collected 217* '". ' » Miller, PUye, p. 'x** ^

36 Erie Beatley, In Search of Theater (New York, 1953), p# 85«

57 (JMtiieii, pp. 344-345* . .

58 John and Alice Griffin, "Arthur Miller disouseei The Crucible.~~"^ " TA. XXXVII (Oct. 1963), p. 3, ,

gg t Miller, Colleoted Playe. p. 822. >j

^ Ibid., p. 823. '^

**! > Ibid. , p. 328.

'"'- • - ,o- 5 Ibid. , p. 41.

** Jordan Miller, American Dramatie Literature (Hew York, 1961), pp. 557-558.

*6 Arthur Miller, Colleoted Playe. p. 424. ft,

*6 Ibid. , p. 434.

*^ Ibid., p. 458.

^ Ibid., p. 441 "''' *3 Ibid. , p. 50.

^ Ibid., p. 52. , 37

" 51 Arthur Miller, After the Fall/ Poet, CCXXXVII (Feb. 1, 1964), p. S2*

62 , After the Fell (Heiw Yorle, 1964), p. 128.

'^ ' '""-;/' 53 •• Ibid. , p, 93. ., ...^;

54 Ibid. •-:

'

. -Ji.y- #^ Ibid. , p. 94. "^

' " 56 " "^ Ibid. , p. 24.

5^ •^ller'e 'After the Fell* m Welter Kerr Seea It,* gTTCBj XIT (Jan. 27, 1964), p. 576.

58 John MoClain, "Tour de Force by Robardi," gttCR, XXt (Jan. 27, 1964), P» 396.

59 Honaen Hadel, •Miller's Play One of Inward Yieion," ITTYCB, XX? (Jaa* 27, 1964), p. 575.

60 Arthur Miller, Ineident at Yiehy (Hew York, 1965), pp. 23-24.

61 ibid.^ pp. 53-54. ..V ' . . . • . . .;*2 . Ib 68. , . id., p.

- eg ,: f I 66. , bid. , p. . .: , , . V,, .. , .,';;_ .u^,;,^'^-'4il

;'^ 64 Ibid. , p. 67.

68 Howard Teubman, "'Incident at Vlohy' Opene," yYTCR, XXV (Dee. 14, 1964), p. 116.

66 Eenry Brandon, "The State of the Theatre, A Oonrereation With Arthur Miller," Harper's, CCXXl (Hot. 1960), p. 64.

67 ' Ibid. .,.:,, . .. — —

flMlltaD ^fho B^a All «b« lAiok

lAthan, 0«a« "flM Mm «ho Bad All th* took, " Th»»fr Book of th« Yoar, 1944-

"All My 8en»,* Ut; XXIZ (Kftroii 10« 1947), 71*72, 74* ^ y XXn (P«b. 10, 1947), 85«

», Ytait, ILEL (Peb. 10, 1947), eS, 70. ^

B«3r«r, William* "Tha Stata of tlia Ikaatrat Mldaaaaon BA(^lle^ta," 8ool *** Soalaty, IX? (April,S, 1947), 2S0-2S1»

aMaawr» ^cliit* "Tba Thaatra Arts," FoniBu CVIX (Marah 1947)» 271-276*

" OlWar, JttmmmnA* "All My Bona, TA^ XXXI (Api-il 1947), 19, 60* v

Oaaaalon," Urn Sapublie, CXVI (Fab. 10, 1947), 42*

k, Joaaph «6od« "All Hy Sana. " latlotu CX3tI7 (FiA)* iV, 1947), 191-19S* lathan, 0,J* "All My Sana, " Theater Book of tha Tear, 1946»194y, Haw York, "^ —'_-—;•_— ihfh sdo-iw* ~ ; I ^^

Varaley, T*C* "All My Sana, " Haw Stataawan 4 Matioa, XXXT (May 22, 1948), 412.

%aU, B.?.S. "All H^ Soaa," CMthaUa World. CUXT (Mar^ 1947), 892-558*

PaaHi of a ialawMua

Atkiziaai, Breoka* "At tha Theater," BTT^ F«A>* 11, 1949, aaa* 2, p« 1* Bapriatadt two Modem A—rloan firagadtaa, ad* Jcdm D. Burrall* tav Tork, IWI, 54-56* . . ,

Bantlay, Erio* "Baak to Broadway," TA^ }UUCIXX(llov* 1949), 12-14*

Bagrer, William* "Tha Saaaon Opana," Sehaol "k Soalaly, UX (Oao* S, 1949), 86S-864*

Brom, ^.H* Still aaaiiMt Thlnga* 9m Tork, 1960, 185-204*

Clark, Blaaaar* "Old Olaaour, Vaw Olaem," Partiaao Rayjaw, xn (#una 1949), •Sl<»686* Bapriatadt Two Modam Aiaiirioan Tragadiea, ad* Mm 0* Burrall* »aw York, 1981, 81-67,'"" — »

S9

Clunaan, Barold. "Theatrei Mtastiont** Wew Rapubllo, CIV (Feb. 28, 1949), 26-28,

" De^^ af * Sailetaan, " Life, XXVI (Feb. 21, 1949), 116, 117-118, 121.

•.-.«. _« — , geweneet, XXXni(Feb, 21, 1949), 78.

' '' —^ > .». ,.. , TjjM, UIl;(Fefa. 21, 1949). 74-76. '

SMtner, ?okn. "Death ef a Salesaan, " Forum, CXI (April 1949), 219-221. Reprinted: John Gaeener, tke %eatre In Our Tlmee. tew York, 1954, SS4-

. -- — _ , 878. \ —

" ^i3),>, , Krutoh, J.W. "Death of a Saleemaa. Matten,"'CIXVIII (May^-8^ 1949)2 883-284. flp'in'r^scfr ,;.::. ?> ^ :-e /

Vathaa, G.J. "Death of a Saletaan, " AmQrioaa Mercury^ IXYIII (June 1949), 67©-680. ReprintedT G'.J» Kathan, The Theater Book of the Yoar, 1948-

1949. Hew York, 1949, 279-285 j Two Modern Aaerioaa fragedles, ed. Joha D.Ja^'ren. lew York, ,1961, 57-157

Fhelan, Kappo. "Death of a Salewnan, * CoHgnomrBal, XLIX (March 4, 1949) 520-521.

Shea, Albert A. "P^ath jof "a Saleeman, ** "~Canadian Forum, XXH (July 1949), 86- .87.

Worsley, T.C. "Poetry Without Wordi," Hew Stateenan & Hatjon, XXX7III (ing. """, 6, 1949), U6-U7i^ . . / ll^tt, E.V.S. "Death " of ""a Saleeman, Catholio World, CUH (April 1949), 82- 65.

Aa Bnenqr of the People :5,.;'

Beyer, William. "RevWale 'Front and Center,'" School & _«^Society, IXXIII (Frt># 17, 1951), 106. ,^ - .

Clunaen, Harold. "Lear and Stockmana," Hew Republic, CJai? (Jan. 22, 1951), 21-22. . ... _

"An Snenqr of the People," CoBwonweal, LIII(Jan. 19, 1951), ^74#

>i »M )v»^»y .- -, y f Hewaweek, XXXVII (Jan. 8, 1951), 87.

^ ——. -«, TA, XXXV (March 19S1), 18# ^ , J ^ ,|P,-^ ,..^ T4^«^, LVIl; (''««• 8# 1951), 31. ' * tttit, Woloott. "An Eneny of the People. " HY, XXVI (Jan. IS, 1961), 44-45.

Ifewhall, Margaret. "An Enemy of the People, " Hation, CLKXII (Jan. 6, 1961), 18. . -

li

VA'UMQf O.J. "An Endigr of the People, " The Theeter Beck of the Year, 1980" 1961. IfwTork, ISSljIeT-lTO.

l^tt, E.Y.E. "Aa Eneaqr of «ie People, * ——Cethelle World, CLXXIl (iNb. 1961)» .,= 387* "«, —

'•••."' '^ '' The Cmeible ''•. -' ——— ,'-... ' 'i ••,! — Bentley, Erie. *miler»8 Imioosnoe," Hew Hgpubllo. 0107111 (Feb, 16, 1953), 22-23. Reprinted; ,"T'Ee Dramatic ETent. Hew Tork, 1964, 90-9*. '

Beyer, William. "The Devil at Large," School & Society, "" tXXVII (Varoh 21. 1963), 186*186.

" " lloongardea. The Cnaolble, " Hewepeek, XLI (Feb. 2, 196S), 8^i''

Brown, J.M. "Witch Hunting," Saturday Review, 2XIVI (Feb. 4, 1953), 41-42.

" The Cruoihle, " TA. XXXYII (April 1953). 66-69.

/ * .^«^ , Tia», IXt (Feb. 2. 1953). 46. ^

Olbbe, Woloott. "The Devil to Pay, HTjJ XXVIII (Jan. 31, 1953), 39-40.

BigpM^ lUkard* "The Crucible, " Coiimonweal, LTII (Feb. 20, 1863)^ 498.

Xlrehwey, Freda. "The Orucibla, " Hation, CIX3CVI (Feb. 7, 1963), 131-132.

"Satan Came to Salem," Life, XXXI7 (Feb. 9, 1953), 87-89.

Wyatt, E.V.R. "The Crucible. " Cathelie World, CLXX7I (Mareh 1988), 465-466.

'^ '-'- A View From Vtve .<^'.--i ^M-.- - Bridge j_,-, ^.„

Biintley, Eric, "A Yiew From the Bridge, " Hew Republic, ^ ' CXXXIII (Deo. 19,* .1968), 21-22.

Oibba, Wolcott. "A View From the Bridge. " NT, XXXI (Oct.8, 1966), 92, 94-98«

layet, Richard. "I Want My C^tharaie," CoHgaonweal, UIII (Hev. 4, 1966), 117-118.

JtoMi, Henry. "Death ef a Longihoreman, " Saturday Review, XXK?HI (Oct. 18, 1986), 26-26.

"Hoetalgia and Paaiion By the River," Ufe, XXXIX (Oct. 17, 1985), 166-167.

Traubo, Shepard. "A View From the Bridge, " Hation. ^^"^. — CUXXI (Oot. 22, 1966),** 548-349. — ' -_ ,•

"A View From the Bridge, " fcaerioa, XCHT (Hov. 19, 1955), 223-284* t

41

*A Yl«y From the Bridge, * TA, XXXIX (Deo, 1965), 18-19.

I^tt, E« V, R. "A Tlew Fron the Bridge. " C>tholle World. CUXVII (Hot. 1955), U4-U5. " ^

Th» MtefIts

Aogeil, t^wr* ''Misfire/ NT^ XXXVI (Feb. 4, 1961), 86, 88.

Ewrtung, Phllif T. "Hoe, Woe, Whe«,j!^ Coweiwresl, LXXIII (Feb. 17, 1961), 532-5SS.

" Hatch, Robert. The Misfits, " Nation, CIGII (Feb. 18, 1961), 164-168.

Esuffman, Stanley. "Across the Great Divide," Mew Reyublie, CXLI7 (Feb. 20, 1961), 26, 28.

" The Misfits. " Time, LXIVII (Feb. 8, 1961), 68.

Walsh, Moire. " The Misfits. " Ameriea, fI7 (Feb. 18, 1961), 676, 678.

Weatherby, W. J. "The Misfits Epic or Requiem," Saturday RoTiew. XLIT (Feb. 4, 1961), 26-27.

Weales, Gerald. "The Ta»s aad Wooly West," Reporter, XXIT (Marsh 2, 1961), 46-47.

'''^ ' After The Fall ' * .V^

Chtpaan, John. "After the Fall» Orerpowering," HT Theater Critics* Reriews,

(hereafterj KYTCR) . XXV (Jan. 27, 1964), 374. /from DailyleWs/

^err, Waltei/* "Miller »s 'After the Fmll« as Walter Kerr Sees It," NYTCR, XXV (Jan. 27, 1964), 378-877. /lerald Tribunej^

HoClain^ John. "Tour de Force by Robards," MYTOR. XXV (Jan. 27, 1964), 376* /Journal American/

Hadel, Herman. "Miller's Play One of Inward Vision," MTTCR. XXV (Jan. 27, 1964), 375. Aorld-Telegraa/

Taubmen, Howard. "Theater j 'After the Fall,'" NYTCR. XXV (Jan. 27, 1964), 378-379. ygrr/

Watts. Richard. Jr^. "^ Mew Drama by Arthur Miller," NYTCR, XIV (ftn. 27,

Incident at Vichy

"Incident at Vichy," Time. IXXXIV (Dec. 11, 1964), 73.

^•rr, Waltei/. "Kerr on New Miller Play, 'Incident at Vichy,'" MTTCR, XXV (Deo. 14, 1964), 117. /herald Tribune/ ^

42

liwlt, Theofhilus. " " Ineid»nt "*"at ?iehy. America, CXII (#att. 25, 1965), 147- 149. —

ll«Of|t«n# John* "Easy Doesn't Do It," NT, XL (Deo. 12, 1964), 152#

MoClain, John. "Ujtooln Center's 'tl«h f\ilfillment,»" MYTCB, XTT (Dec. 14,. ' 119. /Journal 1964), Amerlean/ , . ^ ;?,

Hadel, Nenun. "Miller C»H8 World as Witness," NYTC8, XXV (Dec. 14, 1964),

; 118. /^rld-TeleyaayT ^v^

SoTTlok, Julius. " Ineident at V^ehy. " Hation. CXCg (Dee. 21, 1964), 504.,

" at " Hfi^ Mmpfy* ^ Ineident Viehy, Yogue. CXLV (Jan. 15, 1966), J|r«,

Teabaan, Hofward. "'Incident at Vichy* Ofens," HYTCR, »? (Dec. 14, 1964), 116-117. /m7 */.. ^l^ ... ..«-., ,.$?'! '•;;,,, , "Waiting to be Exterminated," Life, LVIII (Jan. 22, 1965), S9-48.

Watt, Douglas. "Arthur Miller's 'Incident at Vichy' Joins Lincoln Center Repertory," NYTCR. XXV (Deo. 14, 1964), 119. /Baily News/

Watts, Riehard, Jr. "Arthur Miller Looks at the Hasis," WYTCR, XXV (Deo. 14, 1964), 116. /Post7 \

BDITICWS

Zbsen, Henriok. An fasenr of the People. (An adaptation for the Araeriean stage by Arthur Miller. )"~¥ew lork, 1951.

Miller, Artiiur. Colleeted Plays. Hew York, 1957.

' . •..».; . -—«—«—«.-., The Misfits. Hew Tork, 1961.

.——««..««.«-, * After the Fall. New York, 1964. ' - / «-^——«,.-__, Incident at Vichy. Hew York, 1966. '*^,i,:-|

;»..- *

- ''''' . J< - ^':" '' "', ' QiBSEBAL K .

Allsop, Kenneth. "A ConTsrsation with Ar^ttr Miller," Encounter, XIII

(July 1959), 58-60. .

Albert, Hoi lis. "Arthur Miller i Sersen Writer," Saturd^ RaTtew. XLIV (Feb. 4, 1961), 26, 47.

"Arthur Miller: Act II," Economist. CLXXXIII (June 1, 1957), 790.

Bsntley, Brio. In Search of Theater. Hew York, 1953, 84-87. .

B9ttbl«y, Erie. Tfco Drtmfttle Event i An Amgrle»R Chronicle* Wtw Tork, 1954, 90M* iifaion, Inury* "tk« St«t« of <*• Theatre, A Conrersstlem wl^ AHteir Miller," Heryer*!, CCXXI (Sot. 1960), 65-69«

Brown, J.M. "Hew Talents and Arthur Miller," Saturdey Rovtew, XXX (Mwek 1, 1947), 22-24# .' ' ' -•.•. », > ^-Viv ',;*£ ..'- vi.. Bruiteln, Robert* •Hky Aaerloen Playe «re Hot Literature," Harper* a, CCWX (Oct. 1959), 167-175.

Clurman, Harold. Llee Like Trutk. Hew tork, 1958, 68-72. Reprinted: Two Modem Attorlcan frage

Oogley, Jokn. "Tke Wltneseee* Dilemma," Oommonweal, LXT (Marek 15, 1959), 612.

GoiiflaMa, Oerdon W. "Artkur Miller •• Tragedy of Babbitt," EdTJ, 7IX (Oot. '1956), 206-211*'

" " u Tke Cruelble. TA, XL (Feb. 1956), 80. ; y

'•; ,««.,^»... , TA^ (May 27«*29. / .; Wi xa 1957), .i*;:'

>':^^|*,- ^ } "Curtains," Howpweek, L (July 29, 1959), 26-29.

Dalckea, Devld. The Hovel and Tke Modern World * Cklcago, 1959, lpl7#

Dldlngkaia, William B. "Artkor Miller and the Lops of Conpelettee«" Ifalveralty Quarterly, Itl (1960), 40-50.

Driver, Tom F. "Strength and Weakness In Arthur Miller," TKl. It (May I960), 45-52. . ,.':. "V.'V: i " Dnprey, Richard A. The Crucible, " Catholic World , CXCIII (Sept. 1961), 894-595.

Dusenbury, tl'lnlfred L. The Theme of Loneliness In Modem American Drama.

Qalnesvllle, Florida, 1960, S-37« _,.,.

Slssenstat, Martha T. "Arthur Miller: A Bibliography," MD* ? (May 1962), 95-106. """.

5* "End of a FaaeuP Marriage," lAfe, XLIX (Not. 21, I960), 88-90. ; . ,

"BacaceMnt Party," Heweweek, XLVIII (July 2, 1956), 21.

Fopter, Blokard J. "Oonfuslon and Tragedyt Tke Fallitre of Mlller*p SplePaan, " Two Modem Aaerlcan Tragedies, edt J*D. Burrell. lew Tork, 1961, dS-86.

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Oaspaer, John. Tkemtre at tke Croaaroads. Hew Tork, 1960, 274-278. , •

44

OMtn«r, JdliA* Tho Tl»»*tra In Our Tfaags* X«w York, 1954, S42-354« S64-S7S*

«-.«————, ''Tr«glo Per8p«ctly«8t A Sequence of Queriei," TDB, II (May

1958), 7-22. , , :.^

«—.-.-.-.»-«.—, A Treasury of the Tke»ter« New York, 1951, 1060-1062

«,>,, „»»,—. "The Winter of Our Dlioontent,* TA, XXXIX (Auguet 1955), 23-24, 86.

Gelb, Phillip. ''Morality and Modern Drama," EdTJ, X (Oot* 1958), 190-202. Parts rei»rinted> "A Matter of Hopelessness in Death of a Salesnan, " TDR,

. II (May 1958), 63-69i Tiro Modem Aiaerieaii Tra^e3leB, ed.*~J« D. ^urrell. lew Tork, 1961, 76-81. .,'*«

Ooodman, Walter. "How Hot to Produoe a Film," New Rermblie, CXXXIII (Dee. 26, 1955), 12-15. '

Oriffin, John and Alice. "Arthur Miller Disousses The Crueible, " TA, XXXTII (Oet. 1953), 33-541 "Review, * 65-69.

Hemilton, Jaok. *»» Hew Life," Look, XXI (Cot. 1, 1952), 110-116,

Hewitt, Barnard. Theatre U.S. A. lew Tork, 1959, 444-448.

Butohens, John E. "Mr. Miller has a Change of Luck," MTT, Feb. 23, 1946, II,

1, 3. ^;^'

"Innocent—and Ouilty," lewtweek, XLIX (June 10, 1957), 32.

Johnson, Gerald W. "The Superficial Aspect 0ndenalning Congress," Hew Republic, CX2XV (Aub. 6, 1956), 10.

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ItlUr, Arthur. "Tke AMrlew Theater/ Holiday, XYII (tf«A4 I955), 90-98* 8«frlnt«d: The P—slenata Playgoor, ed» Oeorg* 0|)penk«im«r« N«w Y«rk« >' ^ v;' - •» -^1962, 13-52. . • . I

.—— . "A Boy Orew In Brooklyn," Holiday, XVII (Mwrok 19i6), 54, 117, M19-120, 122-124.

*•—-«.—...*, "Tho Crucible, " TA^ XXXVII (Oct. 1963), 56-67.

•*^ , "Tke Pemily in Modem Dre-ne," Atlentio, CXCVII (April 1966), 55-41.

——————. "Grendpe end the Stetue," Redio Prena in Motion, ed. Erie Bernouw. Hew Tork, 1945, 267-281.

. « ., "Monte Seint Angelo," H>ryer* a, CCII (Mereh 1951), 59-47.

•—————. ^k Modeet ProiBosel for Peoifioetion of the Publio Temfer," Nation, CIOXIZ (July 5, 1964), 6-8. -^ '*.-,

.«^, "Ify Wife Marilyn," Life, Xli (Deo. 22, 1958), 146-147.

—*-•-—«, «0n Seoial Playe," introduction to A View From the Bridge, New York, 1955, 1-18. Re]9rinteds Ywp Modern Ameriean ^ragediee, ed« 4« B. Hurrell. Hew York, 1961, 41-48.

.•.....»», "the Playwright and the Atomio riorld." TI«, V (June 1961), , 3-20.

..•..—-««^— , "The Prophecy," Baquire, LVI (Deo. 1961), 140-141, 268-269.

••——.——•—, "The Shadow of the Qoda," Barker' s, CCXVII (Augutt 1968), 89-48*

—————— "The Story of Cue," Hadio Beat Playa. ed. Joaeph XJLaa* Sear

York, 1947, 503-519. ' "' i. '

.^—. ———«, "Tragedy and the Oaanoa Van," HYT, February 27, 1949, aee. 2,

pp. 1, 5. Bearinted: TA, XXXV (March 19&1}, 48-50 t Literature Per Our • Tine^ ed« H. D. Waite iTenjaailn Patkinaon. Hew York, 195^, l99-214f Tragedy : Playa, Theory, Critioiem, ed. Richard Lerin. Hew York, 1960, 171-1 73 » "rtao Modem Amerioan Tragedies, ed. J. D. Eurrell, New York, 1961, 38-40.

,«,,., —,,,,.«. "TJniTeralty of Michigan," Holiday, XIV (Dee. 1955), 41, 68-71,

Miller, Jorday Y, Aaerioan Draanatic Literature. Mew ^ork, 1961, 556-559.

"Merality and Law," CoHBnonweal, LXVI (Jwie 14, 1957), 268-269.

Veaa, Leonard. "Arthur Miller and the Conmon Man' a Language," ^ VII (May 1964), 52-59.

Muller, Herbert. The Spirit of Tragedy. Hew ^ork, 1956, 25-61., ,' 46

KaaiMtf CAsi>«r B« Politloa In the Amerie«n Drtm*> fifashington D«C«, 1960« 18t* 186.

H»th«n, G, J, "I^nrlok Miller," TA, XXXVII (A^rll 195S), 24-26.

•—«.^-.«—^ The Theatre in tte Fifties* New York, 1955, 105-109.

Hewnaa, Willitm J. "Arthur Miller's Collaeted Playe. " Turentieth Century, CULU (Korember 1958), 491-496* Reorlafced: Yin Modern Amerjeen Tregediea, ed«

• J. D. Hurrell, Mew York, 196J, eS-Tl.

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Olirer, Edith. "Off Broadway," HY, XL (Feb. 6, 1965), 94.

"One Roxmd for Congress, " U.£. lews, XLIII (July 5, 1957), 12.

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"Out of the Fish Bowl," Newsweek, LVI (lor. 21, 1960), 57.

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«»—.—.-—.^ "Arthur Millert The Strange Enoounter«" Sewanee RpTiew, IX7III (Winter 1960), 34-60.

LXXVI '.-y, "Pofsie ai|d PooFiie," Tine, (Hot. 21, 1960), 61* ^

Baphael, D. D« The Paradox of Tragedy. Bloomington, Indiana, I960.

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Vetlee, Gereld. "Artkur Miller: ICen ead His Image," TDK, YII (Fall 1962), 165*

^ • riio* .;;f.

»»„— „,„.,, "Pimya and Aaalyale," CoaaMtaweal, LIVI (July 12, 1967), 392- . ::-' •• m^y .

«^tttr« Mars«r»t« "A Look at tke London Season," TA^ XLI (May 196T), 27-29* .

"Wedaing Wine for Marilyn," Life, XL! (July 18, ^966), 115-116.

Well*, Arrin R. "The Liring and the Dead in All My Spne, " 1©^ VII (May 1964),

"fShen Silenee is Contemft of Congress," U«S^. Mews, XLII (June 7, 1967), 14,

" Wiegand, Williea* **Arthur Miller and The Man Who Saowa, Weatern R^Tiey, XX.Z, (Winter 1967), 85-103.

Torks, Smuel A« "Joe Keller and Eis Sona," Western Re-g-iew, ZZIZ (AtttUM 1959), 401-407. —.•.•,'.••,.', -' ,'.':. . .%,.* „'„,,.' ' ' .'

•. ..' •/'** / „..!•. ; -.;'.. ,. - . ARTBOR MiLLBRt TBBCRT AND PRACTIOI

KUDW EICXSISSRO

B« S*, Ie«» St«it« UnlTurslty, IMS

Al AS8TRA0T QT A MASIBR'S IBPOK

•ubiiitt«d in part^Al fulflllnwit of th«

r«q[ulr«a«fltt for ihm dogroo

OP ARTS

of English

IAI8A8 STATB mXtlSSITT H«Bh«tt«ai» KansM

1966 - ' ,.,-,,,.,,,. ..,, ARTHUR MILUER: THEORY AUD PRACTICE • '

At «»11 B« hftTlng ettabllshed himself as one of the nost iiiportant of

Aaerlosa 0(mteBporary dramatists, Arthur Miller has frequently oontributed material to the analytical and critloal dlaoussion of drama* This paper will tGadertake the application of Miller *s plays to his single oon^lete present** tion of a -ttieory of drama*

Miller *s essay "On Sooial Plays'* deseribM his ideel social play as ris- ing from the kind of sooial situation that produces tragedy (such as the enel-

ent Greek polls ) and as being Identical In purpose and effect to that sought- after phenomenon* He finds the essence of tragedy to b« it* manner of sooial expressiont tragio vietory is attained when the polls (the whole community or sooial unit) discovers, through the action of their representative questioner or tragio hero, some truth in the "Grand Design" that indicates the right way for them to live together* Miller feels that there is hope for this kiiid of sooial drama-tragedy in our time, but that our society muat first talce on the

eharaeteristios of the anolent polls i that is, each man must be i^nportant with- in the social unit*

A consideration of Miller's All My Sons (1947), Death of a Salesman (1949),

The Cruoible (1955), A Yiew From the Bridge (1956), After the Fall (1964), and

Incident at Yic|y (1965), reveals that each of the plays does fulfill the stip-

Ilstions of Miller's theory* but public receptions indioate that iriiile most of the plays occasion the impassioned praise and blame that follow significant itatoments sbout life only a few attain the precarious balance of those modern works tossed about in the debate) Is it or is it not tragedy? Though Miller's ooneepts as presented in "On Sooial Plays" and traditional concepts of tragedy are net antithetioal and may in some oases express identical qualities, tragedy dMt not n90«fflwrily reault from emiformanee to tho •tipul»tiont of "Oct Sooinl

Although tho theory provide* a luoid and perhaps an elucidating fr«M throu^ yihieh to examine Miller's worfe»-his stated intention for draaa in prao* tioe, the gradual development and refinement of his philosophy—it also suffers from a gliding over or even ignoring of draaatio prinoiples other then subject and purpose»effeot« Consequently, Just as an analysis of Miller's plays through his theory cannot distinguish those plays with tragic potential, just as it fails to point ouik artistic defleieneiot^ so it oannot begin to aeknov l«dg« anjrthing that is outstanding amidst hii rioh variety of dranatio foras*