CONSTRUCTING A “SENSE OF LIFE”: AYN RAND’S NIGHT OF JANUARY 16th FROM CONCEPTION TO “DISASTER”

Patrick M. Konesko

A Thesis

Submitted to the Graduate College of Bowling Green State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

August 2009

Committee:

Dr. Ronald Shields, Advisor

Dr. Scott Magelssen

Dr. Lesa Lockford

ii

ABSTRACT

Dr. Ronald Shields, Advisor

During the course of her career, Ayn Rand published a number of landmark novels, plays, and essays that, in many ways, influenced conceptions of the individual spirit, society, and government. With boldly drawn, individualistic characters battling against an oppressive and compromising society, Rand’s writing has inspired many devoted fans and passionate opponents.

Even with her notoriety, and the frequent interpretation of her novels, her early work remains largely unexplored. In her play, Night of January 16th, Rand began with a simple goal: to adapt courtroom drama into an exciting and interactive form by including audience participation and frequent ruptures of the fourth wall. As the project began to develop, however, Rand’s work took on a new focus—to attempt, using the audience as the jury for the production, to gauge, and ultimately influence the audience’s “sense of life.”

This study begins with in-depth exploration of Night of January 16th from conception to

Rand’s ultimate declaration of failure. Then I compare two versions of the script in order to examine Rand’s later changes and updates. Throughout this process I suggest possible motivations for these changes, and their implications on the larger work. Finally, using a selection of reader-response techniques I examine the unique context in which Rand is attempting to stage her “sense of life” test, and explore other factors that conceivably influenced

Rand’s experiment. Throughout the study, I work towards the question of whether or not it is possible, within the complex theatre environment, for Rand to effectively transmit a purely philosophical message or “test.” iii

For my wife, Alyssa, for her love and support, and for my parents, for pushing me to succeed. iv

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

If we take Ayn Rand at her word and accept that each human being has a fundamental

“sense of life” governing their reactions to the world around them and that it can be altered

through constant effort or exposure to outside forces, then this project seems a worthy fulfillment

of growth. Certainly, the most important of these influences lies in the context, in those who

helped me to succeed.

First and foremost I must thank my wife, Alyssa. Without her constant support,

encouragement, and love this project never would have been completed. Every day she pushed

me to succeed and picked me up when I was discouraged—whether with incredible (and fattening) baked goods or her wonderful hugs. To her, I owe everything.

I also must thank my mother and father for their life long dedication to my education and success. Never has a week gone by without their attention, encouragement, and humor. Never has a play or ceremony gone by without them in attendance. Through example and expectation

(as well as fairly frequent bickering) they have forged me into the man I am today.

My sincere gratitude must also go to my committee chair, Dr. Ronald Shields. With gravitas and humor, with suggestion and support, and with knowing when I needed to be left to my own pace and when I needed an immediate (and often horrifying) deadline, Dr. Shields was an incredible mentor throughout this study.

My thanks, too, to my other committee members, Drs. Scott Magelssen and Lesa

Lockford. Their dedication, suggestions, observations, and enthusiasm were invaluable throughout this process.

And of course, I must thank the incredible group of people that I began this journey with.

From my first, terrifying, moments of graduate school, Jeff La Rocque, Elizabeth Guthrie, Heidi v

Nees, and Chanelle Vigue have supported me, laughed with me, and given me frequent reality

checks. To list I must also add those that I have become friends with along the way—Stephen

Harrick, Rob Connick, J.P. Staszel, Hephzibah Dutt, and Andie Markijohn. Each of these individuals offered me wise advice and calmed my anxiety over the process.

Also, my thanks to Mathew Easterwood, my preliminary editor and best friend. He provided a constant supply of support and cynical wit that helped me through this transitional

period.

My thanks also go to my mentor at Saginaw Valley State University, Dr. Janet Rubin. It

is with her support and example that I first contemplated graduate school. Thanks also to the

other professors, staff, and friends that were part of my undergraduate experience.

Finally, my heartfelt thanks to the rest of the faculty and staff who have supported and

instructed me in my time at Bowling Green. vi

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

INTRODUCTION…………………………………………………………………………… 1

CHAPTER ONE: FROM CONCEPTION TO “DISASTER” ……………………………… 13

CHAPTER TWO: THE RE-BIRTH OF NIGHT……………………………………………. 38

CHAPTER THREE: AUDIENCE EXPECTATION AND RAND’S “TEST”……………... 62

CONCLUSION……………………………………………………………………………… 84

BIBLIOGRAPHY…………………………………………………………………………… 90

1

INTRODUCTION

During the course of her career, Ayn Rand published a number of landmark novels, plays, and essays that, in many ways, influenced conceptions of the individual spirit, society, and

government. With boldly drawn, individualistic characters battling against an oppressive and

compromising society, Rand’s writing has inspired many devoted fans and passionate opponents.

Her novels, which became immensely popular in the mid twentieth-century, created a firestorm

of controversy and debate that still resonates today, twenty seven years after her death (Gladstein

12). Less examined than her novels is Rand’s early experimentation with theatre as a vehicle for

the dissemination of her ideas. Although the run of her first Broadway production, Night of

January 16th is considered by many scholars to be a success, in terms of its run and critical reception, Rand personally found it to be an absolute failure. For Rand, the experience was rife with setbacks and disappointments, battles with the actors and producer, and a general lack of

true audience “understanding” (Branden, My Years 65). I believe it is a combination of these

elements, and the uniquely diverse and uncontrollable nature of live performance that ultimately

perpetuates this “failure,” and demonstrates the inability of many of her ideas from being viable

outside of the text that defines them.

The goals of this thesis are threefold. The first, using the sources available, is to construct

a comprehensive descriptive history of Rand’s attempt to stage Night of January 16th. Though

many scholars mention the work and its production in passing, few attempt to examine the

experience with any depth. Those who do discuss aspects of the play often only do so in an

attempt to position it as a proto-philosophical step in her rise to intellectual maturity. So, before

further examination of Rand’s process or possible results of her process can be undertaken, the

actual event must be examined as thoroughly as possible. This will also begin the process of 2

examining Rand’s stated conception of failure. Regardless of the many successes of Night, she

disparaged the production and the process throughout her career. So, this descriptive history will

also work to examine these grievances and to suggest possible reasons for Rand’s “failure.”

The second focus of this study is a side by side comparison of Night scripts relying

primarily upon the 1936 amateur edition edited by Nathaniel Edward Reeid and the 1968

“definitive” edition edited by Rand. The comparison of these scripts not only demonstrates

substantial changes in content and melodramatic elements but also updates to the proto-

Objectivist philosophy of the piece. Because an original copy of Rand’s script is not available,

this analysis, out of necessity, relies on a play script twice removed from Rand’s control, and so cannot be a definitive examination of the author’s revision process. Instead, this reading is intended to point out melodramatic elements present in the 1936 edition that are later cut, hypothesize as to whether they might have been in an earlier version, and raise questions about the development of Rand’s philosophy between these two publications. Finally, this chapter works to suggest motivations for Rand’s rewrite, and to explore her conception of failure through the revisions.

The third, and final, goal of this project is an attempt to broach the exceptionally complex issues of reception facing the 1935 Broadway production. Using traditional notions of reader response, as well as the work of more contemporary theatre scholars, I move to interpret some

aspects of Night of January 16th, including its unique jury gimmick, architectural changes and

staging choices utilized in the production, and the poignant context and possible expectations of

the audience. Finally, I approach a complex issue: Is it possible to use theatre to successfully test

an audience’s “sense of life” within the myriad of other factors influencing an audience’s 3

response, and was Rand’s self-proclaimed failure at this attempt central to her rejection of theatre

as her primary means of philosophical dissemination?

BACKGROUND

Night of January 16th is a courtroom drama dedicated to uncovering the mysterious and deadly events of a single night. Based loosely on the real suicide of Ivan Kreugar and the subsequent failure of his vastly inflated “match empire” in 1932, the murdered figure is a prototype of Rand’s “selfish hero” (to be perfected in later novels). This daunting figure is

survived by his longtime mistress, and woman on trial, Karen Andre. Set entirely within a New

York courtroom, Rand’s script begins with a unique gimmick—members of the audience are called onstage to act as the jury for the trial. Throughout deceiving witnesses and surprise turns, the audience/jury remains onstage, and ultimately determines the fate of the defendant (Rand,

Three Plays 3-15).

By the time Night of January 16th opened on Broadway in September of 1935, Rand was so disillusioned with theatre that, with the exception of editing her plays for later publication, she would never again make a serious attempt to have a play produced. Though she had been pleased with the product of Night’s initial small budget Hollywood production (under the title Woman on

Trial), her attempts, according to her, to move into the highly commercial world of Broadway theatre failed (Rand, Three Plays 8-9). Upon arriving in New York in late 1934, Rand had been optimistic, writing in a letter to her agent:

…everything seems to be going very nicely here in New York. I found Mr.

Satenstein [business agent] thoroughly charming and he seems to be a very good

businessman. As to Mr. Woods [producer], he is perfectly lovely and very easy to 4

work with. I do not believe that I will have any trouble with him about the play.

(Rand, Letters 20)

By March, with the play still not in production and her money gone, Rand had already become disenchanted with the system, writing a number of anxious notes to acquaintances, and angry

letters to the producer.

When Night finally opened in September, Rand was furious with the results. In a letter to

Gouverneur Morris, a screen writer, in November, she wrote:

My only excuse for my long silence is that of a person who has just emerged from

Hell. The year which has passed has been so terrible, with constant

disappointments, the indefinite waiting and the struggles, that I did not want to let

anyone hear from me, for all I could say would have been complaints… It [the

play] is doing very well, it seems very popular and successful. But I get no

satisfaction whatever out of it, because of the changes which Mr. Woods insisted

on making. (Rand, Letters 23-24)

For Rand, the attempt was a categorical failure—too much melodrama was added, too many philosophical passages cut, and too many difficulties at all levels of the production. Though the run itself was successful (eight months in depression-stricken New York), she would almost

always speak of the experience and the production in terms of its shortcomings rather than any

positive aspects.

Rand’s philosophy, referred to as Objectivism, relies primarily on notions of the

individual spirit and the power of reason. Contrary to many prominent philosophers’ beliefs,

Rand maintained that it is possible to metaphysically conceive of the world, that reason can be 5

relied upon as a way of understanding reality (Machan 7). As summarized by Rand in her article

“Introducing Objectivism,”

Reality exists as an objective absolute—facts are facts, independent of man’s

feeling, wishes, hopes, or fears. Reason is man’s only means of perceiving reality,

his only source of knowledge, his only guide to action, and his basic means of

survival. Man—every man—is an end in himself, not the means to the ends of

others. He must exist for his own sake, neither sacrificing himself to others nor

sacrificing others to himself. The pursuit of his own rational self-interest and of

his own happiness is the highest moral purpose of his life. The ideal political-

economic system is laissez-faire capitalism. It is a system where men deal with

one another, not as victims and executioners, nor as masters and slaves, but as

traders, by free, voluntary exchange to mutual benefit … The government acts

only as a policeman that protects man’s rights; it uses physical force only in

retaliation and only against those who initiate its use, such as criminals or foreign

invaders. (4)

The opponents to this system are collectivist society and altruistic spirit because of their ability

to corrupt and undermine the good in humanity. She believed that if reason and self interest are

the foundations of human existence, then forced sacrifice or compromise destroy the individual spirit (4).

Essentially, Rand’s philosophy can be reduced to three major foci—reason, selfishness, and the creation/portrayal of the ideal man. In fact, Rand’s conception of reason is the element which the rest of the philosophy stems from. Long-time Objectivist leader Leonard Peikoff notes this in his The Philosophy of Ayn Rand. “The whole of Objectivism amounts to the injunction: 6

follow reason” (152). He does, however, note a leap that a follower of Rand’s must take—that

one cannot seek proof that reason itself is reliable. He writes that since “reason is the faculty of

proof; one must accept and use reason in any attempt to prove anything” (153). This conclusion

also benefits from the fact that it logical negates proof, therefore, stymieing any opposing

analysis of Rand’s work.

Selfishness, for Rand, is the logical byproduct of this emphasis on reason. If a man relies

on reason, then it naturally follows that his own preservation and happiness are the driving, and just forces governing his actions. Rand titles this notion “rational selfishness” (Rand, Lexicon

446).

Finally, it is these elements that Rand uses in working toward her lifelong goal in writing

and philosophy—the portrayal of the ideal man. Of this process she writes:

Since my purpose is the presentation of an ideal man, I had to define and present

the conditions which make him possible and which his existence requires. Since

man’s character is the product of his premises, I had to define and present the

kinds of premises and values that create the character of an ideal man and

motivate his actions; which means that I had to define and present a rational code

of ethics. (Rand, Fountainhead intro x).

Rand’s purely philosophical writing (manifestos etc.) stem from this necessity. In defining the premises of the ideal man’s existence, however, a critical problem arises within Objectivist philosophy. The ideal man that Rand constructs reacts to his surroundings, which necessarily, are the text she creates and controls for these characters. It is the attempt to transfer these ideals, from the fictional novel into the real world that Objectivism is often criticized for. Furthermore, 7

it is the attempt to portray these forces in the highly negotiable (and uncontrollable) environment

of theatre which this study is particularly concerned.

The kernel of all of these notions, and the catalyst for man’s conception of reality is what

Rand terms a “sense of life.” In her introduction to the definitive version of Night of January

16th, Rand classifies the work as a “sense of life” play. In fact, it is Rand’s first attempt to

embody this principle in her writing. She defines this notion as a “preconceptual equivalent of

metaphysics, an emotion, subconsciously integrated appraisal of man’s relationship to existence”

(Rand, Three Plays 3). In her 1971 Romantic Manifesto, she further describes the term as setting

the “nature of a man’s emotional responses and the essence of his character” (Rand, Manifesto

25). In other words, all of a man’s decisions, value judgments, and general outlook on life are guided by his basic “sense of life.” And, as man grows older, these somewhat abstract notions form into a concrete and conscious metaphysics that become a true “sense of life” (Rand,

Manifesto 26-29). For Rand too, this moral outlook is evident in the products of the man’s existence, i.e., an author’s text (Rand, Three Plays 3). Night of January 16th is, then, the pitting

of diametrically opposed “senses of life” against each other and, through use of the audience- filled jury, determining what the spectator’s “sense of life” is. If the audience sided with the defendant, they were in line with Rand’s “sense of life,” and if not, they were wrong. This is, of course, highly theoretical, and Rand admits to the weaknesses of the test saying, “I was aware that they would probably miss the basic antithesis and would judge on the spur or color or drama of the moment, attaching no further significance to their verdict” (Rand, Three Plays 6). It is this experiment, and its perceived failure, that seems to play a large role in both Rand’s frustration with the production, and her ultimate break from theatre as an effective means through which to disseminate her philosophy. 8

KEY RESEARCH QUESTIONS

Though several scholars have done extensive work analyzing Rand’s books, essays, and

philosophical statements, there is comparatively little published scholarship examining her

dramatic texts or her troubled experiences with the theatre. The scholars that do dedicate small

sections of their books to a “study” of the plays generally focus on summaries and descriptions

of the perceived problems of the text rather than any real attempt at analyzing Rand’s actual

experiences with live performance, and how her work and attitude are shaped by the interaction.

The first step in my process then, is a careful reading of what documents still exist

regarding this early period in Rand’s career—namely letters, journals, reviews, and later

commentary from both Rand and others with first-hand knowledge of the frustrations she

encountered. So, according to the resources available, what is the actual chronology of Rand’s

attempts to stage Night of January 16th? What were her stated goals in conceiving of the

production? What experiences did she go through, and how might these have shaped her

perception of the production? What level of control did Rand have over the Broadway

production? And finally, how was the production reviewed?

The next step in my study is an attempt to compare two different versions of the script in

an effort to point out major structure, content, dramatic, and philosophical changes made to the script between the thirties and her definitive publication in 1968. What cuts did Rand make to the melodramatic elements of the piece? What changes are made to characters and testimonies?

What changes appear in stage directions and the use of the audience? How did she polish the

philosophical sections of the work? What prompted these changes? And, finally, is it possible to

determine whether elements found in the most recent version were in fact in the original text, or

are these new additions by Rand? 9

Finally, the last step in my analysis focuses on elements of audience response. What contextual issues might play a role in influencing patrons of the show? To what level might pre- show publicity and genre expectations impact reception? How might the unique layout of the

Ambassador Theatre contribute to or shape the audiences experience? What about the architectural changes? How does having audience members participate in the production and actors playing from the house change the dynamic within the theatre? And, finally, how might these massive changes within the performance environment affect reception of the narrative?

METHODOLOGY

This study will be divided into three chapters. In chapter one, I will work to construct a descriptive history of Night of January 16th from conception through Rand’s definitive publication in 1968. Using a variety of sources, ranging from reviews, journals, and letters to later remarks and recollections, I try to paint as a complete a picture of the experience as possible. Since there are a number of holes in the available sources, particularly in terms of publicity records, script versions, and writing from anyone outside of the Objectivist movement, part of my work on this chapter will be to fill gaps within this narrative. These moves are always phrased as suggestions and should be read as aids to the comprehension of the overall picture rather then an attempt at rewriting the actual circumstances.

In chapter two, much of the focus will be on a close reading and side-by-side comparison of available Night of January 16th scripts. In preparing for this chapter, I first went through each script and did a line by line comparison to determine Rand’s edits, down to the grammatical level that she gives as a major impetus for the changes. Then, I compiled these results and grouped them into five broad categories—melodrama/cliché, staging convention, macro-philosophical changes, micro/character philosophical changes, and then miscellaneous re-writes. On the most 10

general level, this section is intended to point out significant changes in content, structure,

melodramatic elements, and philosophy between the 1936 amateur edition and Rand’s definitive publication. Throughout the chapter I also work to suggest the origin of, and possible reasons for

changes between the two versions. In doing this, I position some of Rand’s updates within her

own records of the experience and “mature” Objectivist writing. Situating the changes within this

broader context allows me offer insights into Rand’s process. It is important to note however, that these are explicitly meant as suggestions and not as an attempt to definitively explain playscript changes.

Finally, in chapter three, I work to apply reader response techniques to the Broadway production of Night. I work towards the question of whether or not it is possible, within the complex theatre environment, for Rand to effectively transmit a purely philosophical message or

“test.” In applying reader response techniques to the production of Night, I rely primarily on the work of Han Robert Jauss from his 1982 Toward an Aesthetic of Reception, Wolfgang Iser from his 1989 Prospecting from Reader Response to Literary Anthropology, Marvin Carlson from

“Theatre Audiences and the Reading of Performance,” and Susan Bennett from Theatre

Audiences: A Theory of Production and Reception. Using the theories of scholars primarily

concerned with traditional literature, and those working to adapt it to the theatre, I attempt to

approach the material from a number of angles, specifically the audience’s “horizon of

expectations,” elements of audience co-production, and from areas of context, genre, lines of

business, institutional response, as well as incorporating elements from the actual performance

such as the architecture of the auditorium and the unique staging choices of the production. It is

important to note that although traditional reader response techniques attempt to fully divorce the

intent of the author from the reception of the audience, I will, out of necessity, be incorporating 11

Rand’s point of view into the analysis. In this unique production, Rand is specifically trying to test the audience’s response to her work as well as their own philosophical beliefs. So, adding a brief study of Rand’s “test” allows me to approach the complex notions of reader response from a fresh angle.

LIMITATIONS

It is important at the outset of this study to note my own personal connection with Rand’s writing and philosophy. Though I have never considered myself an Objectivist and had only read a small portion of the non-fiction articles and books related to the subject before the beginning of this project, I have been an avid, enthusiastic, and sympathetic reader of Rand’s novels since high school. There is an undeniable appeal to the dramatic and highly romanticized struggles that she created for her fiction.

That being mentioned however, the focus of this project is not an attempt to comment on

Rand as a person or to decide on the validity of her theories. Though personal and philosophical aspects are, out of necessity, incorporated into the study, the main focus is uncovering her experience and attempting to come to terms with a mostly unexamined production, not to pass judgment on the Objectivist movement.

Also, it is important to emphasize the narrow focus of this study. For the purposes of this project, I will rely primarily on the various available scripts of Night, primary source material, commentary from first-hand sources, and applicable correlating scholarship. The bulk of the research will be an examination and analysis of her fictional texts and personal/professional correspondence rather than an exploration of the Objectivist movement as a whole. And, although wider Objectivist themes are drawn upon, particularly in the second and third chapters, these explorations will, in most cases, be restrained to the writing and philosophical stances of 12

Rand and her closest confidants. The Objectivist movement was highly controlled by Rand during her life, but particularly because of its explosive and unresolved end, has spawned a number of other essays and books by one-time members.

13

CHAPTER ONE: FROM CONCEPTION TO “DISASTER”

On September 16th, 1935 Ayn Rand’s Night of January 16th opened at the Ambassador

Theater in New York City. What should have been the break of a lifetime for a talented, but still largely unknown writer became a miserable experience that she would regret—and often write about—for the rest of her life. Night’s confused and controversial tale begins in the early 1930s with an inventive idea and does not end until 1968 when a definitive version, re-edited and introduced by Rand, is published.

The purpose of this chapter is to attempt, using the sources available, to construct a comprehensive descriptive history of Ayn Rand’s attempts to stage Night of January 16th. Few scholars dedicate anything more than cursory, and often negative, comments on both the play and the experience. Those that do move further, such as James T. Baker in his Ayn Rand and

Barbara Branden in her The Passion of Ayn Rand fail to paint a complete picture of the experience—most often through omission. This chapter will also begin the process of evaluating

Rand’s experiences and ultimate disenchantment with live theatre: Rand eventually wrote two more scripts, but would never again attempt to have them produced. Finally, this chapter works to examine Rand’s first attempts to construct a “sense of life” through her writing. This chapter, out of necessity, touches on some of the textual changes between the numerous incarnations of the script as well as factors influencing possible reception of the work (both of which will be more fully examined in later chapters).

In 1933, Ayn Rand was a little known writer working as a junior screenwriter in Cecil B.

DeMille’s story department. She spent most of her time writing shorts for movies and on her own projects—short stories for herself and long letters to her family back in Russia—with the ultimate purpose of perfecting her style in English. She was also working on a novel called 14

Airtight, which wouldn’t be published until 1936 under the title We the Living (Rand, Journals

49).

This early struggle and determination to perfect English suggests an important factor in

Rand’s ultimate disenchantment with her Night of January 16th experience. When the project was

conceived of, and production began in Hollywood, Rand was still largely a foreigner to America.

She had only arrived a few years before, and was likely still filled with the idealism that took her

away from the country that she hated. In a 1936 letter to a friend back in Russia, Rand includes

descriptions of how light hearted America is, and how free. In the same letter she speaks with

great confidence about her transformation into a real “American resident” (Rand, Letters 1). This

apparent naiveté and complete confidence in romanticized notions of America would be

challenged, and ultimately destroyed by her experience with Night.

One night in 1933, she and her husband Frank O’Connor decided to see a traveling show

that had received good reviews. After attending the play, The Trial of Mary Dugan, Rand

conceived of the idea for a new project (Britting 41). As quoted by Branden, she thought

“Wouldn’t it be interesting if someone wrote a courtroom drama with an indeterminate ending,

one in which the jury would be drawn from the audience and would decide whether the accused

is guilty or not guilty. My next thought was: Why don’t I write it?” (Branden, Passion 109).

According to later interviews, Rand set out with the sole intent of writing a courtroom drama in

which a woman would be on trial for pushing her wealthy lover off of a penthouse balcony. Soon

however, she became wrapped up in the idea of using the production, and the gimmick of pulling

the jury from the audience, as a means of testing the jury’s “sense of life.” The story itself was

inspired by the collapse of Ivar Kreugar’s “match empire” in March of 1932. Rand became

interested in the story after she noted, what she called, the “spree of gloating malice” at his death 15

(Baker 33-34). As her interest in the fall of Kreugar grew, she began to see the situation

differently than was portrayed in the news. She concluded that it was not the dishonesty and

criminal actions of Kreugar (his manufacturing empire was essentially a huge Ponzi scheme) that

was being denounced, but his ambition and success—she viewed the public’s reaction to be

gloating over the fall of a once great man (Baker 34). In her introduction to the definitive edition of Night, Rand writes:

His fall was like an explosion that threw up a storm of dust and muck—a storm

of peculiarly virulent denunciations. It was not his shady methods, his

ruthlessness, his dishonesty that were being denounced, but his ambition… Its

leitmotif was not: “How did he fall?” but: “How did he dare to rise?” (Rand,

Three Plays 5).

It was Krueger’s story, and Rand’s desire to defend his greatness, or the greatness that he was capable of achieving, that became the central focus of her drama. This theme is evident in almost all of her work (particularly in Atlas Shrugged and Fountainhead) as many of the secondary characters fall short of their potential through weakness, or epistemological inconsistencies.

Furthermore many of these characters, such as Fountainhead’s Gail Wynand, mirror

Krueger/Faulkner’s fall in that the public’s outcry is over his ambition and success rather than his less than legal methods of obtaining it.

The basic story of Night of January 16th revolves around the trial of Karen Andre. As the

play opens, the Judge solemnly tells the bailiff to call the jury and the roll is read—summoning

pre-determined audience members from their seats to take a place in the on-stage jury box. The

story quickly becomes complicated as it moves from simple accusations of murder to a tale rife

with double-crosses and bodies. The trial itself takes place several weeks after the murder/suicide 16

(though he is believed to be alive by the defendant) of Bjorn Faulkner, and the subsequent crash of his vastly over-invested financial empire. The first act consists of witnesses determined to slander Karen’s reputation and to set her up with ample motive to kill Faulkner. Key witnesses are police officers/private detectives from the scene, the housekeeper Magda, Faulkner’s father- in-law Whitfield, and his widow Nancy Lee. In the second act, the defense’s witnesses (primarily consisting of loyal employees such as Siegurd Junquist and the Andre herself) begin the process of redeeming her name and clarifying the complex relationships between the defendant, the deceased, and his other family (the Whitfields). As the defense’s case is just starting to pick up speed, the doors to the courtroom burst open and an associate of Karen’s (“Guts” Reagan) announces that Faulkner is in fact dead. In shock, Karen faints and the courtroom erupts in confusion. The curtain drops. Act three opens with a now defeated Karen telling the real story of

Faulkner’s death—that it was faked so that she and Faulkner could run away with the money that they had stolen from the father of Faulkner’s simpering new wife. Finally, after several more dramatic revelations, the jury retires to make its decision. When they return with the verdict, the show moves into one of its two predetermined endings. It is up to the jurors, to properly

(according to Rand) acquit the defendant, thereby (in theory) demonstrating their “sense of life.”

In theory, the factual evidence is balanced enough that the audience is required, according to Rand, to evaluate the case based on their “sense of life.” Sense of life, for Rand, is the “emotional, subconsciously integrated appraisal of man and of existence.” In her 1971

Romantic Manifesto, she defines the term as setting the “nature of a man’s emotional responses and the essence of his character” (Rand, Manifesto 25). In other words, all of a man’s decisions, value judgments, and general outlook on life are guided by his basic sense-of-life. So, Rand was 17 hoping that the audiences’ subconscious view of life would be their guide in determining whether or not the defendant is guilty.

In researching for the project, Rand was able to secure passes from Cecil B. DeMille to attend a famous murder trial taking place in the area. She only ended up going for one day. Rand then obtained a copy of some of the transcripts in order to get courtroom language and procedure right. It should be noted, that even with Rand’s attempt at “research,” the play’s trial makes almost no sense from an actual legal standpoint. In his 1987 Ayn Rand, James T. Baker questions whether she actually did spend any time in a courtroom. He writes, “At several points in the action the judge could and should declare a mistrial. Toward the end of act 3 there certainly should be a recess until two bodies are identified […] In short, it is one of the most contrived courtroom dramas in the history of the theater” (36). When the script was finished (under the title of Penthouse Legend), Rand sent it to a number of producers, but most responded that that the idea of pulling the jury from the audience ruined the theatrical illusion and would never work.

Rand was convinced that it was the gimmick in particular that was the script’s strength and refused to compromise (Branden, Passion 110-111).

The apparent inaccuracies of the script might indicate another factor that would ultimately lead to her conception of failure. As Rand began to write her seminal works,

Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, she became famous for the amount of research she put into her projects. For Fountainhead, she researched for over a year and even worked, without pay, in the offices of New York architect Eli Jacques Kahn in order to better understand the terminology and business of architecture (Gladstein 11). But, in the case of Night of January 16th, it seems as if very little preparatory work was involved. The result is what New York Times reviewer Brooks

Atkinson refers to as “clumsy” and “routine theatre with the usual brew of hokum” (1). For a 18 woman with Rand’s level of dedication toward individuality, being reviewed as mundane and run of the mill might be worse than an entirely negative review.

Then, virtually simultaneously, Rand received two offers for the script. One was from legendary Broadway producer A.H. Woods and the other from British actor and producer E.E.

Clive. In her book The Passion of Ayn Rand, Barbara Branden points out some of the things that it would have meant for Rand, including a “once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to break forever out of anonymity and to begin her playwriting career at the top” (116). According to Rand, she decided to sign with Clive after Woods insisted on a contractual right to make changes to the script

(Rand, Three Plays 8). Even this early insistence on control, in what most would consider a highly collaborative field, hints at future problems and frustration for Rand.

As rehearsals began in Hollywood, Rand became increasingly disenchanted and uncomfortable with live theatre—particularly having to watch actors read her lines. In later years, she would say of the experience: “Instead of being glamorous it was nerve-wracking day after day to hear people reading my lines and not really knowing what they were saying, and very few people did it properly.” She goes on to note, “A special kind of conscious focus is required for my sort of lines” (Branden, Passion 116-117). The failure of anyone—actor, director, or producer—in either the Hollywood run or later incarnations to achieve this “special kind of conscious focus” might be a large part of the reason that Rand never again attempted to have her work produced in an environment in which she must rely on others interpretations of the work.

This is a problem that would continue to haunt her throughout her attempts at dramatic success. Years later, only months from the implosion of the Objectivist movement, Ayn Rand watched a reading of an Ibsen scene by top “disciple” Nathaniel Branden and his mistress 19

Patrecia Scott (the relationship that once it became public, would shatter the movement). After

viewing the scene, Rand ran excitedly to her office, returning with the script of Ideal, a play

which she had written in 1934, but had never been published or produced. She asked the two to

do a reading of the final, climatic scene, and after several attempts Patrecia locked onto the

character of Kay Gonda. In his biography, My Years with Ayn Rand, Branden writes about what

happened next:

“How did you do that?” Ayn demanded afterward. “What did you do to capture

her?” There was something almost intimidating in Ayn’s intensity, and I saw

Patrecia freeze. I knew that she could not explain her own internal process in

doing Gonda, not now, neither to Ayn nor to herself. I also knew that because the

persona asking her for an explanation was Ayn, she would blame herself for her

inability.

As she stammered and groped for words, unable to say much more than “I just felt

her,” I saw some of the eagerness and warmth disappearing from Ayn’s eyes. I

saw Patrecia noticing it too, but there was nothing I could say and no way I could

help. “You must do better than just talk about feelings,” Ayn said to her. (316)

Speaking of the various productions of Night over the years, Rand’s enthusiasm for theatre

remained low. She would later say, “The play was spoiled for me because of the acting, and because my own lines had become a bromide to me through repetition during the rehearsals. To this day,” she would say almost thirty years later, “I can still hear all the different voices of that

company [Hollywood Playhouse] and subsequent companies” (Branden, Passion 117).

As the Hollywood production drew closer to its October 1934 opening, the name was

changed from its original Penthouse Legend to Woman on Trial. The request was made by E.E. 20

Clive who thought that the original title connoted a fantasy play and that audiences “didn’t get” abstract material—he wanted it to be concrete and provoking. To Rand, the fantasy aspect of the

original title was one of its strengths: “it gives some indication of the play’s nonrealistic,

symbolic nature” (Rand, Three Plays 7). She eventually agreed, and the production went on to

open for respectable houses. In her introduction to the official version of the script, she would

regard it as one of the few rewarding experiences in Night’s history writing:

E.E. Clive directed it and played a small part; he was a brilliant character actor,

who loved my play and seemed to understand it, at least to the extent of knowing

that there was something unusual about it, To this day, I deeply appreciate his

attitude. But, as a producer, he was badly handicapped by lack of funds. The

production was competent, but somewhat unexciting: unstylized and too

naturalistic (8).

This entry provides another lens through which to view Rand’s feelings about live theatre. Even

though Rand is writing about the only positive experience she had with theatre, she is not free

from reservation—particularly about someone else interpreting her material. Though she

appreciates Clive’s efforts, she refuses to accept that he might actual understand her work. This

collaboration, this loss of control that she finds unacceptable throughout this first theatre

experience is an integral part of the trade, and perhaps one of the reasons that she doesn’t return

to this medium.

The reviews of the Hollywood production were mostly positive, but especially

disappointing for Rand. In general, the positive reviews praised Rand for what she believed to be

all the wrong reasons. They commended her for the colorful characters, the gimmicky ending,

the melodrama, and the suspense. In his book, Ayn Rand, James T. Baker further explains Rand’s 21

qualms with the reviews, “To her, it was supposed to be more than a mere murder mystery, more

than an assortment of bizarre characters, more than clever tricks. She saw it as an expression of

her philosophy of life, with heroes and villains whose high or low moralities grew out of

epistemological attitudes toward life” (9). Similarly, Barbara Branden remembers Rand saying

“The reviews were not intelligent, there was no mention that it was a play of ideas; the stress was

on the melodrama and suspense” (Branden, Passion 117). In direct contrast to this sentiment,

Branden also writes that Rand was frustrated about the lack of mention of her jury gimmick

(Branden, Passion 118). This device, and Rand’s enthusiasm for it, does not seem to fit into her

complaints about the missed ideas and emphasized melodrama, rather in this instance, the

melodrama actually seems more important to Rand.

After a moderately successful run Woman on Trial closed in Hollywood and A.H. Woods

renewed his offer of a Broadway production. Still not satisfied with the terms of the contract,

Rand and Woods entered long and “nerve-wracking” negotiations, with the end result of Woods agreeing to make minor alterations to the section of the contract concerned with control over the script. Though these terms were loosened, they were still dubiously worded, giving Rand some pause about signing. She ultimately decided that her experience with the Hollywood production of the show would give her a certain bargaining power with Woods (Branden, Passion 118). In

her introduction to the 1968 version, Rand addresses her decision to go with Woods and

positions it as purely pragmatic: “My agent assured me that the new clause meant that all

changes were to be made by mutual consent. I did not think so; I was fairly certain that it still

gave Woods the control he wanted, but I decided to take the chance, relying on nothing but my

power of persuasion” (Rand, Three Plays 9). Though it is impossible to tell whether Rand was 22

this aware of her position or if was the naïve trust of a beginner to the industry, this compromise

marks the beginning of what Rand would later call, “Hell.”

In the late fall of 1934, Ayn Rand and her husband, Frank O’Connor packed up their old,

ill-repaired convertible and set out on a journey across depression torn America—a journey

which would quickly become a nightmare. Between the two, they only had one hundred dollars

(the advance money given to them by Wood’s for the upcoming production of Night). Soon after leaving Hollywood, the brakes on their car burned out, followed quickly by the battery going dead. Finally, after two more sets of burned out brakes and a loose license plate, the couple arrived in Virginia (Rand, Letters 20). In Virginia however, the ill-fated journey took a turn for the worst. As the couple drove down a stretch of road being repaired, there was a sudden drop as the pavement became dirt. According to Rand, the car went out of control, slid toward an embankment with a steep drop, and began to roll over. Finally, the car stopped on its side, held in place only by a small rock. They had the car towed to town, found the repairs to be far too expensive, and ended up selling it for scrap. The two finished the journey to New York on a bus

(Branden, Passion 118). In a lighthearted letter to Mary Inloes, agent for Night of January 16th,

written soon after Rand’s arrival in the city, she wrote:

To top it all, you came very near to having on your hands a crippled Russian

writer—if any. We had an accident in Virginia and the car almost overturned…

The Auto-Courts [motels] are awful. You may use me as a reference to discourage

ambitious authors from motoring across the continent. (Rand, Letters 20)

In the same letter, Rand describes how pleased she was with the status of the show and the

production staff upon her arrival. Of particular, and ironic, interest are her comments about her

first face-to-face meeting with Woods. She writes: 23

As to Mr. Woods, he is perfectly lovely and very easy to work with. I do not

believe that I will have any trouble with him about the play. The suggestions he

had to make so far were mostly the same cuts that we did in Hollywood, and also

some grand things about the presentation of the play, which will improve it a

great deal and are only details of the production that do not affect the play itself.

(20)

Rand’s light tone and optimistic outlook were soon to evaporate. Shortly after arriving in New

York, with almost no money, Rand’s quest to have Night produced on a Broadway stage faced another setback. Producer A.H. Woods broke the news that he had not yet been able to secure the funds for an immediate production of the show. The consolation, for what it was worth, was that

Rand would continue to receive one-hundred dollars a month until the show opened.

According to the United States Bureau of Labor Statistics (a sub-group of the Department

of Labor), the average yearly salary for an employed New York family in 1934 was $1,745,

putting Rand well below average with a base salary of $1,200. These families, most often living in single family apartments spent approximately $385 dollars a year on rent (Rand’s total was

$480) and $12.80 a week on food, if every meal was eaten at home (100 years 16-18).

Subtracting these averages from Rand’s monthly stipend would leave the couple with

approximately $5.15 a month to cover all of their other expenses. And, national unemployment

was up to around 21.7%. According to Barbara Branden’s The Passion of Ayn Rand, Rand’s

husband, Frank, took to the streets in a desperate hunt for work—and failed time after time

(120).

Eventually, Rand’s new agent, Ann Watkins, was able to get her a job as a free-lance script reader for RKO (Radio-Keith-Orpheum) and then MGM. At RKO, she earned between 24 two and five dollars per synopsis. Between the two companies she was able to make about twenty dollars a week. According to Branden, the real struggle came when Rand had to balance buying food and paying the bills, both of which met continual failure (Branden, Passion 120).

Rand’s growing desperation and growing frustration at her situation is illustrated in a 1935 letter to her New York Agent, Mary Inloes:

I owe you many apologies for my long silence. I hope you realize that its reason

has been a long string of continuous delays I have encountered with Woman on

Trial. The matter is still unsettled… I have heard many promises that it would

be settled “not later than Monday,” not later than Thursday” and so on, for over

three months… Frankly, I am very disappointed in the way Mr. Satenstein has

handled our contract. If you remember, I wanted to insist on a definite short

option in the contract, but waived it aside on Mr. Satenstein’s assurance that Mr.

Woods had every intention to produce the play immediately and no specified time

was necessary… I consider it a great mistake on Mr. Satenstein’s [the business

agent for Night] part to have taken anyone’s word in a legal matter, which should

have been specified on paper… Needless to say, my situation is desperate, not

to say a catastrophe… I can hardly be blamed for considering the whole

situation rather unfair. (Rand, Letters 21-22)

This letter is indicative, on several levels, of the life-long frustration she would feel toward her

Broadway experience. For Rand, a woman proud of her achievements and fully expectant of just recognition, this delay and the desperation it brought, was intolerable. Further, her frustration stems not just from failed recognition and poverty, which many of her famous Objectivist characters (i.e. Howard Roark) experienced, but her belief that this struggle was the result of 25

other’s dishonesty and incompetence. Finally, the last line of the letter enunciates a trait that

would only grow as her career progressed: If something went wrong, it was not her fault. In

almost all of Rand’s accounts of this period, the experience is summed up with this sense of

denial.

Finally, in the summer of 1935, Woods had secured the financial backing that he required

and rehearsals began. So did the changes. Again, Rand was forced to change the name. Feeling

that Woman on Trial was too provocative, Woods gave Rand two choices, The Black Sedan and

Night of January 16th (Branden, Passion 121). She grudgingly accepted the later. From that point

on, the changes came more and more frequently, perhaps to be expected in a highly collaborative

field, but unacceptable to a person of Rand’s conviction and certainty. In an October 1934 letter

to her We the Living agent, Jean Wick, she wrote:

As to the matter of a suggested collaborator, I give you full authority to refuse at

once, without informing me, any and all offers that carry such a suggestions. I do

not care to hear of such offers. I consider them nothing short of an insult. Anyone

reading my book must realize that I am an individualist above everything else. As

such, I shall stand or fall on my own work (Rand, Letters 19).

Though this letter is in regards to the publication of We the Living, it gives an example of her

early feelings on collaboration and compromise. Later, this sentiment, particularly in reference to

her experiences with Al Woods, becomes more personal. In the years after the production, and

even in her preface to the definitive version she would recall an argument between her and

Woods about changes in which she explained “that it was not a matter of personalities, age or

experience, not a matter of who said it, but of what was said, and that I would give in to his

office boy, if the boy happened to be right” (Rand, Three Plays 14). This departure from an 26 overall aversion to collaboration seems to be less of a philosophical change and more of a direct personal attack on Woods’ competency, further emphasizing her frustration.

In her introduction to the 1968 version, Rand lists the major melodramatic changes to her work: the addition of a gun/shooting testimony, a heat test, a gun moll, and the stripping of most of her more philosophical passages. Rand believed that theses changes stemmed from a common belief that audience’s attention cannot be held by speeches but only by melodrama, science, and gimmick. Furthermore, according to Rand, Woods saw a great divide between works that are either serious or entertaining, that philosophical works must bore people to death and entertaining work shouldn’t have any deeper meaning. It should be noted however, that in the same passage she does concede that the jury gimmick of her production (which she thought to be its most ingenious device) is what undoubtedly attracted Woods to the piece (Rand, Three Plays

9).

The casting process for the production was another area of tension for Rand. Though

Rand believed she should have at least equal say in casting, she was only able to get Woods to cast one of her choices—Walter Pidgeon. Rand had seen Pidgeon in silent movies and on stage while in Hollywood and was sold on him for the roll of “Guts” Reagan. Rand remembers Woods being against the choice, claming Pidgeon was “through,” until Rand forced Woods to go and see him in a summer stock show (Rand, Three Plays 10). Barbara Branden adds that Rand actually praised Woods for his choice of an unknown named Doris Nolan. She thought the rest of the cast was “okay” (Branden, Passion 122).

Casting again became problematic after Walter Pidgeon was offered a movie contract by

MGM—a new start to a previously fizzled silver screen career. He accepted the contract, leaving an opening in the Night cast which Woods tried to fill without Rand’s consent. Woods attempted 27

to put William Bakewell into the role, but Rand thought that he “[was] not suited for the part

which is now being relinquished by Mr. Pidgeon. He is much too young and has not the required

strength of personality for the character portrayed” (Rand, Letters 22). She goes on to express

her wish to continue the production without delay with her own choice of actor filling the part.

Rand finishes the letter by citing a section of the Night contract: “If, after the opening of the play, the Manager shall make any change in the cast, and objection thereto is made by the Author, then the Manager agrees forthwith to replace the person or persons so substituted by an actor or actress who shall be approved by the Author” (Rand, Letters 23). Finally after further debate,

Rand got her way with the casting (likely because she threatened litigation).

Another major area of contention for Rand was Woods’ enactment of a collaborator

clause in the contract. Under the contract, Woods, if he so chose, was permitted to hire a

collaborator for the purposes of directing and organization, with payment being pulled from

Rand’s royalties. This deduction, though only one percent of the total, was made worse by

Rand’s opinion of the director: “The director, John Hayden, was a very ratty Broadway hanger-

on. I didn’t get along with him at all” (Branden, Passion 122). Branden also points out that

Hayden had in fact, by the production of Night, already had a long and well-acclaimed career as a Broadway director. For Branden, Rand’s sentiments about Hayden are indicative of “her growing inability to acknowledge any worth in someone in whom she found significant flaws”

(Branden, Passion 122). Though it is uncertain what these flaws might have been, it is clear that

Rand found them unacceptable. This increasingly unrealistic set of standards in judging others is a factor that many scholars later point to as a determining factor in the implosion of the

Objectivist movement. 28

Much as in the case of the Hollywood production of the show, rehearsals became a daily

torture for Rand. She later remembers the frustration of those three weeks: “I began to dislike the actors very much; they kept wanting to change words to lines, they’d say ‘I can’t feel it the way

it is’—they were the kind who suddenly find difficulty in saying ‘the cat is on the

mat’”(Branden, Passion 122). For Rand, this was frustrating on several levels. The first is the

uncertainty and “incompetence” she saw in the actors. Rand was a woman of action, who

demanded, and believed she personified, certainty and excellence at one’s own craft. The actors’

inability to excel would likely have frustrated her. Also frustrating for Rand would be the actors’

attempts to “feel” the lines. As shown earlier in her argument with Patrecia Scott during her

attempts at capturing the character of Kay Gonda, Rand didn’t take attempts at merely “feeling”

a part as a viable approach to acting (Branden, My Years 316). Finally, both the actors’ desire to

change the lines and their misunderstanding of them brought frustration to Rand. As Rand later

said to Branden about the experience: “You know how I write, the extent to which every

statement is weighed, even for rhythm. It was plain torture” (Branden, Passion 122).

Finally, in early September 1935, the show went to Philadelphia for its preview

performances, and more torment for Rand. She was forced to make major changes to the script

before almost every performance—changes that further distorted her work. Philadelphia became

even more stressful as concerns over the audience participation, the one part of the play that

Rand still liked, grew. Since nothing like this had been done before in a professional show, there

was a fear that once the names were read, everyone would be too embarrassed to come onstage,

particularly with the knowledge that they would have to remain up there for the entire show.

These concerns were further aggravated by the money and time that went into rebuilding part of

the stage to accommodate the gimmick. By the end of the week however, the concerns were 29 proved to be unfounded, as the hired “backup” jury was never required to take the stage

(Branden, Passion 123).

The continual demand for text changes would likely have frustrated Rand. Later a strong advocate of the “holy writ,” these compromises, particularly as she felt she was lied to when the contracts were drawn up, might have been a major factor in her departure from theatre.

The final hurdle of the Philadelphia week was Woods’ attempt to bring in a “play doctor” to help modify the script. In addition to Rand’s very obvious objections with the arrangement, her frustration was further aggravated by the personality of the “doctor,” Louis Weitzenkorn.

Weitzenkorn, primarily a film writer, was also (according to Rand) an outspoken Marxist who reveled in engaging Rand in violent political arguments. Weitzenkorn’s only real contribution to the script was the temporary addition of the line “you bastard!”—which was immediately cut after failing to arouse the hoped for audience response. The situation with Weitzenkorn finally exploded when Rand found out that Woods intended to pay him out of her royalties. She quickly filed a claim with the American Arbitration Association, and eventually, they decided in her favor. It should be noted that the board thought the entire case to be ridiculous, with one member actually saying “That was all he did?” (Branden, Passion 123). The surprise of the Arbitration

Association over the claim suggests, perhaps, that the struggles that Rand had with Woods were in fact minor. Perhaps Rand truly misunderstood the level at which a playwright was expected to compromise with the production staff.

When the show finally opened on September 16th, Rand was thoroughly disgusted with the product. In her introduction to the 1968 version, Rand says, “By the time the play opened on

Broadway, it was dead, as far as I was concerned. I could feel nothing for it or about it except revulsion and indignation. It was not merely a mangled body, but worse: it was a mangled body 30

with some of its torn limbs still showing a former beauty and underscoring the bloody mess”

(Rand, Three Plays 11). Similarly, in an interview with Rex Read in 1973, she said, “The entire history of the play has been the worst Hell I ever lived through. It was produced in 1935 by Al

Woods, a famous producer of melodramas, who…turned it into a junk heap of clichés that clashed with the style and confused the audience” (Branden, Passion 121).

Similar sentiments are present in Rand’s correspondence during the production of the show. On November 29, 1935 in a letter to Universal screenwriter Gouverneur Morris she wrote:

My only excuse for my long silence is that of a person who had just emerged from

Hell. The year which has passed has been so terrible, with the constant

disappointments, the indefinite waiting and the struggles, that I did not want to let

anyone hear from me, for all I could say would have been complaints…

There is not much that I can tell you about my play. It is doing very well, it seems

very popular and successful. But I get no satisfaction whatever out of it, because

of the changes which Mr. Woods insisted on making. I find them so inept and in

such bad taste that the entire spirit of the play is ruined. I have never considered it

as a particularly good play and was fully prepared to allow any changes to

improve it. But I do not think that bringing it down to the level of cheap

melodrama and destroying its characters, which was the best thing it had,

constitutes and improvement. And that it exactly what Mr. Woods had done.

(Rand, Letters 23-24)

In addition to detailing Rand’s frustration with Night of January 16th, this passage is particularly

interesting as it seems to downplay some of Rand’s militant support of the original script.

Though Rand does admit to some of the weaknesses of the script in the introduction to the 31

definitive publication, her blatant admission of flaws—particularly with the other anti- collaboratory passages—is surprising.

On opening night, worries of filling out the jury went unfounded as people clamored for the positions. The opening night jury was a star-studded group that included Jack Dempsey,

Colonel John Reed Kilpatrick (athlete, soldier in both wars, and sports businessman at Madison

Square Garden), and Edward J. Reilly (lawyer in Lindbergh case) (New Plays 2). Other interesting juries include a benefit showing given for an audience of the blind. The jury foreman was Helen Keller, and the trial was described by famous newscaster Braham McNamee

(Branden, Passion 124) Interestingly, although Keller voted “not guilty,” the jury voted Karen

Andre “guilty.” What is particularly unique about having Helen Keller as the jury foreman, however, is that normally only men were eligible to take part in the gimmick: In New York, only men could serve as jurors, and the convention was otherwise carried over to the production.

The production received unenthusiastic to lukewarm reviews across the board. And rarely is any credit explicitly given to Rand. In the New York Times review, by Brooks Atkinson, the credit, what little there is of it, goes to Woods. Atkinson writes that the production was

“considerably inferior” to The Trial of Mary Dugan, a production that Woods had produced several years earlier and was, ironically, the impetus for Rand’s work. Though Atkinson gives

Woods credit for the jury gimmick as compensation for the lackluster production of the script itself he writes:

As a rule, courtrooms scenes, with all their ceremony, are clumsy devices for

telling a story, and Night of January 16 is no exception. It is routine theatre with

the usual brew of hokum. Even the brilliant display of a handsome and attentive 32

jury cannot quite dispel the impression that this sort of theatre is played out.

(Atkinson 1)

He closes the review with a biting remark: “Although the jury dutifully acquitted the defendant

last evening, Night of January 16 turns up enough related crimes to require a whole week of hearings before a grand jury” (Atkinson 1).

Grenville Vernon’s review, published in The Commonweal, is somewhat more positive. It actually mentions the playwright, one of the few review that does, but it refers to her as “Mr.

Rand.” Vernon’s review positions Night as the latest incarnation of an old-style writing,

The courtroom melodrama is the phenix [sic] of the theatre; as soon as the species

is pronounced dead, a new specimen rises from the ashes” (Vernon 1). He goes

on, “It is well constructed, well enough written, admirably directed by John

Hayden, and excellently acted… the surprise twists are frequent enough to suit

the most exacting lover of detective stories. (Vernon 1)

Interestingly, the one major problem that Vernon has with the production is the licentiousness of one witness. He writes: “It is a pity that such an engrossing play should have had in the testimony of one of the witnesses a most unpleasant passage which is absolutely unnecessary to the story” (Vernon 1). Coming from a conservative Catholic periodical in the thirties, this comment could refer to a number of witnesses. Deductions are further complicated by the lack of the Broadway text. It seems safe to assume however, that this is in reference to one of two testimonies: Magda’s (the housekeeper) testimony about Faulkner and Karen’s more heated interactions (in which she reveals that Karen had a mesh gown made entirely of platinum that and would be heated in the fire and then donned, creating incredible lust in Faulkner) and

Karen’s own, emotionless, description of some of the same intimacies. 33

The review that appeared in Time was brief—and mediocre. It refers to the plot as a “long

drawn courtroom scene,” and treats the production as unexciting and unoriginal. It does mention

however, that in the play’s first week, “beauteous” Andre was convicted only once. The mention

of physical beauty here prompts the question of whether the jury acted in response to the philosophy of the piece, the beauty of the lead, or just indifference (New Plays 1-2).

In James T. Baker’s Ayn Rand, he references two other reviews, Theatre Arts and News-

Week. According to Baker, both of these followed in much of the same sentiment as the others.

The review in News-Week failed to mention Rand’s name and like others focused on Woods’ record and achievements. Theatre Arts “dismissed the play as not more than a parlor game: ‘It is fun in a parlor with some bright wits about. It seems pretty foolish in a theatre’” (Baker 35).

Rand would likely have been frustrated with these reviews. For the most part they bill the production and the writing as mediocre. Her anger over being considered average would have been further enflamed by the fact that she blamed many of the shows’ shortcomings on Woods’ influence.

After seven months and 283 Broadway performances, Night of January 16th closed in

New York. In the meantime, however, Woods had set up a number of traveling companies both

in the United States and in Europe—including a later production by the U.S.O for American

troops occupying Berlin. An unauthorized amateur version was also created. The rights were

sold, against Rand’s wishes, to a publishing house that cleaned up the script for school and

church productions (Rand, Three Plays 13).

Rand’s frustration with the show only grew with the success of these touring groups.

Though she was receiving royalties of up to twelve hundred dollars a week, she remained horrified by the exposure. In a letter to Gouverneur Morris in January of 1936, she not only 34

continues to express frustration at the process, but also warns him about the upcoming Night tour

in California:

As to my play, I am having nothing but endless troubles and lawsuits with my

producer. The whole matter is so complicated and so revolting that it is not

worthwhile to bother you with its details. I would like to ask you, however, not to

see the play when it comes to Los Angles. I am sincerely ashamed of it in its

present form, owing to changes which I could not prevent Woods from making,

and I would prefer that you remember the play as it was, with all its faults, rather

than to see the disgraceful burlesque it has become. (Rand, Letters 25)

A year later Rand wrote another frustration filled letter, this time to John Temple Graves, a columnist for the Birmingham Age-Herald and correspondent for the New York Times. In response to publicity he gave for the tour in his column she wrote:

Speaking of plays, I hope against hope that you have not seen Night of January

16th, when it played in Birmingham. I am very grateful for the advance notice you

gave it in your column, but I felt, when I read it, as if I had betrayed the

confidence of a friend. I must admit that I am somewhat ashamed of Night of

January 16th in its present form. This is due to the fact that, the play being my

first one, I had a very unfortunate contract with the producer, which allowed him

to make such cuts in the manuscript that all sense has been eliminated from the

play. Only the plot and the characters have been kept, but every abstract or

psychological implication has been destroyed, so that it is now nothing but

a rather vulgar melodrama… My only consolation is that I have learned a 35

lesson and never again will I entrust any work of mine to a producer whose

artistic standards are so different from mine. (Rand, Letters 39-40)

From this point in her career on, even with leaving the collaborative nature of theatre behind in preference for the somewhat more controllable novel, she would become famous for her stubborn defense of the “holy writ.”

Rand’s frustration and embarrassment over the touring and amateur productions might be based on more than simple textual changes. Even when producers had warned her that the jury gimmick would never work, Rand remained adamant that it was the best part of the script.

Throughout the Broadway rehearsal period, this device was a constant focus, to the extent of rebuilding part of the theatre, and booking well known celebrities to fill it. In a tour setting, however, Rand would have no control over these factors. The jury would be filled, at best, with local celebrities, the space would not be designed especially for the gimmick, and she would have no way of knowing what each night’s results were—effectively destroying her attempt to test the audience.

A movie version of the play was eventually produced, although again against the wishes of Rand. According to Rand, the only thing that was kept from the original script was the title and a couple of character names. Further, the only line of dialogue that remained from the stage script was “The Court will now adjourn till ten o’clock tomorrow” (Rand, Three Plays 13). For

Rand, this only added to the frustration of her Broadway experience.

In this chapter, I have worked to construct a comprehensive descriptive history of Rand’s

Night of January 16th experience, ranging from conception to the post-Broadway incarnations of the show. Through this exploration, several major factors for Rand’s ultimate disavowal of theatre can be suggested. 36

The first, and perhaps the most prominent, is the incredible naiveté of Rand at the outset

of the project. On one level, this seems to stem from her relative status as a foreigner. Though she had been living in the country for seven years by the time she began work on Night, correspondence from the time suggests an extreme confidence in the “American dream.” On another level, this naiveté is thrown into sharp relief by Rand’s apparent surprise and resistance to the substantial level of collaboration that often is a pivotal part of any theatre production.

This surprise is further offset by Rand’s focus on artistic control. Night of January 16th

represented a process in which she had very little real control. Though she could suggest casting

choices and staging choices to the directors of each incarnation, they were not bound to take

them. Though she could suggest interpretation and method to the actors, she could not make

them understand.

Also, throughout Rand’s attempt, there seems to be a clear confusion on her part as to

what her goals actually were. The script itself is filled with holes and though it attempts

courtroom realism, the case would mistrial a number of times. And, Rand clearly denies, as in

the case of Hollywood director E.E. Clive, that anyone else could possibly come to understand

the “brilliance” of her script.

So, the meeting of these factors, with the crushed expectations of a new playwright,

mediocre reviews, and periods of incredible poverty, seem to give Rand numerous reasons to

move away from drama as her primary form of philosophical dissemination. It is important to

note that by many conventional standards such as length of run, ticket sales, publicity, royalty

checks and notoriety, Night of January 16th could conceivably be considered a success. It is by

Rand’s standards, Rand’s expectations and philosophy that the show is considered a categorical disaster. Further, it is a failure of Rand’s first attempt to construct, gauge, and influence the 37 audience’s “sense of life.” For Rand, the endless collaboration, loss of control, and compromise went against everything she held to be truth and created a product that she would remain ashamed of and frustrated with until later revision.

In the early sixties, after encouragement from others in the Objectivist movement wanting to do a staged reading of the piece, Rand revisited the script for the first time since the thirties. The end result of the editing was a definitive version published in 1968. According to

Rand, after she finished editing, the play was almost exactly the same as the original—with only

Woods’ title and a few small line changes. She had cut all of the extra gimmicks, melodramatic content, and characters. However, a side-by-side comparison of scripts from each period show that this claim is not as cut and dry as Rand would have us believe.

38

CHAPTER TWO: THE RE-BIRTH OF NIGHT

In 1960, at the request of Nathaniel Branden, Ayn Rand began revising the Broadway

script of Night of January 16th for presentation at a staged reading. Having since received

international fame with her major novels, Atlas Shrugged and Fountainhead, she revisited the script that for her had been, “the worst hell that I ever lived through” (Branden, Passion 121). In her introduction to the definitive 1968 version Rand claims that while editing the piece she only cut melodramatic devices and content added by Woods, restored her original material, and made a few grammatical changes. Though much of this claim seems legitimate, many of her revisions point to significant embellishment in both the philosophical framework and style of the text.

Though there appears to be no exhaustive study comparing two different versions of

Night, many scholars doubt the accuracy of Rand’s claim. In his book The Ideas of Ayn Rand,

Ronald Merrill ascribes much of this skepticism to a similar assurance given by Rand about revisions made to her first novel, We the Living. In the forward to the most recent edition of the novel she writes, “In brief, all the changes are merely editorial line-changes. The novel remains what and as it was” (xvi-xvii). Merrill writes that subsequent evidence showed this assertion to be “demonstrably false” (31). He goes on to point out that while most of the changes to the novel are “not extensive,” some, including significant breaks from the original version’s heavy reliance on Nietzschean ideals, represent major philosophical modifications (38).

The focus of this chapter is a side-by-side comparison of two versions of Night of

January 16th, the post Broadway amateur version and most recent printing of Rand’s 1968

edition. At one point in the chapter a third version (also post revision) is drawn upon. Because an

original copy of Rand’s script is not available, this analysis, out of necessity, relies on a play

script twice removed from Rand’s control, and so cannot be a definitive examination of the 39

author’s revision process. Instead, this reading is intended to point out melodramatic devices present in the 1936 edition that are later cut, hypothesize as to whether they might have been in an earlier version, raise questions about the development of Rand’s philosophy between these two publications, and suggest other possible motivations of the changes. Further, it should be noted that while, out of necessity, elements of audience reception and response will be touched upon, these factors will be more fully addressed in the third, and final, chapter.

My method in exploring the changes between each version is a line-by-line reading of

each script. Following this process I compiled the results, and then grouped them within five

broad categories. First, I address Rand’s changes to the cliché and melodramatic elements of the

script. I then move onto changes to the staging conventions (relying on stage directions). Next, I

discuss philosophical changes to the piece, first on a macro level, and then to specific characters.

Finally, I address a problematic racial change that does not fit into any of the other categories.

In the months after Night closed on Broadway an unauthorized version, unapproved by

Rand and edited by Nathaniel Edward Reeid, was published for distribution to amateur theatre

companies. In her introduction to the 1968 version, Rand notes that this version kept most of

Wood’s melodramatic additions and mangled the script even further by toning down provocative language and concepts so that it could be performed by church and school groups (Rand, Three

Plays 13). Though, as noted, it is not the actual Broadway version of the script, Reeid’s amateur edition is filled with many of the dramatic devices and changes that Rand would later point out as Woods’ “junk heap of clichés that clashed with the style and confused the audience”

(Branden, Passion 121).

It is the melodramatic additions and cliché on which Rand would most focus in later discussions about the experience. Perhaps the most glaring of these clichés is the gun testimony 40 present in both the amateur and, according to Rand’s account, Broadway versions. In the Reeid edition, the first witness called by the prosecution is the medical examiner who examined

Faulkner’s mangled body. During his testimony he reveals that not only did he find significant trauma to the body obviously caused by the fifty-story plummet, but also a thirty-two caliber bullet hole near the heart. In true dramatic form, he further declares he could not determine whether it was actually this injury that killed him, or the fall itself. Several witnesses later, dimwitted policeman Elmer Sweeny takes the stand. Over the course of his stumbling testimony, he reveals details of Faulkner’s extravagant penthouse and “suicide letter,” but also his discovery of a recently fired thirty-two caliber revolver—with only Miss Andre’s fingerprints on it.

This seemingly damning line of questioning lays forgotten until act three when, in response to the revelation that Faulkner really is dead, Karen begins to tell an even more complicated version of the events in question. During the course of this story, she claims to have fired the gun to explain the wound in the chest of the body that she actually did throw off of the building—except that it was the body of an already dead gangster that they used to fake

Faulkner’s suicide. Finally, the gun returns at the end of act three as the prosecutor questions

“Guts” Regan. In its final dramatic reference it is revealed that although filed off, the gun’s serial number is still visible using a “heat test” (that when heated until red hot it still reveals its serial number), which of course matches the one registered to Regan.

In Rand’s definitive version both the gun and the heat test are cut. Instead of revealing this damning and dramatic line of inquiry, the medical examiner testifies only to the mangled state of the body. This edit drastically changes both the style of the script and the balance of evidence, which results in the defense having far less “factual” evidence against them. It also cuts most of the major additions to the script imposed by Woods. Furthermore, this cut would, 41

for Rand, remove one of the largest barriers to the audience and the jury evaluating the narrative

from a philosophical point of view. Even though, in the Reeid version, the medical examiner

does not confirm that the bullet wound was the cause of death, this line of questioning skews the

evidence dramatically in the prosecution’s favor. This unbalanced evidence would lead to, in

Rand’s words, the jury judging the case on the “spur or color or drama of the moment” (Rand,

Three Plays 6).

Another well documented addition that was made for the Broadway run, and is still present in the Reeid edition, is the “gun moll” character in the last act. The gun moll (slang for

“crook’s girl”) was introduced, according to Rand, “in the last act, to throw doubt on the testimony of “Guts” Regan.” She also notes that it was actually the director who wrote the part, because she refused to do it herself (Rand, Three Plays 9). In her book The Passion of Ayn Rand,

Barbara Branden quotes a conversation with Rand about the addition: “She didn’t belong at all, and it held up the action—but Woods liked the idea of a chorus girl with furs” (122). Branden also notes that the actress cast in the role was rumored to be the mistress of Lee Shubert, the owner of the theater and Woods’ “main financial angel” (122). If this rumor was true, it likely provided for further frustration for Rand. Not only would it be a casting decision out of her control in a role that she didn’t write and didn’t think fit within the play, but it would be a role

cast without individual competence as a determining factor. If the actress was trading primarily

on personal relationships rather than hard work and talent, the casting decision would go against

the very fiber of Rand’s stated goals in conceiving of the production.

Roberta Van Rensselaer (her “professional” name) seems to personify Woods’ desire for

a flashy “chorus girl in furs” as she trounces through the house to the stand. Upon taking her seat

she proudly declares herself a “terpsichorean,” to which the district attorney sarcastically replies, 42

“you mean you dance” (Rand, Night Reeid ed. 83). This flashy opening is followed by five pages of dialogue that alternates between flirting with the judge and attorneys to vehemently denouncing Regan as a “rat” and “sell out.” After having testified primarily on hearsay and her admitted hatred of Regan, and having lost her poise under the intense questioning, Roberta leaves the stand without contributing anything of worth to the proceedings.

The contrived nature of Roberta’s character is further emphasized when read in the broader context of Rand’s work. Though Night is written early in her career, before her famous

“selfish heroes,” master altruists, or compromising leeches had been perfected, these archetypes seem to be roughed out in many of the characters in this script. Faulkner, though never appearing in the play, has many of the attributes of her famous Howard Roark and John Galt. Karen, in many ways the most complete character by Rand’s later standards, resonates strongly with

Dominique Francon from Fountainhead and Dagny Taggart from Atlas Shrugged. Even

Whitfield can be seen as an early, and admittedly incomplete, version of Rand’s famous

Ellsworth Toohey. Further, the majority of the minor characters in Night have traits that Rand has become known for in her writing. The private investigator, Homer Van Fleet is a fastidious man who makes a living off of undermining the strong, Whitfield’s daughter is a simpering, petulant woman compromises herself at every turn for social appearances; and Regan, though never capable of greatness, is loyal and honest about his associations and shady career. Each of these broadly drawn characters seem to resonate with those present in Rand’s more developed writing.

Within this array of clearly Randian characters, Roberta Von Rensselaer clashes at every turn. Unlike many philosophers, Rand views reason to be an absolute (Rand, Lexicon 3). Rand’s villains often have no “firm definitions,” as they hedge on any principle and compromise on their 43

values. These characters, however, usually remain absolute within their nature. They always compromise, always sell themselves. In Night, Roberta’s character not only straddles the line between the Rand’s conception of hero and villain, but at different points in her testimony alternates between moments of individual strength and moral compromise. This grey area in

Roberta’s character is highly uncharacteristic of Rand’s writing, which generally takes place in an environment with obvious moral absolutes.

For the publication of her definitive version, Rand made two more significant cuts to the melodrama of the play. One of these cuts rips away a portion of the cross-examination of

Faulkner’s secretary, Sigurd Junquist. Under the accusations of the district attorney, he reveals that before being Faulkner’s secretary he was his bookkeeper, and before that, he had been in a

Swedish prison for embezzling money. Further, he had been rescued from prison by none other than Bjorn Faulkner. This testimony, aside from casting considerable doubt on the answers of a

loyal employee, further tilted the balance of evidence in favor of the prosecution.

The other change of interest is to the ending of the play. In the 1936 edition, regardless of

the jury’s decision, the judge scolds them for their verdict, claims it to be contrary to the

evidence, and vows to strike their names from the jury rolls for five years. In both available

editions of Rand’s 1968 version, regardless of the verdict the judge doesn’t say anything. In the

most recent version, a 2005 collection of Rand’s plays, Karen receives each verdict with poise

and in the case of a guilty pronouncement declares, “Ladies and gentlemen, I will not be here to

serve the sentence. I have nothing to seek in your world” (Rand, Three Plays 88). In a 1971

printing of Night the line is even less subtle: “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you. You have

spared me the trouble of committing suicide” (Rand, Night of January 16th 122). The 1971

version implies a sense of living death in the face of an irrational world, while the most recent 44

version has a sense of physical departure. Both versions do away with the melodrama of the

Reeid edition—many reviews commented on the judge’s scolding of the jury. The most recent

version however, seems to align itself more fully with the Objectivist canon. In Rand’s most

famous book, Atlas Shrugged, for example, the talented individualists of the world go on strike and into hiding to protest the compromising and altruist world that would strip them of their accomplishments. Karen’s line change might suggest a nod toward this sentiment.

Aside from these major edits to the melodrama and cliché in the Night script, there are a number of smaller dramatic devices that were cut for the 1968 publication. Some of these, as

Rand notes, are “irrelevant melodramatic devices that clashed with the style, did not advance the action and served only to confuse the audience” (Rand, Three Plays 9). Others, while still being

melodramatic devices, go beyond potential audience misunderstanding and upset the balance of

evidence that Rand tried to accomplish, and without the proper balance the jury is more likely to

decide the case based on the evidence rather than on their own “sense of life.”

Most of the cuts that Rand makes to these devices seem to be in general keeping with her

comments and complaints about the Broadway production. These include a fantastic description

of the Faulkner’s garden as having “a lake, with trees and grass—real trees as big around as that!

[He shows him.] And a sandy beach—just like Coney Island!” (Rand, Night Reeid ed. 22), the mysterious unexplained disappearance of the Whitfields after the “suicide,” additional “scientific data” about forgery detection, fudged dates, and countless objections by either lawyer.

Also present in the Reeid version is a series of stage directions designed to break the fourth wall. The most prevalent of these, and the only one present in both texts is the drawing of the jury from the audience. In the definitive text however, this is the last time any interaction with the auditorium is specifically noted—the jury essentially becomes part of the show. In the 45

Reeid version however, this device continues throughout the production. The difference in audience interaction is most prominently emphasized in the opening stage directions of the Reeid version. It calls for leaving the lights up in the house to establish the “close relationship between players and audience” (Rand, Night Reeid ed. 3). These directions go on to state that not only will the jury be furnished by the audience, but most of the witnesses too. This is not meant to imply that anonymous audience members will come on stage and act as witnesses, but that all of the actors (barring ones brought from custody) will be seated in the house (or will come through the house in some cases) for the duration of the performance. Indeed, the Whitfields, Dr.

Kirkland, Mrs. Hutchins, Magda Svenson, Sigurd Junquist, Regan, and Roberta Van Rensselaer are all directed to enter from the audience, many with entrances further designed to draw attention to the gimmick. At the beginning of act two for instance, Swedish housekeeper Magda

Svenson is directed to be wearing wooden shoes and to “mount the steps noisily” (Rand, Night

Reeid edition 36). At other points during the Reeid version, further attention is drawn to the use of the house with dramatic outbursts from characters seated there. Upon the entrance of “Guts”

Regan (who shouts from the back of the house on his way in), Magda dramatically stands up and denounces him: “That’s the man I see kiss her! That’s the man—the sinner” (Rand, Night Reeid ed. 60). And, towards the end of the production when Whitfield’s dark involvement in

Faulkner’s death is revealed Junquist screams from the audience and then runs onstage screaming and crying.

It is important to note that this frequent usage of the auditorium was a conscious effort on the part of the production team. Quoting Rand, Barbara Branden writes:

After listening to these and many more reasons why the idea was all wrong we

felt a little ashamed at having started it and a whole lot concerned about the 46

expense that had been incurred in ripping out the Orchestra pit, installing a new

platform, steps and so forth… (Branden, Passion 123)

This passage raises several questions. First, are the rest of the audience entrances used only to

justify the remodeling? And, in this passage Rand refers to herself as part of the team—which is

rare when talking about her Broadway experience. So, were these entrances Rand’s idea, or was

she at least in support of them? There is a notable absence in all of Rand’s recorded complaints

about this dramatic gimmick, but it does not appear in the definitive edition. Each stage direction

that has an audience entrance or outburst has been cut or changed to a “spectator’s door” on

stage left. The reason for the cut may simply be an effort on Rand’s part to make the drama more

realistic, and less melodramatic. It is also possible, lacking a Broadway script, that the device

was added by Reeid to boost the excitement of the show for community audiences. Finally, it

might be a change of practicality—it would be difficult to time out lines and travel from the back

of a larger Broadway house.

Though Rand admits to many of the changes discussed above, as well as a few

grammatical corrections, there does seem to be a number changes between the two editions that

bring the text up, as much as possible, to current Objectivist ethics. One of these changes is about

what type of “empire” Faulkner operates. The inspiration that Rand took the character from, Ivar

Kreuger, ran a match business, and controlled two thirds of the world’s match production.

Instead of relying on a manufacturing monopoly for the 1936 version of Night however,

Faulkner becomes a powerful financier with control over most of the world’s major fiscal

transactions. That is until his death reveals the swindle behind the empire. For the 1968 version,

however, Rand changes Faulkner’s career from generalist financier to being a major force behind

gold transactions. 47

This change could simply be taken as a move to keep the script, or more appropriately,

the crimes of Faulkner relevant to the audience. When the script was first written, the United

States was in the height of the depression. A figure who manipulated the abstract world of high

finance to the point of collapse for entirely selfish reasons would present a highly controversial

figure to test the extent of the audiences’ “sense of life.” An audience member serving on the

jury would have to have a strong “sense of life” favoring the powerful individual spirit to

contemplate acceptance of Faulkner’s actions, let alone forgiveness of them. Rand points out in the introduction to the revised script that it is Faulkner’s spirit, not his actions that she is hoping

the audience will evaluate—though she accepts that it might be difficult for the audience to see

beyond the scandal (6). With this explanation, the change to gold transactions in the sixties could

be explained by the rising government spending and inflation during the late fifties and early

sixties. Unemployment had again ballooned, up to 7.7% by 1958 (Walton 542-543). The post- war period also saw increasing debate over the return to a gold standard. Though gold had

collapsed during the height of the depression, it was commonly believed that the economic

stability at the turn of the century was largely due to a firm gold standard (Hughes 524). If the

crime wasn’t seen by the audience/jury as despicable then conceivably their “sense of life”

would play less of a role than simple apathy.

The other explanation for this change is an effort on the part of Rand to bring the script

more in line with Objectivist ethics. When Rand was writing Night in the early thirties, there was

no formal Objectivist movement. Her first novel, We the Living, had yet to be published and she

had not gained any real following aside from her husband and close friends. Many of her

philosophical points, particular points not directly related to her current projects, had yet to be

solidified. By 1968 however, Objectivism had become a realized movement. Membership, 48

research, and publication on Objectivist topics had consistently shot up, and the Nathaniel

Branden Institute was a dominating force. By 1965, the Institute was giving courses in

Objectivism in eighty cities, and in 1967, it took out a lease on a major unit in the Empire State

Building (Branden, Passion 313, 325). The movement was at its peak, and its tenants were relatively solidified.

In 1963, at a lecture in Chicago titled “America’s Persecuted Minority: Big Business,”

Rand lauds the necessity of a gold-backed economy saying, “When currency is not backed by

gold, then we are under the power of a government that arbitrarily sets the value of money,

devaluates the currency, inflates credit, and taxes us indirectly through the manipulation of

money” (Rand, Answers 40). She goes on to explain that gold is the best backing for an economy

because of its “objective material value.” Several years later, in an essay originally published in

Rand’s Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal, Alan Greenspan addresses similar issues saying, “Gold

and economic freedom are inseparable[…] in the absence of the gold standard, there is no way to

protect savings from confiscation through inflation” (Rand, Lexicon 188). These opinions on the

gold standard, both issued in the period when Rand was rewriting Night, may be a reason for the

change in the script. If Faulkner, a proto-Randian character is dealing in high finance, it would

seem to make sense for him to be doing so in the gold market, particularly as a career in credit and paper money would go against the tenants of the movement.

Another interesting update that Rand made for the 1968 version occurs in Karen Andre’s initial testimony about the nature of Faulkner’s marriage to Nancy Lee. During the questioning she claims that Faulkner had decided to use himself as his last security. His fake financial empire was about to come tumbling down around him, and he needed an injection of cash to keep the 49

scheme going. The only person willing to lend was Whitfield, and only on the condition that

Faulkner marry his daughter. In the Reeid version of the script, the passage is as follows:

STEVENS. Did you resent that marriage?

KAREN. No, we had always faced our business as a war. And when any war

reaches a crisis, some one has to be sacrificed. The time for my sacrifice had

come. But it was harder for him than for me. (58)

In the 1968 edition, the line was changed to:

STEVENS. Did you resent that marriage?

KAREN. No. I didn’t. We had always faced our business as a war. We both

looked at this as our hardest campaign. (63)

Questions of sacrifice have continually been a complex issue within both Rand’s writing and the

greater Objectivist movement. In several of her novels and dramas, sacrifice becomes a central

thematic issue, but to Rand, sacrifice has rules. As opponents to concepts of altruism, a social

philosophy with mandatory sacrifice at its core, Objectivists despise traditional notions of

sacrifice—notions which are problematic in two of Rand’s early dramas, Night of January 16th, and Ideal. In his famous speech toward the end of Atlas Shrugged, Randian super character John

Galt says the following:

‘Sacrifice’ does not mean the rejection of the worthless, but of the precious.

‘Sacrifice’ does not mean the rejection of the evil for the sake of good, but of the

good for the sake of the evil. ‘Sacrifice’ is the surrender of that which you value

in favor of that which you don’t… A sacrifice is the surrender of a value. Full

sacrifice is full surrender of all values. (1028) 50

It seems that notions of sacrifice are strictly rejected by Objectivists. Why then are there so many sacrifices in Rand’s writing? In Night, Karen seems to sacrifice her own desires when she allows

Faulkner to marry Nancy Lee. In Ideal, the last fan that Kay Gonda meets admits to the crime she is accused of committing and then kills himself in front of her so that the truth will never come out. In The Fountainhead, Roark and Dominique are continually forced apart, though at their own discretion (even though they want nothing more than to be together). The distinction between these “sacrifices” and those scorned by Galt in his speech, is that they aren’t (from an

Objectivist point of view) truly sacrifices. In a philosophy in which the self and the fulfillment of personal morals and goals is paramount, the actions of these characters are construed as the ultimate selfish act. In an essay titled “The Ethics of Emergences,” published in the Virtue of

Selfishness, Rand writes, “Any action that a man undertakes for the benefit of those he loves is not a sacrifice if, in the hierarchy of his values, in the total context of the choices open to him, it achieves that which is of greatest personal (and rational) importance to him” (Rand, Lexicon

431). With this definition then, the character in Ideal (Johnnie Dawes) is justified in killing himself to prevent the imprisonment of the one he loved most in the world. His action, by

Objectivist standards, was the epitome of selfish desire.

Yet, even with this reasoning, the sacrifice section is deleted by Rand for the 1968 publication of Night. This could be a response to the connotation that the word receives as

Objectivist theories become more developed. According to Objectivist ethics, Karen’s sacrifice is not a sacrifice at all; it fulfilled her greatest personal and rational desires to allow Faulkner’s marriage. While editing Night for publication in the sixties, it seems likely that Rand cut the passage so as to avoid compromising the character. If Karen were to still use the word sacrifice, it would seem to compromise both the deed, and the character’s “sense of life.” 51

Additionally, there seem to be a number of other small line changes throughout the script

that bring it up-to-date with Objectivist ethics in the sixties. One of these is the addition of a

“condition” that Whitfield imposes upon the loan to Faulkner. In the Reeid version of the script,

Karen testifies to Faulkner having her forge Whitfield’s signature on twenty-five million dollars

worth of securities without any real provocation—an act which reflects badly upon Faulkner. In

the 1968 edition however, Rand writes in another condition. In Karen’s testimony she reveals

that even though Faulkner had met all of the original conditions of the loan (marrying Nancy Lee

and firing Karen), Whitfield decided on one last provision: controlling interest in Faulkner’s enterprises. This condition, while still not entirely justifying Faulkner’s actions, certainly gives

him cause to steal the money from a philosophical point of view. The type of oversight

demanded by Whitfield, similar to the government control that Rand protests in Atlas Shrugged,

would have been unacceptable to an Objectivist hero.

One line change between the two versions seems to move the line away from Rand’s

philosophy rather then supporting it. During his testimony, in the Reeid version of the script,

Whitfield says:

WHITFIELD. Well, it is only fair to admit that he had many qualities of which I

could not approve. We were as unlike as two human beings could be! I

believed in one’s duty to others above all; Bjorn Faulkner believed in nothing

but himself. (45)

During Rand’s revision, the last part of this line becomes: “Bjorn Faulkner believed in nothing

but his own pleasure” (52). It seems that believing in nothing but oneself would fit better into

Objectivist ethics then believing in one’s own pleasure. In 1961, Rand wrote, “The most selfish

of all things is the independent mind that recognizes no authority higher than its own and no 52

value higher than its judgment of truth” (Rand, New Intellectual 142). It would seem then, that in

the first version, Whitfield’s sentiments of Faulkner would fit into the rational selfishness praised

by Rand. It is possible that Rand makes this change for a number of reasons. One is that it is

Whitfield, an admitted altruist, is the character who points out the trait, which, to an Objectivist,

might be paramount. The second is that Rand might have viewed this line as too much of a

giveaway to the audience. From her point of view, if someone held themselves to this standard of

individualism it might outweigh the evidence placed against him. In the Reeid version, it is one

of the few times that is given a spoken Objectivist trait—which might interfere, in Rand’s mind, with the evaluation of the jury’s “sense of life.”

Rand also makes major philosophical updates to the closing statements of both attorneys.

In the Reeid version, when defense attorney Stevens steps up to the jury, he does his best, using the facts laid out in the testimony, to inseparably connect Karen and Faulkner. He first moves point by point through each time that Faulkner betrayed his wife Nancy in favor of Karen. He then appeals, in a roundabout way, to the jury’s “sense of life.” He asks them to consider whether a man such as Faulkner would ever compromise himself. Following this line of reasoning, if the jury believes Faulkner would compromise, then Karen is clearly guilty and has lied about everything since his marriage to Nancy. If you don’t believe he would compromise, however, then clearly Faulkner and Karen are still together in every way, and so she would not kill him.

In her introduction to the revised edition, Rand states that Wood made her cut many the philosophical sections of the speeches in order to make room for his added melodramatic devices. It seems probable that this speech is one of those that ended up being trimmed down. Of all of the speeches in the script, Stevens’ closing arguments are the choppiest and perhaps the least convincing section of the play. 53

In the revision, however, the speech is transformed into a sweeping and romantic appeal to the sense of life, individual spirit, and reason of each member of the jury—in essence, a true

Randian plea with echoes of Galt’s famous speech from Atlas Shrugged. In it, Stevens entreats the jury to use their own sense of life to understand the daunting and heroic attributes of Bjorn

Faulkner,

If you believe that in this sad, halfhearted world of ours a man can still be born

with life singing in his veins…, if you value a strength that is its own motor, an

audacity that is its own law, a spirit that is its own vindication—if you are able to

admire a man who, no matter what mistakes he may have made in form, had

never betrayed his essence; his self-esteem—if, deep in your hearts, you’ve felt a

longing for greatness and for a sense of life beyond the lives around you…,

you’ll understand Bjorn Faulkner. (85)

He claims that if the jury could truly understand Bjorn, then they would understand the level of devotion with that Karen has for him, proving the impossibility of her committing murder. This is an substantial change from the Reeid version of the script—one that may be an effort to replace previously cut material. Though, if it is replacing cut material it does seem to have a philosophical polish not found on most of her earlier work.

The district attorney’s closing arguments go through a change almost as drastic as those of Stevens’. In the 1936 version of the script, Flint is primarily concerned with enumerating

“facts” in an almost bombastic style. He moves through each major point and uses breakups of shouting phrases such as “and that is a fact!” as a rhythm for his presentation. Within this presentation he spends time discrediting each of the defense’s witness, scorning both them and 54

the defense. In general, he is highly sarcastic and aggressive but generally dry, uninteresting, and

unoriginal.

In the newer version, however, District Attorney Flint’s arguments are restructured to be

in direct opposition to Stevens’ appeal. Flint agrees that the verdict will be decided deep within

the jury’s soul, but vehemently disagrees with what the verdict should be. He works to take all of

the traits that Stevens’ lauds as admirable and prove them to be the vilest attributes a person can

have. In essence, Rand reworks Flint’s argument to very clearly draw the line between selfish

egoists and altruists. He says,

If you believe that selfless service to others is still the most sacred ideal a man can

aspire to—you will believe that simple virtue is more powerful than arrogance

and that a man like Bjorn Faulkner would be brought to bow before it. Let your

verdict tell us that none shall raise his head too high in defiance of our common

standards! (85-86)

So, for the revision, Rand takes the argument almost entirely out of the court room and asks the

jury, very directly, whether they believe egoism or altruism is the proper moral system.

Another series of changes that Rand makes during the re-writing process seem to affect

the philosophical bearing of some of the characters, particularly Karen Andre and Bjorn

Faulkner. In two places, Rand gives additional traits to Faulkner that are characteristic of her later “selfish heroes.” The first occurs in the district attorney’s opening remarks about the case.

Into Flint’s sarcastic description of the fall of Faulkner’s empire she adds, “young, tall, with an arrogant smile” (21). Later, in Karen’s testimony about her first day working for Faulkner she adds, “His mouth was insulting even when silent; you couldn’t stand his gaze very long; I didn’t 55

know whether I wanted to kneel or slap his face” (60). Small additions to be sure, and somewhat

romanticized (particularly in the second addition), but potentially significant.

In The Fountainhead, famous Randian hero Howard Roark is consistently described in terms very similar to these. Upon opening The Fountainhead, the reader is presented with poetic images of a naked Roark, standing on a cliff above a lake, laughing—ready to take on the world.

Rand goes on to describe him: “His face was like a law of nature—a thing one could not question, alter or implore, It had high cheekbones over gaunt, hollow cheeks; gray eyes, cold and steady; a contemptuous mouth, shut tight, the mouth of an executioner or a saint” (Rand,

Fountainhead 4). Rand is famous for these romanticized descriptions of her heroes, found particularly in The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. Though some of her earlier heroes have some of these traits (Leo in We the Living), they do not become prominent until well after the initial publication of Night.

Karen’s character also seems to be shifted slightly to align with the characteristics of

Rand’s famous heroines, such as Dagny Taggart from Atlas Shrugged and Dominique Francon from The Fountainhead. In the Reeid version, when “Guts” Regan bursts into the courtroom at the end of act two to announce Faulkner’s actual demise, Karen breaks down screaming and crying. The act ends with a picture of her pounding frantically on Regan’s chest. In the revision however, there are no tears, no screaming. Instead of dissolving into hysterics, Karen stands in disbelief and then faints by the witness stand. This fainting spell seems to be far more in character for a Randian heroine. Most of her strong women, particularly Dominique and Dagny are in supreme control of their emotions. They work and live in a traditionally male world

(journalism and railroads), they are highly independent, and are considered outcasts by most of 56

the “civilized” world. Karen shares many of these traits with them, and the change in reaction between the two versions only seems to support this connection.

Another other major change makes to Karen’s character is her reaction to the jury’s verdict at the end of the script. In reaction to a “not guilty” verdict, Karen’s reaction is virtually the same in both scripts—she thanks them in the name of Bjorn. The difference lays in the guilty verdict. In the Reeid version of the script, when the guilty verdict is given, the defense attorney jumps up and demands an appeal. In the revision however, after her lawyer asks for the appeal,

Karen interrupts and says:

KAREN. [Calmly, firmly] There will be no appeal. Ladies and gentlemen, I will

not be here to serve the sentence. I have nothing to seek in your world.

This change, undeniably making for a climatic finish, mirrors the reactions of many famous

Randian characters to the compromising, collectivist societies they are forced to live in. Though

slightly more extreme, this ending recalls the industrialists strike in Atlas Shrugged among

others. Here Rand makes a powerful Objectivist statement—death before compromise.

Finally, in regards to Karen’s character and testimony, Rand seems to make one other

major update. In the Reeid version of the script, as Karen is describing her first day working for

Faulkner, she says:

KAREN. When I finished, I told him I was quitting. He looked at me and did not

answer. I put on my things and started out. He tapped on his desk once. I

stopped. After a moment, he said quietly, “Tomorrow at nine—here.” (55)

In the Rand’s definitive 1968 version, the line changed to:

KAREN. […] So when I finished my eight hours, I told him I was quitting. He

looked at me and didn’t answer. Then he asked me suddenly if I had ever slept 57

with a man. I said, No, I hadn’t. He said he’d give me a thousand kroner if I

would go into the inner office and take my skirt off. I said I wouldn’t. He said if

I didn’t, he’d take me. I said, try it. He did…After a while, I picked up my

clothes; but I didn’t go. I stayed. I kept the job. (61)

This challenge, this refusal to expose oneself emotionally in a sexual situation is major

characteristic of another, more famous Randian couple, Roark and Dominique from The

Fountainhead. Their relationship began in much the same way—with Roark, not saying a word, taking what he wanted by force

She did not know whether the jolt of terror shook her first and she thrust her

elbows at his throat. Twisting her body to escape, or whether she lay still in his

arms, in the first instant, in the shock of feeling his skin against hers…, she

fought like an animal. But she made no sound. She did not call for help…, It

was an act that could be performed in tenderness, as a seal of love, or in contempt,

as a symbol of humiliation and conquest […]. He did it as an act of scorn. Not as

love, but as defilement. And this made her lie still and submit. One gesture of

tenderness from him—and she would have remained cold, untouched by the thing

done to her body. But the act of a master taking shameful, contemptuous

possession of her was the kind of rapture she had wanted. (219-220)

The two separate for some time, not seeing each other until a party in the city. This party, the first time that Dominique actually learns his name, reignites the unique battle that becomes their relationship. Some nights later after causing him to lose a commission for a building he had been hired to design, she shows up at his dingy apartment and says, 58

I have hurt you today. I’ll do it again. I’ll come to you whenever I have beaten

you—whenever I know that I have hurt you—and I’ll let you own me. I want to

be owned, not by a lover, but by an adversary who will destroy my victory over

him, not with honorable blows, but with the touch of his body on mine. (279)

This constant battle forms the backbone of the relationship between the two—Dominique

continually doing everything within her power to sabotage him and his reciprocation with carnal force.

This element of sabotage is the major difference between the two affairs. In the relationship between Karen and Faulkner, as it is described in Night of January 16th, there is no sabotage, there is no “rape” after the first time. It seems however, that the cold calculated nature characteristic of the Roark/Dominique affair remains.

This type of relationship is also present in Rand’s other famous novel, Atlas Shrugged.

On example is Dagny Taggart’s first time with childhood friend, Francisco d’Anconia.

He seized her, she felt her lips in his mouth, felt her arm grasping him in violent

answer.... He held her, pressing the length of his body against hers with a tense,

purposeful insistence, his hand moving over her breast as if he were learning a

proprietor’s intimacy with her body, a shocking intimacy that needed no consent

from her, no permission. (107)

It is difficult to say whether or not Rand was adding this rape trope to the Night script for the first time, or if she was replacing it after it had been cut, either for the Broadway run or the amateur version. Rand does note, in her introduction to the definitive edition, that the script was further tamed for the amateur version, that some of the racier elements were taken out. So, it is possible that the rape sequence was present, in some form, during the Broadway run. If it was not present 59 in the original script however, it might indicate a major shift in Rand’s definition of love and relationships. This type of interaction does not appear in any of the other dramas or in the novels

We the Living and Anthem. This might imply that the change occurred sometime between 1938 and 1943 (the years between the publication of Anthem, where sex is described as blissful and good, and The Fountainhead, where the “mutual” rape is first employed).

One clue to this change might be in Rand’s journals from the period in which she was researching for The Fountainhead. From Rand’s perspective, if one is to conceive of the perfect man, guided by reason to such an extent that any other alternative doesn’t occur to him, then this character would be incapable of conceiving of, or acting upon, traditional notions of love. In an entry framing Roark’s character dated February 9, 1936, she writes of his regard for sex,

Sensuous in the manner of a healthy animal. But not greatly interested in the

subject. Can never lose himself in love. Even his great and only love—Dominique

Wynand—is not an all-absorbing, selfless passion. It is merely the pride of a

possessor. (Rand, Journals 95-96)

If, by this logic, only the ideal man would conceive of love in these terms, then it might point to the rape sequence in Night being added at a later date. Rand makes it clear that it is not

Faulkner’s actions and decisions that she is examining, but his “sense of life,” his inherent greatness. It would seem then, that at least by later Objectivist standards, that Faulkner would not be capable of the same type of relationship that Roark or d’Anconia (meaning that the rape sequence would have been added later).

Finally, Rand makes one major change that does not seem to fit into any of the other categories—the adaptation of Mrs. John Hutchins. In the Reeid version, this character is exceedingly problematic; she is written with a stereotypical slave speech, accent, and 60

mannerisms. Throughout her testimony she is ingratiating, timid, and frightened every time she

thinks that she’s answered incorrectly. Also problematic is the portrayal of her home life. While

on the stand, she reveals that she isn’t actually the one employed by Faulkner, rather her husband

is. The next part of the conversation goes as follows:

FLINT. Why didn’t your husband work that night?

MRS. HUTCHINS. Well, fo’ the las’ year or two now my husband don’t seem to

have no mo’ gumption; and when he don’t, I takes his place. (10)

This exchange and the character herself, problematic for obvious reasons, disappears during

Rand’s revisions. In the 1968 version, the character appears as John Hutchins, an elderly man.

All traces of the accent, mannerisms, and race are eliminated, as is the lack of “gumption.” It is

important to note that with the exception of Night of January 16th, racial characters of any sort

rarely appear in Rand’s major work. Further, it is impossible to tell whether Rand had initially

written the character that way or if it was a Broadway addition.

In this chapter, I focused an a side-by-side comparison of two Night of January 16th scripts in an attempt to interrogate Rand’s claim that she only changed grammar and made cuts to melodramatic elements of the piece. Her claim is demonstrably false. I found that on the most basic level, there are obvious changes to the cliché and melodrama of the Reeid edition. At almost every turn, this content is pared down or cut out completely. A closer examination, however, reveals a number of other major changes. Rand also cuts out almost every breach of the fourth wall that appears in the Reeid edition. The jury gimmick, as Rand’s favorite part, remains in but in the 1968 edition the audience members taking part in the gimmick seem to truly assume the dual role of jury and actor—they are fully absorbed into the production. This is a major departure from the Reeid version, in which the auditorium is used frequently during the show, 61

with each witness making a grand entrance through the house. Rand also makes resounding

changes to the philosophy of the piece. Throughout the script, descriptions, testimony, and character traits change and are aligned with Objectivist ethics not yet solidified when Rand was writing the original version. Finally, Rand seems to make pragmatic updates to the script, particularly in the case of Mrs. John Hutchins.

With the resources available, it is impossible to definitively determine what changes were made between the original version of Night of January 16th, the Broadway version, the amateur

version and Rand’s definitive edition. It is equally difficult, due to the relatively large number of

people with access to the script through its various incarnations, to determine who made each

change, and for what reason.

With this in mind, some possible motivations for Rand’s edits can still be suggested. The

first is that she might have been attempting simply to reclaim a piece of work that she felt she

had lost. Also, by 1963 (when she first began the rewriting process), all of her major novels had

been published and she had achieved notoriety as a writer. Her philosophy is one of strict

absolutes. Night of January 16th, however, even in its final form, still does not fully personify

Objectivist ethics. If we presume that it conformed even less so before the revision, Rand’s re- write was very likely motivated, at least in part, to strengthen her own image and writing. For an author of Rand’s ambition, beliefs, and precision, having “undeveloped” writing on the market might be an unbearable weakness in the canon of someone who strives for a monolithic public

appearance. And so, in addition to working to update the philosophical bearing of Night, Rand

might have also been attempting to solidify her own reputation and the future perception of her

work. Regardless of the motivations, however, Rand claims that the changes were minor and superficial is patently false. 62

CHAPTER THREE: AUDIENCE EXPECTATION AND RAND’S “TEST”

Reader-Reception theory, particularly as it is applied to theatrical practice, remains a contested field. Through the work of literary historians and theorists, such as Hans Robert Jauss

and Wolfgang Iser, a variety of different techniques have been established for the purpose of

analyzing the relationship between written texts and their readers. It was not until recently that

theatre practitioners and scholars have taken these methods and applied them to theatre

audiences—to varying levels of success. Using some of these techniques, as well as additions of

my own, I now move to interpret some important aspects of Night of January 16th, including its

unique jury gimmick, architectural changes, poignant context and audience appeals. Also, though

it seems clear that from Rand’s point of view the show and the “sense of life” test was a failure,

this chapter works to examine these facets on a broader scale, suggesting influences and

implications of her attempt.

In his 1982 Toward an Aesthetic of Reception, Hans Robert Jauss details a system of

analyzing literary work based on possible reader response rather than traditional, and for him

reductive, systems of classification. He points out that a literary work, even when original:

does not present itself as something absolutely new in an informational

vacuum, but predisposes its audience to a very specific kind of reception by

announcements, overt and covert signals, familiar characteristics, or implicit

allusions. It awakens memories of that which was already read, brings the reader

to a specific emotional attitude, and with its beginning arouses expectation for the

“middle and end,” which can then be maintained intact or altered, reoriented, or

even fulfilled ironically in the course of the reading according to specific rules of

the genre or type of text. (Jauss 23) 63

Thus, each reader has a “horizon of expectations,” stemming from a familiarity with a previous text or genre that they bring to each new experience. And, during and after the experience, this horizon has the potential to be changed.

For Jauss, it is of the utmost importance that the interpretive reception of a given piece presupposes the actual aesthetic perception of the work. Meaning is created, through a variety of

stimuli, before the actual reception. So, significance cannot be determined until an understanding of the expectations is reached. Jauss places these factors into three groups:

First, through familiar norms or the immanent poetics of the genre; second,

through the implicit relationships to familiar works of the literary-historical

surroundings; and third, through the opposition between fiction and reality,

between the poetic and the practical function of language, which is always

available to the reflective reader during the reading as a possibility of comparison.

The third factor includes the possibility that the reader of the new work can

perceive it within the narrower horizon of literary expectations, as well as within

the wider horizon of experiences of life. (Jauss 24)

Further, once an understanding of a given horizon of expectations is reached, it is possible to

determine the disparity (Jauss also characterizes this as aesthetic distance) between these expectations and the new work. Understanding the breadth of this disparity, then, leads to understanding of possible horizon changes (Jauss 24-25).

Wolfgang Iser adds to these notions in his 1989 Prospecting from Reader Response to

Literary Anthropology. Iser has many of the same problems with traditional ideas of interpretations as Jauss, and points out that “a text can only come to life when it is read” (Iser 3).

Iser also cautions against over zealous emphasis on the reader’s interpretation, reminding the 64 reader that “if one tries to draw a distinction between a text and the various possible forms of its transformation, one risks being accused of denying the identity of a text and of merely letting it dissolve into the arbitrariness of subjective perception” (Iser 4). He goes on to posit a theory of reader co-production of textual meaning in which the reader fills in the “blanks” of the story.

That same year, theatre scholar Marvin Carlson published “Theatre Audiences and the

Reading of Performance” in Postlewait and McConachie’s Interpreting the Theatrical Past. In the article, Carlson moves to begin the process of applying these notions to the unique reception situation of live theatre. He points out that theatre audiences were previously viewed as passive receptors of a pre-determined package, but that—in fact—the live audience presents a myriad of intricate response related issues. Carlson also points out the added difficulty of attempting to determine the changing interpretations of work through different historical periods (Carlson 83).

This is further complicated as the audience is affected by the reception of those around them.

Essentially, Jauss’ horizon of expectations meets an environment that is capable of adapting an individual’s perception. Furthermore, unlike a book, if an audience member becomes frustrated with either the actual production or how they are receiving it, they can’t simply put it down and move onto something else, and it is possible for an audience to actually take control of the production away from the playwright or director (i.e., laughing at a work intended to be serious)

(Carlson 85-86). Finally, Carlson suggests a format with which to combine traditional notions of reader-response technique to the diverse world of live theatre. This format, which he calls his

“four historical means and mechanisms,” attempts to approach audience reception through genre, lines of business, publicity, and institution. These “means and mechanisms” act, essentially, in the same way as Jauss’ horizon, but updated and adapted for the purpose of theatre research

(Carlson 86-96). 65

In 1990, Susan Bennett published her Theatre Audiences: A Theory of Production and

Reception, which has become for many theatre scholars, the cornerstone of theatre reception

research. Bennett spends the first half of her work essentially tracing the “progression” of reception theory though literature and theatre. It is not until the end of the work in which she actually contributes to the discourse. Bennett’s analysis uses criteria that is essentially Jaussian at

root and framed in much the same fashion as Carlson’s “historical means and mechanisms.” She

restructures these notions into a double framework of interpretation: “The outer frame contains all those cultural elements which create and inform the theatrical event. The inner frame contains the dramatic production in a particular playing space. The audience’s role is carried out within

these two frames and, perhaps most importantly, at their points of intersection” (Bennett 149).

For Bennett, it is the relationship and convergence of these two frames that impacts audience

reception. It is the meeting of the audience’s horizon of expectations, influenced not only by

previous knowledge of genre, but also by pre-show publicity, and the visual and aural signs of the performance space and the actual performance (Bennett 149-50).

These theories of audience/reader reception, necessarily abridged and admittedly

reductive, form the basis of my usage in the following analysis. The major departure that I make

from these techniques is in considering the intent of the playwright and production within these

factors. Traditional reception theory attempts to fully divorce the author’s intent from the

audience’s expectations and then the actual reception at the moment of inception. My analysis,

however, is also concerned with Rand’s attempts to disseminate a “sense of life” philosophy

through Night of January 16th, and so I move to approach a complex issue: Is it possible to use

theatre as a form to effectively test an audience’s “sense of life” within the myriad of other 66

factors influencing an audience’s response, and are these factors part of the reason that Rand moves from script writing to novel form as her primary means of philosophical dissemination?

In her introduction to the definitive version of Night of January 16th, Rand classifies the

work as a “sense of life” play. She then moves to define this notion as a “preconceptual

equivalent of metaphysics, an emotion, subconsciously integrated appraisal of man’s relationship

to existence” (Rand, Three Plays 3). In her 1971 Romantic Manifesto, she further describes the

term as setting the “nature of a man’s emotional responses and the essence of his character”

(Rand, Manifesto 25). In other words, all of a man’s decisions, value judgments, and general

outlook on life are guided by his basic “sense of life.” And, as man grows older, these somewhat

abstract notions form into a concrete and conscious metaphysics that become a true “sense of

life” (Rand, Manifesto 26-29). For Rand too, this “sense of life” is evident in the products of the

man’s existence, i.e., an author’s text (Rand, Three Plays 3). Night of January 16th is, then, the

pitting of diametrically opposed “senses of life” against each other and, through use of the

audience-filled jury, determining what the spectator’s “sense of life” is. If the audience sided

with the defendant, they were in line with Rand’s “sense of life,” and if not, they were wrong.

This is, of course, highly theoretical, and Rand admits to the weaknesses of the test saying, “I

was aware that they would probably miss the basic antitheses and would judge on the spur or

color or drama of the moment, attaching no further significance to their verdict” (Rand, Three

Plays 6).

Rand’s vehicle for this test mirrors the real-life fall of Swedish financier Ivar Kreugar.

She writes about being shocked in the aftermath of his fall. She perceived the controversy to be

circulating, not around his criminal actions, but his ambition—that many people were

denouncing the “greatness” of the man rather than the actual criminal act. To defend this 67

“ambition,” Rand’s stated goal in writing Night of January 16th is to pose a similar figure (a

crook on an epic scale, but with a pristine sense-of-life) to see if an audience is capable of

judging him only in terms of his “sense of life” rather than his more obvious flaws (Rand, Three

Plays 5-6). For Rand, the “sense of life” of the play itself, if verbalized, would be, “your life,

your achievement, your happiness, your person are of paramount importance. Live up to your

highest vision of yourself no matter what the circumstances you might encounter” (Rand, Three

Plays 4). It is within this trope, particularly relevant in Depression America, that I begin my

exploration.

For both traditional literary practitioners of response theory and for the more recent

theatre historians, the audience’s “horizon of expectations” is the starting point for any reception

analysis. To the traditional notions of genre, familiar characteristics, and lines of business, I add a brief study of the greater social context. In 1935, America, and its citizens, were still

experiencing the brutal, and often demoralizing effects of the Great Depression. Though F.D.R.’s

New Deal had been implemented, it had yet to provide any real positive change to the lives of

the average citizen. Unemployment, particularly in big cities, was running rampant. Further,

these economic issues brought insecurity and fear for the uncertain future into the average

American home. In their book America: A Concise History, James Henretta, David Brody, and

Lynn Dumenil position this despair as an “invisible scar” marring the day-to-day experience of many families. They also point out that for many white middle class families, the Depression

brought them to a state of downward mobility for the first time. Further, Horatio Alger’s notions

of upward mobility through hard work were firmly entrenched in the American social

conciousness. Citizens who had grown up and prospered within this milieu now faced an

economy that had no room, no jobs, and no opportunities for them to pull themselves up 68

(Henretta 695). Henretta, Brody, and Dumenil also point out a rising need within families for

escape from the trauma of the Great Depression. These escapes, provided a family had

disposable income, often took Americans to a new and rapidly expanding industry: cinema. For

families that had less money, the radio provided both entertainment and news. However, even

with the rapid decline and wholesale closing of many traditional theatres, plays, particularly in

big cities, still provided a means of entertainment and escape (Henretta 702).

Though the twenties and thirties saw the rise of many new theatre “movements,” musical

revues and melodrama still dominated the commercial theatres of Broadway. Producers such as

Al Woods, became famous for melodrama, biographical plays, and crime dramas. In Frank

Rahill’s The World of Melodrama he traces melodramatic trends worldwide from mid-

nineteenth-century France through its decline in twentieth-century America. He points out that though the melodrama was in its true prime at the turn of the century, it was still a vastly popular genre until closer to the middle of 1900s (292). In Gene Brown’s Show Time: A Chronology of

Broadway and the Theatre from its Beginnings to the Present, similar trends can be seen: with,

for instance, the melodramatic Tobacco Road setting the Broadway record for number of

performances for a straight play, in 1933 (114).

In the movie industry, melodrama remained a prominent genre—both in “pure” form and

as the major impetus to other types of films. In their book The Great Depression in America: A

Cultural Encyclopedia, William and Nancy Young describe some of these trends, including

horror, fantasy, and costume drama as being heavily influenced by melodramatic tactics (320).

Particular commercial success was found in horror films such as Dracula and Frankenstein

which, according to the Youngs, embodied a mix of melodrama and pathos that created a unique

blend of escapism that “brought in audiences eager for a respite from the grim realities of the 69

Depression” (189). Though not as popular as horror films, fantasy films such as The Island of

Lost Souls, King Kong, Alice in Wonderland, and Tarzan also embodied melodrama and

escapism with fanciful creatures and dramatic turns (246).

Melodrama also made frequent appearances in Depression radio broadcasts. Popular

serial programs such as “Amos ‘N’ Andy,” though primarily rooted in comedy and conceptions

of racial stereotypes, frequently relied on melodramatic techniques in its day to day production.

Also popular were radio soap operas with dramatic tales of love and intrigue (Young & Young

17-19).

During this period, another genre rose to prominence in almost all entertainment

mediums—crime drama. In the movie industry in particular, crime, and criminals, became a major fascination. In 1930, one of the first gangster films, Little Caesar, premiered with huge

success. William and Nancy Young attribute the popularity of these films to the seemingly

unattainable desire for upward majority through hard work. These films often followed

standardized plot lines with criminal figures beginning at the bottom of their professions and

working their way up to success and notoriety, though with ultimate and deserved demise. The

figures portrayed in these films had an added allure—mystery and success in a life outside of the

system that was largely viewed as having let down the American people. Furthermore, these

movies often portrayed bankers and businessmen as ruthless villains and the law as incompetent and corrupt—a sentiment likely sympathized with by the majority of audience members (114,

295).

The popularity of crime drama is also evident in other entertainment mediums,

particularly in novels, comic strips, and “Big Little Books.” Rather than centering on the

criminal as hero motif of the big screen, these forms often centered on the “hard-boiled” 70

detective. This character was often a fearless vigilante unafraid to break conventional rules of

law to nab the criminal or save the girl. William and Nancy Young write of mystery novels in

which the “plots invite readers to participate in a literary game of matching wits with the hero, a

game in which the unwritten rules decree that the reader have access to all clues (including red

herrings, or misleading clues) and that no tricks, such as last-minute revelations, hidden

information, and the like can be played” (338). They also note that in these stories, gunplay and

violence are often secondary to the actual challenge of solving the crime. These dramatic tales

have several major draws for Depression audiences including an invigorating and escapist

“whodunit” sense of adventure and resolution, and the ability of the daring detective to restore order to an otherwise confused and chaotic situation.

Perhaps more popular during the Depression than detective novels were comic strips and

“Little Big Books” such as Dick Tracy. This series created by Cartoonist Chester Gould, was particularly successful in that it didn’t rely entirely on melodrama for its allure, but also a dedicated attempt to portray police procedures accurately. These comics, as opposed to the detective novels, often ended in violent and dramatic shoot outs, car chases, and cliff-hanger endings and were sprinkled throughout with passionate and often futile love, only adding to the suspense.

Depression era theatre also seems to have taken on crime drama as a major, and popular genre. In The World of Melodrama, Frank Rahill positions crime drama firmly within the melodramatic sphere and discusses its popularity in America. One of the plays that he gives the most credit to as a founder and symbol of the genre is the very work that was the impetus for

Rand’s project. He writes: 71

In one of the best of these plays, The Trial of Mary Dugan, Veiller got along

without the supplementary crime—without virtually any physical action in the

melodramatic sense, in fact. The production carried realism of atmosphere to the

limit. The intervals between acts were cleverly arranged to seem like recesses in

the court’s sessions, the setting used throughout representing the courtroom,

and the audience represented the jury with the judge and counsel directing their

remarks across the footlights. (Rahill 292-293)

He goes on to analyze some of the specific elements that made crime drama of this type successful in America. He finds that the neat construction, the excitement, the suspense, and the incidental comedy were attractions. Rahill also notes that “[i]ts triumphs were largely triumphs of ingenuity: new methods of murder, novel settings, and new types of alibis” (294). Gene

Brown’s chronological On Stage also demonstrates the popularity of the genre with a number of popular crime dramas, particularly Trial of Mary Dugan, Payment Deferred, Counselor at Law,

Face the Music, Murder at the Vanities, One Sunday Afternoon, Both your Houses, The Petrified

Forest, Winterset, and Murder in the Cathedral achieving commercial success between 1928 and 1936 (88-127).

Finally, entertainment expectations are rounded out by an upswing in biographic plays during the Depression years. In his book The American Drama 1930-1940: Essays on

Playwrights and Plays, Joseph Mersand notes that during the thirties, most Broadway seasons had several biographical pieces. The subject of the plays ranged from royalty to crooks to scientists, and often enjoyed only limited runs in the commercial theatre. Of these, some of the most popular were criminal/court biographies with reoccurring charters such as Arnold

Rothstein, Tim Mooney, the Scottsboro Boys, Saco and Vansetti, and Jesse James (94). 72

This exploration of cultural context and popular entertainment provides a large part of the possible influences on audience reception. In answer to Carlson’s call for reception analysis in theatre through his “means and mechanisms,” the factors discussed above offer a possible picture

of the audience’s expectation of genre. The prevalence and popularity of these entertainment

mediums, both in theatre and otherwise, would conceivably build preconceived notions within a

patron of the show. Each review for Night of January 16th bills the production, within the first

few lines, as a courtroom or crime drama. So, it is likely that patrons of the show, having read

any review or seen any descriptive advertising of any sort, would arrive at the show with their

own notions of the genre at the forefront of their anticipation.

Carlson’s next mechanism of theatre reception is “lines of business.” In the most

traditional sense of the word, Carlson is suggesting another way of coming to terms with an

audience member’s possible range of response through a preconceived notion of an actor and the

type of roll that he/she normally plays. In the case of Night of January 16th, due to incomplete

records and mostly unknown actors, this method (in the manner Carlson suggests) would be

difficult to pursue. Using the basic concept, however, another “line of business” seems

appropriate to analyze—the producer, Al Woods. During the thirties, Al Woods was already a

well-known producer of melodrama, comedy, and crime drama. A large part of this notoriety

stems from his remarkably successful 1928 production of The Trial of Mary Dugan. Though it is

difficult to assess an average audience member’s familiarity with a producer’s credentials,

reviews of Night of January 16th offer some insight. Of particular relevance is Brooks Atkinson’s

New York Times review of the production in which his first paragraph is entirely about Woods,

his reputation, and his previous successes. He writes: 73

Having once made a fortune out of a court-room play, Al Woods has mounted

another, “Night of January 16,” which was acted at the Ambassador last evening.

It is considerably inferior to “The Trial of Mary Dugan.” As a sagacious

manager’s compensation, Mr. Woods therefore offers the fillip of drawing the

jury from the audience (1).

The Time review also discuses Woods, The Trial of Mary Dugan, and the money that Woods has

made in the genre. This emphasis on Woods might indicate a level of notoriety that would

influence an audience’s perception of the event. If they had seen one of Woods’ productions or

were generally familiar with his work, members of the audience might well have decided on

what to expect before entering the theatre.

Carlson also indicated publicity and institutionalized readers (critics) as a major factor in

determining an audience’s horizon of expectations. Since no specific records of publicity for

Night of January 16th are available, I again return to the reviews of the production for insight.

The most apparent of these expectations is Rand’s unique jury gimmick. Each available review,

whether positive or not, mentions, and generally appreciates using the audience to decide the fate

of the protagonist. In Grenville Vernon’s review, published on September 27th in The

Commonweal, he writes, “There is in addition a new twist to Mr. Rand’s [sic] play, in that the

jury selected from the audience is at the end allowed to deliver its own verdict of “guilty” or “not

guilty.” He adds that “The first two nights of the play in New York the jury’s verdict was the

latter, though I confess I thought the Judge justified when he denounced the jury for it” (Vernon

1). Brooks Atkinson’s New York Times review, though generally negative, bills the gimmick as a

“sagacious manager’s compensation” that “offers the fillip of drawing the jury from the

audience” (Atkinson 1). As in the case of the Commonweal review, Atkinson berates the jury’s 74

acquittal of the defendant and writes: “let it be said on behalf of justice that as soon as they

delivered their verdict the court vehemently denounced them” (Atkinson 1). Atkinson also

mentions the jury fee offered to audience members (three dollars), the celebrities in attendance

(and on the jury), and his column’s negative stance on such shameless practices. Finally, in the

Time review, the celebrities in attendance, the opening weeks’ verdicts, and jury fee are all

mentioned (New Plays 1-2).

These reviews, when taken together, provide an interesting picture of both possible

influences on audience’s and cultural perspective in 1930’s New York City. On one level, these

reviews contribute to the audience’s basic expectations. By glancing through even one of them,

an audience member is informed of the audience as jury gimmick and the potential to be paid for the “service.” In a theatre culture still dominated by melodrama this might be an incredible

appeal. Further, casual theatergoers may actually have been encouraged to attend the production

if their ticket price would be more than deferred through participation (average Broadway ticket

prices in 1935 began as low as forty cents).

Beyond this basic level however, these reviews offer insight into other audience

influences. First, each review lists at least a few of the celebrities that acted as jurors on the

opening night. The review gives a full list: Edward J. Riley (New York lawyer/politician), Jack

Dempsey (Professional pugilist), Galen Bogue (Broadway producer), Philip Ruxton (publisher),

Sutherland Denlinger (author), James Stroock (owner of a Broadway costume house), Dr. Leo

Michel (personal physician to Broadway stars), Colonel J.R. Kilpatrick (athlete, officer in both

wars, management at Madison Square), A.L. Alexander (Popular radio host), Lawrence Anhalt

(Manager of the Park Theatre), Louis Satenstein (Business agent for Night), and Dr. Nathaniel 75

Lief (Lyricist). New York Times Each review also notes that the celebrity filled jury voted for

acquittal during the opening production.

This information about the opening night jury could conceivably affect expectations in

several different ways. The most apparent of these is that a potential audience member might go

specifically to see celebrities taking part in the production. These celebrities could conceivably

act as, and were likely intended to be when invited, specialized publicity for the event. Jack

Dempsey in particular might have enough notoriety to bring patrons to the production that otherwise had no intention of coming, and who might be specifically focused on the brush with fame. Furthermore, since the verdict is listed in each review, potential audience members are made aware of how the celebrities voted, possibly skewing future jurors’ own decisions during the case and affecting Rand’s “test.” And, the knowledge of how “authoritative” jurors, such as

Edward J. Riley—notorious defense attorney for Hauptmann in the Lindberg trial, might further

influence a prospective juror’s decision.

Also significant within the reviews is the general lack of praise by any critic. Though

there are some compliments scattered throughout, there is a general lack of enthusiasm that

would likely influence a perspective audience member’s expectations of the production. In the

New York Times review, Brooks Atkinson refers to the show as “whimsical,” “[an] elaborate

melodrama,” and “clumsy” (1). Grenville Vernon’s Commonweal review bills the production as

“well enough written” and one testimony “unpleasant” (1). And, the Time review refers to the

show as “long-drawn” (1). When taken as a whole, these reviews, with their generally lukewarm

reception of the play, might have a strong influence on audience members’ expectations for the

performance. 76

The “horizon of expectations” created by the combination of the above influences would have played a dominant role in the reception of Night of January 16th. However, these only address factors influencing reception from before the actual performance. To get a closer look into how an audience might receive Rand’s complex “test,” an examination of the actual event is necessary. In slight departure from Marvin Carlson’s notions of theatre reception, Susan Bennett adds considerable influence to the actual site of performance. She begins with a discussion on the basic semiotics implied by the traditional western theatre building, the broad characteristics of the building itself as defining the production, and then adds factors such as the degree of contact between audience and performer, the level of visibility, contact, and social status implicit in seating arrangements, and pre-performance elements such as the pre-show setting of the stage.

Finally, she adds staging characteristics and production choices as possible factors that influence audience reception (135-142).

Some of these factors are difficult to approach due to the highly sporadic nature of available sources, particularly in regards to the staging of the actual production. One important factor that is known is that Night of January 16th opened at the Ambassador Theatre in New

York. This theatre, one of the Shubert’s post-World War I structures, is still in operation today.

The Ambassador opened in 1921 and with a few exceptions was primarily booked with operettas and musical comedies—not a classification that would well serve Rand’s “sense of life” test. It is an unassuming building from the outside and, unlike the other big houses in New York, was built on a particularly small plot of land, and so was situated diagonally. To accommodate for the size of the lot and the orientation, the Ambassador has a lack of wing space, and more relevantly, has a hexagon shaped auditorium. Though more simple in decoration than other Broadway theatres, the Ambassador is grand and imposing with a five hundred, sixty-five seat orchestra and five 77

hundred fifteen seat mezzanine and soaring domed ceiling. The stage itself has a traditional forty-five foot proscenium opening that is thirty-one feet deep from apron to back wall

(Ambassador 1).

These architectural features give some insight into possible influences on Rand’s audience. The first factor that might impact reception is the Ambassador’s well-known reputation for “lighter entertainments.” The theatre’s reliance on operetta and musical comedy for business might lead an informed audience member to expect comedy and music from an

Ambassador performance. Also unique to the theatre is its hexagon seating arrangement. This arrangement almost wraps the auditorium around the stage, and though not nearly extreme enough to force the stage into thrust configuration, focuses many of the seats, particularly the less expensive, extreme edges of the orchestra, onto the center seats near the stage. This effect is heightened by the steep mezzanine, also hexagonal in shape, which forces the gaze of the patrons in those seats to the center orchestra seats as well as on the stage.

The prominence of the more expensive seats, coupled with Night’s unique jury gimmick might conceivably play a large part in influencing the audience’s perception of the show.

Essentially, wherever a patron in a less-expensive seat looks, he or she is gazing upon a more prominent audience member—either in the most expensive section of the orchestra, the star studded jury, or on more normal nights an audience filled jury that is made prominent by its position onstage. It is conceivable then that the audience, in addition to being influenced by the other patrons around them, might subconsciously align themselves with one, or both of these prominent groups.

This dynamic is made more complex by some of Night’s staging characteristics that are listed by Rand and her contemporaries. Often discussed in reviews is Rand’s unique gimmick of 78 drawing the jury from the audience. Though court room drama was not a new genre, attorneys and witnesses generally addressed comments toward the auditorium. The fourth wall was still essentially maintained, but it was implied that each patron was an acting member of the jury— that regardless of the verdict delivered onstage, each audience member was entitled to their own opinion of the events. Rand’s approach changed this dynamic drastically. The act of pulling the jury from the audience simultaneously destroys and reinforces the realism of the piece: it is destroyed because the fourth wall is broken and the audience is participating in the action, and reinforced because the move actually reorganizes the setting more truly to an actual courtroom, with functioning jury and an audience that becomes the spectator at the trial, occupying the seats behind the attorneys’ tables.

This process, in its own right, would be grounds for a wealth of reception-based concerns. Rand’s script, however, seems to take this reorientation further. Though, as noted, a

Broadway version of Night of January 16th is unavailable, the subsequent 1936 amateur edition continually brings dramatic action into the realm of the spectator, effectively shattering the fourth wall convention. On its own, as seen in Rand’s definitive edition, it is conceivable that after the initial reaction, the audience/jury would become truly absorbed within the action onstage, essentially losing their identity as audience members until their role at the very end of the show. In the amateur edition, however, continual usage of the auditorium might further adjust this re-orientation of the audience. In the opening stage directions of this version, it is suggested that to properly establish this “close relationship between players and audience, the lights in the auditorium do not go out when the curtain rises” (Rand, Night Reeid ed. 3). This attempt at bridging aesthetic distance is further reinforced by the continual entrance of witnesses through the house. With the exception of actors, such as Karen Andre, being brought from custody, each 79

time a new witness is called they are either already in the house or come down the aisle from the back. Built into the script are places to heighten this effect. In the middle of act one, the wife of the deceased, who had been missing since the murder, interrupts the proceedings and makes a dramatic entrance from the back of the auditorium. At the beginning of act two, housekeeper

Magda Svenson is instructed to make a noisy entrance with wooden shoes. At the end of act two,

“Guts” Regan bursts through the auditorium door to stop the trial and Magda, from her position in the house, adds to the confusion by accusing him of murder. Finally, in act three, Jungquist, again from the house, bursts out in hysterics and eventually storms to the stage. This device is both highly dramatic and potentially influential on audience reception. Within the already complex theatre environment, the audience is now assailed on all sides by members of the production.

Furthermore, and in keeping with architectural concerns, the actual structure of the auditorium was altered to make room for this device. In her book, The Passion of Ayn Rand,

Barbara Branden discusses the anxiety over some of these changes during the preview week in

Philadelphia. The first concern was the fundamental question of whether or not any audience member, even with the three dollar payment, would actually want to stay on stage, in full view of the audience, for three acts. The fear was that when the names were read by the court clerk, all of the selected patrons would be too embarrassed to even get out of their seats. The other major concern was the expense and time that went into the architectural changes necessary to make the gimmick plausible—namely ripping out the orchestra pit, installing new platforms, and adding stairs into the house (123).

These fears, and their resolution, indicate several things about the composition of the audience and the nature of Depression-era Broadway fare that pertain to the reception of Night. 80

The first is in reinforcing the true novelty of the gimmick. Though audience participation is now often taken for granted, Rand’s device, original even in conception, becomes more dynamic with the fact that the audience/jury decides the ending of the production. The novelty of the gimmick is further reinforced by its apparent success. The production staff was so anxious over the success of the device that for the first weeks of the run they kept a hired jury waiting in the wings to go on if the worst happened—and it never did. Requests by patrons to be part of the jury, whether due to celebrity participation, the jury fee, or simply the novelty, remained overwhelmingly strong throughout the production (Branden, Passion 123). In fact, it seems likely that excitement over this concept might have been strong enough to entirely obscure

Rand’s attempt at testing the audience.

Several other major issues are raised by Rand’s audience-as-jury gimmick. The most apparent of these, as Rand notes in the introduction to the definitive text, is whether the jury would be capable of evaluating the case on their “sense of life,” or whether they would be caught up in the moment (6). This delicate balance is further aggravated by the Broadway and amateur versions’ additions to the script. These additions, frequently pushing the balance further away from acquittal, would likely have skewed Rand’s attempt. Other factors further upset this balance. One is the apparent beauty of Doris Nolan, the actress playing Karen Andre, and the impact that it might have had on the jury. Several of the New York reviews specifically note the beauty and allure of Nolan and the success with which she inhabited the role. The Time review further notes that because only men were eligible for jury duty in New York, only men participated in the gimmick. This raises the question of whether acquittal was truly always based on sense of life or even evidence instead of a desire to protect a vulnerable woman. This dynamic is further heightened by Karen’s testimony, in which she includes relatively graphic and sexual 81

material. Finally, having men act as jury members raises questions of how authority might be

perceived by the audience. It has already been discussed that with the setup of the auditorium and the placement of the jury onstage, that the audience might subconsciously align themselves with the gaze of the jurors. Further, evidence shows that the jury was frequently filled with celebrities. When the real, or perceived, authority of men is added to this dynamic, it is conceivable that patrons would be heavily influenced by the juror’s reactions, and ultimate decisions.

A frequent symbol of justice, ranging back to antiquity, is Themis, the Greek Goddess of divine order, law, and justice. Statues of Themis, often blindfolded and bearing the scales of justice, appear in many American courts. This implication, that justice is blind, seems to be a trope that Rand is relying on in her sense of life examination. For Rand, regardless of how the evidence of the case lands, true justice finds Karen Andre to be innocent. The test then is that the jurors must be “blind”: they must see beyond the corporeal and allow their nature to rely on justice.

The ultimate test, or control sample for this experiment then, might be represented in the audience of the blind that attended a special production of Night while it was on Broadway. In theory, if the jury could not see the action, rely on facial expression, or view the beauty of the vulnerable lead, then their sense of life should shine through for justice. The jury that was drawn from the blind audience was led by Helen Keller, and interpreted by Graham McNamee (a famous newscaster). This provides several points of possible response influence. The first, is that even though she was a woman, and therefore ineligible to serve on an actual jury (not to mention being blind), Helen Keller acted as foreman (Rand, Three Plays 11). For the audience, having

Keller as foreman might provide incredible influence—as the single most well known blind 82

American, her word and decisions might be a determining factor in the decision of the jury and the audience. Also interesting are the additional levels of interpretation added in this scenario, specifically in having a visual interpreter. So, though the members of the audience and jury were blind, losing one level of reception, another was added in and, instead of the production moving from playwright to producer to director to designers to actors to audience, another interpreter is added between actors and audience. In this instance, it seems as if Rand’s experiment truly failed. Though Keller herself was reported to have voted in favor of acquittal, the jury returned a verdict of guilty. For Rand then, it would represent a fundamental flaw in the “sense of life” of this unique jury, but one can’t quite get rid of the notion of justice as blind and benevolent. And in this sense, Rand’s experiments, and even her own conception of justice, faces rebuttal.

Rand’s experiment is further dismantled with what was, for Rand, a disappointing record of convictions. Thought no exact records are available, in her introduction to the definitive version, Rand notes her disillusionment at the three to two in favor of acquittal tally. Though this figure is in strong majority toward Rand’s “justice,” she could not help but be disappointed that it was not more so; for her, there was no doubt (5-8).

These factors, when taken as a whole, provide a complex picture of the influences acting upon a potential audience of Night of January 16th. In this chapter, I have worked to examine some of these possible factors, and how they might have affected Rand’s experiment. From the broader cultural context, to the audience’s basic understanding of the genre in which Rand is writing, through the pre-show period and during the production, these factors would conceivably so weigh upon patrons of the show that the production must fight to broadcast the most basic of concepts. It is within this environment that Ayn Rand attempted to test the metaphysical and moral bearing of the American public, while struggling to disseminate her controversial 83 philosophy. So, in addition to Rand’s own conception of failure, her attempt is faced by a myriad of influences that seem to suggest a basic impossibility in attempting to propagate a pure “sense of life” philosophy using theatre as a medium.

84

CONCLUSION

The tale of Night of January the 16th is one filled with holes and contradictions. It begins with an ambitious and hopeful young writer, new to America, confident that she could capture success within the movie industry, the theatre, and popular literature. It ends with bitter memories and a revision to a script once locked away. In the space between these two points, a complex picture of monetary hardship, debates over control, the development of a mature writer, and the forming of a passionate, if short lived, philosophy can be observed. Also within this narrative is a bold gimmick, that although not entirely original, still worked to shatter the conventions of a complacent Broadway desperate for survival and viability in Depression torn

America—and through this gimmick, a unique attempt at testing the core beliefs of the audience.

In the first chapter of this study, I worked to construct a picture of Rand’s attempts at theatrical success in this early, naive portion of her career. I began by using available records of the process, including letters and reviews, and then worked in second hand accounts and Rand’s own recollections. Finally, I incorporated other Objectivist writings and my own suggestions in an attempt to provide a broad, if incomplete, picture of Rand’s experience. This chapter also worked with an eye toward Rand’s complaints, particularly about the supposed “failures” of the production.

Through my exploration of this complex question I came to find, that to a certain extent,

Rand was justified in viewing the production as a failure. In general, the process was filled with obstacles, backtracks, and struggles for artistic control. It seems however, that these struggles, these fights with Al Woods, might be expected, if not commonplace in the complex and collaborative world of live theatre. As Barbara Branden notes, when Rand took one of these complaints before the American Arbitrations Association, one of the board members is reported 85 to have said, “That was all he did?” (Passion, 123). It seems possible then, that Rand might be more justified in her complaints at the absolute shock that these compromises and fights were to someone attempting to work in live performance rather than the actual problems themselves. To someone as strong willed as Rand, this surprise, these compromises, might seem to constitute a failure on the part of the show.

This necessity for collaboration might be one of the reasons that Rand ultimately settled on the novel as the best medium for her characters and complex ideas. Even in the case of her novels though, collaboration was unacceptable to Rand. In a letter to her agent for We the Living,

Jean Wick, in 1934, she wrote,

As to the matter of a suggested collaborator, I give you full authority to refuse at

once, without informing me, any and all offers that carry such a suggestion. I do

not care to hear of such offers. I consider them nothing short of an insult. Anyone

reading my book must realize that I am an individualist above everything else. As

such, I shall stand or fall on my own work… At the cost of being considered

arrogant, I must state that I do not believe there is a human being alive who could

improve that book of mine in the matter of actual rewriting. If anyone is capable if

improving that book—he should have written it himself. I would prefer not only

never seeing it in print, but also burning every manuscript of it—rather than

having William Shakespeare himself add one line to it which was not mine, or

cross out one comma. (Rand, Letters 19)

The final blow to Rand’s production attempts occurs in February of 1940 when a stage adaptation of her We the Living opened on Broadway under the title The Unconquered—and closed after only six performances. Though she had written two more scripts, Ideal in 1934, and 86

Think Twice in 1939, she would never again attempt to have them produced (Baker 49). Indeed, after the “failure” of Night, Rand relied primarily on novel writing as her means of philosophical

conveyance. In this form she exercised almost autonomous control over her work and was able to

avoid “unnecessary” collaboration and compromise.

In the second chapter, I compared two versions of the Night of January 16th script in an

effort to approach text changes at several different levels. At the most basic level, the

comparison was designed simply to point out the “evolution” of the script from 1936 to 1968.

The second level was applying some of Rand’s frustrations enumerated in chapter one to the

changes in an effort to suggest edits that might have been an attempt by Rand to cut material

added, against her wishes, during the production process. The final goal of the chapter was to

suggest areas of philosophical polishing that Rand might have done to the work to bring it up to

date with 1960s Objectivist ethics. In short, my goal was to interrogate Rand’s assertion in the

introduction to the definitive version, “I made no changes in story or substance; the additional

changes I made were mainly grammatical” (Rand, Three Plays, 14).

Throughout the course of my investigation this assertion was demonstrated to be, if not

entirely false, then stretching the limits of credulity. Though it is impossible to examine these

aspects definitively, due to the lack of a Broadway or pre-Broadway script, Rand’s edits seem to

move far beyond grammatical changes. From deleting characters and changing racial

characteristics, to adding lines related to Objectivist philosophy not established until well after

the production, Rand seems to have done a complete overhaul of the text. And, although some of these changes can be attributed to simple deletion of melodramatic additions, the frequency and even the change in basic style and character attributes, seems to point to wider adaptations. 87

Finally, in the last chapter, I worked to apply reader response techniques to the actual

performance of Night of January 16th. Using methods and terminology rooted in the work of

Hans Robert Jauss and Wolfgang Iser, along with more recent theatre applications by Marvin

Carlson and Susan Bennett, I read the performance in terms of context, publicity, genre, lines of business, institutional response, architectural influences, and its unique staging characteristics.

To this analysis I added, in departure from traditional notions of reader response theory, elements of the author’s intent. This addition was relevant to the exploration as Rand herself declared the work a test of the audiences’ “sense of life.”

Through my examination of this dynamic combination of factors, problems with Rand’s test were demonstrated in sharp relief. Before an audience even enters a theatre space, there is an overwhelming number of elements that might condition them to the production they are about to view—particularly in the poignant environment of New York during the Great Depression. From the extreme popularity of mystery/crime novels and comics, to Al Woods’ notoriety as a producer of melodrama, the expectations of the audience would be difficult to change, let alone be cleared enough to provide a pure test of the subjects’ base philosophical outlook. When elements of the architecture itself, along with other audience members and production choices are added to this dynamic, Rand’s test seems even further from plausibility, let alone accuracy.

Finally, I consider a complex question: Is it possible for use theatre as a form to effectively test an audience’s “sense of life” within the myriad of other factors influencing an audience’s response? Further, is it ever possible to disseminate a pure philosophical message through live performance?

In Rand’s case I believe, due to a variety of factors, that her test was a failure. Some of this failure seems to rest directly on Rand’s shoulders—her choice of genre, her fixation with the 88

audience-as-jury gimmick, the far-fetched plot, and attempt to address a complex, subconscious

issue using, essentially, a yes or no answer, all pose major barriers to any sort of effective test.

To these issues, Al Woods’ melodramatic additions and unbalancing of evidence play a major

role.

Even on a theoretical level, Rand’s test seems to be fundamentally flawed. She attempted,

using theatre, to create a completely neutral experience for the audience. The evidence was to be

so balanced that the only determining factor would be the jury’s moral compass. However, the attempt seems to immediately run into problems. First, even if a truly neutral theatre experience

could be created, would anyone come to see it? It seems that, at least to a certain extent, audience

members attend expecting to see some sort of emotional outcome. Also, it is an unavoidable fact

that the experience is created. No matter how engaging a performance might be, it would seem to

be impossible for an audience member to forget, for more than isolated moments, that they are

watching a fictional event. It seems that from both Rand’s point of view, and the practical

implications, Rand’s early attempt to construct a “sense of life” philosophy through theatre was a

categorical failure.

Furthermore, Rand’s “failure,” and her ultimate departure from theatre as a means of

philosophical dissemination might indicate a broader indictment of Rand’s philosophy. It is only

after the Broadway production of Night of January the 16th that she beings to depart from both playscript writing and screenwriting in favor of the more highly controlled novel. This change allowed Rand almost complete control over the product and its style, and allowed for a one-on-

one experience rather then a community one. While a number of factors would still influence the

reader prior to the actual reception of the work, this change in medium seems to reduce many of

the problems that Rand had with Night. This prompts the question of whether Objectivism (or 89

any similar philosophy) is viable outside of a relatively well controlled text. Does Rand’s

experience indicate major flaws in theories of Objectivism, or at least in one who attempts to

embody them?

In her book, The Passion of Ayn Rand, Barbara Branden suggests that Rand’s original

goal in conceiving of Night of January 16th, was an interesting and riveting drama in which the

audience, acting as jury members, were able to decide the fate of the defendant—it wasn’t until

the project began to take shape that Rand’s “sense of life” test became a pivotal aspect of the

Playscript (109). Though the first goal is largely one of taste, Rand seems to have come closer to providing an interesting and gimmicky experience than to effectively evaluating her audiences’ moral bearing.

SUGGESTIONS FOR FUTURE RESEARCH

It is only in recent years that interest and research in Ayn Rand’s writing and philosophy have resurfaced. Though much examination has been done on her more famous novels, Rand’s dramatic scripts remain ripe for exploration. The major impediment to further exploration of them, as in the case of her other writing, is the extremely protective nature of the various organizations and individuals charged with controlling her material. Should access to these materials (or others) be gained, analysis of a pre-Broadway script of Night would be an incredible addition to the circulating discourse. Also largely unexplored are the various sanctioned touring productions of Night, the history of the amateur version, the movie version, and more recent stagings of the script. Finally an attempt to explore Rand’s “sense of life” test in a semi-controlled practical setting would offer incredible insight into her experiment.

90

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