A Moon for the Misbegotten: Michael Shannon and Ruth Wilson shine
A Moon for the Misbegotten | ★★★☆☆ | Almeida
You know what I do not tend to think after watching a brilliantly miserable three and a half hours of A Long Day’s Journey Into the Night: this could really do with a sequel.
But Eugene O’Neill did pen a follow-up to his horrifying family drama about addiction and loss: the equally bleak A Moon for the Misbegotten, his final play before his own alcoholism made it impossible for him to write.
It picks up the story of James Tyrone Jr, the wayward thespian son of “dope-fiend” Mary and miserly drunk James. Now going by Jim, life has not been kind to this middle-aged antihero, who spends his days flitting from bar to brothel while generally waiting for the sweet release of death. The only light in his tawdry existence is the big, strapping farmer’s daughter Josie, a bawdy broad in whose ample bosom – I can’t stress enough how much her ample bosom is referenced – he sees a flicker of softness in this hard life.
And who else would you cast as this lumpen lass but the petite, elvin Ruth Wilson, a brilliant actor who I would happily watch in any role but who is entirely unsuited here. Each time I was snapped out of the moment by Wilson referring to a “giant paw” or “ugly” face I found myself wondering if director Rebecca Frecknall was making a strained point about body dysmorphia or the gulf between public and private perception but I suspect Wilson’s diary simply worked for the production and you don’t say no to an actor this good.
The result is a bit like eating an entire cake: you know it’s delicious but it keeps on coming long after you’ve ceased being hungry and the final slices are a real struggle.
American Michael Shannon is better cast as Jim, his character showing glimpses of charm and wit beneath the fug of whisky and regret. Both are magnetic and both are rather outshone by David Threlfall’s Phil, Josie’s booze-hound father, whose slurred Irish brogue and shambling gait are a masterclass in how to act pissed.
Like A Long Day’s Journey Into the Night, it takes place in one sad sitting, this time charting a dark night of the soul until the arrival of a potentially redemptive sunrise (were O’Neill still with us I might be so bold as to suggest the alternative title A Long Night’s Journey Into the Day).
It’s a strange old play, with the opening acts bordering close to a Shakespeare comedy, the characters crossing and double crossing each other with the apparent aim being to trick the two leads into falling in love. Only it’s transplanted into the dusty desolation of the world’s most depressing Connecticut farm, a place that seems to suck the very moisture from life rather than providing the soil to grow it.
In the second half (it’s a four act play, like Long Day’s Journey) there are moments of real tenderness and poetry as Josie and Jim sit together beneath the titular moon, two broken people clinging desperately together. And the good news is you get to see them doing that for what feels like an entire night, because neither O’Neill’s play nor Frecknall’s production are in any hurry. The result is a bit like eating an entire cake: you know it’s delicious and you should really appreciate every moment, but it keeps on coming long after you’ve ceased being hungry and the final slices are a real struggle.
• A Moon for the Misbegotten is on now at the Almeida
