When the play ends it is well past midnight. The three men, exhausted by drink and confession, are spaced about the living room in the semi-darkness like gutted animals. Over their heads the addicted mother moves around the upstairs rooms rummaging among her belongings for trophies of her lost youth. She has been offstage for the entire fourth act. The men are suddenly alerted by her footsteps as she starts to come downstairs. O’Neill has meticulously prepared for this moment, drip-feeding the audience little by little with the information that will give it power. It is one of the most extraordinary moments of theatre in twentieth-century drama, and the most honestly earned, and it is achieved simply by someone turning on an electric light.
I need to digress for a moment to describe our set in a little more detail. It consisted of a living room beyond which, through folding doors, was a more formal space with a suite of furniture and a piano. The position of the four folding doors was slightly different for each scene. In the last act only one of the panels was open and the piano was out of sight. Michael Annals had supplied a wonderful detail to his design. Above the folding doors was a fanlight of fretworked wood. When the light was turned on by someone whom we cannot yet see but can only be the mother, the pattern of the fanlight reared up out of the darkness and a column of light spilled into the room through the one open panel. In performance, both onstage and in the auditorium, there was a silence so dense with anticipation that you felt you could slice it.
Then suddenly, out of sight, we hear the piano being played, a clumsy, childish attempt at a Chopin waltz. I’d insisted on live music, preferably played on a piano that needed tuning, and we’d engaged the vocal coach, Chuck Mallett, to supply it, which he did with great skill, mimicking the arthritic fingers which were meant to be doing the playing. The music abruptly stops and the audience’s anticipation is now informed by misgiving. The mother, holding her wedding dress over one arm, steps into the open panel of light. Connie looked exactly as O’Neill describes her: ‘The uncanny thing is that her face appears so youthful. It is a marble mask of girlish innocence.’ Lost in the past and oblivious of her family she begins to recount her life as a young girl in the care of the nuns at her convent. She drifts across the room not addressing but by turns in the proximity of each member of her family. Finally I had her arrive stage right beside the rocking chair, which in the previous scene had been displaced from its usual position close by the oval table and now stood isolated some yards away. As Mary recalls her girlish vocation to be a nun she sinks into the rocker, facing the audience.
Stage Blood: Five tempestuous years in the early life of the National Theatre
Michael Blakemore





