Sagledavanja


ISSN 2217-2017
UDK 821.111(73).09–2
821.111(73).09–2 O’Nil J.
821.111(73).09–2 Vilijams T.
ID: 181548044

Marko Stolić

Dramatists of modern american theatre


In this pa­per we ha­ve con­si­de­red the qu­e­sti­on of Ame­ri­can li­te­ra­tu­re of the twen­ti­eth cen­tury thro­ugh the cre­a­tion of the two most im­por­tant Ame­ri­can playwrights. It has been ob­ser­ved bre­a­king the dra­ma­tic form of ex­pres­si­on that is seen in the abo­li­tion of dra­ma­tic con­flict and in de­ve­lo­ping in­ter­nal and ex­ter­nal dra­ma­tic ac­tion. Than is says psycho­lo­gi­cal nu­an­ces of the cha­rac­ters, emp­ha­si­zing the do­mi­nan­ce of sen­sory sen­sa­ti­ons and pes­si­mi­stic vi­ew of li­fe in the Ame­ri­can fa­mily and so­ci­ety.

KEY WORDS: Drama, literary, psychological, internal action, external action, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, ambivalence
 

Introduction


We he­rein first hig­hlight the fact that ne­it­her the li­te­rary gen­res of dra­ma, nor its in­di­vi­dual gen­res, ha­ve not pro­vi­ded mo­re im­por­tant ac­hi­e­ve­ments wit­hin Ame­ri­can li­te­ra­tu­re. Mo­re pre­ci­sely, dra­ma li­te­ra­tu­re was al­ways in the sha­dow of po­e­try and pro­sa­i­cism. Only with Ame­ri­can mo­dern li­te­ra­tu­re, dra­ma ac­hi­e­ves its ar­ti­stic strength and high aesthte­tic re­ac­hes which was af­fir­med by emer­gen­ce of a num­ber of the gre­at dra­ma wri­ters,1 Euge­ne O’Ne­ill and Ten­nes­see Wil­li­ams be­ing the most im­por­tant ones. The­ir li­te­rary ac­hi­e­ve­ments got them many im­por­tant li­te­rary pri­zes. Na­mely, Wil­li­ams won two Pu­lit­zer Pri­zes, whi­le Euge­ne O’Ne­ill was awar­ded fo­ur Pu­lit­zer Pri­zes (three du­ring his li­fe­ti­me and one was post­hu­mo­us) as well as the No­bel Pri­ze in 1936. Both wri­ters ha­ve a rich li­te­rary body of work whi­le the­ir dra­mas are still be­ing played on many in­ter­na­ti­o­nal sta­ges whi­le a num­ber of them we­re tran­spo­sed to scre­en­plays. This had mul­ti­plied the­ir po­pu­la­rity.

In ad­di­tion, in this text we show what is mo­dern,2 in­no­va­ti­ve and ori­gi­nal in dra­mas of the­se aut­hors. Thus we af­firm that the mo­der­nity of the­ir cre­a­ti­ons is re­flec­ted in the fol­lo­wing no­vel­ti­es:

– Ori­gi­nal ap­pro­ach to the­mes ab­sor­bed from the li­fe of Ame­ri­can so­ci­ety, and be­fo­re all, from the Ame­ri­can fa­mily as its co­re cell.
– Mo­tifs of mad­ness, self-de­struc­tion, ne­u­rast­he­nia, de­ca­den­ce.
– Se­pa­ra­tion from clas­si­cal dra­ma form – ab­sen­ce of dra­ma­tic con­flicts, dyna­mics, stretched out dra­ma­tic story, etc.
– Psycho­lo­gi­cally co­lo­red dra­ma­tis per­so­nae
– Sen­sual sen­sa­ti­ons ac­ting as the in­ter­fa­ce for the ex­pres­si­on of in­ter­nal hu­man sta­tes.

All afo­re­men­ti­o­ned mo­ments we find in the fol­lo­wing seg­ments of this  work:
1. De­ve­lop­ment of in­ter­nal and ex­ter­nal dra­ma­tic story
2. Ac­hi­e­ve­ment of dra­ma­tic si­tu­a­tion
3. Psycho­lo­gi­cal sha­ding of cha­rac­ters

Whi­le in clas­si­cal dra­ma­tic play cha­rac­ters in ac­tion ex­press the­ir pro­per­ti­es thro­ugh the dyna­mic play, con­flicts and the­ir (po­si­ti­ve / ne­ga­ti­ve) con­ducts, me­an­whi­le, in mo­dern dra­ma cha­rac­ters ex­press the­ir in­ner be­ing thro­ugh di­a­lo­gue, mo­no­lo­gue, highly ex­pres­sed body mo­ves, ge­stu­res, fa­cial ex­pres­si­ons and si­mi­lar mo­ve­ments. Ex­ter­nal dra­ma­tic story, as the ori­gi­na­tor of con­flicts and dyna­mism, still exists bet­we­en dra­ma he­ro­es alt­ho­ugh in the ma­jo­rity of ca­ses it is tran­sfer­red in­to the in­ter­nal dra­ma­tic play that is the in­ter­nal world of cha­rac­ters. Mo­re pre­ci­sely, ex­ter­nal and in­ter­nal dra­ma­tic sto­ri­es are in­ter­la­ced, whi­le the ex­ter­nal con­flict mo­ves in­ner dra­ma­tic play which con­cerns the aut­hor’s at­ten­tion.

Ex­ter­nal dra­ma­tic con­flict is the ini­tial one and it ser­ves to in­tro­du­ce pe­ru­sers to com­plex in­ter­nal dra­ma­tic con­flicts. The­re­fo­re, dra­ma­tic pro­ces­ses get mo­re and mo­re com­plex as by chan­ging the es­sen­ce of dra­ma­tic li­te­ra­tu­re and put­ting the ex­ter­nal ac­tion and dyna­mism in­to the bac­kgro­und, wri­ters di­sco­ver new pos­si­bi­li­ti­es to ex­press the psycho­lo­gi­cal sta­te of the cha­rac­ters. Ver­bal pro­ces­ses are not eno­ugh to fully light up the men­tal sta­te of cha­rac­ters. The­re are new pro­ces­ses ta­king pla­ce such as the fa­cial ex­pres­si­on, lo­ok, ge­stu­re, mi­mics, body mo­ves, po­stu­re and si­mi­lar that co­nju­re up the com­po­und in­ter­nal sta­tes of the cha­rac­ters. It was over­whel­ming task for the di­rec­tor, and espe­ci­ally for the ac­tor.

Re­gar­ding the­mes, the­se playwrights we­re in­te­re­sted in fa­mily li­fe, and Ame­ri­can Pu­ri­tan fa­mily was ba­sing its tran­qu­i­lity on ac­qu­i­ring mo­ney and cre­a­ting il­lu­sion of sa­fety with ever pre­sent re­gu­la­ti­ons and si­tu­a­ti­ons whe­re­in not anyone was able to go se­ar­ching for his own for­tu­nes on his own. Ho­we­ver, dra­mas in­vol­ving tra­gi­cal en­dings we­re of­ten played out in such her­me­ti­cally clo­sed off fa­mi­li­es. Thus, O’Ne­ill and Wil­li­ams we­re not in­te­re­sted in typi­cal lo­wer mid­dle class Ame­ri­can fa­mi­li­es with its Pu­ri­tan man­ners, but chi­efly tho­se de­vi­ant ones with nu­me­ro­us con­flicts among the­ir mem­bers and in­si­de the­ir psychi­cal be­ings. Do­mi­nant are the am­bi­va­lent fe­e­lings: lo­ve and ha­te, ca­re and rut­hles­sness, fe­ar of dying and sto­i­cism, ten­der­ness and bru­ta­lity. In­ner dis­tur­ban­ce and fe­ar, lost­ness and un­cer­ta­inty af­fect dra­ma he­ro­es to such a de­gree that they are al­ways in the sta­te of esca­pism, that is to say the sta­te whe­re­in they esca­pe from the un­be­a­ra­ble re­a­lity, but the truth is that they are per­ma­nently run­ning away from them­sel­ves. Fac­tu­ally, this esca­pe can­not be re­a­li­zed so al­co­hol and drugs are the me­ans to ca­talyze and “ac­hi­e­ve” this esca­pe. When wri­ting abo­ut Euge­ne’s dra­ma, D. An­dric hig­hlights this op­po­si­tion in the emo­ti­o­nal li­fe of the Tyrons: “Greed and hu­mi­li­a­tion, mi­sery and self-de­cep­tion, vi­ce and li­es, re­col­lec­ti­ons and char­ges are bo­i­ling – ho­we­ver, it is all in­ter­la­ced and gla­zed with that type of si­lent and sta­ble lo­ve that can for­gi­ve everyone at the end of a li­fe strug­gle which is mo­re dig­ni­fied if it is mo­re ho­pe­less if lo­o­ked at from the dis­tan­ce usu­ally as­su­med by the po­et or the wi­se man.”3

Do­mi­nant mo­tifs are va­ri­o­us ob­ses­si­ons, evil for­tu­nes, mad­ness, self-de­struc­tion, od­dness, in­ce­stu­o­u­sness, de­ca­den­ce and si­mi­lar. All the­se mo­tifs are lit up thro­ugh the gal­lery of, from the psycho­lo­gi­cal aspect, highly com­po­und cha­rac­ters, ne­u­rast­he­ni­acs and ec­cen­trics, sen­si­ti­ve or bru­tal per­so­na­li­ti­es. The­se pro­ces­ses di­sman­tle the il­lu­sion of the Ame­ri­can sta­ble fa­mily that of­fers a su­rety to one in­di­vi­dual, a fa­mily that is the sa­fe ha­ven for every one of its mem­bers.
 

1. De­ve­lop­ment of in­ter­nal and ex­ter­nal dra­ma­tic story

In­ter­nal and ex­ter­nal dra­ma­tic story in the key dra­ma­tic ac­com­plis­hments of Ten­nes­see Wil­li­ams and Euge­ne O’Ne­ill, A Stre­et­car Na­med De­si­re and Long Day’s Jo­ur­ney in­to the Night, re­ach the ful­lness of dra­ma­tic per­su­a­si­ve­ness. In­ter­nal dra­ma is do­mi­nant with Euge­ne O’Ne­ill whi­le it is op­po­si­te with Wil­li­ams for the pre­sen­ce of ex­ter­nal con­flict bet­we­en the two key he­ro­es of his dra­ma which is abo­ut the gap bet­we­en the de­si­res and abi­li­ti­es. Story of Euge­ne O’Ne­ill’s dra­ma has fo­ur acts and do­es not last long, just one day, from eight thirty in the mor­ning un­til mid­night, du­ring the month of August in the sum­mer­ho­u­se of Tyron fa­mily in 1912. In this short ti­me span so short it se­ems as if not­hing go­es on, ter­ri­ble dra­ma of one fa­mily is unt­wi­sting whi­le its mem­bers lo­ve and ha­te each ot­her. They can­not li­ve wit­ho­ut each ot­her, con­stantly bla­ming and ar­gu­ing, whi­le con­cur­rently they are trying to esca­pe the dam­na­tion lur­king over the­ir con­dem­ned de­sti­ni­es. In or­der for an awa­ke to dre­am and to esca­pe from the tu­mul­tu­o­us re­a­lity in­to a dre­a­ming sta­te, sti­mu­la­ti­ves are re­qu­i­red. Euge­ne’s he­ro­es, the fat­her, a pro­vin­cial ac­tor, and his two sons li­ve on the whi­skey, whi­le the mot­her is re­vi­ving her youth and for­get­ting tro­u­ble­so­me fa­mily li­fe by injec­ting morp­hi­um in­to her ve­ins. V. Čo­la­no­vić ma­kes the fol­lo­wing sta­te­ment re­gar­ding the hu­man need to esca­pe from the harsh re­a­lity and truth as it was so ge­ni­o­usly ren­de­red by O’Ne­ill: “It is a di­scre­te apot­he­o­sis of man’s in­ten­tion to over­co­me re­a­lity as it is fil­led by over­strengthe­ned strug­gle for sur­vi­val, bit­ter di­sap­po­in­te­ments, and be­trayed ho­pes. So­a­ked in pu­re po­e­try, it is al­so aut­hor’s re­li­ef from the bur­den of dif­fi­cult fe­e­lings in youth.”4

One ne­eds to men­tion that this dra­ma was pu­blis­hed post­hu­mo­usly fol­lo­wing the aut­hor’s wish as it is auto­bi­o­grap­hic in na­tu­re as Tyron’s cha­rac­ter sec­retly por­trays aut­hor’s fat­her who was al­so an ac­tor, whi­le the cha­rac­ter of Mary Ca­vangh Tyron is ba­sed upon his mot­her who was trying to be­co­me a pi­a­nist. The cha­rac­ters of Ja­mes Tyron Jr. and Ed­mond are his ol­der brot­her and the wri­ter him­self.

Fa­mily of ac­tors is al­ways on the mo­ve, they tra­vel from city to city, sle­e­ping in run down pla­ces, whi­le only in sum­mer­ti­me they co­me to the sum­mer­ho­u­se trying to find the il­lu­sion of har­mo­ni­o­us pro­vin­cial fa­mily. Ho­we­ver, the­ir fa­mily is go­ing down the tu­bes, the most dif­fi­cult be­ing the no­tion that the youn­ger son is sick sup­po­sedly from in­cu­ra­ble di­se­a­se, tu­ber­cu­lo­sis. Be­fo­re that, the mot­her is trying to kill her­self by jum­ping of the dock af­ter injec­ting so­me morp­hi­um in­to her; ho­we­ver, this was only men­ti­o­ned in di­a­lo­gue la­ter on. Mot­her is men­tally sick, thus ol­der son and her hus­band ca­re­fully mo­ni­tor her re­ac­ti­ons fe­a­ring that she can flee from re­a­lity in­to her her­me­tic world at any mo­ment. On the ot­her hand, she fe­els watched. She fe­els exa­mi­ned by the rest as she is of­ten to­uc­hing ha­ir with her rhe­u­ma­tic hands. Hus­band and son act as if they are not in­te­re­sted, whi­le in re­a­lity they are mo­ni­to­ring her every word and mo­ve. Fe­a­ring for her men­tal he­alth, they are hi­ding the real sta­te of her youn­ger son from her who is well-edu­ca­ted and well-read young man wri­ting po­e­try.

Ca­ught in the stra­its wit­ho­ut an exit, they are bla­ming each ot­her for the­ir bad for­tu­ne: wo­man bla­mes hus­band for his stin­gi­ness, sons do so too. She bla­mes ol­der son for the de­ath of her son whom she left to pa­rents to ca­re for du­ring the hus­band’s the­a­ter to­ur. She thinks that the boy in­ten­ti­o­nally ca­me in­to baby’s ro­om alt­ho­ugh he was sick with pox. Ac­cor­ding to mot­her he was je­a­lo­us of his brot­her. She al­so bla­mes him for ta­king Ed­mund in in­to his world full of al­co­hol, ste­amy bars, and in­som­nia. At one in­stan­ce whi­le be­ing un­der in­flu­en­ce, even tho­ugh he was very fond of his brot­her and sca­red for his he­alth, Wil­li­am af­firms that he is je­a­lo­us of his ten years youn­ger brot­her whom he in­ten­ti­o­nally had drawn in­to the world of drin­king with an aim of de­struc­ting him. Hus­band thinks that his wi­fe is too much in­to thin­king abo­ut her ori­gins and her un­suc­cessful ca­re­er. In ad­di­tion, fat­her is ver­bally ar­gu­ing with sons whi­le cri­ti­ci­zing them for over­spen­ding. They are na­ming him for be­ing an old Irish un­ge­ne­ro­us fel­low who to­ok many joyous mo­ments out of the­ir li­ves whi­le they we­re gro­wing up. Be­si­des that, they are pro­te­sting that the­ir fat­her is not wil­ling to pay for a good doc­tor and de­cent sa­na­to­ri­um to cu­re sen­si­ti­ve Ed­mund.  When he is he­art struck with such cri­ti­cism, the fat­her be­co­mes pro­ne to gi­ve mo­ney to youn­ger son who is ill. Sons sha­re mo­ney whi­le drif­ting to the ne­a­rest town and drink at va­ri­o­us pla­ces the­re. Ol­der brot­her go­es to brot­hel and co­mes back by stre­et­car fully drunk. Mot­her spends eve­ning alo­ne in her ro­om on the first flo­or. When she co­mes down to li­ving ro­om, even tho­ugh they are drunk they see that she is off her roc­ker not even no­ti­cing them. She is com­ple­tely fal­len in­to her world of the past. Only when she is told that Ed­mund has to go to sa­na­to­ri­um she bri­efly co­mes to re­a­lity by scre­a­ming a big No!, only to fall back to her world again.

Ex­ter­nal con­flicts among cha­rac­ters in dra­ma of Ten­nes­see Wil­li­ams are shar­per and mo­re ex­pres­si­ve. Si­ster-in-law, Blan­che Di­bua, sud­denly vi­sits fa­mily of an Ame­ri­can Po­le Stan­ley Ko­la­kow­ski. Story is played out wit­hin the short pe­riod of ti­me as well, one sum­mer; again, the pro­vin­cial pla­ce is in qu­e­sti­on. By the stre­et­car na­med De­si­re Blan­che co­mes to ho­me of her si­ster. She do­es not find her at ho­me as she had go­ne to see her hus­band’s bow­ling. Stel­la is a small wo­man, preg­nant and fa­ith­ful to her hus­band. Blan­che co­mes with a cer­tain po­stu­re that re­flects the in­di­vi­dual with man­ners. She awa­its her si­ster in the ho­u­se next do­or. When the brot­her-in-law saw her, he went ber­serk. He was espe­ci­ally up­set when he le­ar­ned that Stel­la’s fa­mily ho­me was mort­ga­ged. Con­flicts bet­we­en him and si­ster-in-law de­ve­lop and the­se ex­ter­nal con­flicts in­vol­ve preg­nant Stel­la who is ar­gu­ing with hus­band whi­le trying to pro­tect her si­ster.

The­se con­flicts tend to be­co­me physi­cal. When Stan­ley brings fri­ends / card players ho­me, Stel­la and Blan­che go to ci­ne­ma. They co­me too early whi­le the com­pany is still at ho­me. Blan­che and a sin­gle guy Mitch flirt and al­most ha­ve a ro­man­ce. Ho­we­ver, Stan­ley do­es not al­low his fri­end Mitch to go any furt­her than that with Blan­che. Me­an­whi­le he has fo­und out abo­ut her wan­ton li­festyle and squ­an­de­ring of the pa­rents’ ho­me.  He al­so fo­und that she was kic­ked out of school whe­re she wor­ked as En­glish te­ac­her be­ca­u­se she had an af­fa­ir with her stu­dent and his fat­her. He po­ints out to a filthy and im­mo­ral per­son be­hind the clo­ak of al­le­ged re­fi­ne­ment. Blan­che has mi­gra­i­ne at­tacks which she de­scri­bes as buz­zing in head at which ti­me she he­ars so­me dis­tant mu­sic as well. She sec­retly drinks al­co­hol trying to ease her pro­blems. She sti­mu­la­tes her­self trying to esca­pe past and re­a­lity. Her esca­pe has two si­des. She can­not li­ve on from the ghosts of the past, whi­le she can­not fo­re­see the fu­tu­re on the ba­sis of bru­te and pre­sent re­a­lity. Her fu­tu­re is un­cer­ta­inty.
 

2. De­ve­lop­ment of dra­ma­tic si­tu­a­tion

Both playwrights de­ve­lop ima­ge of the com­po­und fa­mily re­la­ti­on­ships in dra­ma­tic si­tu­a­tion. Alt­ho­ugh dis­har­mony of fa­mily mem­bers ser­ves as the­ma­tic ba­sis, both aut­hors stay away from dra­ma­tic con­flict in its true sen­se. Sub­tlety of de­scri­bed con­flicts is re­mar­ka­ble, espe­ci­ally with O’Ne­ill’s dra­ma. Highly col­lo­qu­i­al di­a­lo­gu­es re­pre­sent the fo­un­da­tion of con­flict ma­ni­fe­sta­tion bet­we­en Blan­che and Stan­ley in Wil­li­ams’ work. It is why the­re are not too many in­struc­ti­ons in his dra­ma and aut­hor do­es not need to sug­gest to eit­her di­rec­tor or ac­tor what they need to do. With O’Ne­ill, in­struc­ti­ons are highly ex­ten­ded, so­me­ti­mes even a pa­ge long, which is unu­sual and un­ne­ces­sary at the first glan­ce. Ho­we­ver, com­po­und and highly dra­ma­ti­cal re­la­ti­on­ships among the mem­bers of Tyron fa­mily con­di­tion the wri­ter to sug­gest how the ac­tor has to be­ha­ve, how to ex­press in­ner dis­tur­ban­ces wit­ho­ut saying a word as well as the an­xi­e­ti­es, un­cer­ta­in­ti­es, fe­ars, etc.

Di­a­lo­gu­es are de­ve­lo­ped as well, they are im­pres­si­ve and cre­di­ble alt­ho­ugh the­re are mo­no­lo­gu­es said by Mary as she is fal­ling in­to the sta­te of psychic pa­ralysis lo­sing en­ti­rely the sen­se for re­a­lity. Thus the dra­ma­tic text of si­tu­a­tion and not the dra­ma of ac­tion is re­a­li­zed from the be­gin­ning to an end in O’Ne­ill’s dra­ma A Long Jo­ur­ney in­to the Night, whi­le si­tu­a­tion in Wil­li­ams’ dra­ma Stre­et­car Na­med De­si­re is in­ter­la­ced with cer­tain events that ha­ve dra­ma­tic com­po­si­te struc­tu­re only in the­ir ru­di­ments. In­tro­duc­tion be­gins when Blan­che co­mes to her si­ster’s ho­me, plot be­gins when brot­her-in-law finds abo­ut her past wan­ton li­fe style, cli­max and key co­in­ci­de, it is the pla­ce when he physi­cally hu­mi­li­a­tes her, so­lu­tion is when Blan­che is ta­ken to men­tal ho­spi­tal. The­re are not ex­ter­nal story dri­vers with O’Ne­ill. Everything is played out in the dra­ma­tic si­tu­a­tion, fe­ar for de­stiny of mot­her, for de­stiny of the youn­gest mem­ber of fa­mily. Lo­ve and ha­te te­ar apart the­ir in­ner be­ings and fa­mily is go­ing down the tu­bes. Ho­we­ver, this is not played out be­fo­re the vi­e­wers, one can only feel it; it is the nor­mal so­lu­tion for the si­tu­a­tion they are in. Aut­hor let us up­gra­de the en­ding of dra­ma and Tyron fa­mily. Omit­ting a num­ber of de­ta­ils out – it is the ma­jor fe­a­tu­re of his dra­ma­tic oeuvre and de­si­re to ne­ar dra­ma­tic li­te­ra­tu­re to ot­her gen­res and re­a­ding pu­blic. Cur­tain is dow­ned as the mot­her is tel­ling her long mo­no­lo­gue, which in fact is so­li­lo­quy be­fo­re the hus­band and both drun­ken sons. Dra­ma has an open en­ding, whi­le the re­a­der / vi­e­wer knows that mot­her is go­ing to men­tal asylum, that youn­ger son is go­ing to sa­na­to­ri­um, whi­le the fat­her and ol­der son, both al­co­ho­lics, are staying to qu­ar­rel and bla­me each ot­her en­dlessly. At any ra­te, as well as any ot­her work with an open en­ding, O’Ne­ill’s dra­ma pro­vi­des for a num­ber of dif­fe­rent pos­si­bi­li­ti­es ac­cor­ding to the ex­pe­ri­en­ce and re­cep­tion of the re­a­ders.

Fe­ma­le cha­rac­ters are espe­ci­ally tied to si­tu­a­tion of un­cer­ta­inty when the­re is no way out. Blan­che, in Wil­li­ams’ work, is de­pic­ted as a cha­rac­ter op­po­si­te to its si­ster Stel­la. Her de­vi­ant per­so­na­lity is thus mo­re re­flec­ted. Stel­la is small, mo­dest, happy with her li­fe, plus she is awa­re of the fact that she co­uld not rely on him very much whi­le Blan­che  is not un­happy with her li­fe, thin­king that she is the per­son that de­ser­ves mo­re, but al­so thin­king that she is the one that spent her youth, be­a­uty and sin­ce­rity for not­hing. She is in gap with her­self. Her de­si­re for the bet­ter, gen­teel man­ners, pla­cing of the ac­cent on her French he­ri­ta­ge and lo­o­king down on the Po­lish ro­ots of her brot­her-in-law cre­a­te un­ple­a­sant si­tu­a­ti­ons, as well as the   ani­mo­sity of her brot­her-in-law to­ward her, but al­so the il­lu­sion from which she can­not esca­pe that will al­so lead her to de­struc­tion and mad­ness. Mo­ral de­cay of Blan­che is her wrongly esti­ma­ted de­si­re to calm down and find her pe­a­ce of mind. Ho­we­ver, her con­duct le­ads her to op­po­si­te di­rec­tion as she can­not put up with the cur­rents of li­fe. Her si­ster ac­cep­ted to abi­de to her hus­band fol­lo­wing the Pu­ri­tan lo­wer mid­dle class prin­ci­ples; she al­so lo­ves him de­arly and ju­sti­fi­es his ac­ti­ons. As she is bri­efly step­ping out of her rut, ta­king the si­de of her si­ster, she is not a swe­et lit­tle wi­fe anymo­re so her hus­band pu­nis­hes her rut­hlessly. Even tho­ugh she is preg­nant, he will hit her, which ca­u­sed a pre­ma­tu­re birth. This will not bot­her him in any sort of way, so he will ce­le­bra­te with fri­ends. In the Ame­ri­can so­ci­ety’s lo­wer mid­dle class fa­mily the­re is a cer­tain or­der of things wit­hin a fa­mily that must be re­spec­ted. As soon as she got back from the ma­ter­nity ho­spi­tal, Stel­la clings to her hus­band for­get­ting abo­ut his he­ar­tles­sness. She si­des with Stan­ley, le­a­ving si­ster to go down with her for­tu­nes. Af­ter she had fol­lo­wed si­ster to ho­spi­tal, she will tell if per­haps she let si­ster down, trying to re­col­lect if she was able to help her. This di­lem­ma is only the re­flec­tion of a fully hel­pless per­son who is put­ting up with the sa­me old re­la­ti­on­ships of the fa­mily li­fe that brings forth the il­lu­sion of pe­a­ce and sa­fety.
 

3. Psycho­lo­gi­cal sha­ding of cha­rac­ters

Psycho­lo­gi­cal cre­a­tion of cha­rac­ters is the ba­sis of Ame­ri­can mo­dern dra­ma whe­re­in O’Ne­ill ac­hi­e­ved the most im­por­tant re­sults. It is why it has been said that he was Do­sto­ev­ski of dra­ma li­te­ra­tu­re. He in­si­sted that each of his he­ro­es be­co­me lit from the in­si­de. The most me­mo­ra­ble are fe­ma­le cha­rac­ters5 in both works, so we can un­der­li­ne so­me si­mi­la­ri­ti­es bet­we­en Mary and Blan­che. Ner­ves are the pro­blem in both wo­men as they are trying to find sal­va­tion in esca­ping from the re­a­lity, one is a drug ad­dict, and anot­her is an al­co­ho­lic. Mary has her fa­mily; ho­we­ver, she is still lo­nely. Sa­me as Blan­che she fe­els be­ing let down and that her youth in­ten­ti­ons and il­lu­si­ons are all go­ne. They both ha­ve the fe­e­ling for gen­ti­lity and ele­gan­ce that are de­fe­a­ted by li­fe. In the pro­cess of cre­a­ting of the­se li­te­rary he­ro­es, both wri­ters use aco­u­stic ef­fects to fill and fra­me the fe­e­ling of wa­ste and ho­pe­les­sness. O’Ne­ill uses si­ren that an­no­un­ces fog. So­und is un­ple­a­sant, pi­er­cing and un­be­a­ra­ble as well as the fog which suf­fo­ca­tes and ca­u­ses omi­no­us an­ti­ci­pa­ti­ons. Tyron’s mo­no­to­no­us sno­ring is pre­sent as well. His wi­fe has been li­ste­ning to it sin­ce they we­re mar­ried which am­pli­fi­es her fe­e­ling of his in­dif­fe­ren­ce for her and the­ir fa­mily. In her dif­fi­cult mo­ments, Blan­che he­ars ne­a­ring of a dis­tant mu­sic which dis­turbs her. She is trying to fight it off by pres­sing hands over her ears. But, this mu­sic do­es not co­me from the out­si­de; it is de­ve­lo­ping in her brain as the part of her de­ran­ged con­sci­o­u­sness which re­minds her of youth and loss of the only per­son she lo­ved sin­ce­rely. This in­ner mu­sic cre­a­tes un­be­a­ra­ble he­a­dac­hes which she is trying to ease with al­co­hol. Gap bet­we­en the il­lu­si­ons and de­si­res on one si­de, and the real li­fe si­tu­a­ti­ons on the ot­her, are the do­mi­nant dri­ver of all si­tu­a­ti­ons and hap­pe­nings.

Stel­la is the cha­rac­ter op­po­si­te to Blan­che. She is the true type of Ame­ri­can wo­man that has su­per­fi­cial at­ti­tu­de to­ward li­fe. She is trying to help her si­ster but at the sa­me ti­me she is hel­pless to do anything for her. She puts up with li­fe, she is sa­tis­fied with what li­fe gi­ves her, and she com­pro­mi­ses with all flaws of her hus­band’s na­tu­re as the part of fa­mily re­la­ti­on­ships. Her short la­sting re­volt aga­inst Stan­ley and his gam­bling ha­bits will die out soon. She for­gi­ves her hus­band alt­ho­ugh he hit her whi­le be­ing preg­nant which in­deed ac­ce­le­ra­ted her la­bor.

Ma­le cha­rac­ters are lar­ger in num­bers. With O’Ne­ill we ha­ve an old ac­tor and fa­mily pa­tri­arch as well as his two sons. Old ac­tor spent his ta­lents playing one he­ro over and over again in the dra­ma he bo­ught out him­self.6 Aura of lo­ser do­mi­na­tes over his se­e­mingly po­wer­ful per­so­na­lity. His po­wer­ful physi­og­nomy, con­fi­dent pa­ce, firm fi­gu­re, are only the outer shell of him who in short ti­me shows that he is not­hing but the po­wer­less old man who was fig­hting tro­u­bles his en­ti­re li­fe, who ca­res abo­ut his old age, who is afraid of po­verty as it is fol­lo­wing him li­ke a ghost. It is why he ran to gain, to che­aply sell off his ta­lent, to lo­se his big­gest tre­a­su­re in such a way. When he was ex­ha­u­sted by playing one ro­le his en­ti­re li­fe, when the pu­blic got fed up with it, he was stun­ned by the ter­ri­ble no­tion that the­re is no re­turn, that he can­not act any ot­her ro­les as the pu­blic al­ways iden­ti­fied him with sa­me cha­rac­ter. His pas­sion for buying land shows that he was a lo­ser in that fi­eld as well. His sons war­ned him not to buy land no­body wants and that a lo­cal land mer­chant was ma­king fun of him. He is fond of chil­dren in one clumsy way, but he is not sat­si­fed with the­ir way of li­ving. Ol­der son is an ac­tor and thirtyfo­ur year old al­co­ho­lic wit­ho­ut fa­mily and pro­spects. He was kic­ked out of col­le­ge only to be­co­me the part of ac­ting world sa­me as his fat­her. It was not his wish so he cri­ti­zi­ces fat­her for ha­ving pus­hed him in­to ac­ting.  On the ot­her hand, fat­her is of­fe­ring ex­cu­se that his only ac­qu­it­tan­ces lie in that world and that he was able to find em­ployment only the­re. When he cri­ti­ci­zes son for con­su­ming alo­co­hol and ir­re­spon­si­ble be­ha­vi­or, he al­so re­minds that he do­es not ha­ve the right to cri­ti­ci­ze as he is a he­avy drin­ker too. He is very thrifty as he is mar­king bot­tles for lef­to­ver drinks, but sons are keen at ad­ding wa­ter af­ter they drink so­me. He of­fers drinks and cri­ti­ci­zes them at the sa­me ti­me. He puts out lights saying that he do­es not want to ma­ke a rich ric­her re­fer­ring to the po­wer com­pany ow­ners. Fe­ar of po­verty gi­ves a me­a­su­re to his en­ti­re li­fe. He star­ted ear­ning from the age of ten which ma­de him a sa­ver. He with­holds ple­a­su­res from him­self and ot­hers. Sons ex­pla­in his stin­gi­ness in a dif­fe­rent way. They think that his Irish ori­gin is to bla­me. Fat­her is sen­si­ti­ve to his ori­gin and ta­kes it hard.

We can tra­ce so­me si­mi­lar cha­rac­ters’ fe­a­tu­res with ac­tor Tyron and Ko­la­kow­ski from T. Wil­lli­ams’ work. Both are strong bu­ilt and ro­ugh by na­tu­re, but Ko­la­kow­ski is youn­ger and un­scru­pu­lo­us. Vi­o­lent na­tu­re and bru­ta­lity are his ma­jor tra­its. He is soft to his wi­fe, but only as far as he li­kes it. Cul­mi­na­tion of his bru­ta­lity and ec­cen­tri­city is his way to­ward the si­ster-in-law. In­to­le­ran­ce con­stantly grows, ten­si­ons are be­ing en­han­ced and everything cul­mi­na­tes when he ra­pes her. Ani­mal im­pul­ses co­me to sur­fa­ce, he is be­ha­ving li­ke a be­ast... His fri­ends, gam­bling com­pany, are not sin­gled out as in­di­vi­du­als. It is an amorp­ho­us mass bent on al­co­hol, gam­bling, bow­ling and va­ri­o­us ot­her ac­ti­vi­ti­es. Inert­ness of the­ir li­fe is full. They are sa­tis­fied with such li­fe. Anyone who spo­ils the rut will be pu­nis­hed, li­ke Blan­che. As soon as she ca­me to ho­me of her si­ster and brot­her-in-law even be­fo­re fin­ding abo­ut her wan­ton li­fe, brot­her-in-law was not ten­der to her. His buddy Mitch has the most re­spect for Blan­che which is a con­se­qu­en­ce of his in­se­cu­rity be­ca­u­se he is sin­gle li­ving un­der in­flu­en­ce of his mot­her. Wil­li­am and Ed­mund li­ve as bac­he­lors too. This fact con­firms the­ir in­se­cu­rity, ir­re­spon­si­bi­lity and in­com­pe­ten­ce to step in­to new li­fe. 

Ed­mund is de­li­ca­te, highly in­tel­li­gent young boy, so­me­ti­mes sar­ca­stic and cyni­cal both to him­self and ot­hers.7 His flight from truth and re­a­lity is well re­flec­ted in his re­a­ding. He re­ads qu­i­te a lot get­ting ac­cu­sto­med in­to the read of mo­dern aut­hors which puts him in­to a di­rect op­po­si­tion with his fat­her who be­li­e­ves that Sha­ke­spe­a­re was the gre­a­test. Fat­her sta­tes that ot­her wri­ters are wor­thless spo­i­lers of ta­ste of the youth al­so af­fec­ting his youn­ger son and the rest in one ne­ga­ti­ve fas­hion. Fat­her op­po­ses son re­gar­ding his re­a­ding even tho­ugh ar­ti­fi­ci­ally so wit­ho­ut sta­ting real re­a­sons aga­inst tho­se wri­ters. Ed­mund is a lo­ser, for he is sick and young. He ap­pe­ars lazy lac­king strength to fight sic­kness. Un­cer­ta­inty hud­dles over his li­fe, even tho­ugh he do­es not show fe­ar. His fru­stra­ti­ons are cu­red by al­co­hol. He drinks whi­skey as if it is me­di­ci­ne, even tho­ugh his doc­tor said no. He re­mem­bers his fat­her ga­ve them whi­skey as me­di­ci­ne when they we­re chil­dren which tur­ned to ha­bit.

Li­fe story of all li­te­rary he­ro­es has ju­sti­fi­ca­tion. They bla­me each ot­her mu­tu­ally, so we con­clu­de that they are all to bla­me and no­o­ne is at fa­ult. This we­a­ving of de­stiny can be en­dless. Emo­ti­o­nally di­sa­bled and men­tally worn he­ro­es of the­se dra­mas fall in­to a de­e­per mo­ral abyss.
 

Con­clu­sion

One co­uld con­clu­de that the­se two Ame­ri­can mo­dern playwrights ha­ve re­ac­hed ex­cep­ti­o­nal ar­ti­stic he­ights. They ma­de art of dra­ma li­te­ra­tu­re which can be played as well as read, and they al­so ena­bled film­ma­kers to pe­ru­se the­ir ma­te­rial. In es­sen­ce, they de­ve­lo­ped ra­re psycho­lo­gi­cal dra­mas which is hard to find even wit­hin the sco­pe of in­ter­na­ti­o­nal dra­ma­tic li­te­ra­tu­re. In ad­di­tion, the­ir con­tem­po­rary ac­tu­a­lity pro­ves the­ir uni­ver­sa­lity.8

With what ap­pe­ars to be only a few dra­ma­tic ele­ments, the dra­ma­tic art of the­ir texts be­co­mes im­me­a­su­ra­ble. With a lit­tle ac­tion thro­ugh psycho­lo­gi­cal sha­ding of cha­rac­ters, both playwrights ac­hi­e­ved such ten­sion that the­ir works are read in one re­a­ding and no­o­ne is left in­dif­fe­rent. With lit­tle dra­ma­tic me­ans, ac­hi­e­ve­ment of the­ir dra­mas and the le­vels of dra­ma­tic art bor­der with vir­tu­o­sity. Espe­ci­ally su­per­i­or is Euge­ne O’Ne­ill, one of the ma­jor Ame­ri­can wri­ters, the most im­por­tant playwright, at le­ast, not only in the ball­park of Ame­ri­can mo­dern li­te­ra­tu­re, but in­ter­na­ti­o­nally as well. Alt­ho­ugh the barycen­ter is pla­ced on psycho­logy and alt­ho­ugh dra­mas are mo­dern, mo­der­nism is mostly re­flec­ted in the pro­cess, in the met­ho­do­logy of ex­pres­sing of dra­ma­tic story by way of the de­scri­bed in­ner dra­ma­tic con­flicts and in de­ve­lo­ping of the dra­ma­tic si­tu­a­tion thro­ugh in­hi­bi­ting of the clas­sic dra­ma­tic con­flict.  Ho­we­ver, in ad­di­tion, dra­ma of the­se aut­hors is the re­a­li­stic pic­tu­re of the Ame­ri­can so­ci­ety which re­fracts thro­ugh the pic­tu­re of fa­mily, the pic­tu­re of so­cial in­sta­bi­lity, suf­fe­ring and abysses. This is why the fe­e­ling of de­ca­den­ce and pes­si­mism are do­mi­nant to­nes on [/in] the­se dra­ma­tic ac­com­plis­hments.
 

LITERATURE

1. An­drić, Dra­go­slav: “O' Nil u vre­me­nu i iz­van nje­ga” (pred­go­vor), Ju­džin O' Nil: Cr­ni­na pri­li­či Elek­tri, SKZ; 1984.
2. Čo­la­no­vić, Vo­ja: “Ju­džin O' Nil i nje­go­va dra­ma” (po­go­vor), Ju­džin O' Nil: Du­go pu­to­va­nje u noć, Rad, Be­o­grad, 1964.
3. O' Ne­ill, Euge­ne: “Me­mo­ran­da on Masks”, Mo­der­na ame­rič­ka knji­žev­nost. Dra­ma, Kul­tu­ra, Be­o­grad, 1995.
4. O' Nil, Ju­džin: “Be­le­ške o ma­ska­ma”, Ra­đa­nje mo­der­ne knji­žev­no­sti. Dra­ma (pri­re­di­la: Mir­ja­na Mi­o­či­no­vić), No­lit, Be­o­grad, 1975.
5. O' Ne­ill, Euge­ne:  A Long Ju­orny in­to the Night, Sig­net, New York, 1959.
6. Po­po­vić, V.B.: “Psi­ho­lo­gi­ja žen­skog”, Jun­go­vo na­sle­đe, No­lit, Be­o­grad, 1995.
7. Pu­ha­lo, Du­šan: En­gle­ska knji­žev­nost XIX-XX (1832–1950), Na­uč­na knji­ga, 1983.
8. Vi­li­jams, Te­ne­si: A Stre­e­tar Na­med De­si­re, Sig­net, New York, 1958.
9. Vuč­ko­vić, Ti­ho­mir: Mo­der­na ame­rič­ka knji­žev­nost. Dra­ma, Kul­tu­ra, Be­o­grad, 1995.
 

REZIME

Marko Stolić

MODERNA AMERIČKA KNJIŽEVNOST

Raz­ma­tra­na su pi­ta­nja sa­vre­me­ne ame­rič­ke dram­ske knji­žev­no­sti, pa je uoče­no da tek po­čet­kom dva­de­se­tog ve­ka ova li­te­ra­tu­ra da­je dva iz­u­zet­na knji­žev­ni­ka – Ju­dži­na O' Ni­la i Te­ne­si Vi­li­jam­sa. Is­ko­rak iz dram­skih ka­no­na ni­je no­vi­na u u ovom žan­rov­skom kor­pu­su u okvi­ru knji­žev­no­sti dva­de­se­tog ve­ka, ali je kod ovih stva­ra­la­ca do­bi­la svo­je oso­be­no­sti, ori­gi­nal­ne po­stup­ke, kao i te­ma­ti­za­ci­ju ame­rič­kog ži­vo­ta, po­seb­no ame­rič­ke po­ro­di­ce u okri­lju mo­ral­nih, psi­hič­kih i dru­štve­nih po­sr­ta­nja i pa­do­va.

______________
Napomene:

1. The most im­por­tant playwrights are: Ger­tru­de Stein, Art­hur Mil­ler, Ten­nes­see Wil­li­ams, Euge­ne O’Ne­ill, Sa­muel Shep­pard and ot­hers. Aut­hor of the ant­ho­logy Mo­dern Ame­ri­can Li­te­ra­tu­re has ci­ted the­se dra­ma­tists in Dra­ma seg­ment as the most im­por­tant ones whi­le re­ac­hes of the­ir ar­ti­stic cre­a­ti­ons ha­ve high aest­he­tic va­lu­es. (Ti­ho­mir Vuč­ko­vić: Mo­der­na ame­rič­ka knji­žev­nost, Kul­tu­ra, Bel­gra­de, 1995)
2. Euge­ne O’Ne­ill spo­ke abo­ut his re­la­ti­on­ship with dra­ma­tic text as well as his new dra­ma vi­sion in the es­say ti­tled Me­mo­ran­da on Masks: “Not masks for all plays, na­tu­rally. Ob­vi­osly not for the plays con­ce­i­ved in pu­rely re­a­li­stic terms. But masks for cer­tain types of plays, espe­ci­ally for the new mo­dern play, as yet only dimly fo­res­ha­do­wed in a few gro­ping spe­ci­mens, but which must in­ver­tably be wrt­ten in the fu­tu­re. For I hold mo­re and mo­re su­rely to the con­vic­tion that use of masks will be di­sco­ve­red even­tu­ally to be the fre­est so­lu­tion of the mo­dern dra­ma­tists pro­blem as to how – with the gre­a­test pos­si­ble dra­ma­tic cla­rity and eco­nomy of me­ans – he can ex­press tho­se pro­lo­und hid­den con­flicts of the mind which the pro­bings of psycho­logy con­ti­nue to us.“ (Eugen O Ne­ill: „Me­mo­ran­da on Masks“, Ti­ho­mir Vuč­ko­vić: Mo­der­na ame­rič­ka knji­žev­nost, p. 15) The ex­cerpt from the es­say on masks was tran­sla­ted lo­cally in Ra­đa­nje mo­der­ne knji­žev­nost. Dra­ma (pre­sen­ted by Mir­ja­na Mi­o­či­no­vić), No­lit, Bel­gra­de, 1975, p. 296–298.
3. Dra­go­slav An­drić: “O Nil u vre­me­nu i iz­van nje­ga“ (pre­am­ble ) E.: Euge­ne O’Ne­ill, Cr­ni­na pri­li­či Elek­tri, SKZ, Bel­gra­de, 1984, p. 14.
4. Vo­ja Čo­la­no­vić: “Ju­džin O Nil i nje­go­ve dra­me“, E.: Ju­džin O Nil, Du­go pu­to­va­nje u noć, Rad, Be­o­grad, 1964. p 142.
5. Po­po­vić,V.B.: “Psi­ho­lo­gi­ja žen­skog“, Jun­go­vo na­sle­đe,  No­lit, Bel­gra­de, 1995.
6. Be­ca­u­se this work is auto­bi­o­grap­hi­cal, old ac­tor’s cha­rac­ter re­pre­sents aut­hor’s fat­her. Auto­bi­o­grap­hi­cal da­ta re­ve­als that his fat­her was, in fact, ac­ting in the ro­le of co­unt Mon­te Cri­sto for a very long ti­me. (Wi­ki­pe­dia)
7. Auto­bi­o­grap­hi­cal na­tu­re of this li­te­ra­tu­re he­ro is ob­vi­o­us. Aut­hor was li­ving an un­so­und li­fe which ca­u­sed tu­ber­cu­lo­sis and he even at­temp­ted su­i­ci­de in the age of 24. Ho­we­ver, in 1912, in Con­nec­ti­cut’s sa­na­to­ri­um  he met his own self and his dark si­de which was the turn in his li­fe. He star­ted wri­ting dra­mas. (Wi­ki­pe­dia )
8. >Euge­ne O’Ne­ill’s dra­ma A Long Jo­ur­ney in­to the Night has been played in Ate­lje 212 di­rec­ted by Bo­ra Dra­ško­vić, dra­ma Stre­et­car Na­med De­si­re is on the re­per­to­i­re of Su­bo­ti­ca’s pu­blic the­a­ter, whi­le dra­ma Cat On a Hot Tin Ro­of  is played in Ze­mun’s the­a­ter Ma­dle­ni­ja­num.
 

nazad