Review - Mourning Becomes Electra: My Heart Belongs To Daddy

It was believed by many back in 1932, as it still is today, that the only reason Eugene O'Neill was not awarded that year's Pulitzer Prize for his Mourning Becomes Electra, an epic retelling of Aeschylus' Oresteia trilogy that declares Sigmund Freud as the true victor of the American Civil War, was that after granting him top honors for Beyond The Horizon (1920), Anna Christie (1922) and Strange Interlude (1928) the gang at Columbia figured enough was enough. So history was made that year when the Gershwin, Gershwin, Kaufman & Ryskin lark Of Thee I Sing became the first musical so honored, leaving O'Neill waiting until after his death to nab another, for Long Day's Journey Into Night.

With its Wagnerian length (the original production took up 6 hours) 16 roles and challenging themes involving what Freud called the Oedipus Complex and the Feminine Oedipus Attitude (called the Electra Complex by Jung), productions of this culturally significant and theatrically fascinating play by the 20th Century's first great American master are not a frequent occurrence, though those occurrences should be cause for impromptu celebratory dancing in Shubert Alley. Regretfully, Scott Elliott's mood-less, badly acted and emotionally barren production mounted by The New Group is cause for staying home and reading the script.

The first clue of impending doom, or at least a fidgety night, might be the exceedingly chilly temperature audience members are greeted with when they enter the Acorn Theatre; a practice usually employed when someone in power feels the need to keep the customers alert and awake. (An usher confirmed it was a regular occurrence and not just a heating problem the night I attended.) Early arrivals may want to take their Playbills and wait in the lobby until showtime, since the house lights are kept far too dim for pre-performance reading. The tomblike atmosphere achieved by the chill and the darkness certainly suit the piece, as do set designer Derek McLane's black drapes that not only hang upstage for the length of the playing area but reach up the two side aisles to the back of the house, where actors frequently make exits and entrances. He and lighting designer Jason Lyons pull off a couple of neat moments in their sparse depiction of a grand mansion but despite any artistic achievement, I frequently found it difficult to decipher any of the shadowy facial expressions by the actors from my seat in the 9th row.

O'Neill cleverly refashions the Greek Agamemnon's return home after victory over Troy into General Ezra Mannon's New England homecoming after Robert E. Lee's surrender. As in the Greek myth, the Mannon Estate is cursed with a scandalous past and the worst is yet to come. In three plays, The Homecoming, The Hunted and The Haunted, we witness the murder of Mannon by his adulterous wife, Christine, who makes it look like a natural death, and the revenge taken by their daughter Lavinia, despite resistance from her war-wounded brother, Orin. Done well, the lengthy evening (this production clocks in at four hours and eight minutes) can zip by, rewarding audiences with chilling moments of bloodshed, lust and vengeance. But the dirty doings are quite dreary at the Acorn.

The two lead performers seEm Lost on stage. Lili Taylor emotionlessly speeds through many of her scenes like she has a 10:30 dinner reservation, occasionally letting out unmotivated fury that lacks any kind of dramatic support. Jena Malone never manages to embody Lavinia; her frail look, soft voice and glazed expression (the lights eventually get bright enough to see it) defying any attempts at rage, seduction or agony. The reason for her cropped hair is questionable but trying to figure out why costume designer Susan Hilferty gives her a gown for the third play that has her looking ready for cocktails with Gertie Lawrence is baffling.

The dependable Mark Blum delivers a dignified portrayal as the general, though he's made to look a bit silly at the end of The Homecoming. As the leader of a Greek chorus of townspeople, who deliver many of their expository lines directly to the audience, Robert Hogan gives an amusingly folksy turn.

Since they carry the burden of presenting Elliott's static direction, featuring pacing that tends to alternate the muddy with the over-caffeinated, all I'll say about the rest of the company is that when a group of professional actors in a high-profile Off-Broadway production display a collection of broad-stroked, plainly-delivered, unskilled and perfunctory performances like some of the ones that occupy the Acorn these days, the fault most likely lies with a higher power.