Glass Menagerie Rules!

First of all, I have to preface all my remarks with the confession that Tennessee Williams and I are like this (though you can’t see it, I’m doing that intertwined-fingers thing that indicates unspeakable intimacy – I’m not even being sardonic, guys), and The Glass Menagerie is the reason why. The Glass Menagerie is also the reason I primarily write plays (as opposed to songs or screenplays or short stories), and in a lot of (tangible and intangible) ways, it’s my model of all a play should be – which is why I have no qualms at all about presenting it as The Perfect Play, despite my wondering at the utility, or even possibility, of such a label.

The Perfect Play. It’s a little like saying that, say, “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” is The Perfect Pop Song. Or wait, perhaps that should be “Ever Fallen In Love.” One could easily argue for either, or for yet another possibility, or another, or another... It’s pretty subjective. I mean, it’s not as if Perfect Pop Songs are a dime a dozen, but it’s not as if candidates are wholly scarce, either. And while there’s common ground between Steely Dan and the Buzzcocks, there’s also a world of difference. Both belong to differing schools, or sub-genres, of pop music, in much the same way that Anton Chekhov and Thornton Wilder, for instance, represent different moments, different movements, in theatre.

Yet, as one might well argue that either “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” or “Ever Fallen In Love” is Perfect on the basis of how one must undeniably respond on a visceral, even cellular, level upon hearing the same, I first put it to you that The Glass Menagerie is perfect in that it evokes a profound cathartic feeling in the reader/viewer.

Here’s my attempt at a list of reasons, beyond my central reason given above, why The Glass Menagerie is Miss Perfect Play, Twentieth Century:

1. It was, in my opinion, the peak acheivement of one of our most important and gifted dramatists, though it came quite early in Williams’ career. (Why this should be, to me, is inseparable from his progressive alcoholism and drug addiction – he had many good – excellent! – years as a vibrant and important writer, but I believe he came to calcify, to repeat himself, to decline as an artist, gradually and inevitably as his substance dependence worsened over time. I don’t love him less for that, and I identify with him all the more, but I do wonder what he might have created had he been able to get clean.) While Streetcar and Cat and many others definitely hit their marks, and are forever embedded in the cultural consciousness, in Menagerie Williams is:
2. his most overtly confessional. In his later plays, he continues to expose himself emotionally – any student of Williams understands how much of himself he put into his characters and plays, as opposed to, say, Arthur Miller, who never once seems to be taking an emotional risk or alluding to autobiography (even when he is in fact doing both). In all his plays, but none more so than Menagerie, Tennessee Williams seems to be stripping and asking the audience for forgiveness and compassion – for himself, first, and for the human race as a consequence. (Does a play need to do this? I don’t know, but to me, all the best and most moving do, from Chekhov to Shepard, from Shakespeare to Brecht, from Wilde to Mamet to fill in the blank with the name of any playwright who’s touched you and whom I have neglected to mention.)
3. In Menagerie, Williams is also his most postmodern, using Brechtian devices, direct address and soliloquy. And lest it go without saying, using them well.
4. Menagerie is inherently theatrical. It’s meant to be a live event, on a stage. It’s a great story, yes, and it doesn’t require a lot of bells and whistles, but it is built for theatre. The film versions, while impressive in their own way, are but pale, pallid reflections of the real thing. Film does what it does, and theatre does what it does, and Menagerie is a good –a Perfect? – example of what theatre does.
5. Structure in Menagerie is flawless. It’s minimal and elegant. Like the play itself, it looks simple, but it’s more emotionally-logical than chronological. The play has elements of kitchen-sink realism, but goes beyond the boundaries imposed on that genre.
6. It’s so producible that it became the model: small cast, simple set, flexible staging. (It’s simple to stage, but not necessarily easy.)
7. Williams’ language is amazing. Not just his dialogue, which is lyrical yet speakable, but even his stage directions are elegiac and fine. Let directors cross these babies out!
8. I defy you to think of another play whose scenes are more used in acting and directing textbooks. There's a reason for Menagerie's ubiquity. The Glass Menagerie is a meaty, rewarding challenge to actors and directors alike.
   
9. Menagerie is unarguably tragic, but it’s sharply humorous at the same time. To me, no Perfect Play could be wholly one without the other – the interplay of comedy and tragedy is a hallmark of Perfection.
10. Tennessee Williams loved and was profoundly influenced by Chekhov, worshipped and adored him, considered him the ideal writer. Williams wrote an adaptation of The Seagull, called The Notebook of Trigorin, first produced in 1981. (It's not as good as The Seagull, I think, and it's not as good as The Glass Menagerie.)
11. Tennessee Williams wrote articulately, passionately, often, and evangelically about the practice of writing, and to read his notes about how he wrote this play or that, or how writing continually saved him from the insanity he clearly feared, is to be converted to Writing. I can't think of another writer who so nakedly and unabashedly loved the craft of writing.
    

Tennessee Williams is my soul mate. He came to me in a dream and smiled quietly and gave me a stolen videotape. (Or was it a folder? In any case, I know it was stolen. He had stolen it, and was proud of his theft – and he wanted me to do as he’d done.) He passed his legacy on to me (and maybe to you, too), and I have so far failed to make proper use of it, but I know he’s still smiling at me, quietly, no doubt sipping from some bottle or other.

Note: Of course, everyone knows the Perfect Pop Song is “History Lesson, Pt. 2” by the Minutemen.