A Great American Tradition: Family Dysfunction as Theater

You think your family is dysfunctional? You don’t know the half of it until you’ve seen August: Osage County, a new play by Tracy Letts that somehow, against all odds, opened on Broadway a couple of weeks ago. First of all, it blew into town from Chicago and was immediately halted by the recent stagehands strike; it is a mind-boggling three acts (curtain is at 7:30 to accommodate its length) and, believe it or not, there’s no tap dancing except, maybe, for what the occasional rapid-fire and overlapping dialogue does on your brain pan.

The play is a throwback to those masters of American family dysfunction Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Lillian Hellman and, somewhat, Edward Albee (although the 80-year-old Albee is currently throwing himself back onto New York stages with new works). That is, August is a semi-epic family drama that combines almost every possible addiction into one traumatic month (or so) of pathetic, juicy, character revelations that pile up like a bag of steaming odour on the doorstep of this large, sprawling house set somewhere on the plains of Oklahoma (the program says it’s outside Pawhuska, but I’m not sure that’s on any map). Wherever the hell it is you know from the get-go that it’s on the edge of nowhere and this family is one group of either semi-nutcases or the real thing, but there’s a long way to go before the house empties itself out when all the characters see their chance for escape and head for the hills or, at least, exit rapidly stage left.

The thing is that when you start getting to know these people and as more background is filled in and your knowledge of family history increases and as a new twist is inserted into your ribs about every 15 minutes, this “heavy” family drama starts getting to your funny bone. When you think it couldn’t get any worse, it does! You stop thinking “holy cow” and muttering “oh, jeez” and the laughs start, the long and hearty kind. Your tears of sympathy dry up and you begin to realize these people pretty much deserve everything they’re getting and there’s just no saving them from the hellholes in which they’ve dug themselves. Unfortunately, the end-of-play plea for sympathy falls on deaf ears (at least mine)—there’s just nothing to base it on unless there is, possibly, a November: Osage County in the works.

I must insert here that the cast is an ensemble to die for but, still, I’ve got to individually mention an actress named Amy Morton (as the clan’s eldest daughter) who killed me all by herself. Love her, loved her.

All in all, it’s a long evening in the theater and when is the last time (in this day and age when a 90-minute one-act play is a common occurrence) you went to something that has two intermissions? It’s unheard of! But, you know what, this play needs three acts to get everything in and the seat of my pants never complained, the true sign of fascinating and absorbing theater.