In the 1950s, my father worked as a photographer in New York, where his specialty was plays in rehearsal and the fauna of Broadway, which at that time constituted the center of the English theater world. Swelled by America’s economically dominant position after World War II, Broadway had surpassed in gross output—as well as in glamor—London’s West End, damaged and further impoverished by bombing and the expense of its devastating struggle. against Nazi Germany.
It was into this atmosphere of carefree and privileged triumph that I was born. My father mainly shot for Theater Arts Magazine and he could attend for free, sometimes with my mother, any drama or musical, often during the premieres. The prestige attached to our family name will not have been without importance in his professional career. It is impossible to ignore the living presence of his uncle Charles MacArthur, a playwright and screenwriter who, with Ben Hecht, wrote many famous plays and films over the previous three decades, including The Front Page, Twentieth Century And Wuthering Heights.
Additionally, “Charlie” was the husband of the “first lady of the American theater,” the actress Helen Hayes. My father was so proud of it that he gave me my third and fourth names, Charles Gordon, in honor of his uncle who died six weeks before my birth, in June 1956.
So imagine that later, during my childhood, when I delved into my father’s archives at the bottom of a large metal filing cabinet, I took out photos of the biggest stars of the time, some of whom were also very well known in the cinema: Henry Fonda and Jason Robards Jr., Julie Andrews and Mary Martin — not to mention illustrious directors like Elia Kazan and José Quintero, as well as the greatest set and lighting designer of the time, Jo Mielziner.
It made me dream of a life beyond everyday life. During a family vacation in New York in 1972 — long after our exile in the suburbs of Chicago — my father took us to dinner at Sardi’s, the legendary restaurant that fed the belle monde of Broadway, surrounded by the famous caricatures of actors suspended throughout the establishment. When, at the entrance, Vincent Sardi Jr. greeted my father like an old acquaintance, I was speechless with admiration.
And so one night, in our quiet house, far from the cosmopolitan bustle of Manhattan, I asked my father how he had been able to trade the sophisticated charm of Broadway for the commercial boredom of his new business career. , stuck in the great cultural void of the Midwest. To my great surprise, he brushed aside my romantic ideas: first, it was not possible to earn a comfortable living — especially after a third child (me) — on the modest and uncertain income of a photographer.
Second, all the plays he had seen during the first four years of his theatrical career did not even deserve mentions. Most were mediocre, or at least disappointing, so the adolescent excitement I felt at seeing his photographs was largely an illusion. Only one piece stood out during this itinerary, a creation that was truly worth appreciating and remembering — well, a work of art.
My father mentioned the play Long journey from day to night, autobiographical masterpiece by Nobel Prize winner Eugene O’Neill, published and first performed on Broadway on November 7, 1956, three years after his death. Given the tenor of his family’s distressing ills revealed in the script, the playwright did not want the play to be known until 25 years after his death, but his widow disobeyed. Consequently, my father was invited there, to the Helen Hayes Theater, and his photographs, alongside a very positive anonymous review, were published in the January 1957 issue of Theater Arts.
Long journey from day to night was a huge success, winning all the prestigious awards. As for me, however, I neither read nor watched nor contemplated it until I came across an interview in the Financial Times with British actor Brian Cox (famous for Succession), who is currently playing the lead role in a revival in London. How come I didn’t even know the plot?
I decided to interrupt a stay in Paris. With the Eurostar serving as a time machine, I went to the Wyndham Theater in the West End on the evening of April 11 to reconnect with my father and answer two questions: why was he so impressed by this play , and why had I pushed her away?
Do you know any alcoholics or drug addicts? If so, you have a good idea of how the lies within addiction eat away at the spirit of a family and a couple. Do you understand how greed and rivalry can deprive children not only of money, but also of love? This is the story of the O’Neill family (Irish) and my family (Scottish side), both decimated by premature deaths, each poisoned by the particularly American disease of the save-who-can – to the ethics of, let’s say, anti-self-help.
Eugene O’Neill’s genius lies in the details of the dialogue. I’m not going to tell you the whole story of his life – or mine. Better listen to his words.