Arthur Miller’s Pulitzer-winning 1949 play has lost none of its potency in the last 75 years. Indeed, in our current terrible moment of economic anxiety, the heaviest weight on Willy Loman’s back – the need to make his mortgage payments even as he’s rendered obsolete – will be familiar to many audience members, although perhaps one step removed. Director Neil Armfield and resident director Therésa Borg anchor this production in the period of the play’s genesis, but the themes remain timeless – beautifully and excruciatingly so.
Anthony LaPaglia is our Willy Loman, making his Sydney stage debut at the Theatre Royal in the role that earned him standing ovations when this production debuted in Melbourne. Weighed down by years, responsibilities, and his own bulk, LaPagia’s Loman prowls the stage muttering, half lost in memories, pinning all his hopes on the illusory successes of his adult sons: wastrel womaniser Happy (Ben O’Toole) and former golden boy Biff (Josh Helman), high school football star turned frustrated drifter. Willy’s wife, the long-suffering Linda (Alison Whyte) dutifully dithers around her husband and boys, until she too fractures under the weight of Willy’s unrealised ambitions.
LaPaglia makes for an incredibly obstinate and frustratingly obtuse Willy, his crippling insecurities masked by a thick armour cast from bluster and bravado.
Yes, it’s all about the American Dream and the failures thereof – but it’s worth noting that the American Dream has always been America’s chief export, and we’ve all had at least a taste of it, and of the often empty promises of capitalism. The action plays out against the bleachers and faded signage of Ebbets Field, the site of the apogee of Biff’s football career, now gone to pot. The ensemble sits there in the shadows, watching – along with us, of course – the drama play out, patiently waiting to fret their own hour upon the stage. Do the characters feel the weight of their gaze and ours, as the silent social pressure to make their mark, to win? Maybe that read is too metaphysical, but Dale Ferguson’s set frames the narrative effectively and elegantly, nonetheless.
Besides, it’s an actors’ play, right? And Willy Loman is one of the great stage roles of the 20th century. LaPaglia makes for an incredibly obstinate and frustratingly obtuse Willy, his crippling insecurities masked by a thick armour cast from bluster and bravado. Finally, local audiences have their chance to see why one of our greatest acting exports has been gathering accolades on the New York stage, and there couldn’t really be a better role for it.
Meanwhile, Alison Whyte’s Linda is eggshell-brittle, and so how appropriate it is that her voice cracks a little when she finally holds Biff and Happy to account. Marco Chiappi brings a louche, Tom-Waits-like energy to the role of Charley, Willy’s neighbour and frenemy, and arguably the beaten-down voice of reason here. Ben O’Toole imbues Happy with a sense of desperate enthusiasm, his cheerfulness masking a deep and aching hollowness.
But it’s Josh Helman as Biff who really impresses – and in an ensemble of this calibre, that’s not faint praise. Helman’s having a big week, as he also has a major role in the just-released Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, albeit under a considerable amount of prosthetic make up. Here, he’s all but naked – his broad-shouldered bohunk physique may project strength, but his posture and inarticulateness scream trauma. Biff is torn between several competing drives: his love for his father, his knowledge of the man’s failings, and his desire to live his life on his own terms. Helman gives a genuinely incredible performance.
What’s striking about the overall production is how it contrasts the physicality of its performers with the increasingly hazy state of Willy’s mind, as the story vacillates between the present and his often treacherous memories. The structure is inherent in the text, but Armfield’s direction blurs the borders between past and present, and reality and imagination, in sly and intriguing ways. The play's considerably hefty running time, clocking in at just over three hours, doesn't seem to lag at all – another rather striking feat.
Meanwhile, the costumes (also by Dale Ferguson, with Sophie Woodward) are all solid colours and shapes, their heavy drape and visual presence reinforcing the flesh-and-blood actuality of the characters wearing them – reminding us that fantasy is only ever a temporary escape from ourselves. LaPaglia’s Loman – often appearing in his slightly old-fashioned, scrupulously kept three-piece suit – is closed off and hidebound. By contrast, Helman’s Biff – stripped to shirt-sleeves and suspenders in the second act – is an open wound.
We could go on – there’s so much to praise here. With a classic work like Death of a Salesman, there’s always the risk of going rote – of falling back on accepted interpretation, to embrace the canonical reading. Miller’s words have such gravity that it’s easy to simply fall into the established orbit. What sets this interpretation apart is the sense that Armfield and his company are earnestly grappling with the play, working hard to draw out the emotional truths that live within the words. It’s not exactly reinventing the wheel – rather it’s returning to first principles, and understanding how and why the thing works at all. And it does work, it works a treat.
Death of a Salesman is playing a limited season at the Theatre Royal Sydney until June 23, 2024. Tickets are on sale now via salesmanaustralia.com.au.
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