Forestage center in raincoat stands weathered, gray-haired Mr. Peters backed by his brother (middle aged, long-since dead) Calvin. A scrim in front and curtain in the rear peel away (as, eventually, do Mr. Peters' thoughts) to reveal men surveying a brown-and-purple, decrepit NYC jazz club. "September Song" lingers in the air. At his wife's request, Mr. Peters considers buying the place. Already haunted by Adele, a black phantasm who's found her "home" complete with makeshift fireplace-turned-lectern on the alcoved stage, the premises lend themselves to reveries. Having just bought new shoes for his hard-to-fit feet, and with Calvin acting like (or being?) the eager-to-sell proprietor, is it any wonder Mr. Peters finds the top of a tilted piano a good place to stretch out and snooze? From here on, his stream of connections flows mostly among past reveries.
He was an international pilot when that meant something and a lover of now-dead women, countless except for Cathy-May. A statuesque Marilyn Monroe giggle-alike and look-alike, except for her long Jayne Mansfield hair, Cathy-May appears as his most unforgettable mistress. She's so beautiful in her filmy sheer dress, no wonder he grasps as if to try to ground her. Nothing so sensuous lasts, though. Thus come unpleasant thoughts of her husband and final memories of her nude and silly, as well as staggering, falling, needing Mr. Peters' help. "Just One of Those Things" goes the tune. Mr. Peters' mind roams between reality and dream, among subjects as diverse as libraries, religion (does he fear God, now that he's old?), Marxism, Trotsky, Vietnam, Freud. Was he self-satisfied? Rose, a dancer (revealed at the finale as his daughter), and her friend Leonard appear, to Adele's distress. But the young lovers listen to Peters' talk of history, and even Adele will dance. Mr. Peter cries into reality "Charlotte!" His wife bursts in and goes with Rose to the ladies' toilet. They talk kitchen talk, and then the men come back from the upstairs toilet. (There seems to be a symbolism or other importance about the toilet that I didn't catch.) In a sort of soliloquy, Mr. Peters from his chair tries to make sense of his past, life now, and what he should think -- if at all -- of the future. Rose pleads with him and they embrace, declaring their mutual love. At the end, they appear together, forestage center, his daughter behind him. The close of a full circle.
Despite some "connections" that resist explication on first viewing, Miller's surrealistic play is obviously a memorable character study with an optimistic resolution. Life is to be held on to, no matter what discouragements about its meaning occur along the way, because where love is present, life is worthwhile. Love is also an identifying factor.
On the Paris stage, audience connections to Mr. Peters are made especially satisfying by the complex performance of Michel Aumont in the title role. By turns crusty and sweet, cynical and hopeful, self-centered and willing to give of self, questioning and finding, he seems to incarnate the difficult hero. He's so good, one wishes he had a French-equivalent name. Ramata Koite's perhaps a bit too-good-looking Adele is forceful and without any autobiographical connection to the author. Statuesque Patricia Franchino handles frontal nudity without being self-conscious, resisting parody well. Similarly, Evelyne Dandry successfully tries not just to "key" the pert, take-charge Mrs. Peters to fact. Joan Titus dances as well as acts vivaciously. The supporting men are effective but less individualized. Director Lavelli and adaptor Belli have made the play zing for a French audience but kept it as Miller/American as possible. Except for its language and the unclear (like the "Confusion" of the French title) toilet symbolism, this could be thought of as a definitive production.
