In many ways drama is the most similar medium to film: both use actors in dramatic situations and take advantage of visual and verbal composition to portray themes and meaning. In Edward Albee’s play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? there are very few stage directions especially in terms of setting: there are stairs, a bar, a front door leading into the living room, and even wind chimes that hang near the door, but all of the action takes place in one room: the living room. However, in Mike Nichols’ 1966 film adaptation of the play, the camera follows characters in the house (in the closet, kitchen, and bedroom), around the house (in the yard, on the porch, through the college campus), and even on a car ride to a desolate roadhouse. Desmond and Hawkes state in their book Adaptation: Studying Film & Literature, “film audiences expect realism, stage audiences will accept artificial sets and illusion” (162). It is clear that Nichols and his production team had this thought in mind while filming Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? because through the changes in setting and character in an attempt to make it more realistic, the film loses the play’s absurdist qualities that exist to enhance the conflict of reality and illusion. I am defining reality as what is verifiable fact and illusion as false creation of the mind.
Although Albee did not consider himself a part of the Theater of the Absurd movement, he is often included alongside absurdist playwrights such as Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet, and Eugene Ionesco. This is mostly due to the fact that some of his early plays were much more absurdist than his most popular Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. Martin Esslin includes a section on Albee in his famous book The Theatre of the Absurd and argues that Albee “comes into the category of the Theater of the Absurd because his work attacks the very foundations of American optimism” (225). Albee himself explains his knowledge of Absurdist theater as such:
The Theater of the Absurd is an absorption-in-art of certain existentialist and postexistentialist philosophical concepts having to do, in the main, with man’s attempts to make sense for himself out of his senseless position in a world which makes no sense -- which makes no sense because the moral, religious, political and social structures man has erected to “illusion” himself have collapsed. (Stretching My Mind 8).
Even though Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is not considered a “perfect” absurdist play, it does include many of the prominent characteristics, such as: no solid plot, black humor, minimal staging, illogical and irrational actions, and the expression of basic human fears and anxieties. Within the play, Albee has created four characters that that each struggle with the illusions they have built in order to keep reality at bay: Martha and George’s imaginary son, Nick’s stud facade, and Honey’s “hysterical” pregnancy. The film manages to portray most of these illusions on screen but some are diminished through the changes in setting. The abstract setting typical of absurdist theater is meant to represent fear: fear of the outside world, fear of one’s place in the world, fear of the unknown. This is why most sets are very minimalistic. In Albee’s play, all that is said for the setting is “The living room of a house on the campus of a small New England college.” However the scene never shifts to another room or outside. The illusion is played on the part of the audience; characters come and go into other parts of the house but they are really just exiting off-stage. In the film, the camera follows characters everywhere. What were once absurdist moments now become concrete realities.
As soon as Albee released his play to stage, it was stirring controversy because of its adult themes and unforgiving use of explicit language. This controversy, however, was also earning the play lots of money, and this potential commercial value is what led to Warner Brothers’ Studios obtaining the screen rights for the film only five years after the play’s initial performance. Warner Brothers’ Studios had three major contributors who shaped the content of the film itself. The first was Ernest Lehman, a screenwriter who, at the time, was most known for his adaptation of West Side Story (Robbins and Wise, 1961) more than for any of his original screenplays, such as North by Northwest (Hitchcock, 1959). Lehman wanted to take advantage of cinema’s potential for mobility and “open up” Albee’s play tremendously, but he ended up producing seven major drafts of the script before a final one was approved by the director, producers, and the Production Code Administration (PCA), which included little of Lehman’s original ideas to open up the play. The second major contributor was Jack Warner, one of the studio’s founders. He was constantly revising Lehman’s drafts with notes on what he thought would either take away from or add to the commercial value or what might get them in trouble with censors. The last and most influential contributor to the film was Mike Nichols, the film’s director. Nichols had worked mostly as a stage director and Virginia Woolf? was his first film. However, he considered Albee’s text “sacrosanct” and refused to alter it too much. In his article “Play into Film: Warner Brothers’ ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’,” Leonard J. Leff states that Nichols was “motivated by what he considered fidelity to Virginia Woolf,” which caused him to come into conflict with Lehman throughout much of the revision process. Despite the film being pushed from all different sides, it is still regarded by many critics as “one of the most successful conversions of an American drama into cinema” (Leff 466). However, this does not mean there were not criticisms of it as both a film and an adaptation.
One major issue critics had with the film were the casting choices. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor were cast as George and Martha by Warner and Lehman’s decision. In Stephen J. Bottoms’ book Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?: Plays in Production, he discusses how Albee’s preferred acting choices were Bette Davis and James Mason, “which would have resulted in Bette Davis talking about herself in the opening scene” (49), which would have led the film down an entire new path of blurring the lines of illusion and reality. However, despite Albee’s preferences, and popular opinion, Lehman cast Burton and Taylor. Many felt Burton was an appropriate casting, but Taylor was too young, being 33 when cast as the 52 year old Martha. Even though Taylor gained over 20 pounds and used aging makeup to appear older, her reputation as a beauty icon in Hollywood ultimately influenced audience perception of her performance: Bottoms goes on to say that “the presence of Burton and Taylor distracted attention from a proper appreciation of Albee’s script” (59) and Sarris agrees, saying that “without Burton, the film would have been an intolerably cold experience.” However, I have to disagree with the idea that because they were big stars with big reputations, they detracted from the text’s value. This goes back to Nichols’ idea that the text is “sacred” and in some way better than any film adaptation could be. Not only did Burton and Taylor bring in most of the film’s revenue, but their presence in the film enhances the overall theme of illusion and reality: By casting such popular actors, one would think the film would immediately lose the “quasi-documentary feel” that Nichols was hoping to achieve (Bottoms, 51), but Burton and Taylor had a similar relationship to George and Martha in their real lives. Burton and Taylor were married and divorced twice and had a toxic but passionate relationship. With their many drunken fights and insatiable lust for each other, it is impossible to say they did not bring some of that passion and hate onto the screen itself, enlivening the script with real emotion.
In his 1966 review for The Village Voice, Andrew Sarris calls the film a “timidly faithful” adaptation, giving it little praise and claiming that the additions made by Nichols and Lehman in the film were “matters of microscopic analysis” (Sarris). Sarris has many problems with the film, from casting choice to camera work, but one of his big issues is the roadhouse scene. In the film, after George and Nick’s conversation about Nick’s desire to sleep his way to the top at the university, Nick reenters the house and attempts to get Honey to leave. George then offers to drive them home, and the next shot is the four of them in a car screeching out of a driveway. They stop as they pass a roadhouse and Honey says “Why don’t we dance? I’d love some dancing.” (140). The roadhouse scene contains two important scenes from the play: the revelation about George’s novel and George’s game of “Get the Guests.” Leff argues that the entire roadhouse scene is “the most strongly acted in the film” but goes on to criticize it as a symbolic element, saying it is “less than successful as a setting” (462). According to Lehman, the roadhouse scene was one of the only major changes he created that made it into the cut of the final script, defending the scene as a necessary addition of realism: he assumed audiences would, as he had himself, question the reason that Nick and Honey stayed at George and Martha’s as long as they did with no real attempt at leaving. I think that the roadhouse is more successful as a setting than given credit. By having the characters go to a bar located on the outskirts of town it helps to emphasize the play’s themes of both isolation and alcoholism. Roadhouses also have a typically disreputable image, and all of the things that are spoken about or happen in the roadhouse scene are considerably disreputable: Martha’s sexual dancing with Nick, George’s failure as an author, George’s physical attack on Martha, Honey’s unsuccessful pregnancy, and Nick’s marriage of Honey for her money.
However, the entire idea of Nick and Honey engaging in such a voyeuristic and masochistic action is one of the important absurdist elements that the play’s original setting helps emphasize. Nick and Honey are not trapped by the house physically; they could leave if they wanted to. What they are trapped by is what leaving the house would represent. The couple stay in the house, entranced by the absurdity of the situation they have gotten into, unaware that they are looking into their own future. To leave before they do at the end of the play would leave them stuck in their own illusions, saying something like “Oh, we’ll never be like them.” By having them witness the “exorcism”, Nick and Honey may choose to become more honest with each other, to attempt to live without illusions before they build their entire lives around them as Martha and George did. The film not only changes the setting, but also allows the couple a temporary escape. After George airs Nick and Honey’s dirty laundry in the “Get the Guests” game, Nick and Honey leave the bar and begin walking down the highway back to the town. Even though everything the film changes makes the idea of Nick and Honey more realistic, it diminishes the original absurdist effect of having the characters stay in the house under their own accord.
The roadhouse scene in the film also provides a battledome for George and Martha, and contains the first real break in illusion. In the film, Martha speaks a line that is not in the play but shatters the illusion of the “bergin” scene: In the play, Martha and Honey are upstairs as George relates a “true” story to Nick about a young man he knew in his youth. The young man accidentally killed his mother and when he was out drinking he ordered a “bergin and water” (95), which became the joke of the evening. George goes on to tell about how the boy also later accidentally kills his father in a car accident and goes mentally insane. It is left ambiguous as to what the significance to the “bergin” scene really is: is George the young man he speaks about in the story? Is it really just his novel summary as Martha says or is it based on a true story? However, in the film Martha’s added line clears things up:
“Oh boy. You really are having a field day, aren’t you? Well, I’m going to finish you before I’m through with you. Before I’m through with you, you’ll wish you’d died in that automobile, you bastard.”
This line provides a sudden break in the film that lets the audience in behind the curtains of illusion set forth by Albee’s structure. It could be argued that Martha is just playing along with the fantasy when she says this, but the passion in Taylor’s eyes and voice gives the line a powerful truth. By learning that George’s story is in fact a real anecdote from his past, it collapses the illusions built around George, not for him, but for the audience. What could have been seen as absurdist actions could now be explained as motivations from his past. George now becomes a figure of realism amongst Martha’s illusions.
Another significant moment that makes an ambiguous scene in the play more realistic is the opening scene with Martha’s “What a dump!” speech. In the play, Martha alludes to the Bette Davis film, Beyond the Forest, which goes unnamed in the play and in the film. In his article “The Role of Beyond the Forest in Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?,” Carlos Campo discusses the similarities between the two stories, focusing specifically on Martha and Rosa, the lead role in Beyond the Forest. He focuses on the specific descriptors Martha uses when talking about Bette Davis, calling her a “housewife” and “discontent” (6-7). In the play, we get the sense that Martha is actually speaking about herself when she says the line “She’s discontent” (7), but when she says “What a dump” after walking into the house, the reader does not know the difference between truth and illusion; is the house an actual mess or does she mean this in a sarcastic way? In the film, the audience gets to see that the house is a “dump” in the sense that there are dirty dishes and clothes strewn everywhere throughout the house. As Campo says in his article: “What does Martha do during the day when George is teaching? Sleep? She certainly is not a member of the P.T.A. She doesn't impress you as the type that spends her time in aerobics classes” (172). She is also clearly not cleaning the house, one of the main duties of the typical “housewife.” By being able to watch Martha shove dirty clothes under the bedsheets and put used dishes into desk drawers, the film debases the illusion that Martha attempts to build between the comparison of herself to Bette Davis’ character. In a way this does help to enhance the absurdist concept of attempting to create meaning where there is none, but ultimately by showing that the house is a dirty mess, the film leans more towards George as a protagonist. In absurdist drama, the characters are typically coupled off in equally interdependent pairs. The film, however, pushes strongly for George to be the protagonist not by making his character more likeable or redeemable, but by making Martha worse. Whereas in the play both characters are equally terrible people, by letting us see that the house is a dump and watching George attempt to clean Martha’s mess, the audience sympathizes with him.
Another important illusion Martha creates to attempt to fulfil the housewife illusion is the false son. Leff sheds light on how the child proved to be a difficult point of adaptation for Lehman:
Albee’s imaginary child demonstrated how lack of clarity could jeopardize a work. In a generally realistic play, the child compromises reality. That Lehman considered eliminating or altering it is not surprising: ever since opening night, it had subjected Virginia Woolf to negative comment. (456)
According to Leff, in an early draft of the film script, Lehman decided to make the child real. There was an entire added scene where the audience learns that the child had killed himself as a teenager and the film would end with George and Martha in the child’s bedroom. As soon as he read this, Nichols immediately cut it from the script, wanting to stay as faithful as possible not only to Albee’s original plot but also to the meaning that the child holds. As Leff says, the child compromises reality, that is, he compromises the believability of the film. However, the film does attempt to push the child more onto Martha; we get a sense that Martha is the one who originally came up with the idea of the son and that George was just humoring her, as he does throughout the play starting with the Bette Davis argument. Whenever the characters speak about the son, Elizabeth Taylor’s Martha does so with much more intensity than Richard Burton’s George, implying that Martha has a much larger investment in the preservation of the illusion of the child. This once again pushes the audience’s sympathy towards George and furthers him as the protagonist of the film. George becomes the symbol of realism attempting to cope with the illusions built up by Martha. The film climaxes with George killing Martha’s “son,” standing over her as she lies on the floor crying.
By changing the play’s dynamic from a couple searching for meaning together to a husband forcing meaning on his wife, the final scene of the film seems almost contradictory. In the play, the stage directions read as follows:
GEORGE: (Puts his hand gently on her shoulder; she puts her head back and he sings to her very softly) Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf,
Virginia Woolf,
Virginia Woolf,
MARTHA: I… am… George
GEORGE: Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf….
MARTHA: I… am… George… I… am….
(George nods, slowly)
(Silence; tableau)
CURTAIN
While the end of the play leaves the reader feeling uncertain as to whether or not George and Martha have really ended their charades, the end of the film seems to offer a solid, hopeful ending. After Nick and Honey finally leave, Martha sits on a window bench and George stands next to her, stroking her hair and her arm. Already there is a higher level of compassion than in the play. When the scene reaches the lines above, George has already had his hands on Martha and she reaches up and grabs his hand. The final lines are read as the camera zooms in slowly on the shot of their clasped hands and ends with a shot of the dawn outside. To end the film with this image of solidarity and the idea of the “new dawn” approaching, it would imply that the illusions have been lifted from George and Martha’s lives and they will work together, in the real world, to overcome their problems. However, this scene immediately follows the violent “exorcism” scene in which George establishes his influence and power over Martha. Burton delivers his lines with coldness and as the shot fades into the image of the dawn, the musical score that plays during the opening credits plays again. All of this implies that nothing has actually changed in terms of reconciling their relationship and that the same day is starting over again.
Despite all of the complicated steps taken to make Albee’s play realized on screen, Nichols, Warner, and Lehman successfully created a close adaptation. However, despite all of Nichols’ efforts to remain as close to Albee’s original text as possible, his interpretation offers a more harsh distinction between what is actually real and what was created by characters in the play and George becomes the protagonist and the victim of Martha’s illusions. It could be argued that this is because film itself is a more realistic medium and seeing many of the illusions of the play visualized on screen helps the audience grasp the inner workings of the absurdist play. But I think that the absurdist elements of the play are what contribute most to the tragic conflict of searching for meaning where there is none and that since the adaptation takes these elements away, it not only simplifies George and Martha’s complex psychology but also diminishes the play’s intended purpose: to have the audience explore and discover their own illusions.
No comments:
Post a Comment