The Glass Menagerie

The glass menagerie clusters on a small table, glittering and dancing in the beams of light. Its tiny creature prance without motion, craning their transparent necks and stamping their transparent feet. They inhabit a magic world in miniature.

The trouble with the Lowell House production of Tennessee William's The Glass Menagerie is just that: the magic world of memory and illusion that Williams tried to create exists only in the glass figurines. The rest of the play, except for a moment or two, is flat, prosaic, and pretty unmagical.

Williams wrote a play about people who inhabit the past and the present, and those who inhabit no time at all. There is Amanda Wingfield, a faded Mississippi belle stranded in the slums of St. Louis who is trying desperately to recapture the dead world of the Delta; Jim O'Connor, the gentleman caller, an engaging boor who represents the present Amanda is avoiding; Tom, Amanda's son, torn between love for his mother and sister and the desire to escape into the living world around him; and Laura, Amanda's daughter, a shy and delicately beautiful cripple who can cope with no world but that of her glass animals.

Jane Bullock, as Laura, is responsible for much of the success the play managers to attain. In the first scene, she is eating dinner, picking at her food with the nervous movements of a deer. From that moment, her tremulous voice and brittle gestures create the image of a glass girl who is just as fragile as her tiny companions.

As Amanda, Andrea Levinger never dominates the stage the way she is meant to despite her skillful use of the postures and phrases of the former Southern gentlewoman. She should be a grand figure, sweeping her son and daughter out of her path: but in this production she is only bitter, and their deference to her seems uncalled for.

Robert Mariotti, as Tom, fails to show the battle of his yearning for freedom with his affection for his family. His tone is too flat, too conversational, and the tension he should feel is not apparent. When he tries to be tender, he only whines; when he tries to be angry, he only shouts. The sharp insight he should have is muted and dull.

Percival H. Granger III, as Jim, might have rescued the production. He is the gentleman caller that Amanda tries to ensnare for Laura, and who turns out to be no gentleman at all. But Granger, instead of being the supremely confident and supremely ignorant shipping clerk, comes out as a well-modulated and understanding young man, inconsistent with his coarse treatment for Laura. His enthusiastic banalities should bring Laura temporarily out of her dream world; but he is often as withdrawn as she.

Joel Schwartz's direction is spotty. In places, the dialogue moves along smartly, but in other places there are awkward gaps. He has inserted a few clever bits of business, and some that are simply inappropriate: Amanda extends her hand to Jim to be kissed, and he shakes it instead. But then he holds her chair for her at the table, an unlikely action for someone who is socially left-footed.

William Buckingham's set is cramped and jury-rigged, even considering the difficulties of setting up in the House dining hall. The lighting often casts shadows over the actors' faces and is slow coming on. One technical touch is superb, however: a snatch of wistful carnival music used as the theme for the glass menagerie.