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II wouldn’t have seen the play Journey’s
End if a friend hadn’t suggested it. I knew
about the great reviews, but I felt as if
I’d had it up to here with war and its
depictions in art. The worshipping of
celebrities by this society has nearly
devoured all anti-war and war films from
years past, making the films almost
insufferable to sit through. As for an
antiquated play from 1928, I could only
imagine a similar, and predictable, ordeal.
Thankfully, my friend’s persistence
prevailed.
There’s more power in the play Journey’s End
than suggested by any of the many laudatory
reviews. So forceful was the play’s ending
that I felt as if I’d been catapulted
straight out of my seat onto the
pavement—and left reeling. When the full
power of the play hits, you simply aren’t
ready for it. Outside in front of the
Belasco Theatre, my friend and I were nearly
speechless—and for days afterward, I was
haunted by Journey’s End.
As a work of art, Journey’s End goes further
than any other creative endeavor I’ve
encountered in making the audience feel the
experience. The final moments of the play
make war come to life with an almost
unbearable shock. There’s no distancing
oneself from what’s happening onstage—and I
was reminded of the shattering poetry of
Wilfred Owen, the WWI poet who was killed at
age 27. Such is the power of R.C. Sherriff’s
play that it evokes Chekhov far more than it
does a film such as Saving Private Ryan.
What’s truly amazing about this play is that
there is absolutely nothing dated about the
writing. The acting, direction and design
are worthy of all praise received. And as
for Boyett Ostar Productions—they deserve
special mention for having the courage and
moral authority to bring this stunning work
to Broadway in 2007, our annus horribilis.
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