All My Sons

[written by Arthur Miller, 1947 – Production at the National Theatre, directed by Ivo van Hove, 2026]

All My Sons is more-or-less bulletproof. It has been compared to great Greek tragedy, particularly Oedipus (by the playwright himself, among others), and its power derives principally from the way the plot ambles like slow-moving lava, to its shattering conclusion.

That said, a production can diminish a great play, and in the new National Theatre, they have managed this to a degree. It is a long piece that takes a great deal of time and exposition to set up that great last act, so absent making some small cuts (possibly through legal negotiation and with all due respect to the author, now long departed) an interval would have come as something of a relief. The minimalist set was perfectly fine, although some variation would have been more satisfactory. The lighting and musical effects were distracting and, in the case of the music, intrusive and annoying.

I assume that we accept a mixed-race marriage in a small 1940s mid-west American town. Joe Keller (Bryan Cranston) is an engineering and manufacturing tycoon, who was away sick the day his company supplied a batch of dodgy parts for P-40 planes to the US Air Force that caused the deaths of 21 pilots. Spot welding was deployed to cover the cracks in the parts. The Keller’s eldest son, Larry, is missing in action, presumed dead, which Mrs. Keller (Marianne Jean-Baptiste) refuses to accept. Youngest son Chris (Paapa Essiedu) wishes to marry Larry’s girl, Ann (Hayley Squires), causing all sorts of psychological heat. Meanwhile, George (Tom Glynn-Carney), the son of Keller’s jailed business partner, arrives to allege that his dad took the fall for you-know-who.

The plot has more coincidences than an Agatha Christie whodunit, but it does play like a dream in Miller’s sure hand. In this production, the performances are a bit patchy. We give a shout out for Glynn-Carney as the damaged son of Keller’s business partner, although he is dressed like a meth-head. We also liked Cath Whitefield as the catty next-door neighbour, and Jean-Baptiste as Ma Keller, who balances well the salad of emotions she tosses about. Cranston is the star of course, but his performance was not bang-on: too many flourishes and he lacked (strangely) the inner menace of the protagonist. All that said, however, it is a production worth catching at a local cinema (as TVC did) as opposed to flying to London and handing over £250 for a theatre seat.