All My Sons, Arthur Miller. Clwyd Theatr Cymru

When Arthur Miller’s All My Sons made its stage debut in 1947, it must have been at its rawest and most powerful for audiences. Taking the subject of war profiteering and the effect conflict has on families, the play was as relevant as it would ever be. Almost 60 years later, those themes can still be applied to more modern conflicts – from Vietnam to Afghanistan – but the post-World War Two setting remains the ace up its sleeve.

Three years ago, businessman Joe Keller was exonerated after being charged with knowingly shipping damaged aircraft engine cylinder heads from his factory, which ultimately led to the deaths of 21 pilots. His business partner Steve Deever took the blame and was jailed, but during the trial maintained that Keller was just as responsible for the deaths, having been made aware of the faulty parts in a telephone call. That telephone call could not be proven in court, and Keller claimed he was ill with pneumonia at the time.

This incident hangs over the characters in All My Sons like Death’s scythe. Joe’s wife Kate still mourns the disappearance of her son Larry during the war – she resolutely refuses to believe he is dead, only missing in action, and hangs her hopes on him turning up again some day. And woe betide anybody who says he won’t…

Then there’s her other son Chris, a man riddled with guilt over the loss of his Company during the war but whose one shot at happiness is to marry his missing brother’s one-time sweetheart, Ann. That prospect does not go down well with Kate, whose insistence that Ann is “Larry’s girl” and that Larry will be back one day means Chris faces upsetting his mother on a pretty permanent basis.

What really happened between Joe Keller and Steve Deever in 1943 is at the heart of the entire play. Joe may have been cleared of any wrongdoing, but people have long memories, including Deever’s family and the judgemental neighbours. The play explores the theme of guilt – what it does to feel it, and how it feels to try and ignore it – and culminates in almost apocalyptic scenes of heartrending betrayal and heartfelt refrains. The play may start off peaceful and sunny, but by the end almost every single principal character has had their own personal epiphany.

The acting standards are as high as you’d expect with Kate Wasserberg at the helm. Sian Howard communicates the power of a mother’s devotion well (her Helen Alving in last year’s Ibsen classic Ghosts at Mold was a revelation), but here adds a steely edge that makes Kate a force not to be reckoned with. Howard is mesmeric both when speaking and when listening to others – she has an icy glare that could freeze you in your tracks, and a guttural growl that would make the hardest of men jump.

Ian Burfield’s Joe Keller is a slow-burning turn. Joe starts out as a devil-may-care father who just wants a quiet life, but there are secrets in this man and by the end they’re all out and fair game for an emotive climax.

Mark Bailey’s set lit by Nick Beadle

The rest of the cast are no less effective – Catrin Aaron’s Ann is delightfully elegant, sweet and righteous. Matthew Bulgo’s vengeful George Deever makes for a sad, shabby figure. He wears a suit too big for him, he is unshaven and unkempt, the underdog fighting too strong a tide. In that way he is the archetypal Miller anti-hero. There are smaller roles for Christian Patterson, Alex Parry, Elin Phillips and Victoria John as the Kellers’ neighbours, but John in particular gets some juicier lines which make it abundantly clear what the community really thinks – but never admits – about Joe.

The powerhouse at the centre of the play is Simon Holland Roberts as Chris Keller. He starts off as a lovestruck bachelor desperate to move forward with his life, away from the horrific memories of war and toward a new chapter of peace and happiness with Ann. But through the play this placid facade gives way to simmering frustration, and finally explosive anger, and Roberts gives a powerful, intimidating performance, punctuated with moments of both fear and ire. When he gets to read Ann’s letter, sit back in your chair and witness a volcano explode!

Mark Bailey’s set resembles a half-finished Magritte, a sky blue backdrop peppered with fluffy clouds and a house with a fractured structure, a home built upon uneasy foundations. I have no idea if this was Bailey’s intention, but for me the entire set reminded me of an Airfix kit, those plastic frames from which you have to twist and snap out individual parts that make up the greater whole. The floor was a metallic aircraft wing, complete with rivets, a reminder that the truth surrounding the deaths of those 21 pilots is a constant itch to be scratched. Nick Beadle’s lighting complements the set beautifully, and he really comes to the fore in the final act when the usually sun-drenched stoops become soaked in blood red.

Sian Howard as Kate Keller

Arthur Miller agonised over perfecting All My Sons for two years before vowing that if it failed to be picked up for production, he would quit the theatre and write in other forms instead. All My Sons was, thankfully, picked up, but despite Miller’s careful work in making the play as good as it could be, I do think it could have been trimmed a little toward the end. There’s a great deal of histrionics in Act 2 and I don’t think it’s possible to carry an audience along on this climactic crest for as long as the play tries. It’s all very well written, but I felt there was too much climax, and the resolution could have chimed in a little sooner.

Still, who am I to try and edit a play that saved one of the 20th century’s greatest playwrights from obscurity, and won a New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award and two Tony awards?

All My Sons is not just about Joe and Kate’s offspring, it’s about every single man who fought in World War Two and lost their life. As Joe admits, those wartime heroes are all his sons. But with fatherhood comes great responsibility, and sometimes, it’s hard to look that responsibility in the eye.