In the dimmed demountables where memories linger, Ms McLean’s voice reverberates like a banshee’s lament – a harbinger heralding my first ill-fated rendezvous with Arthur Miller’s Everyman. How I raged against Willy Loman then, my youthful fury rending his tattered reveries into oblivion. A deceiver, a bigot – I abhorred all he embodied, this paragon of delusion drowning in capitalism’s merciless undertow.
Yet the tides of time cast their alchemic spell, and through Anthony Lapaglia’s transcendent artistry, I found myself enraptured anew by this spectre.
For here was a man whose flaws mirrored humanity’s fragile condition, each faltering step a bittersweet pavane with the American Dream’s siren song.
