All My Sons
By Arthur Miller
Directed by Scott Edmiston
Lyric Stage Boston
September 18-October 18, 2026
The present MAGA moment often harkens back to America after World War II, when our country has king of the heap, white men ran the show, their wives stayed home, and people of color were, well, pretty much never considered. But undercurrents of doubt and discontent existed, even then, which prompted some playwrights to raise uncomfortable questions. So it’s notable that today, many theater companies are dusting off chestnuts from that era and offering them as a contrapuntal perspective to our current moment.
ART’s production of Eugene Ionesco’s anti-Fascist masterpiece, Rhinoceros (alas, only through September 27, and completely sold out), is a solid production with a stellar cast. Seeing Paul Giametti transform from petty bureaucrat to rhinoceros is worth the price of a ticket. But the whole enterprise left me cold. Ionesco was a driving force in “Theater of the Absurd,” and an essential characteristic of the Absurd is that the actors don’t play real people. They’re types or symbols, widgets in the apocalypse of dread suspended between World War II and nuclear Armageddon. Surface frivolity (poorly) masks existential doom. I understand it, intellectually. But Ionesco lacks the warmth of humanity that I cherish on stage. And when we hear rhinoceros stampede across ART’s huge stage with such precision, Fascism’s march toward uniformity feels like something happening ‘over there.’ Which is the exact opposite of the urgency our present moment demands.
A more satisfying exploration of twisted values that thrive in post-War America just opened at Lyric Stage: Arthur Miller’s All My Sons. Lyric’s small stage and intimate seating; a plot centered on four households that actually only occupy three adjacent houses; the earnest Midwest setting; this p[production distills moral bankruptcy to its most elemental level.
The set is terrific. A 1920’s era bungalow, distorted to cubist angles, provides the backdrop for all the action takes place in the front yard. Neighbors come and go. Everyone seems so wholesome. Eldest son Larry’s plane went down over the Pacific three and a half years ago, and Mother’s inability to accept the obvious appears to be the biggest problem on the table.
The first act starts a bit sluggish. Miller’s dialogue of anticipatory domestic events is clunky and the cast seems unsettled. Until the minutiae gains momentum. Then, the plot soars, the dialogue zings, and the actor’s raise their pitch. Bill Mootos, a longtime Boston actor, delivers likely the best performance of his career as father, Joe Keller. By the end of Act Three, everyone in the cast has you poised uncomfortable on your seat. This is not some intellectual exercise. These are real people. People we want to think of as good. Doing terrible things, and swallowing the necessary compromises to salve their consciences. The kind of compromise too many of us make every day, simply to get up and put one foot in front of the other.
Go see All My Sons. Care about these folks. Search your own soul to determine what reflection resides therein. Then look around see how far we haven’t come in the last eighty years.
