Arthur Miller
Headline:
The Arthur Miller Way
Synopsis:
Early Sunday morning on a winding road in Roxbury, Connecticut; a classic American setting. White clapboard houses with flags flickering in the breeze on the front porches; a cluster of SUVs parked outside white chapels as services take place. After miles of rolling hills, a drive marked only by a weathered and rusted mailbox leads to the house where an old blue road sign on the wall reads: "Miller Way".
The white, colonial-style two-storey where Arthur Miller has lived since 1957 is modest, and the grounds, while lush, are far from ornate. The air is balmy. It smells of freshly cut grass. There is a noise - the only noise other than birds chirping - and it sounds like a chain saw.
A side path leads to the back of the house and an expanse of immaculate green lawn. Through the screen door to the kitchen, a young, pretty woman is making coffee. She spots us, comes out and offers a friendly introduction. She has clear skin and wears no make-up. Fifty feet away, his back to us, Arthur Miller is bent over a leaf-blower. "Arthur!" she calls out. "Arthur!" The blower stops. Calmly, he puts the machine down and walks over, a tall and lithe octogenarian who moves, in spite of his age, with natural grace. He is wearing black jeans, trainers, a short-sleeved cream shirt. His arms, like his legs, are long and lean. He is strong. Face tanned and lined, dark eyes sunk in behind glasses, he towers above us, and as he says hello there is a quiet charm that is piercing and subtle. It is easy to be in his presence. Despite his 87 years, there is still a confident sex appeal. He pays attention. It is seductive.
- Publish date:
- 21 September 2003
- Author:
- Ariel Leve
- Source:
- Sunday Times Magazine
- Media:
