February 20, 2019
I very much wanted to come away from
the new theatrical adaptation of Harper
Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird feeling
as if it was playwright Aaron Sorkin’s
finest hour, or something as magnificent as his classic TV creation, The West Wing, but I’m a little sad to
report that I didn’t. I hasten to add, only a little sad, because I had a perfectly nice time in its presence. I
found the storytelling clear, the dialogue tasty enough, the characterization
and performances adequately memorable, and the direction by Bartlett Sher sensitive and clean.
None
of which is easy to accomplish, none of which is to be minimized; especially in
the service of reinterpreting a story that is not merely classic, but one of those stories embedded in the national
consciousness of its origin country. Not only is it a signature work of the
American spirit, in its bittersweet celebration of that which makes us best
when faced with the worst of circumstances, dignity in defeat, and the nature
of unexpected justice…but it resonates like crazy in the current political
climate. Certainly racism has been far from solved in the new millennium, but
increasingly since the 60s, and especially in the America of Obama, we at least
knew what balance looked like, and we
had a paradigm if not an ideal. But in the backslide that is Trump, To Kill a Mockingbird seems as fresh as
MSNBC’s last 24 hours.
And
Sorkin not only, obviously, knows this, but has endeavored to tacitly address
ancillary issues. Most significantly, he does this by broadening the portrait
of defense lawyer Atticus Finch (Jeff
Daniels); while he remains the stoic icon of fair-minded tolerance for all,
and considers the humanity even in those most bigoted, he also now bears the
weight of that (in a manner that made me think a little bit of Sir Thomas More,
as dramatized in Robert Bolt’s A Man for
All Seasons), and particularly in moments between him and Calpurnia, his
black housekeeper (LaTanya Richardson Jackson), we’re allowed to
see (and he’s allowed to realize) where his orthodoxy in the matter can sometimes
be a flaw as much a strength. (Put in more newsy
terms, he is forced to consider that there are not always good people on both
sides.)
The
story is presented in a manner so fluid as to be almost black box (the sets [Miriam Buether] are explicit, but also
minimal, and movement among them seems unimpeded by the need to wait for them
to change). And whereas in the novel, the narration is provided solely by
Atticus’s daughter Scout, here it is traded between her (Celia Keenan-Bolger), her brother Jem (Will Pullen) and Dill Harris (Gideon
Glick), a perspicacious neighbor boy with a sad secret, who becomes their
best friend. All three are played by young-seeming but unmistakably adult
actors, allowing for the verisimilitude of childhood wrapped in a memory play.
All to the good and all as much a celebration of theatrical poetry as
Americana.
And
yet…and yet…and yet…when it ended, I was—how shall I put this—more satisfied
than gratified. As I say, I thought all hands delivered professionally,
admirably, reliably, and did the assignment honor. This is a smart, smart,
relevant, sometimes moving piece of theatre. But I had so wanted to be knocked on my tailbone by it, and I simply
wasn’t.
If I was forced to say why…it may be that the clear, concise, messagy,
verbal writing for which I so admire Sorkin, that so crackles on
television, in his own storytelling universes…is perhaps, by mere
degrees, not quite an alchemical match to the source material. (Whereas
Horton Foote, who made a career of deceptively unassuming and
plain-dialogue writing, was the perfect match for the material when he adapted it for the screenplay.) I
don't know. I'm not sure. Your mileage may vary—and heaven knows, the
record-breaking box office take
indicates that it may well—but I personally found this To Kill a Mockingbird to be solid and worthwhile, in every respect;
and the theatrical groundbreaker it’s repped to be,
in none.
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