Saturn
Returns has an
interesting
premise: it looks at three stages of a man’s life. What marks the
moments of
focus are the presence and departures of the most important women in
his life.
We see him as a young newlywed man, on the day he will impregnate his
wife, who
will later die giving birth to his daughter. We see him as a
late-middle aged
man on the day the grown daughter who has cared for him and lives with
him
finally determines to move out, going off to seek her independence and,
also,
alas, to later meet an untimely death. And we see him as an old man,
seeking
not only the help, but the companionship of a caregiver. The man,
Gustin, is
played by three different actors of appropriate ages (from youngest to
oldest, Robert
Eli, James Rebhorn, John McMartin). The women are all played by a single
actress (Rosie
Benton).
Lest
it seem like I describe Noah Haidle’s
play with unwarranted spoilers, I hasten to add, there’s not much in
the way of
fate that we don’t learn in the play’s first scene, because you see, we
meet
Gustin as an old man, looking back, reminiscing for the new caretaker.
And
therein lies the factor that prevents this sweet, little play from
being as
meaningful or indeed even as dramatic as I think it intends to be,
despite
being sensitively acted (by McMartin and Benton most especially) and
directed
(by Nicholas Martin).
Because
as Gustin looks back, he tells us what happened. And as the flashbacks
occur,
we see what
happened,
dramatized. Oh, there’s added detail, to be sure, but it’s all exactly,
in tone and substance,
as the older Gustin told us
it was; the character provides his own spoilers. Are there details and nuances
that surprise? Mildly,
perhaps; enough to keep things from getting dull—but there are no
places
where, say, the older Gustin has rewritten history or buried events
that are
too painful, or deceived himself, or others. In fact, quite the
reverse: in old
age and loss, he is painfully self-aware. So as the play progresses,
there’s
little in the way of suspense or the kind of revelation that lets a
memory play
rock, or at least resonate.
David
Rabe’s Vietnam war era
military
drama Streamers seemed
quite bracing for its time—it was originally produced in 1976—but
seeing it anew in 2008 makes one feel like its time has passed by. This
glimpse of
barracks life in a Stateside army post, whose inhabitants hope to
remain under
the radar lest they get sent off to war, seems now to be one of those
self-conscious exercises in shock confrontation, necessary then as a way of pushing the envelope and
expanding the
parameters of what could be acceptably dramatized, and perhaps what
needed to be said, but now more of an artifact, not dated so much as exposed. Wherein the delivery of some of the
characters—the openly flamboyant gay soldier, the rigorously closeted
one, the good guy black soldier and the volatile black soldier—seem
as much an assiduously selected cross-section as the party-ers in Mart
Crowley’s
1968 homosexual manifesto, The Boys in the Band. Even the random explosion of violence,
that makes
up what is arguably the show’s signature moment, seems far less
dangerous;
though a touch of that may be attributable to the production.
For under the
direction of Roundabout Theatre all-purpose mainstay, Scott Ellis, this revival, like so many of Mr.
Ellis’s others
(musical and un-), is accurate, understanding, ultra-competent to a
fault,
attention-holding and utterly professional, but never transcendent or
remarkable. The ensemble cast is likewise completely competent and
sufficient
unto the task. I don’t mean that as damning with faint praise—even
simple
accuracy is far from easy to pull off—nor do I mean to diminish what
must
have been a lot of soul-searching work, because this kind of material
requires
it. All I mean to say is that, alas, those of us on the receiving end
of all that
good, meticulous work aren’t feeling the howitzer heat.
**********
In
Danny Hoch’s Taking
Over, at
the Public Theatre, the
monologist plays, as usual, an assortment of characters relevant to his
theme,
but in this case, the theme is fraught with an ambiguity even he acknowledges. He is showing different
sides of the
gentrification experience as it has impacted neighborhoods dominated by
ethnic
cultures, i.e. black, Hispanic, Asian etc. On the one hand, general
maintenance
is way better, streets are cleaner, crime rates are down; on the other
hand,
higher rents are forcing longtime residents out, higher prices are
making it
hard to get by, and “whitebread” America is encroaching on the purity
of the ethnic
ambiance, often with ignorance and/or an undue sense of entitlement.
There
are things to be quite happy about, and no one wants to go back to the
old
ways, yet a pervasive sense of anger and resentment informs the
evening—including a segment where Hoch even steps out as himself to read
excerpts from (I assume) real audience members responding to his latest
evening. There’s not a one of them, even the most reasonable, whose
reading
isn’t colored by a certain amount of disdain—there seems to be a lot of
that if you’re not of my world, you’ll never understand, no matter
how hard
you try attitude
informing the
evening—and it defies you to level criticism, to be hip enough to
understand or perceptive
enough to find legitimate fault. If you're not "of the body," you're
wrong no matter what you
think.
As
always, Mr. Hoch proves himself to be roaringly talented, a master of
street
wit and sharp, versatile characterization…but in the end I got the
feeling
that, by having no strong conclusion of his own, he was trying to make
“society,” if not certain members of the audience, responsible for his
ambivalence. And I have to say, personally—because all you can do with Taking Over is respond to it personally—I didn’t
cotton
to that idea at all…
**********
While we're on the subject of
one-handers ... there’s
an interesting subgenre of monologue show that I think began—or at
least
conspicuously took hold—with Rob Becker’s Defending the Caveman back in the early 90s. It’s where a
person who is
really “only” a standup comedian shapes his act to concentrate on one
topic for
the length of a double set, and either by dint of organization or
confessional,
molds the monologue into a piece that is something of a play, i.e.
sturdy
enough that it can be assumed by another actor when the originating
performer
moves on. (Indeed, on Broadway, Becker was replaced by Michael Chiklis,
and in
the years between, Defending the Caveman has become a franchise, with numerous
actors booked out to perform it
regularly all over the world).
The
latest entry in this category is from comedian Mike Birbiglia, whose Sleepwalk with Me is landing very successfully with its
audience at
the Bleecker Street Theatre, or anyway, certainly was the night I
attended. To
lift a description from the show’s own website: “In his theatrical
debut,
comedian Mike Birbiglia takes the audience on a hysterically funny and
intensely personal journey through his struggles with sleepwalking and
his
reluctance to confront his fears of love, honesty and growing up.”
Interestingly, as told, the sleepwalking isn’t a manifestation of his
behavioral pathology, but rather something that exists side by side
with, and
enhances, it, because it’s yet another condition of life he must learn
to
confront.
Birbiglia
has a deceptively low-key delivery (like Steven Wright, without being
so
abstracted, or Michael Keaton, without being so frenetic), and compared
to most
comics, he presents himself as having been a long-developing babe in
the woods
about intimacy and sex; and with that “limited innocence,” to coin a
phrase,
works almost entirely “clean”—the four-letter expletives are few and
far
between—and also with a refreshing lack of hostility and outrage.
Rather,
he is an awed, often dumbfounded observer of his own life, trying to
make sense
of it all. Indeed, such may be among the key elements that
distinguishes a
standup “play” (such as this or Caveman)
from a standup rant, such as those brilliantly delivered by Bill
Maher and even more brilliantly by the late George Carlin. While the
latter two
are furious commentators who TELL you what’s what, guys like Birbiglia
and
Becker are on a quest for answers and understanding: a character is on
a journey of discovery.
Birbiglia
tells a quirky, sweet-sad/happy tale, and performs it engagingly, under
the
direction of Seth Barrish. I
would not be surprised if he, too, found a franchise in his future…
**********
The
Garden of Earthly Delights,
Martha Clarke’s
mid-80s,
hour-long choreographic rumination on the Hieronymus Bosch painting
about
earth, heaven and hell, seems yet another piece that was only bracing
for its
day. It’s best viewed now as
a forerunner of the more adult iterations of Cirque
du Solieil, and this
new revival
at the Minetta Lane is
perhaps
best approached as Cirque Lite, or
perhaps De La Guardia or Fuerzabruta for people who’d rather sit than
stand, observe
than participate, remain in place than move and be at a safe distance
rather than
have the show all up in their faces. And I rather suspect its producers
mean to tap into
fans of the Cirque niche. I
wish I had more to say about it, but I’d just advise you to search
online for a graphic of the painting (the largest online reproduction
would
seem to be here: http://homepage.mac.com/kennyneal/jei/050825bosch01.jpg
-- be sure to click on the image so it magnifies; drag the magnified
version to your desktop and you can magnify it more still.). Take a
long, lingering look.
If a minimalist yet acrobatic dance interpretation of its contents
seems
intriguing to you, them hie ye to the theatre. And if not, not.
**********
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