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| James McMenamin and Shannon Marie Sullivan in Outside Mullingar. (Photo: Emma K. Rothenberg-Ware) |
John Patrick Shanley’s 2014 play
Outside Mullingar, which
opens the
Berkshire Theatre Group summer season, is a quirky romantic
comedy set in the Irish countryside, and I’d say it’s two-thirds of a very
good play. In the opening scene, an ornery widowed farmer named Tony Reilly
(Jeffrey DeMunn) and his forty-something son Anthony (James McMenamin) have
their next-door neighbors, Aiofe Muldoon (Deborah Hedwall) and her daughter
Rosemary (Shannon Marie Sullivan), over for tea following the funeral
of Aiofe’s husband. Anthony has been taking care of the farm for years and
expects to inherit it, but unexpectedly his father reveals that he doesn’t
think he loves the property enough and proposes leaving it to an American
nephew. The resulting back-and-forth reveals that Rosemary and not her
mother owns a tiny parcel of the land that blocks the Reillys’ access to
the sea, and that, due to a gripe she has nursed against Anthony since they
were kids, she has no intention of selling it back to them. We also learn
that she has been in love with him all her life, and that holding onto the
land is her way of holding onto
him – though only, of course, if
Tony can be persuaded to reconsider his plans for the disposition of the
farm.
This section of the play recalls Chekhov’s one-acts, especially
The Proposal, though it contains Shanley’s trademark
off-kilter humor and his fondness for tall tales. But in the fourth scene
it seems to stall. Upon his deathbed, some time after he’s reconsidered his
plans for disinheriting his son, Reilly Sr. shares an intimate confessional
moment with Reilly Jr., and it’s sentimental – not a word I’d apply to any
of the three scenes that have preceded it. It’s also extraneous, except
perhaps to signal the narrative shift away from the older characters to the
not-quite romance between Rosemary and Anthony. By the next scene Aiofe,
too, is dead, and we get a courtship of the two younger figures reminiscent
of Lanford Wilson’s
Talley’s Folly, where the characters
have to uncover and then eliminate the obstacles that stand in the way of
the happy ending. But the process takes too long and the obstacles are
silly ones.
Despite its flaws, the play is engaging – especially in Karen Allen’s
skillfully shaped and impeccably acted production. All four of the actors
do fine, distinctive work, and the somewhat meandering nature of the last
two scenes is countered by the chemistry between McMenamin and Sullivan.
McMenamin, who played George in David Cromer’s celebrated
Our Town at the Barrow Street Theatre in New York and was
in the ensemble of Anna D. Shapiro’s revival of
Of Mice and Men on Broadway, is one of my favorite
character actors: he buries himself so completely in his roles that, though
he’s a handsome, rugged man with a broad, recognizable face, from play to
play he barely seems to be the same actor. I enjoyed everything about the
show, including John McDermott’s set and the way it accordions in and out
for scene shifts. A BTG season always proffers surprises; this one, coming
right at the outset, makes you feel very bright about what might follow.
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| Mandi Masdon, S. Epatha Merkerson and Nikiya Mathis appear in A Raisin in the Sun. (Photo: Joseph O'Malley) |
A Raisin in the Sun
opened on Broadway in 1959 and earned its place in the history of American
drama: it’s the first major play about the struggles of an African American
family, in this case trapped in a Chicago ghetto, and the work of a black
female playwright, Lorraine Hansberry. I’ve always found it a little dull,
on the page and even in the famous 1961 movie version, in which all four of
the talented stars of the stage production (Sidney Poitier, Claudia McNeil,
Ruby Dee and Diana Sands) repeated their performances. But I think it can
come alive on stage, and for the first half of the
Williamstown Theatre Festival production it mostly does. The director, Robert O’Hara, has
coached the cast to overlap their dialogue, which works against the
banality of Hansberry’s dialogue and gives it an electric, lived-in
quality. Francois Battiste, who plays Walter Lee Younger, the angry,
restless and impulsive son of the widowed matriarch, Lena, and Mandi Masden,
who plays his wife Ruth, make it clear from the opening minutes that this
marriage has a strong sexual core, and there’s an erotic tension between
Walter’s college-age sister Beneatha (Nikiya Mathis) and one of her
suitors, an African classmate named Joseph Asagai (Joshua Echebiri), that
actors and directors don’t generally get at. And then there’s the amazing
S. Epatha Merkerson as Lena. Everyone I know loves watching Merkerson on her
TV series (
Law and Order,
Chicago Med),
but you don’t know what a powerhouse she is unless you’ve seen her in the TV
movie
Lackawanna Blues or on stage. She gave a
heartbreaking performance in a Broadway revival of William Inge’s
Come Back, Little Sheba a little more than a decade ago,
and she’s a commanding and utterly authentic Lena.
In act one these features more than compensate for the production’s
shortcomings – a clumsiness in the staging (though the scenic design by
Clint Ramos is excellent); intrusive, distracting music cues; and a tendency
to indulge the actors in their big moments that damages the rhythm of some
of the scenes. This is mostly a problem in Battiste’s drunk scene before
intermission, but only Merkerson is immune – her instinct for the dramatic
shape of a scene and her generosity as a performer keep her completely
grounded. And though it isn’t ineffective, there isn’t much point to
O’Hara’s choice to insert an expressionistic element with imposed scenes
hovered over by the ghost of Lena’s dead husband – whose $15,000-dollar
insurance policy, paid for (we’re told over and over again) with the blood
and sweat of a selflessly toiling African American working man, Walter
hopes will finance a liquor store he wants to open with some buddies and
Lena decides should finance their move into their own house in Clybourne
Park, a white neighborhood.
But the second half of this
Raisin begins badly and gets
worse and worse. O’Hara gives up even trying to orchestrate the scenes or
maintain some stylistic integrity. A scene involving an interfering
neighbor (Eboni Flowers) feels like it comes out of a bad TV sitcom; in
this context the character seems Martian, and because the audience is
encouraged to find her a hoot, the point of the interlude – that she
represents a ghetto-bred parochialism and reverse snobbery that fight
against the efforts of a black family like the Youngers to find a better
life for themselves – is lost. When we meet Walter’s friend and prospective
business partner Bobo (Walter Miller), he comes across as so obviously
disreputable that O’Hara appears to have missed – or ignored – the fact
that when their third (unseen) partner runs off with the insurance money
that Lena has finally decided to let Walter handle, Bobo is just a much a
victim. Most dreadful of all is Walter’s big meltdown, where he shows his
family how weak he is. O’Hara stages it as a Brechtian interlude in
which Battiste, whose acting has become insufferably hammy by this time,
goes into a minstrel routine addressed to the audience while his poor
co-stars are stuck in shadow behind him, delivering their lines as if
they’re the only people involved in the show who still understand that the
style of the play is unfettered American realism. The minstrel stuff O’Hara
has grafted onto the scene contradicts the text.
So does the showpiece finale, where, as the family prepares to move to
Clybourne Park despite the efforts of the neighborhood committee to buy
them out, the set breaks apart and a scrim flies in showing us the front of
their new house with “NIGGER” scrawled across it in red paint. Hansberry
ended her play on a hopeful note, though she had to fudge a metamorphosis
for Walter in order to push it through. The last note is sounded by Lena’s
exit holding the plant she’s kept alive in their ghetto apartment. It’s a
trite symbol, but it works – and it’s consistent with the rest of the text,
which is about a black family fighting to conquer its obstacles to finding
a better existence. It’s clear from the covert threats of the
representative of the neighborhood committee, the only white character in
the play (played here, not very well, by Joe Goldammer), that it will be an
uphill battle – but the ending isn’t cynical or sour. You can write a
sequel to
A Raisin in the Sun that details the
complications of what followed – and someone has: Bruce Norris with
Clybourne Park, the best play written by an American, in
my estimation, in the twenty-first century. But O’Hara’s hammerhead
interpolations don’t enhance Hansberry’s play; they violate it. The
audience at the matinee I attended, no doubt convinced by the
aggressiveness of the production that they were seeing something important,
gave it the obligatory standing ovation.
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| Antonio Michael Woodard and André Braugher in A Human Being, of a Sort. (Photo:Jeremy Daniel.) |
The other season opener at Williamstown, on the smaller Nikos stage, is
also about race.
A Human Being, of a Sort, a new play by
Jonathan Payne, is based on a shocking true incident, the exhibition of a
Congolese pygmy named Ota Benga at the Bronx Zoo in 1906, and it gives
audiences a rare opportunity to watch another brilliant African American
actor known mostly for his TV work, André Braugher, live on stage. (His last
theatrical appearance was in
The Whipping Man at City
Center in 2011.) Braugher, a mesmerizing presence, plays Smokey, a poor man
sent to a Tennessee prison farm for three years for stealing some apples
from a street vendor and recommended to the zoo’s director, William Temple
Hornaday (Frank Wood), for the job of caring for Ota Benga (Antonio Michael
Woodard). If he satisfies his new employer, Smokey will prove that prison
has rehabilitated him. If he fails to, he’ll be sent back to the prison
farm.
I loved watching Braugher and several of the other actors: Keith Randolph
Smith, Jeorge Bennett Watson and especially Sullivan Jones as three black
ministers who mount a campaign against the exhibiting of Ota Benga in a
cage. (Woodard’s and Wood’s performances are less impressive, and I can
swear I’ve seen Wood give precisely this performance before, and more than
once.) But
A Human Being, of a Sort isn’t a play; it’s a
collection of scenes in which actors talk at each other. And since you get
half the point the moment you see the cage marked Primate House – that’s
not meant as a criticism of the set by Lawrence E. Moten III – and the
other half as soon as the moralistic, bureaucratic Hornaday interviews
Smokey for the job (another black man in a cage, though this one isn’t
visible), all the play can do for the duration is tell you over and over
again what you’ve already figured out for yourself. It isn’t the fault of
the director, Whitney White, but play goes nowhere. The epilogue, a
flashback to the discovery of Ota Benga by a white hunter named Samuel
Philips Vender (Matthew Saldivar, whom I liked very much as Mucha in
Bernhardt/Hamlet, utterly wasted here), provides one more
leaden irony to guide us out of the t
heatre.
is Distinguished Professor of the Arts and Humanities at College of the
Holy Cross in Worcester, Massachusetts, where he teaches theatre and film.
He also writes for
