I’d been out of town now for several weeks, starting at the
end of May, but I had one theater booking in early June that I didn’t want to
cancel if I didn’t have to. So on
Thursday, 6 June, I rode back to New York City to catch the last play in the
Atlantic Theater Company’s 2012-13 season, John Guare’s newest work, 3 Kinds of Exile, at the Linda Gross
Theater on Friday evening. Now, I hadn’t
really enjoyed this season at ATC, which included Harper Regan by Simon Stephens, Melissa James Gibson’s What Rhymes With America, and The Lying
Lesson by Craig Lucas. (The reports
on these productions are all on ROT; see the posts on 20 October 2012, 3
January 2013, and 6 April 2013, respectively.)
I had hopes for Exile because I figured that even when Guare’s
not at his best, he’s at least interesting and I could use the up-lift. (The season I followed at the Signature
Theatre Company was more enjoyable, but I suffered a disappointment there as
well when the final production of the David Henry Hwang series, which I’d been
finding fascinating, was postponed until 2014.)
Well, I was to suffer a final dissatisfaction in Chelsea that Friday
evening. At the risk of spoiling the
prospect for someone else (the show closed its short run on Sunday, 23 June, so
that’s not likely now), I have to report that Exile failed for me and Diana, my frequent theater companion, even
on the limited score I anticipated. It
not only wasn’t interesting, I can’t figure out what Guare, winner of a Tony (Two Gentlemen of Verona, 1972) and an Olivier Award (Six Degrees of Separation, 1993), is on about or why he even wrote
the piece (it’s not really a play in my opinion, as I’ll explain shortly). Just to make the whole experience, which
included a 4-hour bus ride from Maryland (and a 4½-hour one to go back coming
the day after the performance), it was pouring down rain Friday evening and the
theater’s too close to my apartment to get there any other way than by
foot. (I really dislike contending with
rain gear at the theater, but this time I had to wear a rain jacket and hat and
carry an umbrella—which, to add insult to injury, didn’t survive the
squall.) The entire event was a complete
bust for me and Diana (who’s even less tolerant of bad theater than I am).
3 Kinds of Exile,
which began previews on 15 May and opened on 11 June, was a world première, so
I’d read nothing about it before seeing the production. I hadn’t even paid any attention to the
promotional squib in ATC’s brochure or any of the listings published or
posted. It was a pig in a poke, but I
was encouraged, as I said, by the fact that it was a new play by John Guare,
whose work (including House of Blue Leaves and Six
Degrees) I’ve always found at least surprising. Well, I suppose this was a surprise, too—just
not a pleasant one. First of all, Exile is made up of three separate
pieces, connected by two aspects of their subject matter: they’re all about
people from Poland and Czechoslovakia and the central figures are “artists, all of whom forged complicated
lives in the West.” The production ran 100
minutes without an intermission and the first piece, “Karel,” is a long
monologue in which the Actor (that’s what he’s called in the program, played by
Martin Moran) recounts the story of a friend sent to England as a child on the
eve of World War II, never to return to his native country (which, in this
case, isn’t actually identified, but is clearly an East European nation). The second segment, called “Elzbieta Erased,”
is about an émigrée actress who’d been a big star in Poland in the ’50s (and
whom the playwright knew), but it, too, is narrated—this time by two men, A
(played by the playwright himself) and B (Omar Sangare), standing behind a pair
of lecterns. The final piece is a sort
of playlet, entitled “Funiage,” which depicts (partially enacted this time,
though also largely recited) the story of Witold Gombrowicz, 1904-69 (David
Pittu), the “greatest unknown Argentine writer in Poland in the ’30s,” as
the character says of himself, who’s
sent by some “very official Officials” of the Polish government to be a kind of literary ambassador
to Polish émigrés in Buenos Aires, to keep them apprised of the wonders of
Polish culture and arts while they are in exile. Gombrowicz was caught in Argentina when
Germany invaded Poland in 1939 and remained there, an expatriate until he
returned to Europe in 1963 and died in France five years later at the age of 64.
Let me approach the acting and other production aspects
first, then tackle the script—the reverse of the way I usually discuss performances
which I write up for ROT. (The rationale here is that I can dispatch
the production elements rather quickly, I think, and move on to the heavier examination.) First, I’ll report that I can’t say much
about the acting because there was so little of it in evidence. The second part of Exile is hardly acted at all—and Guare’s no actor, that’s certain—with the most staging on display the crisscross the two narrators make
periodically when they switch lecterns.
Standing side by side, A at stage right center at the start and B on
stage left, both men gesticulated with their hands a great deal, but Sangare was
excessive. Now, some of this may have come
from the fact that there’s no actual action in the piece (accounting, I’m sure,
for director Neil Pepe’s use of that frequent crisscrosses), so the actors,
perhaps encouraged by Pepe, used their hands and arms to fill the void. Guare’s gesticulative performance may have been
the consequence of his lack of acting experience—this is billed as his “acting
début”—but his movements were far less smooth and assured than Sangare’s (who
reminded me at times of Geoffrey Holder who has a supremely relaxed and
graceful physicality on stage). Sangare,
however, also appeared in “Funiage” and displayed the same technique so I
presume it’s a stage mannerism of his.
With nothing else to off-set it, all that hand-waving and pointing was
distracting to the point of annoyance.
(I hate to raise this additional criticism because I know it
sounds a little xenophobic, but Sangare, who is Afro-Polish—his father is
Malian—has an accent so thick it’s often impenetrable. There were times it sounded as if he’d
learned his lines phonetically, though as a tenured professor at Williams
College, I presume he speaks English well enough to teach in it. He also studied at the British American Drama
Academy in Oxford, England.
Ironically, one of the factoids in the biography of Elzbieta—her last
name, which aside from being difficult for Americans to spell, is nearly
unpronounceable to an English-speaker (“In America my name sounds like a bad hand in Scrabble,” the text quotes
the actress as saying), is seldom used in the script—is that her heavy accent
made it impossible for her to get acting work once she emigrated to New York in
1966. I don’t know if Guare saw this
irony when he wrote the lines—which, as I recall, he delivered, not Sangare—or
if it was an accident of the casting.)
As for physical production, in addition to the two lecterns
at center stage, there were numerous projections on the cloth draped over the
stage’s rear wall. (Exile’s sets were by Takeshi Kata, lights by Donald Holder,
costumes by Susan Hilferty, and projections by Dustin O’Neill.) These began with the reproduction of a
full-length portrait of Elzbieta (by scenic designer, producer, and director John Wulp), reportedly
hanging in the office of Andre Bishop at the Lincoln Center Theater Company
(where the actress never actually performed but where Guare is co-editor of the
Lincoln Center Theater Review). When the slide was first shown, with a woman
in a long, wine-red, apparently velvet gown, I whispered, “Is that Helen
Mirren?”—because, well, that’s who it looked like. Shortly afterwards, Guare asked the same
question from the stage: “Is that Helen Mirren?” (The painting is apparently entitled,
appropriately, The Red Dress.) Other projections, pictures of Elzbieta as a
child, a teen, a young actress, other images pertinent to the tale being told
(though hardly vital), followed now and then—they weren’t a constant
presence—ending again with The Red Dress,
which was then shown in increasingly closer and closer detail until the actress’s
head filled the slide at the end of the performance (showing that she resembled
Mirren less than it at first seemed—more like her older cousin). It all seemed to me like more substitutes for
action and dramatic content. Poor (and
ineffective) substitutes as far as I’m concerned.
In “Karel,” Moran, who’s presented a few of his own solo
performances (All the Rage, The Tricky Part), hopped all over the
stage—there was no set at all, not even the lecterns or projections of “Elzbieta
Erased”—once again, I gather, to add activity to compensate for the lack of
action. I can’t say Moran did this
poorly or well because it was so unconnected to what the Actor was saying, so
arbitrary and inorganic, that any assessment would be based on insufficient
evidence. The performance was, if you
will, a kind of “oral interp” on the fly—a radio speech, perhaps, onto which
movement was grafted to appease a live audience. To no avail, in my estimation.
(“Oral interp,” or oral interpretation, for those who are
not of the theater or are too young to know about this archaic training and
performing technique, is also sometimes known as “readers’ theater.” It’s acting with the voice alone, usually in
readings either from plays or, often, from non-dramatic material like novels,
short stories, and poems. Radio drama
was a practical application of the technique, but there isn’t much of that
around anymore. It was taught in acting
schools and elocution classes as a method of training the actors’ voices for
projection, enunciation, variety and expressiveness, flexibility, accents, and
other kinds of vocal techniques. It was
occasionally actually performed, often by amateur groups—Dylan Thomas’s Under Milk Wood is a favorite script for
readers’ theater performance—but one famous West End and Broadway production in
which it was used was 1951’s Don Juan in Hell, an adaptation of the third act of Shaw’s Man and Superman in which all the actors—Charles
Boyer, Cedric Hardwicke, Charles Laughton, and Agnes Moorehead—wore evening
clothes. Of course, with a cast like
that, listening to talking heads comes close to being a delight! Exile,
not so much.)
The third part of the production, “Funiage,” is the only
piece that comes close to being play-like.
First of all, there are multiple actors (and, hence, characters);
second, the actors are playing parts and they’re doing something more than
standing and talking. There’s precious
little real interaction, however, and the ensemble was only slightly
differentiated—except one, they were most often dressed in black suits and
bowler hats that had no character identification—and the actors played several
characters in the story each. (They donned
character-identifying clothing pieces as needed, such as when Peter Maloney
changed from the suit he wore as Gombrowicz’s disapproving father to the uniform
coat of the ship
captain.) Only Pittu, as Gombrowicz, and
Sangare, as Gonzalo (“a symbolic
mystery man” in the words of Adam Feldman in Time Out New York), stuck with one role. (Sangare wore a while suit, really making him
reminiscent of Geoffrey Holder.) The
performance style, with pseudo-Brechtian touches, was non-realistic and very
mannered, almost mechanical at times, as was some of the speech. Furthermore, the playlet has still another
inherently anti-theatrical element because Gombrowicz speaks in the third person,
narrating his own story even as Pittu acted it out on a rudimentary level.
“Funiage” is a sort of musical—or a “play with music,” as
this kind of performance might have been called in the late 20th century when
it was a new idea. Among the ensemble of
nine is a pianist (Timothy Splain) who plays original music composed by Josh
Schmidt (Adding Machine, Fifty Words, A Minister's Wife) as the cast sings lyrics written by Guare (who
also wrote songs for Landscape of the
Body in 1977). I’ll say that the music in “Funiage” added to
its theatricality, badly needed at the end of the longest 100 minutes I’d spent
in the theater in quite some time, but didn’t increase the playlet’s
effectiveness as drama or its interest in terms of the subject—and it certainly
didn’t help the two flat pieces that went before.
The set of
“Funiage” was a sort of organized clutter: lots of bits and pieces strewn or
piled about the stage, some of which were used as props or costume bits as
needed. They didn’t evoke a specific
environment, such as, say, the ship on which Gombrowicz sailed to Argentina or
the streets of Buenos Aires, but it was more visually intriguing that the two
setless first parts of the production.
Like the music, however, the presence of set design didn’t end up having
all that much overall effect.
Now let’s look at the material Pepe and ATC were working
with. I’ll start with the company’s own
blurb:
“With great
psychological insight and arresting theatricality [the italics are my
insertion], John Guare presents us
with three artists, all of whom forged complicated lives in the West, having
struggled and suffered amid the cultural and political turmoil of Eastern
Europe in the mid-20th century.” Not in
my opinion. What I sat through is
neither “insightful” nor “theatrical.”
(I won’t comment on “arresting.”
The obvious is too tempting.) In
fact, the bulk of Exile is
anti-theatrical and “Funiage” displayed an excess of false theatricality
imposed on the basically narrated story.
“Drawing from the experiences of three real exiles from
Czechoslovakia and Poland, Guare weaves
the stories of these lives into a riveting dramatic tapestry and probes the
meaning of home, identity and how we carry the past with us.” No again.
The stories aren’t “woven” in any meaning of the word; Exile is no “tapestry,” just a tangle of
loose threads. The whole of Exile is a pastiche and each segment
appears to be thrown together nearly haphazardly as if Guare had all these
factoids on hand and was determined to use them all one way or another. Never mind “riveting” or “dramatic”: I think
I’ve already covered those. And if Guare’s
“probing” anything, I never figured it out.
I mean, sure, the three artists are far from home, some voluntarily,
others under duress, but I didn’t see any exploration of what that means—just a
lot of anecdotes, some bizarre, some poignant, and some mundane, that seemed to
touch on every possible subject and illuminated none. The story the Actor tells in “Karel,” for
instance, asks, “How much of your life have you made up? How much of your life are you a stranger to?” But asking a question, however
thought-provoking, isn’t an exploration, and though it was a provocative idea,
illustrated by the Actor’s tale, it was ultimately superficial, overloaded, as
it was, with verbal gimmickry and unnecessary and frenetic movement.
ATC’s promotional statement (which appeared not only in its
seasonal brochure but in all its publicity and press releases and was widely
quoted in listings and on Internet sites) may have been what the company hoped
Guare had done, and it may even have been what Guare intended to have done—but
it’s not what I experienced sitting in the house and watching the final
result. Diana, in fact, insisted that
the final piece was about what she expected from a high school company (though
I suggested a college-level troupe because of the sophisticated styles
attempted). “It’s Guare in his dotage,”
she affirmed. (The playwright’s 75, by
the way.)
Now I’ll be a bit more comprehensive about the plots. “Karel,” the first piece, is an extended tale
of a man (one blogger identified the
title character as Karel Reisz, 1926-2002, a Czech-born British
filmmaker, but his name isn’t used and no bio details are provided in the
monologue) with a mysterious, apparently psychosomatic rash which he can’t cure
and which spreads all over his body. The
Actor goes back to fill in the backstory, recounting that at the age of 12, just
before the start of World War II, his friend had been sent by his mother to
England in a Kindertransport and had
remained there. On the train to England,
the boy traveled with another child who teased him about his attachment to his
mother—his father had already been imprisoned—and now, years later, the man
surmises that the unforgotten bully is the source of the itchy rash. The monologue ends with a slight twist which
I won’t reveal, but Guare also employs a moderately confusing tactic in his
storytelling. At the outset, the Actor
speaks of his friend in the third person but shifts to first person, as if he’d
morphed into “Karel.” I don’t know why
Guare did this, and it didn’t make the monologue any more theatrical or
interesting. (Reisz, a well-known
filmmaker in Britain—Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, Morgan!, Isadora, The French
Lieutenant's Woman—also
staged the occasional play. One of these
was Guare’s Gardenia for the Manhattan
Theatre Club in 1982.)
“Elzbieta Erased” is a revision of Elzbieta, a one-act play Guare wrote for
ATC’s 25 x 10 series in May 2011. It’s a bio of famous Polish actress Elzbieta Czyzewska (1938-2010) who married David
Halberstam, the New York Times correspondent in
Warsaw at the time, and then accompanied him back to New York. The presentation—it’s not only not a play it’s
not a dialogue, either, but a tag-team lecture (the New
York Times’ Charles Isherwood said it was “a kind of running
dialectic” but though the “running” part is accurate, that characterization
makes it sound more enlightening than I found it)—provides the
highlights of the actress’s life: a successful career in Poland, her marriage
to the journalist, her exile from her homeland because of the marriage to a
foreigner and a Jew, her fruitless years in America, and her death in obscurity. There are plenty of dropped names in the
script, including Meryl Streep, Elaine Stritch, and William Styron. (Guare acknowledges that Elzbieta, whom he’d
met on Nantucket, was the inspiration for Lydie Breeze. He wrote a part in the play, a Polish woman,
for her but when Lydie Breeze
transferred from its workshop to production at the American Place Theatre in
1982, the part became Irish. In 1994, she also starred in the
Polish premiere of John Guare's Six Degrees of Separation at the Teatr
Dramatyczny in Warsaw, a production in which Omar Sangare also appeared.)
There’s irony in the fact that Halberstam first met Elzbieta
when he saw her perform in Warsaw in 1965 as Maggie, the Marilyn Monroe
surrogate in Arthur Miller’s After the
Fall, a play I’ve always felt was an indulgence by Miller who needed to
exorcise the ghosts left from the failure of that marriage. Here Guare engages in the same sort of
self-indulgence, thumb-sucking over his pinball association with Elzbieta whom
he tried to help get work in America but was never able assist to regain her
status as an important theater artist.
Like Miller’s failed marriage to Monroe, I suspect Guare regrets his
inability to help Elzbieta. Hence,
“Elzbieta Erased.” But also like
Miller’s private struggle—why do the rest of us have to suffer through it?
"Funiage" is a condensed biography of the critically-respected absurdist
novelist and playwright who spent most of his life as an expatriate in Argentina. (While Gombrowicz is in Buenos Aires, he’s
essentially forced into a marriage by his father/the ship’s captain—but the
ceremony becomes a combination wedding and burial, thus “funiage”: funeral + marriage. It’s supposed to
be portentous.) The playlet is based on
Gombrowicz’s 1948 drama The Marriage
and his 1953 novel Trans-Atlantyk, from a literal translation by Omar
Sangare. Guare has chosen to emulate his
subject’s style with a Brecht-inspired absurdism. (I imagine this accounts for the self-narration,
emulating Brecht’s occasional technique of having characters say things like
“he said” or “she asked,” referring to themselves.) In the end, though, Gombrowicz never comes
into focus as a character and the playlet, for all Guare’s gimmickry, never
seemed to gel into a cohesive statement of anything.
The press seems to have been more generous with Guare and Exile than I’ve been. (At the time I wrote this report, many review
outlets, including the theater press, hadn’t published notices of 3 Kinds of Exile. Much of the press that published, in
addition, was rather brief in its coverage.) They appear to have found more value in the
endeavor than I did, especially the middle piece. I don’t understand
that, to tell you the truth, but perhaps they’re inclined to be charitable because
it’s a John Guare script. (There was
near unanimity in the estimation that “Funiage” was the production’s least
successful effort and that “Elzbieta” was the most stimulating. I saw no distinction, as you’ve probably noticed.) In the Times, Isherwood didn’t
articulate an overall judgment, but he characterized “Elzbieta” as the “most engaging of the evening’s offerings,” finding the other two “less
rewarding” with “Karel” coming in as “little more than an amplified anecdote.” “Funiage,” reported Isherwood, “is the most
ambitious of the three plays, but also the most unsatisfying”; the reviewer
found it “mighty unwieldy.” “Elzbieta
Erased,” concluded the Timesman, is “the
haunting, more cogently related story.”
While Isherwood noted a few of the performances, including both Guare
and Sangare (“a smoothly handsome actor with penetrating eyes and a silky voice”)
as well as Martin Moran and David Pittu, he makes no critical assessment of
Neil Pepe’s directing. In Long Island’s Newsday, Linda Winer described Exile as “one third revelatory,
one third beguiling and the last third, well, perplexing.” She also found “Elzbieta” to be “the
treasure” of the evening, and declared, “What sounds like an academic structure
is, instead, a vibrant, multileveled portrait of a woman who needs to be known.” Winer reported that “Karel” “turns out to be
a chilling little ghost story” and “Funiage” “is an exaggerated expressionist
cabaret” whose “absurdist-fable style is tiresome.” Like Isherwood, Winer mentioned some of the
cast (the same ones as the Times
writer), but says nothing about the directing, set, costumes, and so on. “The
best sits right next to the worst” wrote Elisabeth Vincentelli in the New York Post of 3 Kinds of Exile, the three parts of which “vary wildly in quality.” (“Unfortunately there’s no intermission that
would allow a discreet exit after the second playlet,” she added, echoing a
remark Diana made to me after the performance.)
The Post reviewer called
“Elzbieta” “the evening’s crown jewel” but described “Funiage,” the “mediocre
epilogue,” as “painful attempts at comic absurdity and [an] erratic mix of
styles.” Vincentelli dubbed “Elzbieta” “a
beautiful duet,” but her description of the closing playlet, as far as I’m
concerned, applies to the whole production: “Surrounded by a mediocre ensemble
clunkily directed by Neil Pepe.”
In the Daily News, asserting, “Pop music
teaches that two out of three ain’t bad,” Joe Dziemianowicz summed up the
production by observing that Exile is
“a dramatic triptych with a final chapter tedious enough to sour the sweet
riches preceding it.” (I can’t agree
with the Newsman’s calculus. But maybe that’s just me.) Of that last segment, Dziemianowicz wrote
that it was a “noisy and trying exercise.”
His final word, in the form of a lesson in dramaturgy, was: “When a
writer loses his audience and has them thinking of escape that’s a fourth kind
of exile.” Though the writing in “Karel”
is “the best of the evening” in the opinion of the Village Voice’s Alexis Soloski, “Elzbieta Erased” is “less
anguished and more arch.” Soloski
suggested, “Only ‘Funiage’ . . . seems a misjudgment” because, she asserted, “the
antics of this neo-vaudeville feel far more labored than playful and Pepe's
directorial hand too evident and self-conscious.” Her other comment about this piece sums up my
impression of the entire production: “There is much dashing about, to little
effect.” TONY’s reviewer Feldman
echoed Dziemianowicz’s reference to Meat Loaf and went on to describe
“Funiage,” “the bad one,” as “a precious, collegiate ‘Brechtian’ cabaret” in
which the bowler hat-wearing actors “divvy up stiff, translated-sounding lines.”
Pronounced Feldman, “it’s all rather painful to watch.” The man from TONY affirmed that the first two pieces were “more rewarding.” With
“Karel” presenting a “simple” story whose “language is vivid” while “the engrossing cautionary tale” of “Elzbieta Erased” is a “picture hidden in a
game of historical connect-the-dots.”
In the cybersphere (which was offering slim pickings at this writing), Jennifer
Farrar of the Associated
Press called the three stories of Exile
“affecting” and the collection a “dynamic new play” on the Huffington Post. The AP reviewer also dubbed Guare’s
acting stint as “very effective.”
Overall, Farrar said, director Pepe “provides crisp direction and
diverse staging for each of the three tales, which provide stirring examples of
overcoming fear and living with courage and humanity.” “Elzbieta” “is eloquently narrated by Guare
(as himself) and co-narrated and archly enacted by Omar Sangare,” the AP writer
asserted, and “Funiage” is “a well-choreographed, feverish bad dream.” On Talkin’
Broadway, Matthew Murray was by far the most positive reviewer. He saw in Exile
“an involving look at how the lines between political and personal alienation may frequently blur”
and “an intensely theatrical outing,” which I think greatly overstates the
truth. Of “Karel,” Murray only said that
“Moran effectively declares (and Pepe stages) [the monologue] with a minimum of
emotional filigree,” but he called “Funiage” “a series of barely linked skits”
which Schmidt’s music helps transform “into those of an on-again-off-again
musical-comedy picaresque.” “It can be exhausting
to watch,” asserted Murray, “but it's a riveting evocation.” And though it had to “survive the evening's worst
presentation” (and “Pepe's static staging”), “Elzbieta” is a “potentially
enveloping saga” that became “more off-putting than it has any right to be.” (One reason, lamented Murray, was Guare’s “faint,
toneless bark of a delivery [which] is utterly divorced from the words’ content.”) TheaterMania’s Zachary Stewart
described Exile as a “surprising and
insightful new play” in which “Karel” “serves as an appetizer” for the rest of
the production, “Elzbieta” becomes “a really good cocktail-party story,” and
“Funiage” is “by far the most theatrical.”
The last piece, Stewart asserted, is “a giant, extended, well-produced
Polish joke” (though I’m not sure how that’s a good thing), but he observed
that “Elzbieta” “could have easily become tedious and self-involved”—which is
precisely what I found it to be. The reviewer
summed up his comments by asserting, “Guare captures the essence of the
immigrant experience with an uncommon sensitivity.” That may be true, but, in my opinion (humble
or otherwise), only if you can sift through the verbiage and phony theatricality
which seems to me to have been added just as eyewash (a term we used in the
army to mean flashy aspects of a presentation or report that looked good but
didn’t really mean anything).
In my report on '3 Kinds of Exile' above, I mention that playwright John Guare wrote songs for his 1977 play, 'Landscape of the Body,' just as he did for "Funiage." In 2006, I wrote a report on a revival of 'Landscape' which I'll publish on ROT on 27 July. If you're curious what I had to say about that play and performance, check it out.
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