[On
27 June, I published my report on John Guare’s latest work, 3
Kinds of Exile. In it, I noted that the playwright had written
original songs for one of the pieces in the trilogy, “Funiage,” mentioning that
Guare had earlier written songs for Landscape of the Body in 1977.
I saw a Signature Theatre Company revival of Landscape (16 April-28 May 2006 at the Peter Norton Space), so I thought
I’d make a spot to publish this pre-ROT
report on the blog, just for the curiosity value—and for the sake of completeness. As you’ll read, this was one of the rare
occasions when I wasn’t pleased with STC’s script selection. ~Rick]
I saw the revival of John Guare’s 1977 Landscape of the Body
at the Signature Rep here on 18 April
[2006] and it was, to put it simplistically, a
disappointment. Ben Brantley gave it a rave in the Times
a day or so before I saw the performance, especially singling out the two
female leads. (The review appears on
line at http://theater.nytimes.com/2006/04/17/theater/reviews/17body.html.)
I went into the show expecting to like it, even wanting to, if you know what I
mean. I’ve had serious problems with Brantley’s criticism since he became
the Times’
main theater reviewer, and I have mostly come to discount his judgment and just
read him for description and whatever objective information he provides.
We have differed so often, in both directions, that I have concluded he and I
don’t see the same shows. (I may have once explained that I think
Brantley, who doesn’t associate with anyone in the New York theater scene, experiences
things, including plays, in his own imagination, not in the same reality in
which the rest of us experience things.) Nevertheless, because Landscape
wasn’t a new play but a “known quantity,” if you will, and because I generally
like Guare, I was prepared to like the play despite the dichotomy of my
responses with Brantley’s. Even a stopped clock, as a friend used to like
to say, is right twice a day. I shoulda gone with my instincts.
I wanted to like Landscape
so much, it took several scenes before I realized that it’s a confused, and possibly
self-indulgent, mess. I tried at first to see if the production was to
blame, but it wasn’t. Brantley had praised the stagework heavily,
comparing it favorably to the previous Signature show, the wonderful revival of
Horton Foote’s Trip
to Bountiful. [I posted my old report on this
terrific production on ROT on 25
May.] He asserted that that was the
definitive revival of the Foote play—an opinion I actually won’t argue with
(except to caution that “definitive” in live theater is a dubious claim, no
matter how good something is)—and that this staging of Landscape would
do for Guare’s 1977 play what the earlier one did for Foote’s 1957
masterpiece. Uh-uh—no way. It’s not that the acting or directing
was lacking, but that the play just isn’t for Guare what Bountiful
is for Foote. The Foote’s a wonderful evocation of a world which the
playwright created and populated, then revisited—with us along for the rides—on
many subsequent occasions. His characters are lovingly-created human
beings with personalities, foibles, quirks, failings, and strengths. They
ebb and flow, just like those in real people (except to more dramatic
consequence, of course). The plays seem slight—because the slice of the
Foote world he lets us see each time is small, but not inconsequential—but they’re
not. None of this was in evidence in Landscape.
Allowing that Guare doesn’t deal in the
realities that Foote does, it’s not entirely fair to compare the two in all
aspects, but when Guare goes off into his Dadaistic world, like in House of Blue Leaves
or the one-act Day
for Surprises, you go along with him, accepting the
absurdities and nonsequiturs as parts of that world. Landscape
is just incredible—in the sense of ‘not credible.’ The coincidences are
too silly to be world-shaking, the characters are all too eccentric to be
anything but that—eccentric (as opposed to somehow following the dictates of a
parallel reality). There are too many of them thrown into the situation,
as if Guare had all these queer folk left over from past scripts and
decided to use them all up in one fell swoop. And too many of the main
quirks assigned to each character seemed irrelevant, as if they were just
selected to make us ask, ‘What’s going on here?’ but without ever answering the
question. The (male) travel agent boss, Raulito (Bernard
White), wears a gold lamé evening gown . . . because when he was growing
up in Cuba, he thought that’s how all rich Americans dressed (ooookaaaay).
But what’s the dramatic
point of that? So he can get shot in an apparent bank robbery wearing the
dress? Why?
The nutsy southern (and why does he have to be southern—because they’re all
nutsy somehow?) suitor, Durwood Peach (Jonathan Fried), is allowed to
leave the protection of his clinic and grand estate back home to come up to woo
Betty, with the blessing of both his mother and . . . his wife.
Why? Because the only way to get Betty out of his system is to let him
make the trip—alone, with thousands of bucks in cash. And of course,
Betty (Lili Taylor) goes back south with him. Why?
Just so she can leave her 14-year-old son, Bert (Stephen Scott Scarpulla—and
what’s with all these three-part names nowadays, anyway?), home alone so
the plot can happen the way Guare wants it to. That’s basically all it
amounts to—a way to get the plot on track. All the craziness of the
suitor doesn’t accomplish much else, except provide some hoops for the actor to
jump through (rather well, I must say, in this case).
The big theatrical coup of Landscape
is that the characters sing. It’s not a musical in the conventional
sense, but the main characters all come down front several times and
sing. Rosalie (Sherie Rene Scott), the dead sister (yeah, that’s right)
was a nightclub chanteuse wannabe, so she hovers around in a white satin gown,
à la Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blonds,
and sings her torch songs; Betty contributes several ballads; and Bert does a
big rock number that Brantley thought was the bomb. (Poor Scarpulla, his
raspy voice, obviously still in the throes of the change, was almost too
painful to listen to. I wanted to reach for a cough drop just out of
sympathy.) Guare wrote the lyrics and music, and I guess that’s an
accomplishment in itself, but I never felt the singing really did anything for
the play either theatrically or dramatically. It was a gimmick, as far as
I was concerned. (Everybody’s gotta have one, you know.) Reminded
me of the bit about the dog who reads the newspaper: It’s not a matter of how
well he does it, but the fact that he does it at all. So, it didn’t
matter how effective the songs are, but that Guare wrote them and inserted them
into his play. Harrumph!
I never really figured out what Guare was on
about in Landscape.
I was a little embarrassed when a small group of
spectators seated next to my friend Diana and me—Diana having gone off to the
convenience—turned to me after discussing their confusion among themselves and
asked what I thought the play was about. I couldn’t answer. (I
actually thought briefly of lying and making up an answer. I had been a
grad student in theater, for Pete’s sake—I could certainly come up with some
bullshit or other. I decided on a sheepish grimace of shared
confusion and left it at that. Brave soul that I am.) Brantley says
things like “‘Landscape’ identifies the human condition as an almost unbearable
wistfulness,” that it “locat[es] the loneliness in the celebrity-besotted
American culture of the late 20th century” and “identifies the unbearable
wistfulness of being.” What does any of that MEAN?
As directed by Michael Greif, according to
Brantley, Guare is illustrating the “obsession with fabulous fame and
conspicuous wealth, qualities perceived as infinitely desirable and equally
unobtainable” in America, “a lyrical and sordid world where tabloid prurience
has become a religion.” Okay, maybe he is—but that seems a slight and
well-worn point that can’t really bear up under the weight of so much
contrivance, I don’t think. I didn’t see the play in ’77, but I remember
when it played at Joseph Papp’s New York Shakespeare Festival and I remember
feeling that it wasn’t anything I wanted to see. I probably should have
remembered that feeling.
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