[Later this week, I’ll be
publishing my report on a performance of David Ives’s new play, Heir Apparent, an adaptation of the 18th-century Le Légataire universel by Jean-François Regnard (1655-1709).
I’ve now seen three of Ives’s plays, which I mention in the upcoming post,
and I’ve blogged about one of the other two (Venus in Fur,
on ROT on 11 July 2011), but the first Ives play I saw, 2008’s New Jerusalem,
predated Rick On Theater. Since I’ll be making reference to that play
in my Heir Apparent report on 30
April, I’ve decided to raid my archive of pre-blog theater reports and publish
the one I wrote about New Jerusalem on
18 February 2008. Readers will note that
these pre-ROT reports were a little more
casual than the ones I post now. ~Rick]
I
was supposed to see David Ives’s New
Jerusalem, a première at the Classic Stage Company in the East
Village, on Saturday evening, 2 February 2008, the day before it was scheduled
to close. At the last minute, I got myself screwed up, however, and I
wasn’t able to get to the theater. Diana, my frequent theater companion,
saw the play and said it was one I’d have liked, so I got the theater, which
had extended the production a week because of excellent reviews (the Times was pretty much a
rave; Variety,
on the other hand, was the only near pan I read), to exchange my unused seat
for one at the matinee on Saturday, 7 February. I haven’t entirely
made up my mind about the play, though. Maybe this report will help me
sort out my reaction.
Ives
is best known around here for adapting scripts (the current “new” Mark Twain
play, Is He Dead?
is his) and writing librettos for concert versions of old musicals (he’s got
several in the Encores! repertoire). I’m not really familiar with his “original”
plays, mostly light comedies (Polish
Joke, Manhattan Theatre Club, 2003)
and one-acts (All in the
Timing, Primary Stages, 1993-94). (He’s also a translator: the
recent production of Yazmina Reza’s The
Spanish Play at CSC in 2007 was his rendition and next season
the Williamstown Festival will present his version of Feydeau’s A Flea in Her Ear.)
In a way, though, New
Jerusalem’s also a kind of adaptation. It plays out the
courtroom-style drama of the inquisition at the hands of the Amsterdam
authorities and the elders of his synagogue into the alleged atheism of Baruch
Spinoza (1632-77). (The full title of the play is New Jerusalem: The Interrogation of
Baruch de Spinoza at Talmud Torah Congregation: Amsterdam, July 27, 1656.
I thought those kinds of titles went out with the ’70s! A better title
might have been Two Jews,
Three Opinions—a line someone uses in the play. I’m just
sayin’.)
Clearly
Ives has done considerable research into both Spinoza’s life and philosophy,
though there’s no indication that he used actual documents—there’s
no transcript of the interrogation—to produce the dialogue at the
hearing. Nonetheless, New
Jerusalem is akin to a documentary play, perhaps more in line with
Michael Frayn’s Copenhagen
(Broadway, 2000-01) which depicts a 1941 meeting between Niels Bohr and Werner
Heisenberg that was known to have taken place, but whose content was always
speculation. (Several reviews made mention of Peter Parnell’s Trumpery, a recent
Off-Broadway play about Darwin, but I’ve never seen it so I can’t speak for the
parallels. Other events and plays come to mind as antecedents: Putting
a man of independent mind on trial for heretical thinking and
using religious arguments to attack him sounds like 1955’s Inherit the Wind and the
Scopes trial. The Jewish authorities acting on behalf of their gentile
overlords to silence an unorthodox radical is reminiscent of the Sanhedrin’s
trial of Jesus. Wielding the authority of the church and the threat of
excommunication to force an intellectual to recant his threatening new theories
parallels the story of Galileo. Accusing a philosopher of corrupting
society with his radical ideas is like the trial of Socrates.) Ives’s
text does have the ring (or, perhaps clang) of dramatized transcripts melded
with philosophical treatises/Talmudic debates—as if someone tried to stage one
of Plato’s Dialogues.
(Full
disclosure: I once co-wrote one of those “if they had met” scenarios—between
Karl Marx and Nikolai Lenin. It was a class project for a
Russian-language course so mine was in Russian, but the concept was the
same—and it was surely even more stilted.)
New
Jerusalem
is mostly the revelation of Spinoza’s beliefs and theories (which he hadn’t
published at the time of the inquiry) as he defends himself against charges
that he’s a dangerous atheist who’s disrupting both the Jewish and Christian
societies in Amsterdam. Ives condenses the complex ideas into a little
over an hour in the second act; the first is a base-setting discussion of the
historical and religious foundations for the Jewish presence in Holland, the
rules under which the Jewish community is welcomed in Amsterdam, and the tenets
of the acceptable Jewish faith. I’m not even going to try to explain
Spinoza’s ideas. Suffice it to say that the young thinker, taking
his lead from René Descartes, questioned everything, including free will and
the existence of an afterlife. If you’re interested in more, you’ll have
to look him up yourself. (Be warned: the Internet will yield over 2½ million
hits relating to the philosopher.) Saul Levi Mortera, Amsterdam’s
chief rabbi, catechizes his pupil on Moses Maimonides’ 13 “articles of faith,”
which Spinoza’s required to rattle off whenever Mortera barks out, “Baruch,
what is the second article of faith?” or some such command. (Each time
they did this, I was reminded, blasphemously, I’m sure, of Grand Nagus Zek
making Quark recite the Ferengi Rules of Acquisition on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.)
Mortera and Gaspar Rodrigues Ben Israel, a parnas,
a member of the Jewish community’s council of elders, prompt Spinoza to respond
in words that demonstrate, they hope, that he’s a traditionally believing Jew,
not an atheist or an apostate.
The
Amsterdam regent Abraham van Valkenburgh, who in Ives’s version of the event is
the power that requires the examination and ultimate sanction—cherem, excommunication
from the Jewish community, and exile from Amsterdam—acts as prosecutor and
overseer, ultimately eliciting the statements from Spinoza that seem to prove
his deviance from the accepted beliefs (the soul is mortal, God and Nature are
one, eternity is now, miracles are myths since God/Nature can’t violate its own
rules)—as we know he must in the end, since Spinoza was, of course,
banished. (In reality, it may have been the Jewish community that took
the responsibility on itself out of fear of being expelled from Holland.
The Spanish and Portuguese Jews arrived in Holland two generations earlier in
flight from the Inquisition. They were welcomed in the Netherlands, but
only under certain provisions: they mustn’t try to convert Christians,
they couldn’t talk about Christianity or Judaism openly, and they mustn’t
disrupt the prevailing Christian society. Otherwise, they could live,
work, and worship how and where they pleased.) Spinoza reveals himself to
be not an atheist, but a deist, which van Valkenburgh declares is just as
dangerous. (Poor Ben Israel, when he sees that Spinoza isn’t going
to adhere to the congregation’s beliefs, blurts out in exasperation: “This isn’t
heresy, it’s Calvinism! Baruch Spinoza is not a Jew; he’s a Presbyterian!”)
All this played out around the large table center stage in the middle of the
synagogue’s sanctuary. (The Ark of the Covenant was prominently visible
on the rear wall of the set; Ben Israel expressly identified it for van
Valkenburgh to be sure we all knew what it was.)
The
playwright has, by virtue of the fact that little documentation exists, taken
the liberty to mix fact liberally with fiction. (Since the historical
record indicates that Spinoza may not even have been present at what was
probably a minor proceeding in the back room of the synagogue, Ives had
considerable freedom to invent.) The dialogue, of course, is all
imagined; but some characters are historical (Rabbi Mortera; Rebekah de
Spinoza, the philosopher’s half-sister) and some are fictitious (Van
Valkenburgh; Clara Van den Enden, the Christian girl Spinoza loves; Ben
Israel). This allows Ives to couch the dialogue in contemporary language
and to insert occasional moments of humor (Rebekah excoriates her brother for
not appreciating her brisket) as well as to manipulate the characters’
responses to suit his dramaturgical needs. He has invented not only an
intellectual/Platonic love interest for Spinoza (historically Spinoza never
married but he couldn’t have married a Christian without converting to
Christianity), but a friend, the artist Simon de Vries who’s both youthful companion
to the serious philosopher and, we discover later, his betrayer to the
Amsterdam authorities.
Most
of this isn’t troublesome, though I occasionally found the contemporaneity of
the language a little forced. (I’ll have something to say about Ives’s
convenient character shifts in a bit.) Since I don’t know much about
Spinoza’s philosophy (it’s famously difficult and dense), I have to assume Ives
has capsulized it accurately, but because I also know he translated it into
colloquial 21st-century speech, I did wonder if he hadn’t up-dated the ideas a
little, too, as he abridged them. (A confession: I didn’t do any
research to determine if the playwright did that or not.) He gives
himself an out, though, by having Spinoza, who was only 23 at the time of the
inquiry, constantly remind his questioners that he hasn’t worked out all the
details of his theories yet. This, along with his feelings for Clara and
his friendship with Simon, displayed in a scene near a tavern where Spinoza’d
been practicing the drawing Simon has been teaching him, is clearly
an effort by Ives not only to show that Spinoza’s a young guy, but an
ordinary, if brilliant, fellow.
So
much of the interrogation, which makes up the bulk of the two-hour play,
proceeds in heady philosophical terms. Spinoza comes off, especially in
Jeremy Strong’s portrayal, as a bright grad student showing up his favorite
professor. In addition, Ives provides Spinoza, not known for his light
wit, an irrepressible funnybone. (To reinforce the sense that Spinoza’s
not just a textbook icon, he’s called Bento by the characters who know him;
that’s Portuguese for ‘blessed,’ the translation from Hebrew of his given name,
Baruch. His books, written in Latin, were published under the name
Benedictus de Spinoza. Ives titles the first act of New Jerusalem “Baruch/Bento”
and the second “Benedictus.” A small point is made of the meaning of the
philosopher’s name—but what isn’t noted, though Jews will see it, is that baruch isn’t just a word
that means ‘blessed’; it’s the first word in many Hebrew prayers, called in
Yiddish broches,
or ‘blessings.’ Ives, who I don’t believe is Jewish, may not have known
this, but it resonates nonetheless.)
I
guess overall, I’d have to say that Ives did a creditable job translating an
intellectual exchange into a stageplay but that the material left him with
little chance of doing more than that. Most of the reviews stressed the
intellectual rigor of the text, and the content wasn’t uninteresting; but I
found myself wishing I could read the script (which isn’t published) because
Ives crammed so much philosophy and theology into it that it was hard for a
limited mind like mine to grasp it all. (Spinoza was a genius; most of
the rest of us aren’t.) To add to this dilemma, director Walter Bobbie
kept the dialogue moving at such a pace—can’t
let it lag, can’t let a character take a pause to think, don’t let the
spectators notice there’s no action; you might lose the audience!—that
the difficult ideas went by at quite a clip. Some of the cast seemed
almost to be speed-talking at times. (If New Jerusalem had been a tape I was watching
at home, I’d have rewound and replayed more than a few moments. What did that guy just say again?)
I don’t know about you all, but debating the existence of God and his
relationship to nature or the soul’s relationship to the body isn’t something I
do too often. Not since college, anyway (and I recall I was drunk or high
for most of those sessions, besides). The mental mechanism’s a little
rusty and cranky.
Bobbie
did an adequate job keeping the play moving. Except for a couple of
contiguous scenes that took place on the street outside a tavern (the set wasn’t
changed for these locales; the center table served as a pier or waterside
curb—Amsterdam’s the Venice of the North, you’ll recall: lots of canals), most
of the “action” takes place in the synagogue around this large, square
table. This meant that all the talk provided for a static atmosphere, so
Bobbie had to find reasons to move the characters around some. That may
have accounted for the speed-talking as well: to compensate for the lack of
natural movement and action. In addition, CSC is a thrust theater, with
audience on three sides of the stage. (We were the assembled congregation
and the characters occasionally addressed us as if we were part of the
debate. In one rather odd exchange, Rebekah, who’d been sitting in the
front row of the audience, strode out onto the stage to confront Baruch, but
then turned and made as if she was actually having words with another woman of
the community several rows up in the seats. Otherwise, our presence
was acknowledged, but not engaged. When van Valkenburgh took off his
cloak at the beginning of the play, he walked over to where I was sitting and
draped the cloak over the railing in front of me, though he didn’t make any
gesture that I was there as he would if it had been real life.) So, to
accommodate the three-sided audience and to move the characters about some,
there was a lot of pacing and circling the table. I can’t say that
Bobbie had other choices, and the cast executed this more than well enough.
Bobbie
did make one puzzling decision and I have no idea what it signified or why he
chose it. At intermission, all the characters exited the stage as you’d
expect—except Spinoza. He went upstage and sat on the little raised
platform that led from the main level of the stage up to the wall where the ark
was mounted. He sat there in silence, sort of in the attitude of Rodin’s Thinker, mostly motionless
from what I could see (he was only a few feet from my seat) while members of
the audience milled around, stretching their legs, for the full 15 minutes of
the break. I’m at a total loss to explain this behavior—and not one of
the critics I read even mentioned it. The play’s intermission did
coincide with a declared break in the hearing, so the real-world pause was
concurrent with the diegetic one. Was this some kind of extension of the
notion that the audience was the congregation of Talmud Torah? But we
weren’t playing the congregation—Bobbie may have wanted us to be and the actors
may have related to us as if we were, but we didn’t respond. The actors
could break the fourth wall and address us when they were in control of the
relationship—but inviting us inside the wall, when we were in control, doesn’t
work unless we’ve been briefed on the rules of behavior. What would have
happened if someone had spoken to “Spinoza”? What would have happened if
someone had spoken to Jeremy Strong? Would he have responded in
character, like the people who impersonate Colonial residents of Williamsburg
or Pilgrims at Plimouth Plantation? (Television,
sirrah? I know not of what you speak. Is’t some kind of devil
device?) I wonder if Strong could have handled extemporizing
Spinoza’s philosophy if someone had tried to interact with him outside the script.
I wonder if it ever happened. Not everyone knows or abides by the
conventional etiquette of Western theater.
(When van
Valkenburgh hung his cloak over my railing, I remembered an incident from back
when I was an Off-Off-Broadway actor. In a play in a similarly
configured space, the set was the deck of ship. The wheel was down front,
within reach of some of the front seats with no barrier separating it from the
audience. At one performance, an elderly lady sat in front of the wheel
and she reached up and hung her cane on the wheel. I guess she thought
that the theater had provided this convenience for her benefit. This
being Off-Off-Broadway, the actor who played the captain, when he came on stage
and had to steer his ship, simply removed the cane and laid it on the floor in
front of the audience. I once also got into an uninvited conversation
with a spectator when I was playing Moon in The
Real Inspector Hound and was planted in the audience before the
show started. Not everyone knows the rules.)
Most
of the acting was fine. Richard Easton was superb as Rabbi Mortera,
Spinoza’s mentor and teacher, and David Garrison did a nice job keeping
van Valkenburgh from seeming a complete anti-Semite and Dutch
Reformed Savonarola. Next to Spinoza, Mortera had the most at stake:
if his pupil is found to be a disruptive atheist, it’s his own teaching that’s
a failure. The younger man had been his surrogate grandson and he’s
pained at Baruch’s apparent apostasy and at the choice he’ll be forced to
make. I could see Mortera struggling when he was persuaded within his
mind by Spinoza’s reasoning even as the rabbi understood he couldn’t
accept what he suspected was the truth. As Ben Israel, Yiddish theater
vet Fyvush Finkel took a fifth-wheel character and created an endearing one by
showing us the fondness he had for young Baruch and his devotion to the
community and his bitter and confused disappointment as the philosopher
explained ideas that were further and further from the mainstream
fundamentalism of his faith.
Michael
Izquierdo as Simon made a good drinking buddy for Spinoza, but when he was
revealed as the nephew of van Valkenburgh and his spy in Spinoza’s house, he
began to shift allegiances quickly and without much motivation—as did Jenn
Harris’s Rebekah, whose whole attitude seemed unreasonable as well as
changeable. Simon was a young Falstaff to a serious Hal at first, then he
was an almost rabid detractor of his friend’s behavior and beliefs, then
he spun on a dime (well, a guilder, perhaps) and defended his
friend. Rebekah, who resents her father’s having
left Baruch his estate and putting her in her brother’s care—historically
she apparently did sue Spinoza over the inheritance—stormed into the hearing
demanding Baruch be excommunicated, mouthing off frequently to berate him, then
switched to his defense suddenly—and briefly—only to return to her first
position.
It
all seemed very convenient—as if Ives saw that too many characters were
ganging up on little ol’ Baruch, so someone had to defend him or the play would
end. But even within the text, the vehemence with which the two
characters argued whichever stand was at hand at that moment didn’t
vary. I put the blame here on both Ives and Bobbie, though I suspect Ives
bears the most responsibility. As Baruch Spinoza, Jeremy Strong gave a
frequently mannered performance which seemed more like the actor’s own
idiosyncrasies than anything he selected for the character. He affected
an air of bemused aloofness and his gestures and expressions sometimes seemed
like something you’d see in the depiction of an autistic adolescent.
(Maybe Strong and Bobbie saw Spinoza as a sort of savant. I don’t buy it,
but maybe they did.) The character breaks out into an occasional cough—an
unacknowledged sign of the tuberculosis that killed the philosopher when he was
only 44—and Strong always seemed self-conscious to me whenever he bent over to
do this.
All
other aspects of the production were more than adequate, if unremarkable.
The costumes, lighting, and set (Anita Yavish, Ken Billington, and John Lee
Beatty, respectively) were all perfectly appropriate for their uses.
Beatty even modeled his set after a Sephardic synagogue (with the addition of
the center table) which resembles a thrust or arena stage—though I wonder how
many spectators would know that, even among the Jews. (The oldest
congregation in New York City—350 years—is, in fact, Sephardic; but I doubt too
many Ashkenazim have visited the Shearith Israel synagogue very often.)
Possibly
the most remarkable aspect of the performance is how well Strong, especially,
kept all that convoluted philosophy straight. (Would I know if he didn’t?)
Easton and Garrison had to do considerable philosophizing also in order to
counter Spinoza’s precepts, and I can’t say that any of them sounded as if they
didn’t understand what they were saying. I had trouble understanding what they were
saying, but that’s a different matter. In the end, though, it probably
isn’t all that important to get Spinoza’s concepts, since the conclusion’s a Billy Budd ending anyway.
Captain Vere/Rabbi Mortera has to sentence Billy/Baruch to be
hanged/excommunicated even if Billy/Baruch’s guilt is mollified by his pure
heart/unimpeachable reasoning because the consequences to the fleet/community
would be too devastating if he shows leniency. The Captain/Rabbi must
condemn Billy/Baruch to secure the welfare and perpetuation of the
fleet/community. (Can you follow that? Trust me, it works.)
I
am left, however, with one really big question I haven’t been able to answer
for myself: What’s it all for? Other than telling this particular
story—much of which, in Ives’s account, may be fictional anyway—or exposing the
17th-century Dutch, despite their vaunted tolerance and openness, for
crypto-anti-Semites, why write or stage this play? (I bring up my two
minimum criteria for what I consider good theater: It must do more than just
tell a story; and it must be theatrical, that is, use the unique assets of the
live stage as much as possible.) What’s Ives’s point, other than a
historical role-play? Dunno. None of the critics I read offered an
opinion, either. (The New
York Post did make what I think is an invalid connection to
the current drive political candidates have to declare their religious faith to
court voters.)
Oh,
okay—when Simon’s revealed as van Valkenburgh’s spy who has been funneling
copies of Spinoza’s notes and letters to the city regents, I muttered under my
breath, ‘So, Homeland Security!’ Is Ives commenting on the current
tendency by the Bush League and its enablers to silence dissenters by
intimidation and the threat of legal sanctions? (Judith Miller,
anyone? Joe Wilson? Dr. James Hansen?) Well, aside from the
fact that we know this already, it’s not a point New Jerusalem makes very directly, if it
makes it at all. Dramaturgs are supposed to ask three questions when they’re
advising an artistic director in the selection of the season’s plays: Why
this play? Why here? Why now? I don’t know the answers for
CSC’s selection of New
Jerusalem. (Aside from the fantasy aspects of the hearing, it’s
a good text for a high school history, social studies, or civics class
role-play or something.)
[I
have to add one personal peeve. I went to a matinee, as I said, and the
audience, as the common wisdom has it, was mostly old ladies (and a few old
men). I mean older than me, of course. Now, I know from my days as
an actor that this population changes the audience’s response to a play, but
that didn’t trouble me. (Well, not much anyway. I had a guffawer
behind me.) What annoyed the hell out of me, and I don’t really
understand this, is that everyone, all the women, seemed to be carrying large
tote bags—some of them two bags—stuffed to the gunnels. Now, CSC isn’t a
large theater—it’s an East Village storefront, with a small lobby now turned
over for the most part to an espresso bar (hence, café tables occupying
the front of the space). It’s tight when the theater’s full—and this show
was sold out. Those damn bags bumped and poked me every time someone
moved in that lobby—and no one cared or excused herself! Who brings a
suitcase to the theater, for goodness’ sake? What could they possibly
need for two hours in the East Village? Doesn’t anyone have any common
sense? (Isn’t that the signature line for Shelley Berman’s judge
character on TV’s Boston Legal?
And he’s dotty!) Anyway, sheeesh!
[I hope everyone will come back to ROT on the 25th for my report on David
Ives’s Heir Apparent. And interested readers are
encouraged to have a look back at my report on Venus in Fur (11 July 2011).]
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