I seem to be having a mini-run of overlong plays that require me to sit for three-plus hours after which I still don’t know what I saw. In July, it was Yukio Ninagawa’s Kafka on the Shore at three hours with an intermission (see my coming ROT report on 11 September) and now comes Annie Baker’s John, the opener of the Signature Theatre Company’s 2015-16 season, which runs a whopping three-and-a-quarter hours with two intermissions. (When was the last time you saw that?) In both experiences, I never figured out what the playwrights or directors wanted to say to me: Kafka is adapted from a highly metaphysical novel of the same title by Haruki Murakami, which surely accounts for its obtuseness, but Baker’s latest work is shot through with intentional mysticism (contrived to my ear) and an apparent willfulness to reveal as little as possible before, during, and after the performance. (Looking for a brief description of the plot, all I could find outside of the reviews, which had only just come out, was the theater’s cryptic promo: “The week after Thanksgiving. A Bed & Breakfast in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. A cheerful innkeeper. A young couple struggling to stay together. Thousands of inanimate objects, watching.”) The New York Times’ Alexis Soloski reports that when asked about John even when it was completing rehearsals, Baker “wouldn’t share many particulars”; Jesse Green wrote in New York that she wouldn’t even describe it for him back in May. Even Baker’s professional and personal background is only available in sketchy outlines and Soloski observes that the playwright waves off personal questions with a “No, no, no!”
My subscription partner, Diana, and I went to the Pershing
Square Signature Center for the 7:30 performance of John on Friday evening, 14 August, on the Irene Diamond Stage,
STC’s large, 294-seat, proscenium house.
Spectators enter through the rear doors of the theater rather than the
usual side entrance down front. (The
only other time I’ve done that was for Charles L. Mee’s Big Love, when the rear entrance was dressed to look like an
Italian sukkah under which the
audience passed; see my ROT report
on 18 March.) The Signature production of John, a
world première, started previews on 22 July and opened on 11 August;
it’s currently scheduled to close on 6 September (extended from 30 August). Baker’s fifth produced play (she’s a 2014 Pulitzer
Prize-winner for The Flick, currently
running in a commercial revival at the Barrow Street Theatre in Greenwich
Village) is her first production as a member of STC’s Residency Five
program. (One of three residencies at
STC, now celebrating its 25th season, this residency program offers emerging
playwrights three full productions of new works over a five-year period. The other two programs are Residency One, for
established writers, and the Legacy Program, for former
playwrights-in-residence who are invited to return with a new or reimagined
script.)
I could find little about Baker’s biography; Alexis Soloski reports that neither the writer nor
her director, Sam Gold, like to reveal details of their private lives or their
work together. The bare bones are
that she was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in April 1981, which makes her 34. Her family—New York Jewish mother, Irish
Catholic father, and older brother (also a writer—a novelist)—moved to Amherst where
she and her brother were raised “by hippies in an incredibly politically
correct, we-all-love-each-other, world-peace household.” She went on to get a bachelor’s degree from
the Tisch School of the Arts’ Department of Dramatic Writing at New York
University and then a Master of Fine Art from Brooklyn College of the City
University of New York, where she went to work with playwright Mac Wellman. What drew her to writing, Baker isn’t
sure—neither parent was a writer—just that it was something she always wanted
to do. Playwriting is even more of a
mystery, she says, though as a schoolgirl she enjoyed participating in school
productions. It wasn’t the acting that
drew her, she says, “It was dealing with the theatre text that gave me
pleasure, and the staging of the live event.”
In fact, that’s what she says The Flick is partly about. Jesse Green reports
in Elle magazine that Baker feels that “the theater, in its
liveness, has a crucial, distinct function.”
The dramatist explains: “So many plays are trying to be like film, like
the needy kid who keeps saying ‘Like me, like me!’ and falling flat on his
face.” What she wants, Green reports in another profile of the
playwright, is for plays “to marshal the ancient resources of the stage toward
experiences only it can provide.” ROTters may recognize this as my second
criterion for good theater—I call it “theatricality.” (The first criterion is that a good play must
do more than just tell a story. See my
play reports “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: Children's Theater in America,” 25
November 2009; “A Disappearing Number (Lincoln Center Festival
2010),” 8 August 2010; “By the Way, Meet Vera Stark,” 27 May
2011; “The Intelligent Homosexual’s Guide,” 6 June 2011; “Peter Brook’s Tierno Bokar,” 30 August 2011; “’Tis Pity She’s a Whore,” 4 April
2012; “Red,” 4 March 2012; “Painting Churches,” 14 April 2012; “Lying Lesson,” 6 April 2013; or “New Jerusalem,” 20 April 2014.)
Her first professional play, Body Awareness, premièred at
the Atlantic Theater Company in Manhattan’s Chelsea neighborhood in
2008. Directed by Karen Kohlhaas, the play received Drama Desk and Outer
Critics Circle Award nominations and brought the dramatist to national
attention. In 2009, Baker followed this
production with Circle Mirror Transformation at Playwrights Horizons, her first collaboration with director
Sam Gold who has since directed Baker’s next four premières: The Aliens
(Rattlestick Playwrights Theater, 2010; 2010 Susan Smith Blackburn Prize
finalist and winner, with Circle Mirror Transformation, of the 2010 Obie
Award for Best New American Play), her adaptation of Anton Chekhov’s Uncle
Vanya (Soho Repertory Theatre, 2012), The Flick (Playwrights
Horizons, 2013; the 2013 Obie Award for Playwriting and 2014 Pulitzer Prize),
and now John. Gold also directed
a 2010 staged reading of Nocturama, so far unmounted in a full production,
at the Manhattan Theatre Club, and the current Off-Broadway revival of The
Flick. (Since they began working
together, Baker has had no other director—she directed the workshop of her own new
play, The Last of the Little Hours, at the Sundance Institute’s
2014 Theatre Lab in Utah—but Gold has had successful productions of plays such
as Lisa Kron and Jeanine Tesori’s Fun Home—Off-Broadway, 2013;
Broadway, 2015; Tony Award for Best
Direction of a Musical—and numerous other Off-Broadway and Broadway plays.) Baker has won a number of honors,
fellowships, and prizes for her writing.
She currently also teaches playwriting at NYU, at Barnard
College, and in the MFA program at the Southampton campus of Stony
Brook University, part of the State University of New York. Her plays have been produced all
around the U.S. and in many countries abroad and four of her plays that are set
in Vermont (The Aliens, Circle Mirror Transformation, Nocturama,
Body Awareness) have been anthologized as The Vermont Plays (Theatre
Communications Group, 2012).
“I’m someone who spots extremely theatrical moments in everyday life
that usually go unnoticed,” the playwright avers. According to Nathan
Heller of the New Yorker, Baker “wants life onstage to be so vivid,
natural, and emotionally precise that it bleeds into the audience’s visceral
experience of time and space.” As Sam
Gold characterizes her playwriting, “It feels easy, casual, and
unconsidered. But the truth is that
every breath, every hiccup in a thought, every tense inarticulate silence is
orchestrated like a carefully composed piece of music.” Heller, a staff writer for the New Yorker
who writes on various topics, continues: “Drawing on the immediacy of overheard
conversation, she has pioneered a style of theatre made to seem as untheatrical
as possible, while using the tools of the stage to focus audience attention.” Those tools include not just the dialogue (including
silences), but also the actors’ movements and gestures, the costumes, set
décor, music, sound, lights, and “the whole immersive apparatus of the modern
stage.” When she writes, she now consciously attempts to rid her work of
“conventional dramatic style”; the first things she thinks about, she says, are
“all of the things that I think are integral to writing for the theatre”: “physical
space and time and duration and design.”
(This is very reminiscent of Tennessee Williams’s “plastic theater,”
about which I wrote on ROT in “‘The Sculptural Drama’: Tennessee
Williams’s Plastic Theater,” 9 May 2012.)
Though critics have labeled her both a “Realist” and a “Naturalist,”
the playwright rejects those terms. (Charles
Isherwood called her work “micro-naturalism,” and the meticulous and detailed
sets for her plays have even been described as “hyperreal.”) She doesn’t feel there is a name that
describes what she does. “We need
different terms,” Baker insists. “The old ones are outmoded. They were outmoded when Chekhov wrote The
Seagull.” Her writing, asserts
Heller, seems “as unplotted as real life” and then “breaks abruptly into
surreal transcendence.” “Nothing huge or
overtly dramatic happens,” avers Jesse Green in Elle magazine; nevertheless,
“. . . a real world, full of improbable feeling, arises from minimal
information.” In the earlier Green
profile, the journalist asks: “Where is the argument? Where is the exposition?” He explains, “Such ‘resistant’ materials force
the audience to open itself in a new way to what it experiences. Some people do; some walk out.” Baker’s plays comprise what Heller calls “intensely
realistic elements—the studiously plausible scenery, the lack of obviously
purposive action—but they don’t always add up to a realistic effect.” The playwright “zooms in” on the tiny,
revealing details of ordinary life, says Adam Greenfield, the director of
new-play development at Playwrights Horizons.
Further, Baker’s plays don’t come to usual kinds of conclusions where
things are wrapped up in a neat package.
“I get frustrated when theatre tries to make it make sense,” the writer
argues. “Sometimes people go to the
theatre expecting articulated ideas, a lesson and dots for them to connect. The
play is telling you what to think and I’m just not interested in that.”
Like many avant-gardists and postmodernists of the late 20th century,
Baker has come, since her collaboration with director Sam Gold, to conceive of
her plays as what she calls “blueprints” which are only finished during the
rehearsal process. The playwright
acknowledges that work on a new play always starts with “the image of a
place”—for John, for example, it was the bed-and-breakfast in Gettysburg,
Pennsylvania—then she thinks “about an actor I want to write for”—“the great” Georgia
Engel for John. (The process
often begins with a road trip with Gold and the scenic designer; before writing
John, Baker, Gold, and Mimi Lien went to Gettysburg and photographed several
B&B’s in meticulous detail.) The
characters of her scripts, Baker senses, are “already there and I have to get
their voices right.” That often comes
from the actors for whom she’s writing, whose “cadences and personality lead me
to the character.” The work she and Gold
create with the designers and actors, says Alexis Soloski in the Times, is “a kind of theatrical pointillism: Observed up close, it isn’t
anything like real life, but onstage it looks and feels and sounds that way.” (In contrast, New York Theater’s
Jonathan Mandell asserted, John “comes off instead like an exercise in
theatrical pointillism . . . without as much concern that the dots add up to a
clear and satisfying overall picture.”) Gold
admires the “microscopic lens on the world” Baker’s plays wield and observes, “Everything
has to be right. Everything has to be
honest. Everything has to be full.”
Playwright and director “dive into the mundane and ordinary and reveal
the extraordinary in it,” said Signature’s artistic director, James Houghton. Baker’s literary aim is to look at what Heller
called “what’s left unsaid along the edges of conversation.” Green notes that her plays “feature as much
silence as speech.” This is a hallmark
of Baker’s dramaturgy, the long, often awkward silences: the trailing line
that’s left unfinished, the unspoken response to a question or
observation—usually accompanied by blank stares as if one character didn’t
understand what the other said or the language she’s speaking. It’s evident in John, as are wordless
scenes. In a rehearsal of John,
Soloski observes, Gold admonished actress Hong Chau to “recommit to a
pause, making it longer and more awkward.”
He told her, “I know it must feel really unnatural.” Green characterizes these silences as
“cryptic,” but I often saw them as just empty.
Matthew Maher, an actor in both the Playwrights Horizons début of The
Flick and the Barrow Street revival, remarked that they are “sometimes a
gray area between an awkward moment between actors and an awkward moment
between characters,” and Gold, telling the actors that they were supposed
to feel that way, cautioned Maher, “You have to learn to embrace that bad
feeling.”
John takes place
entirely in a Victorian house in Gettysburg that’s been converted into a bed-and-breakfast. The innkeeper is Mertis Katherine Graven
(Engel, beloved by many from her days as Georgette on The Mary Tyler Moore Show
of the 1970s), who insists that people call her Kitty—though almost no one ever
does. The house is filled with scores of ceramic
miniatures, dolls (which line the central staircase and landing), stuffed
animals, figurines, a grandfather clock,
and a lighted Christmas tree. The story’s
set between Thanksgiving and Christmas. A
CD player (disguised as a tiny 1950s-era jukebox) constantly provides a
background of classical music, and occasionally, a player piano under the
stairs starts up all on its own. Is the
place haunted? Mertis doesn’t think so
but her friend Genevieve Marduk (Lois Smith), blind, spooky, and unpredictable,
is sure it is. Jenny Chung (Hong Chau) and
her boyfriend of three years, Elias Schreiber-Hoffman (Christopher Abbott) arrive
at the B&B on their way home to Brooklyn from Thanksgiving with Jenny’s
family in Ohio. As soon as Jenny and
Elias are shown to their room upstairs, it’s clear from a muffled tiff leaking
through the floorboards that they’re an unhappy couple with serious problems—or
problems they’ve made serious—to work out.
(One reviewer said of this couple, “Baker feeds us the dissolution of
this relationship with the precision of a sadist pulling the wings off of a
fly.”) During the night, Jenny comes
downstairs (as she will again the next night) to sleep on the couch; she
complains of being cold, but we don’t really know why.
Mertis tells the couple that she’s caring for her ailing
husband, but we never see him. Mertis serves
as the Stage Manager, in the sense of Our
Town rather than the real-life show-runner: she rotates the hands on the
grandfather clock to move us forward in time, as the living room lights and the
sunlight through the windows dim or brighten, and she opens and closes the curtain (by hand) for each act. She controls time and seals or opens her
world to us. We have to wait for the
second act to meet Genevieve, who sits motionless at a café table in the
breakfast nook (called Paris just to add to the forced coziness and Gemütlichkeit of the place) expounding
on life and “the time I went crazy.” Genevieve tells about John, her former
husband (whom we never meet), a bully whom she believes invaded her mind and
soul even after she left him. Jenny
reveals that she once knew a man named John, whom we later learn was an abusive
and possessive older lover, to which Genevieve snaps, “Everyone knows
someone named John.” All this is where Baker took her title for
the play.
Of course, the play’s story, which is teased out in tiny
bits in haphazard order (and which actually contains many more incidents and
details I haven’t recounted), isn’t the same as its theme or point. This is where I failed. Three-and-a-quarter hours is a long time to sit in confusion.
Diana began complaining as soon as the first act-break came along and I
was sure she was going to suggest leaving—which I wouldn’t have done—but she
didn’t. Plays can go downhill as they go along, but they almost never
improve in the second act (or, in this case, the second or third), and by the
middle of act two, I’d given up any hope that Baker would let us in on the
point of John. She never did,
and Diana insisted that the dramatist didn’t have one. I suspect she at
least thought she did but either didn’t know how to reveal it or had deliberately
buried it beneath so many layers of misdirection and mystery, including hints
of the supernatural—Elias goes on a nighttime cemetery ghost tour and captures
a ghostly blur in the photo he took in a child’s bedroom of a restored Civil
War-era house, and Mertis relates that her inn had been a hospital for Union
soldiers and rumors had it that mountains of amputated arms and legs were piled
so high outside the windows that they blocked the light—that you’d need a crib
sheet to suss it out. When asked about
her themes, Jesse Green reports, she replies: “Of course you want your plays
to say something. But you want them to
say something that could never be said in a sentence, because then you’d write
a sentence and not a play.” The play let
out a little before eleven and, after Diana and I went for a snack afterwards,
I didn’t get home until around 1 a.m. and still didn’t know what John is
about. (I doubt I ever will, either. I think I’m not going to be a
fan of Baker’s.)
A tactic Baker seems to like is raising issues that aren’t
explained or questions that aren’t answered.
(I wonder if this technique is related to the playwright’s tendency not
to talk about her life or her work.) For instance, do you know what a
Neo-Platonist is? I didn’t and I still don’t after trying to look it up.
(I thought it might be revealing, but I’ll never know now. It’s apparently a mixture of Platonic
concepts and Eastern mysticism. Go know,
right?) Mertis identifies herself as one, but just as Elias is about to
ask what that is, they’re interrupted and it’s never explained. So here we
have an unanswered (and actually unasked) question inside an impenetrable play.
John’s a little like a set of
Russian nesting dolls in that respect—one unanswered/unanswerable question
inside another. Now, do you know what a wahwah bird is? It’s a mythical
bird that lives at the North Pole and flies in ever-decreasing concentric
circles crying wah-wah until it flies up its own ass.
That’s how I found John.
Let’s talk about the production; at least I don’t have to
interpret that. Mimi Lien, after
traveling with Baker and Gold to Gettysburg and taking “exhaustive photos of
several bed-and-breakfasts—the wallpaper, the hand-embroidered samplers, the
spooky stuffed animals,” designed a prop-crazy set of a fussy living room for
Mertis’s guesthouse. (The room is an
old-fashioned box set, with three walls and a ceiling, which encourages the
impression that the B&B is a closed world.)
The sofa and overstuffed chairs are all covered in floral-print fabric
and Paris, the breakfast nook at stage right, has three or four little white
metal café tables with matching chairs.
The chair cushions and table coverings are also flowery and lace squares
are laid over the tablecloths and there’s a cozy little fireplace in the upstage
Paris wall. All around the room are the
tchotchkes, making the place look like a demented toy-and-knickknack shop—or a
hoarder’s paradise. Up stage, slightly
left of the center, is a lighted and decorated Christmas tree (whose little
white bulbs occasionally go on or off at will) and the grandfather clock that
Mertis looks after is directly up center, next to the door that leads to the
kitchen and Mertis’s (and, I suppose, George’s) room. The staircase to the second floor, which
leads up to a landing before disappearing into the flies, is straight up stage
just to the right of the center—leaving an alcove in which resides the player
piano. The bannister is wrapped in
greenery and more Christmas lights and each step is home to a doll or stuffed
animal. All around are several wall
sconces and faux-Tiffany lamps, the
ones that dim or brighten when Mertis moves the clock hands. The decor is precisely arranged and I got the
feeling Mertis knows where each object is and where it came from.
Special recognition goes to Props Master Noah Mease and his
assistant Becky Parker Geist for their work finding all these items—there must
be hundreds—and setting them so precisely.
“Design,” Baker insists, “is 70 percent of the theatergoing experience.” The lighting design of Mark Barton and Bray
Poor’s soundscape are also integral to the artificial friendliness of the inn,
as well as its undercurrent of spookiness; the magical dimming and brightening
of the lights when Mertis uses the clock to reset the time, even though I know
it’s a deliberate stage effect, is nonetheless eerie, along with the willful
holiday lights and player piano. Ásta
Bennie Hostetter’s costumes could not be more apt—Mertis’s flowered dresses, neat,
prim, and old-fashioned just like her; Genevieve’s proto-hippie shifts; Jenny’s
and Elias’s Brooklyn yuppie casual—helping to establish each character’s
personality visually as the actors do through behavior. Like Lien’s set, Hostetter’s clothing is
precise and detailed and meticulously conceived. In line with Williams’s plastic-theater
concept, the visual and aural life of Baker’s plays is as important to a
production as the text, the acting, and the directing.
The performances, clearly under the careful tutelage of
director Gold, were all technically excellent.
John (and, I presume, all of
Baker’s writing) is the kind of play that demands an actor buy into the style
as well as the verbal and emotional content.
Everyone has to be guided by the same playbook, like Brecht-manqué (and Brecht actually did have a
playbook—his Modelbücher). Some actors chafe, not being allowed to
follow all their own instincts but toeing someone else’s line—more like classic
dance on a simplistic level than modern acting.
(Of course, there are many theater forms in which codified acting is an
integral element of the art—Kabuki, Noh, Kathakali, Beijing Opera, Wayang Orang—but it isn’t a prominent
technique in Western theater. Brecht, of
course, was a stand-alone artist and had been greatly influenced by Asian
performance.) As in these forms, there’s
little room in John for approximation
or winging it. Like the settings and the
tech, the acting has to be precise. (“I
have a really fanatical side,” Baker confesses.)
The New Yorker’s Heller
observes, “Onstage, Baker exercises meticulous control” and characterizes
the performance style of her plays as “the invisible precision that’s become a
hallmark of Baker and Gold’s style.”
The acting in Baker’s play doesn’t look codified or
choreographed, but the contribution of the director is strongly felt here. (The work of Baker and Gold is closer than
the customary writer-director relationship, even the legendary pairing of Tennessee
Williams and Elia Kazan in its heyday. It’s
almost a creative partnership like that of a lyricist and a composer or a team
of writers like Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur, George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart,
or Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse; reviewer Jesse Green called Gold Baker’s
“joined-at-the-hip director.”) But while
I recognize the technical achievement of Baker, Gold, and their cast and crew,
I can’t help finding that the style produced, no matter how well executed,
reads artificial, contrived, and empty.
The portentous silences, the secrets and mysteries, the eccentric
behavior all adds up for me to affectation and gimmickry, the equivalent of
what one of my theater profs used to call “Hamlet
on roller skates.”
Individual performances are still important, of course, but
it’s also fascinating to watch accomplished veterans like Engel and Smith
adjust their talents to realize Baker’s and Gold’s requirements. As director, Gold sees his job as “translating
her cryptic silences and fussy requests into terms the actors can work with,”
but that’s a simplistic view for public consumption; he really is, as Vsevolod
Meyerhold held, the “author” of the production as he “calibrates the
declarations and pauses and elisions with knife-edge precision.” Some actors shine despite the restraints,
flourishing within the challenge. I’ve
always likened it to writing a sonnet: the form is precise and confining, but
some poets embrace the strictures and create unique artistic expressions
nonetheless. The four cast members of
STC’s John are of this caliber.
The standouts in the cast of four are Georgia Engel as
Mertis and Lois Smith, truly one of this country’s top performers, as
Genevieve. Smith’s prominence here comes
from her absolute command of any role she plays, irrespective of the quality of
the rest of the production. (I’ve seen
Smith a number of times now, and reported on her work in Tony Kushner’s The Illusion, posted on ROT on 1 July 2011; Sam Shephard’s Heartless, 10 September 2012; a 2005 production of Horton
Foote’s The Trip to Bountiful,
25 May 2013; and Foote’s The Old Friends,
10 October 2013.) Even though her part
in John seems almost
superfluous—Genevieve stirs the pot a bit, but isn’t a strong presence except
for Smith’s performance—her characterization, the idiosyncrasy of the persona
she creates, is stunning. Smith’s
Genevieve is the polar opposite of Engel’s Mertis, a timid and soft-spoken
woman, and Smith’s intestinal strength, sureness, and authority on stage
provides a backbone to the play that it would otherwise lack. (Don’t confuse this backbone with the “spine”
Harold Clurman describes in On Directing. Baker doesn’t seem to write plays with that
kind of supportive throughline.) Smith
takes hold of Genevieve and projects her out into the house, even the little
surprise curtain speech she delivers at the end of act two, as if she were
playing Queen Margaret in Richard III—no
equivocating, no if’s, and’s or but’s. (That
fourth wall-breaking interlude is the most overtly non-realistic element in John—evidently the only one Baker’s ever
used up till now—outside Mertis’s clock-keeping and curtain-pulling duties.) Even Smith, though, can’t disguise the sense
that Genevieve is a contrivance, a sort of latter-day Tiresias inserted to jolt
the proceedings, but the actress commits to the role and make it thrum.
As Mertis, Engel,
who doesn’t have Smith’s range, is an overgrown baby doll. Of course, this impression is advanced
inevitably by her little-girl voice, well know from Engel’s past work,
including (perhaps especially) MTM’s
Georgette Franklin. Eternally up-beat
and content, Engel’s Mertis has a permanent smile—not dissimilar to a doll’s,
by the way—and can’t seem to raise her voice above a semi-whisper. When Mertis goes into one of Baker’s
signature silences, Engel retains a blank look on her face as if someone had
paused the tape. All these attributes
combine to make Mertis seem not only ditzy, but not too bright as well—but the
character cracks that image now and then by saying something a little brainy,
and Engel, with an absolute commitment to the role, maintains her otherworldly
demeanor even then, as if the words that came out of her mouth surprise her as
well. Even with the hint—well, sometimes
more than a hint—of sinisterness Baker wrote into the character (she reads H.
P. Lovecraft’s “The Call of Cthulhu” to Genevieve), Engel still comes off as a
sweet little biddy. Just don’t let her
come up behind you in the dark with a kitchen knife or maybe spout some
incomprehensible words (like the ones in her journal) to one of her dolls.
Christopher Abbott
and Hong Chau, who play the young couple Elias Schreiber-Hoffman (an homage, do
you suppose, to Liev Schreiber and Philip Seymour Hoffman?) and Jenny Chung,
can’t raise their characters above the level of neurotic and whiny 30-somethings;
they’re closest to bad Woody Allen characters who never grow out of their
annoying foibles. Baker is reputed to
write characters who are just everyday people, like her audience; she doesn’t
like the adjective ‘ordinary,’ however: “The distinction between ordinary and
extraordinary is bogus. I want to erase
the line between the two.” One potential
problem with subjects like that, though, is that their problems, which seem
monumental to them, just aren’t especially interesting. Elias and Jenny wallow in their inability to
communicate and be honest with one another, finding slights and wounds where
healthier folks would just move on.
Abbott and Chau play this well enough, following the path stalwartly—but
they don’t really make much of it.
(Remember, I had to sit with them for over three hours and listen to
them kvetch.) That’s soon grating and Elias and Jenny don’t
come to terms with their issues. They
can’t, of course, because Baker doesn’t write conclusions, just final
scenes—and no actors, no matter how talented, can change that. Still, Abbott and Chau don’t imbue Elias and
Jenny with a spark that might have made them worth spending so much time
around.
There are a lot of reviews on line for this show, probably
because John’s a world première by a
newly-minted Pulitzer Prize-winner. Several reviewers ventured guesses at
what John was about, but even they
were vague and unconvincing to me. The rest confessed, like I did, that
they had no clue. Despite their admitted lack of understanding, the
reviewers mostly had praise for the play and Baker’s work in general, which sounds
like a case of the emperor’s new clothes to me. (‘I have no idea what she’s
saying, but it must be profound. She won a Pulitzer, you know.’) Now let’s see what they had to say.
“If you’re looking for easy answers, ‘John’ will keep you
busy,” warned Elisabeth Vincentelli in her first statement in the New York Post, noting that the play is “packed
with cryptic conversations between long silences.” “‘John’ is what you
make of it,” Vincentelli informed her readers, guessing, “It could be a
Freudian fairy tale in which youngsters find a strange house with its own rules
. . . . Or it could be about women
dealing with repressed traumas,” and summed up with “my guesses are as good as
yours.” The world of John, according to Newsday’s Linda Winer, is “in current Annie Baker territory” with “many
long pauses and painfully quiet stretches.”
This play, Winer averred, however, “is weirder, nuttier, scarier than
any Baker play I've seen. It is
positively gothic—mysteries within mysteries, ghost stories on top of ghost
stories.” The “[w]eird, scary,
slow-motion play,” said the Long Island reviewer, is “hypnotic,” but “never
actually conclusive” which is nonetheless “riveting, unpredictable, altogether
human theater.”
“Annie Baker’s odd and compelling play, ‘John,’ reinforces
her reputation as an American original, a playwright in whose hands the mundane
becomes extraordinary,” proclaimed Joe Dziemianowicz of New York’s Daily News. For instance, Baker “makes her own rules,”
Dziemianowicz noted, filling “slow-mo stillness with big emotional stakes.” The Newsman
asserted that the world of the B&B as a “keenly observed universe proves a fascinating place to be.” The
Daily News reviewer, calling the play
“this disarming and consistently engaging work,” found that John “is an everyday title for a play
that’s anything but ordinary. It takes a
familiar story and sets it to life with its own beat—and timetable.” Baker’s play, Dziemianowicz decided, is “about truth
and intimacy and how relationships nurture and gnaw—sometimes viciously and
endlessly” and its “key” is, “Relationships can do that, haunt you.” (Ummm . . . aren’t about half of all modern
dramas about that—like, maybe, Splendor
in the Grass, or Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, or even
A Period of Adjustment? Most of Sam Shepard’s plays are about that
and Neil Simon’s are, too, except they’re comedies.)
In am New York,
Matt Windman declared that Baker and Gold “have a remarkable ability to break
the basic rules of drama and get away with their transgressions. Not only that, they succeed beautifully.” Under Gold’s direction, said Windman, Baker’s
“plays become mesmerizing, extremely detailed character portraits where every
silent pause is meaningful and time passes quickly—even with three-hour-plus
running times.” (The amNY review-writer and I will have to
differ on that.) John, the journalist thought, is a “sorrowful
but good-humored play . . . packed with seemingly trivial small talk and
mysteries that are never resolved.” (“At
least we eventually learn who John is,” Windman quipped. To which I amend: Maybe.) “Nothing much has happened by the end,”
observed the amNY writer. “Nevertheless, ‘John’ is thoroughly
captivating.”
The New York Times’ Charles Isherwood called John a “haunting and haunted meditation,” adding that Baker
“stretches her talents in intriguing if sometimes baffling new directions.” “The membrane between life and death, the
world of things and the realm of spirits,” continued the Timesman, “seems strangely permeable in Ms. Baker’s appealingly
odd—and perhaps less appealingly long—drama, which is laced with shivery
suggestions of a ghost story.” Isherwood
praised Gold for John’s dialogue,
which is “orchestrated with intuitive delicacy” but warned, “Many will be
perplexed by the play’s obscurities; others bewitched by a writer who dares to
raise large philosophical questions . . . while at the same time drawing
characters in such piercingly specific emotional detail.” Isherwood concluded that, like many great
works of art, John has the effect of
“bringing mysterious comfort for reasons we cannot always articulate, even as
they underscore how sad and solitary life often feels.”
“‘John’ is full of poetic, handsomely wrought scenes that
ought to add up to more than they do,” wrote Terry Teachout in the Wall Street Journal.
“The problem,” the WSJ reviewer
explained, “. . . is that Ms. Baker has drowned them in a sea of
portentous pauses and protracted silences . . . that are meant to be
atmospheric but end up being numbing.” He
added that “Sam Gold’s delicate staging makes the results just about tolerable,”
but concluded, “I’m sure there’s a beautiful play in there somewhere, . . . but
I can’t remember when I last encountered a playwright whose great gifts were so
completely undercut by a greater lack of dramaturgical self-discipline.”
John, said Tom
Sellar in the Village Voice, “stretches
a series of eerie unknowns across three acts” with “teetering plot points—teasingly
unresolved” so that “the play steadily accrues possible symbols that never
develop.” While director Gold “labors to
make the real-domestic-time aesthetic work with the drama’s portents,” Sellar
found that “the production falters because it often feels stagy or contrived
rather than disarming.” The
review-writer for the Voice
concluded, “After threatening in the first two acts to coalesce into another
kind of play—one promising poetic or mystical revelations—John ultimately
settles for very smart psychology.”
“Annie Baker’s ‘John’ . . . is so good on so many levels,”
declared the New Yorker’s Hilton Als,
“that it casts a unique and brilliant light.”
He goes on to compliment all the elements of Baker’s play and Gold’s
production—the acting, setting, dramaturgy—but saves his highest praise for
Baker’s depiction, as a woman writer, of the female characters in John (her other major plays have all
centered on male characters), particularly Mertis and Jenny. In New
York magazine, Jesse Green asked, “And what is Baker up
to, filling three acts and three and a half hours with the homely minutiae of
love, loss, and hospitality?” His
answer: “Quite a lot, it turns out, even though (as is typical for Baker’s
plays) you first have to submit to a radical reorientation of time and scale to
get there.” For “Baker is trying to extend to characters in extremis,”
Green observed, “the intense realism—not stage realism but real realism—usually
denied them in plays.” Still, the man
from New York asserted, “John hovers
on the edge of metaphysics. . . . With
no special effects except that player piano, she’s produced a real ghost story,
which is to say a semblance of life.”
Ultimately, however, he found that John
“is also so expansive that it becomes, in the third act, when you want it to
buckle down, a bit unsatisfyingly diffuse.”
While praising the performances and set dressing, Variety’s Marilyn Stasio complained, “Baker plays true
to form in ‘John’ by depending on subtle suggestion rather than definitive
action to make her point. But what,
precisely, is her point here? If there’s
an answer to that, it rests with the dolls.”
For Stasio, the central event of John is the conversation among
the three women in Paris about dolls and how they each feel about them, but the
Variety reviewer saw in that scene that “the only takeaway from all that
buildup is the strong intimation that Jenny is getting ready to break up with
Elias for treating her like an inanimate object. And while it’s a valid conclusion to draw
about a character, we could have had this whole conversation in a coffee
shop.” In his Hollywood Reporter
review, Jesse Oxfeld wrote, in contrast to Stasio, that John is a
“thoughtful, unhurried consideration of relationships that’s worth sticking
around for.” “This is a big show . .
. but also a humble, cerebral one,
without bells and whistles,” continued Oxfeld, adding, “John is
sometimes wry, but unlike Baker’s other plays, it’s not especially funny.” For the HR reviewer, the play is an examination
of the question Elias asks, but which Oxfeld posited that all the characters,
as well as we in the auditorium, also ponder: “Have you ever been in something
and just like had no idea whether you should go or stay?” (I’d bet that some in the audience asked
themselves that very question about being in the theater that evening.) In Time Out New York, David Cote
explained that he brought up the play’s running time “not to warn you about
potential boredom (in the ordinary sense), but because duration is [the] key
component of the experience, which lodges in your memory, emitting time-delayed
puffs of meaning.” After detailing the
strange and eerie objects and events in John, the man from TONY
admitted, “Like much in the cozy yet unnerving world Baker has created here . .
. I don’t quite get the significance.
But if I lower the lights and wait,” he offers, “some glimmering form
might appear around the corner.”
Among the cyber reviewers, David Gordon on TheaterMania, calling
John “a conundrum-wrapped enigma,” labeled it “a challenging piece to
interpret, one that will leave even the most perceptive audience members
shell-shocked in ways good and bad.” Gordon
warned that as “the play gets weirder and weirder, it becomes harder and harder
to keep track of what story is being told” because Baker “has a tendency to
bite off more than she can chew.” John
has “a surfeit of themes and ideas, and [a] tendency to settle on none of them”
which “dilutes the play’s overall impact.”
The TM review-writer, however, also acknowledged that “there's
also much to be thankful for,” including Lien’s set design (“so realistic that
Signature could potentially charge admission for an overnight stay”), Gold’s
directing (deriving “so much out of so little”), Hostetter’s costumes, Barton’s
“spellbinding” lighting, and Poor’s “eerie” soundscape. The cyber writer ended by thanking Baker for
writing and STC for presenting John, which he pronounced “isn't an easy
work to sit through.” Jonathan Mandell of
New York Theater, calling the STC production of John “an
exquisitely acted puzzle of a play,” said it “seems to be aiming to be some
kind of ghost story, but winds up falling short of any kind of fully realized
drama.” “Too much of the play, however,”
explained Mandell, “feels best suited for an assignment in a college literature
course.”
On Talkin’ Broadway, Matthew Murray practically hadn’t a single
negative word to say about John, the writing or the production. (He had one slight reservation in the region
of performance, but dismissed it himself.
I suspect he’s a fan of Baker—or the Baker-Gold team-up.) He labeled this play “perhaps . . . the best to
date” of the “masterful minimalist storytellers’” collaborations. “Baker,” Murray asserted “builds up the
suspense so gradually, but so completely, that eventually anything that pierces
it invokes shivers” and expected that “you will undoubtedly find yourself on
the edge of your seat during most of” the play’s extensive running time. The playwright, the TB review-writer
declared, “displays as an artist and a technician a total confidence and
self-assuredness in John.”
He noted that Baker “hasn't deployed a single gimmick, but instead uses
to the fullest every tool at her disposal.”
John, Murray concluded, “plumbs the soul, head, and heart so more
fully, and more excitingly, than even the spookiest ghost story could possibly
manage.”
On CurtainUp, Simon Saltzman called John “haunting,
intense, surreal, and also demanding” and suggested, “To some it’s a
commendable conceit. Others will find ‘no
there there,’” even warning, “Audiences for whom life on the stage is best
served in fast forward, are likely to have a hard time with Baker's plays.”
“A splendid cast under Sam Gold, Baker's director of choice,” wrote Saltzman, “are
co-creators of a mood that will have you chortling one minute and sending
shivers down your spine the next.” The CU reviewer affirmed, “The
title”—which he refused to explain—“may be familiar but the play is like none
other,” although “it’s not easy to sum up with a simple ‘here’s what it's all
about.’” Tulis McCall, on New York Theatre Guide, praised the
performances—especially Engel’s—and the set, but complained, “Oh yes there are
pauses. Pauses and pauses and pauses. 127 that I counted in the actual script. .
. . [In this play,] these silences
feel contrived. They take over the play
and have a life of their own. One gets
the feeling that the actors are actually counting out beats in their heads
while they wait for the appropriate moment for the next line to be spoken.” McCall concluded with the wish, “Perhaps as [Baker]
gathers speed her dialogue pacing will pick up steam as well. One can hope.”
I don’t usually quote a review at length—it’s happened once or twice,
but it’s uncommon and contrary to my rationale for the review round-up. But here, one writer seems to have caught my
response to John particularly clearly.
Michael Dale, describing the hallmarks of an Annie Baker play, wrote on Broadway
World:
There’s the commitment to natural
pacing that results in multiple instances of text-prolonging silence, the
menial tasks characters perform repeatedly (also in silence), the scenes that
take place offstage with muffled conversations the audience can’t understand,
the oblique dialogue that continually circles around points without landing on
them and the information contained in the script that’s never revealed to the
audience.
There are a couple of new ones
in John, very handsomely mounted by her steady collaborator,
director Sam Gold. A novel approach
to opening and closing the curtain helps define a character. A false ending to one of the acts is less
effective.
Dale even described himself in terms that might fit me (if I’d
had as much experience with Baker’s work as he seems to have had):
a playgoer who admires her
experimentation, finds her initial ideas interesting, but is consistently
disappointed and disinterested while sitting through her lengthy productions. As with The Flick (and, to a
lesser extent, Circle Mirror Transformation) her desire to replace
the elevated realism of
theatre with naturally-paced, indirect dialogue can have an alienating effect
that diminishes the impact of her storytelling.
While the BWW
reviewer lauded the performances (with special emphasis on Engel, of course)
and Lien’s kitschy set, he comes down in the end to say, “One would think
that the odd conversations and curious events that pop up throughout the
evening would be building to something, but the dangling clues don’t add up and
the open-ended questions go unresolved.” Wondering if “the title is another one of
Baker's dangling clues,” Dale added, “John can refer to a few
things, none of which are significant enough to warrant naming the play for it.”
The New York Times reports that Georgia Engel, the actress who played Mertis in Annie Baker's 'John' and was always recognized as Georgette on TV's 'The Mary Tyler Moore Show' of the 1970s, died on Friday, 12 April, at the age of 70. (The photo accompanying Ms. Engel's obituary was of her sitting in her dressing room at the Signature Center when she was appearing in 'John' there in 2015.)
ReplyDelete~Rick