On 16 May 1861, Benjamin Franklin Butler (1818-93) was promoted to major general in the Army of the United States by Pres. Abraham Lincoln. (The Civil War had started in earnest on 16 April when secessionist troops fired on the Union forces at Fort Sumter, South Carolina.) The former Massachusetts lawyer, born in New Hampshire, was immediately dispatched to take command of Fort Monroe on the mouth of the James River in southeastern Virginia. He arrived to take up his new post on Wednesday, 22 May—and the Virginia legislature ratified the vote to secede the very next day, joining South Carolina (seceded 20 December 1860), Mississippi (9 January 1861), Florida (10 January 1861), Alabama (11 January 1861), Georgia (19 January 1861), Louisiana (26 January 1861), Texas (1 February 1861), Arkansas (6 May 1861), and North Carolina (20 May 1861); of the ultimately 11 Confederate States, only Tennessee hadn’t yet seceded (it would do so on 8 June 1861).
On the same day as Virginia’s official separation from the Union,
three runaway slaves rowed across the inlet separating Union-held Fort Monroe
from the Confederate stronghold at Sewell’s Point in Hampton Roads, all of 15
miles on the water, but an incomprehensible gulf in the mind and in politics,
the gulf between slavery and freedom, between one world and another. At least, that’s what the three men, Frank
Baker, about 42; Shepard Mallory, 20; and James Townsend, 36, must have
thought. Presenting themselves to the fort’s commander, the escaped slaves requested sanctuary. The
three men, forced by their owner, rebel Colonel Charles King Mallory (1820-75), to build fortifications and artillery emplacements to oppose the Union fort, provided intelligence about Confederate fortifications, armaments, and
troop strength.
The men’s request for refuge at the fort, however, prompted Butler,
known as an attorney for his ability to weave his way through any statute and discover
a way to demolish his opponents’ arguments, to devise the innovative legal
theory that these escaped slaves, because they’d been used to further the
enemy’s war efforts, were “contraband of war,” no different from a canon, a
musket, or a cavalry horse, and did not have to be returned despite the articles
of war, the U.S. Constitution, and the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act that declared
they must be. This was an astonishing
move for Butler, a staunch Union man but, at his own admission, no
abolitionist. He’d even voted for
Jefferson Davis (who, by February 1861, was President of the Confederate States
of America) against John C. Breckenridge at the 1860 Democratic Convention in
Charleston as his party’s presidential nominee to run against Republican
Abraham Lincoln.
No sooner had the general declared the three runaways contraband,
legally retained by the Union army, than a virtual flood of escaping slaves,
having heard the story through a remarkably efficient slave grapevine, followed
their example; on Sunday, the 26th, eight more escapees showed up at the fort’s
gates and on the 27th, there were 47 more—including women, children, and old
men. Maj. Gen. Benjamin Butler, an army
officer for all of four weeks by this time, became an unlikely hero of freedom
from slavery a year-and-a-half before President Lincoln issued the Emancipation
Proclamation. Lincoln ultimately endorsed
Butler’s decision and commanders throughout the Union military adopted his practice
regarding Southern slaves.
(The general’s subsequent military career was mostly successful but
undistinguished. He was, in fact,
considered by Southerners in areas he administered such as New Orleans as
brutal and ruthless, attaining the sobriquet “Beast Butler.” Even today, Butler’s a despised figure among
some Southerners. After the war,
however, Benjamin Franklin Butler, who served in the Massachusetts state senate
before the war, would go on to be elected to congress from Massachusetts from
1867 to 1875 and 1877 to 1879, and then served as Governor of Massachusetts
from 1883 to 1884. He ran for president in
1884 as the nominee of the Greenback and Anti-Monopoly parties but lost to
Democrat Grover Cleveland; Butler came in a very distant fourth, behind not
only Cleveland but Republican James G. Blaine and Prohibition Party candidate John
St. John. He returned to the practice of
law, a profession in which he was deemed a brilliant practitioner, his
difficulties in other fields of endeavor notwithstanding, and died in a
Washington, D.C., court on 11 January 1893 at the age of 74.)
Having read about this bit of historical lore in a footnote in a
biography of Abraham Lincoln, playwright Richard Strand (Clown, The Bug) was intrigued. “The information was tantalizing because it
didn't make logical sense,” insisted Strand. “I couldn't understand why an
anti-abolitionist supporter of Jefferson Davis would take such a personally
risky stand against slavery.” Additional
research didn’t solve the puzzle for the dramatist, so he decided to write a
play about the momentous historical footnote and the man who perpetrated it; in
2012, that play became Butler, which
premièred at the New Jersey Repertory Company in Long Branch, on the Jersey
Shore, from 12 June to 13 July 2014.
“Writing the play,” explained Strand, “was my attempt to find a
plausible explanation for something that seemed inexplicable.” The dramatist has acknowledged that he composed
Butler to suggest one scenario of what
might have occurred at Fort Monroe in May of 1861.
That NJ Rep staging, directed by Joseph Discher, eventually moved
to New York City where it began previews as part of the 5A Season at the 59E59 Theaters
on 15 July for an opening on the 27th, scheduled to run in Theater A until 28
August. Though it’s my preference to see
a play after it opens—I don’t like seeing productions that aren’t finished
yet—my usual theater companion, Diana, and I went to Butler at its first preview on Friday, the 15th. (For further description of 59E59 and its
programs, see my report on “Summer Shorts 2015, Series A,” 12 August 2015.) Prior to this New York première, there were independent
productions of Butler in small
theaters around the country, including the Peninsula Players Theatre in Fish
Creek, Wisconsin (20-31 August 2014); the Barrington Stage Company, Pittsfield,
Massachusetts (14 May-13 June 2015); the Florida Studio Theatre, Sarasota (9
December 2015-5 March 2016); the Phoenix Theatre, Indianapolis (7 January-7
February 2016); the Detroit Repertory Theatre (7 January-13 March 2016); the Majestic
Theater, West Springfield, Massachusetts (25 February-3 April 2016); and the
Northlight Theatre, Skokie, Illinois (11 March-17 April 2016).
The plot of Butler is
essentially the history I laid out above, though most of the play, said Strand,
“is conjectural.” Strand’s play begins
with Major General Butler (Ames Adamson) at his desk in his office (designed by
Jessica L. Parks, and lit by Jill Nagle) when he’s interrupted by Lieutenant
Kelly (Benjamin Sterling), a young West Pointer who’d started in the army as a
private, fighting in the Mexican War (1846-48) before attending the
academy. The general’s aide (the only
character of the four in Butler who’s
fictional, as far as I can determine) enters to inform the commandant that a
“Negro slave” is demanding to speak with him.
Well, this sets Butler off on a tear (which I later realized was Butler’s
style of courtroom cross-examination).
He’s “astonished,” he tells Kelly, in no uncertain terms, and demands
that Kelly explain why he’s astonished and not merely surprised. Because there’s a runaway slave in the fort
and the general didn’t know it until now, guesses Kelly. No, that would only be surprising, retorts
Butler. Because there are not one but
three slaves in the fort? No again.
Because the slave—Kelly never asked the man’s name, which displeases Butler all the more—has “demanded” to speak with the commandant, not requested or asked. Butler reminds Kelly that no later than the day before, he’d explained to the lieutenant that one thing that he most dislikes is people who make demands on him. The only people who can do that, Butler elucidates, are President Lincoln; Secretary of State William Seward and other cabinet members; Gen. Winfield Scott, general-in-chief of the army; any officer who outranks him . . . and, Kelly chimes in, the general’s wife. But what really got Butler’s dander up, he instructed the young officer, was that Kelly had reported that the Negro slave had made this demand!
Because the slave—Kelly never asked the man’s name, which displeases Butler all the more—has “demanded” to speak with the commandant, not requested or asked. Butler reminds Kelly that no later than the day before, he’d explained to the lieutenant that one thing that he most dislikes is people who make demands on him. The only people who can do that, Butler elucidates, are President Lincoln; Secretary of State William Seward and other cabinet members; Gen. Winfield Scott, general-in-chief of the army; any officer who outranks him . . . and, Kelly chimes in, the general’s wife. But what really got Butler’s dander up, he instructed the young officer, was that Kelly had reported that the Negro slave had made this demand!
By all accounts, General Butler was a rough, uncouth, and irascible
man, and it seems that this initiating scene is meant to establish that
personality in a slightly humorous way.
(Butler isn’t a comedy, but there
are many funny lines and moments in it.)
In any case, the inadvisability of making demands on Butler is a
leitmotif in Strand’s script. Butler is
reputed to have had one other character trait that’s important to the play’s unfolding—and which comes closest to
explaining why this particular man took the action he did: he’s said to have
had a soft heart. So when he tells Kelly
at first that he won’t see the slave and Kelly observes that if the men are
sent back to their owner, they’ll likely be killed for escaping, the general
hesitates. He can’t offer the men sanctuary
at the fort because that violates both the law and the articles of war, not to
mention President Lincoln’s own statements about not interfering with slavery
where it was legal. But he can’t send
them back to die, either. So what can he
do? He orders Kelly to show the slave
in, and we finally meet Shepard Mallory (John G. Williams), who’s made himself
the spokesman for the three asylum-seekers.
(We never see the other two men, though their names are mentioned more
than once—as is the name Colonel Mallory, the slave-holding former judge to
whom the men belong.)
Butler and Mallory (the question of whether Shepard and the rebel
colonel are related is raised a few times because of their last names, but left
unresolved) finally meet, and Butler becomes intrigued with the well-spoken man
(he’s learned Butler’s full name from reading the crates with the general’s
belongings that are scattered around the headquarters—he’d been taught to read
against custom and law—and he uses the word “convoluted,” which actually makes
Butler stop for a second or two) who has landed on the officer’s doorstep. The two men engage in an unexpected and
extraordinary battle of wills and wits. Mallory,
it turns out, is just as obstinate as Butler is—in fact, they are something of
kindred spirits, which may be part of the reason Butler is impelled to find a
way to help the three escapees.
Meanwhile, Butler reveals that he’s received word that the
Confederates are sending an officer under a flag of truce to retrieve Colonel
Mallory’s property. That officer, not by
coincidence Shepard Mallory reckons, is Maj. John B. Cary (1819-98), the
colonel’s artillery expert who doubtlessly has been assigned to take advantage of
the situation to gather information on Fort Monroe’s armaments and
emplacements. When Cary arrives, Butler’s
decided to blindfold him, and it turns into a sight-and-sound gag off stage as
he’s obviously guided by Kelly so that he bumps into furniture and open doors
on his way to General Butler’s office.
When Major Cary (David Sitler) enters and is relieved of his
blindfold, he proceeds to read the demands—oh,
that word!—Colonel Mallory has sent with him.
Cary, whom Butler insists he met at the 1860 Convention when the then-Massachusetts
state senator supported Jefferson Davis, steadfastly denies any acquaintance
with the Union officer. Uniformed like a
Confederate peacock, in gloves he makes a elaborate display of removing and tall,
black cavalry boots, his gray tunic embellished with a red sash around his
waist and more gold braid on his sleeves than the late Chief Justice William
Rehnquist, carrying a cavalry hat with an impossibly broad brim, and wearing expansive
side whiskers, Cary even refuses to take a glass of the general’s “particularly
good” sherry with him. This is something
in which Butler apparently puts great store as he made Mallory take a glass
earlier and will insist again at the end of the play. (In addition to the sash, Sitler’s costume
also has copious red trim signifying an artillery officer, and Cary may
actually have been one, though I only found a few mentions of this on the ’Net.
Lieutenant Kelly wears an artillery
officer’s uniform, too, though there’s no mention in the play—or the program—of
his military specialty. It may merely
have been that the costumer, Patricia E. Doherty, liked the look of a blue
uniform with red trim—although photos of most of the other productions of Butler that depict Kelly, show him in
the red-trimmed uniform of an artilleryman.)
So, making demands on him, insisting they never met, and refusing to drink with him, Cary has seriously ticked Butler off but good, which is certainly the second part of Strand’s reason for the general to deny the return of the fugitive slaves. Nearly foaming at the mouth as Kelly puts the blindfold back on him, Cary is sent back to his colonel empty handed—bringing back neither useful intelligence nor the escaped slaves. But now, Butler has to come up with a rationale for doing what he just did—or he and Kelly will face courts-martial and Mallory will be returned to face execution.
So, making demands on him, insisting they never met, and refusing to drink with him, Cary has seriously ticked Butler off but good, which is certainly the second part of Strand’s reason for the general to deny the return of the fugitive slaves. Nearly foaming at the mouth as Kelly puts the blindfold back on him, Cary is sent back to his colonel empty handed—bringing back neither useful intelligence nor the escaped slaves. But now, Butler has to come up with a rationale for doing what he just did—or he and Kelly will face courts-martial and Mallory will be returned to face execution.
As the play ends, Butler has begun writing his dispatch justifying
his actions to the president, secretary of war, and general-in-chief, and he,
Kelly, and Mallory swear to keep the act secret, but we hear a large commotion on
the parade ground outside the commandant’s office. Kelly reports that eight more runaways have
entered the fort—what we know, but they don’t, will be just the beginning of a
flood. (Historically, we also know that
Butler’s “contraband decision” becomes the foundation of a general order for
Union forces during the Civil War.) The
men drink a toast . . . “to contraband!”
There’s little biographical information available on Strand. He wrote his first play, a one act
entitled Harry and Sylvia,
while he was a college student in 1976. He
directed it himself and it won two national awards and was published by Hunter
Press in Edinburgh, Scotland. A
full length version of the same play, called Clown, premiered
at the Victory Gardens Theater in Chicago in 1981. His scripts have premièred at the Actors
Theater of Louisville, GeVa Theatre, Victory Gardens, Steppenwolf, Mixed Blood,
the Eugene O’Neill Center, and other venues.
The Bug, Strand’s most
successful play so far, has been translated into five
languages for productions in France, Germany, Greece, Spain, Italy, and the
United States.
Strand is currently the chairman of the theater department,
technical director, and set designer at Mt. San Antonio College in Walnut,
California (near Los Angels), where he also teaches playwriting and the history
of theater; he lives in California with his wife. Previously, he was production manager at
Columbia College School of Dance in Chicago and at Centre East in Skokie,
Illinois. In addition to his plays, Strand’s written articles on
technical theater that have been published in Dramatics magazine. He has an MFA from
the Playwright’s Workshop at the University of Iowa.
The New Jersey Repertory Company was founded in 1997 by husband-and-wife
partners Executive Producer Gabor Barabas and Artistic Director SuzAnne Barabas.
Located in Long Branch in Monmouth
County on the New Jersey shore (about 55 miles south of New York City), the
theater’s goal is the development and production of new plays. Since its inauguration, New Jersey Rep has
produced more than 90 plays in pursuit of this mission, including over 60 world
premieres, in its small, 64-seat
playhouse (on Broadway!), a few blocks west of the boardwalk. (The company is currently negotiating to
purchase two additional properties in Long Branch for an expansion of its
services to the community with a movie house for art films and an art museum.) The theater has committed itself to nurturing
the work of both established and emerging writers and, maintaining an open-submission
policy, receives scripts from throughout the U.S. and around the world. In 2012 New Jersey Rep received a National
Theater Company Award from the American Theatre Wing, sponsor of the Tony
Awards, and 2013’s Broomstick, by New Orleans playwright John
Biguenet, was nominated for the Steinberg Award by the American Theatre Critics
Association. The theater has also received several New American Plays
Awards from the Edgerton Foundation of Beverly Hills, including one for the
world première of Butler,
which won the award.
The problem I had with Butler
is that Strand clearly never satisfactorily worked out his puzzle. He hasn’t come up with an explanation for why
Butler, the anti-abolitionist who voted for Jefferson Davis as his party’s
presidential nominee, would invent a legalistic rationale for not returning
escaped slaves to their “rightful owner.”
Butler’s entirely a
semi-humorous treatment of the historical moment that has no real dramatic
point. If it weren’t largely fictionalized—the dialogue is imagined
by Strand, and he’s invented one of the four characters—it would be a
classroom role-play or a History Channel docudrama.
The script is well enough written and the production is well
done, however, and the performances are creditable without
being exceptional. As enjoyable as it is, though, Strand has relied
on Butler’s reputed kind heart, hidden behind his peppery bluster, and his
obvious exasperation with Major Cary’s arrogance to motivate the momentous
action the general takes. Though I
compliment Strand on not telegraphing Butler’s soft-heartedness—it’s never
mentioned by anyone, we just glean it from his response to the plight of
Shepard Mallory and his companions—it and his irritation at Cary’s behavior are
rather wan motivation for defying orders, the law, and the constitution. (Okay, I’ll admit that the reason there isn’t
a cogent explanation for Butler’s decision in the history books may well be
that it was just peevishness and tender-heartedness that led him to it, but
life isn’t drama, and real life isn’t necessarily dramatic. To paraphrase something that George Bernard
Shaw wrote which I quoted recently, it’s a playwright’s job to enhance the facts
of history to make a story stageworthy.
As I said of George C. Wolfe’s remake of Shuffle Along in my report of 28 June, Butler isn’t a documentary play, but it is a history play, and even
Shakespeare meddled with fact to make great drama of recorded events.)
On the positive side, Strand has found wonderful ways to enliven
history with humor without resorting to jokes and slapstick, or even
ridicule. (He may have let a little of
the last slip into his portrait of Confederate Major Cary, who’s portrayed as
something of a popinjay—though some of that’s surely the responsibility of
Sitler and director Discher.) As Aaron
C. Thomas wondered in American Theatre,
“The Civil War is an unlikely setting for a comedy. After all, how do you mine humor from one of
our nation’s bloodiest periods? Can a play about America’s shameful legacy of
slavery manage to shine light on a neglected corner of that story—and also get
laughs?” The answer appears to be yes.
Strand believes that it’s the very situation depicted in Butler that is the basis of the
humor. The “very absurdity of slavery,”
as AT’s Thomas put it, generates the
comic circumstances. “I was aware that
both Butler and Cary (the Confederate officer) accept the absurd premise that
one man can own another man,” explains the playwright. “I knew that their acceptance of that premise
would force them to defend things that were indefensible and, therefore, that
portions of the play could become humorous.”
He’s not making fun of slavery or slaves, as some might fear at first
blush; he’s making fun of people who twist themselves into pretzels to justify
a tacitly absurd and indefensible practice—and the equally absurd lengths
others found it necessary to go to in order to oppose it.
The humor, however, isn’t either a sidelight or a mask. It doesn’t distract from or cover over the
serious and, indeed, unpleasant truths inherent in the play’s situation. In large part, it serves as the “spoonful of
sugar” that helps the disturbing facts go down.
But some of the comedy acts as a spotlight—or perhaps a fluoroscope is a
better image, letting us see things hidden behind the immediate
circumstances. In scene three, for
instance, when General Butler notices that the runaway slave and his owner have
the same last name, he asks, “Is he a relative of yours?” It’s a laugh-line, made funnier by Shepard
Mallory’s response: “Not as far as I know. But I‘m a little hazy on just who my relatives
are. Colonel Mallory owns me.” At the same time, though, without actually
raising the issue, the exchange alludes to the practice among slave-owners to
rape and father children by the African-American women they owned. (Not all of the abhorrent realities of
slavery and its era are handled with humor.
The whipping of slaves for minor and even perceived misdeeds is
confronted straight-on when Mallory shows Butler the scars on his back and the
general is genuinely shocked. This
launches a difficult and perceptive exchange about why people with power
perpetrate violence on those they control.
It will be understandable if spectators start to think about Black Lives
Matter and its cause of action.)
The writer’s also telescoped time enough to keep the story
rolling—the real events took five days (plus the aftermath); the play runs two
hours—even though the play’s mostly talk—some of it animated, granted. Strand also wisely stays away from attempts
to make the language sound like mid-19th-century prose, even as he’s also
avoided obvious rhetorical anachronisms, so that we hear what the characters are
saying rather than how they’re saying it.
As Thomas of American Theatre observed,
Butler “shows how two men in a room
can break each other’s defenses down, make each other (and the audience) laugh,
and develop a respect for one another as intellectual and moral equals, no
matter their official status.” Butler
isn’t great drama (or even good dramatic literature), but it does make good
theater—Ken Jaworowski of the New York Times stated
categorically a the time of the Long Branch début, “Just call it splendid”—especially
in the hands of an accomplished director and cast. (As a spotlight on an obscure moment in
American history that ended up having far-reaching consequences, Strand’s play
serves an honorable purpose beyond art.)
Though some reviewers and spectators will complain that Strand’s
light-hearted rendering of history—especially such a weighty moment—is
wrong-headed and flip, I find it endearing that a great historical decision may
have been based on no more than one man’s prickly personality. It recalls my response to the 1969 musical 1776 in which the decision to declare
independence for Britain’s American colonies hung on the choice of one delegate
in Philadelphia, James Wilson of Pennsylvania, to vote for independence because
it was easier to maintain his historical anonymity as one of the many who voted
in favor than as the one man whose vote defeated the proposal. Wilson’s fellow Pennsylvanian John Dickinson
asks, “And is that how new nations are formed—by a nonentity seeking to
preserve the anonymity he so richly deserves?”
Well, in Strand’s view, the momentous determination not to return
escaped slaves to their Confederate masters turned on a lone major general’s
snap decision in a fit of pique at a hubristic secessionist. How fundamentally, endearingly human!
Joseph Discher manages to keep the production on target, never
letting the comedy overwhelm the serious theme but, conversely, not allowing the often dire aspects of the story
to swamp the humor. In
Parks’s tight office set, a prop-cluttered space, Discher, who’s directed Butler twice before aside from the New
Jersey début (the two Bay State stagings at the Barrington Stage and Majestic
Theater), prompted the actors to move and behave completely naturally even when
there were four men on stage together.
(Thanks to fight director Brad Lemons, Williams and Adamson even engage
in a brief tussle in the cramped office—and pull it off rather nicely.) The actors, however, all came off a little
stiffly—far from historical animatronics, but not quite warm-blooded beings,
either. Even though Diana and I caught
the very first preview of the New York run, I’d have thought after performing
the month’s run in Long Branch they’d have been more comfortable in their
roles. Perhaps the two-year lay-off was
more than the Off-Broadway rehearsal period could overcome (which is why I
prefer to see plays after they open).
Adamson and Sterling’s opening scene, for example, was brittle and
artificial as Butler and Kelly fenced through the general’s response to the
announcement of Mallory’s arrival at the fort.
It seemed not only contrived, but as if the two actors didn’t quite
believe what they were saying. Some of Sitler’s
interview with Adamson, especially Cary’s and Butler’s first lunges and
parries, was similarly remote and canned.
I hope that the cast works its way out of this rabbit hole by 27 July,
but I lay the problem at the feet of Discher.
Parks’s set is a model of a busy man’s cluttered work place, filled
to overflowing with the boxes of his newly-arrived personal belongings, his
papers and books stuffed into his secretary and other nooks and crannies, a
desk at center-left, several chairs, a wash basin and pitcher on a stand, the requisite
flag in a corner (33 stars?—it was draped so I couldn’t tell) and portrait of
Lincoln on the wall, a map of the fort and its environs, and the table with the
sherry decanter and glasses up center. The
room is lit effectively by Nagle and the realism of the production’s look is
completed convincingly by Doherty’s three soldiers’ uniforms and Mallory’s earth-toned
garb (perhaps a little clean and neat for a slave who’s lit out in the midst of
a day at hard construction labor). The
costume designer outdid herself with Major Cary’s foppish look, however, including
his outlandish mutton chops—closely resembling the famous side whiskers of
Union General Ambrose Burnside, namesake of ‘sideburns.’ They defy gravity! (Wigs and, I presume, prosthetic whiskers,
are designed by Leah J. Loukas.)
(A totally irrelevant sidebar: Back in the 1960s, when the Civil
War was marking its centenary, there were hundreds of articles and books, both
fiction and non-fiction—and many combinations of the two—on the war and its
many personalities. I devoured a lot of
these, including a slim volume called If
the South Had Won the Civil War by MacKinlay Kantor. I remember one article, published where and
by whom I don’t recall, in which the author did a survey of Civil War generals
and correlated the volume of their whiskers with their success on the
battlefield. Statistically, the writer
demonstrated, the most successful field commanders on both sides were those
with the most facial hair. In the
majority of match-ups, the commander with the biggest beard beat his less
hirsute opponent. General Burnside, with
his distinctive side whiskers but no beard, fared less well than his more
heavily bearded counterparts. By this
standard, General Butler would be at a decided disadvantage since he wore only
a small mustache and no beard or side whiskers at all. Robert E. Lee and Ulysses S. Grant were
fairly evenly matched in the beard department, but Jefferson Davis’s goatee was
no match for Abraham Lincoln’s chin whiskers.
I just think it’s a fun factoid.)
Adamson’s Butler is appropriately stuffy and petty when we meet
him, but the actor manages incrementally to reveal the general’s quirks and
idiosyncrasies, as well as his shrewd legal intellect. Despite some line problems on the night I saw
the play, Adamson gives us a solid portrait of the title character’s complex
personality as he deals with the dilemma that could at the very least end his
military career, land him in a stockade, and potentially mean the death of his
accidental charges. As the slave
Mallory, Williams seems to have taken some liberties with his status and the
era—encouraged, to be sure, by Strand’s script and Discher’s direction—but
creates a believable figure in extremis, a man who knows that he’s caught
between the rock of the law and convention and the hard place of summary
execution at the hands of his former master.
Strand has made Mallory not just intelligent, even astute—he reads
Butler pretty accurately and knows himself pretty clearly as well—but
self-educated and Williams plays these characteristics forthrightly. Yet he doesn’t overlook the more elemental,
emotional aspects of the character’s situation, not only when he shows Butler
the flogging scars he bears but his panic when the general tumbles to the fact
that this slave can read and Mallory fears that the officer will reveal his
secret. Strand doesn’t say so in the
script, but if we know that a slave who’s been taught to read—and any person who
teaches one—is a punishable offense in the South, we can understand Williams
honest reaction to this possibility.
Sterling’s Lieutenant Kelly is really a glorified messenger,
bringing the world outside the commandant’s office in, but Strand has given the
young officer enough of a character for the actor to build upon. Sterling allows us to see the touch of disdain
the West Pointer who came up through the ranks holds for the general who used
influence and political pressure to gain a lofty rank (at the time, Major
General was the highest rank in the Union army) and a command and even more
strongly, the contempt he had for Shepard Mallory and his slave
companions. But Sterling also shows us
how, over the several days of contact, he comes to respect Mallory, a
transformation that comes somewhat abruptly in the script, but which the actor
pulls off successfully. In Sitler’s
hands, Major Cary is stiff-necked and condescending. Although the character was a schoolteacher
before the war (Cary was headmaster at a military academy and in the 1880s was
appointed superintendent of Richmond’s school system), Sitler, who strongly
resembles actor Željko Ivanek, plays him
as an aristocratic member of the FFV, looking down not only on the black slaves
but Northerners like Butler. While
Sitler’s Southern accent (and the Tidewater region of Virginia, where Cary and
Colonel Mallory came from, has a very distinct accent of its own, derived, many
believe, from the 17th-century English spoken by the original British settlers)
was a little strained, his characterization of Major Cary was vivid and solid,
making him a viable foil of the testy Butler—and a credible motivation for the
general’s refusal to turn the slaves over to him for repatriation.
Since I saw the play early in its preview run, I waited until
opening to survey the reviews. That also
meant that not all the weeklies and monthlies had posted notices yet, so the
pool of reviews was shallower than it might have been later in the play’s
run. Show-Score, which
included in its average rating the coverage of the out-of-town productions,
posted only eight reviews from the 59E59 New York première. (My round-up will include a larger sampling
of press coverage, and I’ve recalculated Show-Score’s
rating to exclude the reviews of performances beyond New York.) The website’s review collection, all highly positive (89%) except one (11%),
averages out to a fairly high score of 86.
The New York Times merely
reran excepts from Ken Jaworowski’s 2014 review of the 2014 Long Branch
première. After acknowledging, “It’s
hard to categorize ‘Butler.’ The play is
part comedy, part historical drama and part biography, often all at once, and
sometimes none of those,” the “Paper of Record” repeated the reviewer’s
declaration that it’s “splendid.” Jaworowski
reported, “The beauty of the script . . . is how it approaches these
thorny topics. In short, it’s a hoot.” The Timesman
explained, “Rather than dry exposition or long-winded discussions, these men
use wordplay that is by turns sarcastic, droll and witty.” He praised Adamson for “a powerhouse
performance” and Williams as “smooth.” Jaworowski
summed up by affirming, “At the end, it’s still not clear how to classify this
two-hour show. . . . Only one category
really matters to theatergoers: good play. Into that slot, ‘Butler’ fits effortlessly.” (The full text of the 2014 notice is on line
at http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/29/nyregion/a-review-of-butler-in-long-branch.html.)
The Times was the only print outlet that
published a review while I was compiling this survey. The remaining notices were all on
websites. Carole Di Tosti called the play
“superb” on Theater Pizzazz, adding
that it’s “tightly directed.” Sterling’s
Lieutenant Kelly is “played with vigor and likeability,” said Di Tosti, “Adamson
is a knockout” as Butler, and Williams’s Mallory is “wonderfully portrayed.” The “plot development is neither pat nor
obvious,” the TP reviewer reported, and
“set-up in the extremely capable hands of” Discher. “The play is full of explosive confrontations
when Butler and Mallory go head to head,” Di Tosti added, thanks to “Strand’s
brilliant writing.” In conclusion, the TP writer declared, “The production is
just stunning! Butler is marvelous theater.” On CurtainUp,
Elyse Sommer characterized Strand as “shrewd” and his “talk between Butler and
Mallory” as “both amusing and witty.” Sommer predicted that Butler “will have a solid life” ahead of
it and that “audiences will respond to” it.
Samuel
L. Leiter characterized Butler as “both
informative and highly entertaining” and an “engaging historical comedy” on his
website, Theatre’s Leiter Side. “The vibrant verbal volleys between Mallory
and Butler,” reported Leiter, “invest the piece with wit and wisdom” and “Strand
has comedic fun playing with the relationships among the” three military men
and the fugitive slave. Praising the
physical production, Leiter cautioned, however, that the play’s “style is
heightened for dramatic effect, its tone is mildly anachronistic, and its
details conflated, so you have to take much of it with a grain of salt.” Philip Dorian of Scene on Stage asserted, “Rarely has a slice of history been as
entertainingly portrayed as in Butler.” “Deftly directed by Joseph Discher,” continued
Dorian, “Strand’s characters evolve from mutual hatred to grudging respect and
even gestures of friendship and equality.”
With compliments for all the actors, the SoS reviewer concluded, “Making imaginary or real
characters so sympathetic, so funny and so relevant, is damn good playwriting
no matter the source.”
On Broadway World, Marina Kennedy dubbed Butler a “comedic-drama” with an “artful
script,” “meticulous direction,” and “four excellent actors,” and affirmed that
“the show is a wonderfully staged, unforgettable story of humanity.” Kennedy reported, “The cast of Butler captures
the spirited, intense, often humorous dialogue that makes this show completely
captivating,” adding kudos to each member.
Her overall assessment of Butler
was, “More than an entertaining show, it is a significant piece of theater and
a timeless exploration of social conscience and individual responsibility.” Howard Miller of Talkin’ Broadway called Butler
a “glittering seriocomic play” that’s
“amusing stuff, but rather puzzling” at its start. Strand, however, “has taken an actual
historic event and characters and turned it into an engrossing, non-pedantic
play,” affirmed Miller, adding, “More surprising, the play is delightfully
funny, packed with wit, farce, and slapstick.”
Of the staging, the TB review-writer
said that “under Joseph Discher's sprightly direction,” all four characters are
“splendidly realized.” He concluded, “All
told, this is a terrific show.”
TheaterMania’s Zachary Stewart suggested
that Butler “might just be the
funniest play ever written about Civil War-era slavery.” The play, however, “is simultaneously
thought-provoking and sidesplitting,” continued Stewart. Stewart went on to make some astonishing comparisons,
too: “the physical style of performance . . . owes much to classic sitcoms like The
Odd Couple and I Love Lucy,” observed the TM writer, but “Adamson and Williams . . . play
their scenes as if they were performing Beatrice and Benedick from
Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing.” David Roberts labeled the play “scintillating”
on Theatre Reviews Limited, in which Strand “delineates [the] conflicts
carefully and—with the help of history—creates an
admirable level of authenticity.” Within
Strand’s “well-written script,” Adamson’s and Williams’s “performances could
not be more irresistible” as directed by Discher “with passion and sensitivity
and brings out the best in his talented ensemble cast.”
No comments:
Post a Comment