[I’ve always reserved the privilege of writing my play reports in a way that spotlights an aspect of the performance that caught my attention. I don’t write reviews, in any case, so I’m not bound to a standard format or outline. I haven’t exercised my self-proclaimed privilege often, but Suzan-Lori Parks’s The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World is an extraordinary occasion, reportorially speaking. So what you’ll find below is not the kind of performance report I’ve been posting. Furthermore, as lengthy as it is, I don’t come even close to saying all I would have liked about the play, the writer, or the production. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll find my report useful, informative, and even revealing. If you need a conventional evaluation, there are plenty of reviews on line—and I’ve surveyed a selection (some things don’t change). Considering how fascinating academic writers have found Suzan-Lori Parks and her work, there are also quite a number of scholarly pieces, including both numerous essays and a few books, that analyze and purport to explain Last Black Man and other Parks plays. (Some are even readable!) ~Rick]
Last month, following an incident at the Richard Rodgers
Theatre in which the cast of Hamilton
addressed a statement to Vice President-Elect Mike Pence in the audience,
President-Elect Donald Trump tweeted, “The Theater must always be a safe and
special place.” Well, special, yes—but
safe? Most theater people, including
most veteran theatergoers, wouldn’t accept that. Certainly playwright Suzan-Lori Parks
wouldn’t, not for a New York second. Her
entire career is proof that she’s in it to challenge people’s complacencies,
invade their comfort zones—and no better illustration of this fact is on
display right now at the Pershing Square Signature Center’s Alice Griffin Jewel
Box Theatre. Believe you me, safety is the last thing Parks is there
for. “Since the early 1990s,” writes
Jenna Clark Embrey, Signature Theatre Company’s literary manager, “Parks has
incited a revolution in the American theatre with plays that remix history,
truth, fantasy, and fables; the worlds that she creates are built on controlled
chaos.”
Parks is this season’s Residency One playwright at STC. This program affords each writer-in-residence
multiple productions over a year’s period and the first of Parks’s plays for
her Signature residency is her 1990 composition, The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World, an
expressionistic, jazz-influenced stage poem that’s about the history of black
America. Or, more precisely, the eradication
of African Americans and their history from the record. In the words of Nicole Hodges Persley, a
scholar of African-American theater, Parks’s history plays (please, don’t think
Shakespeare), of which Last Black Man is
one, “both exhilarate and confound audiences and critics.” My companion, Diana, for example, dismissed the
performance curtly as “a complete waste of time.” She was almost angry and couldn’t understand
why I found it intriguing. (I’ll get to
that later.) As the playwright herself
says: “Don’t go in there expecting to be served a meal from your mommy’s spoon.
We don’t do that in this show. . .
. Go in there expecting to see the
stories come at you from all sides. It
is confusing, like the world is.”
Parks wrote Last Black
Man in 1989 (she says she started it in 1987 or ’88) and the New York
Theatre Workshop held a reading of the script in its east Village home on 2
October directed by Beth A. Schachter.
The play premièred at BACA (Brooklyn Arts and Culture Association) Downtown
on 13 September 1990 under Schachter’s direction and later was produced at the
Yale Repertory Theatre’s WinterFest in New Haven, Connecticut, from 22 January
to 7 March 1992, staged by Liz Diamond.
The current Signature revival is the first in New York City since the
NYTW reading and the BACA début over a quarter of a century ago—and the first
full, professional staging of the work in Manhattan.
Billed at STC as The
Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World AKA the Negro Book of the
Dead, the revival, staged by Lileana Blain-Cruz (Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’s War, Lincoln Center Theater; Lucas Hnath’s
Red Speedo, NYTW; both 2016) in the 191-seat
Griffin, started performances on 25 October and opened on 13 November; it’s
currently scheduled to close on 18 December (after two extensions from 4 and 11
December). Diana and I met at Signature’s
Theatre Row home for the 7:30 performance on Wednesday evening, 16 November. (I’d never seen that subtitle used for any
publication or production of Last Black
Man before, but Parks explained that it was added for the STC production
because when she needed to clarify the
title for the actors, she realized “that it needed an addition.” In an e-mail, Signature’s associate artistic
director added that Parks appended the subtitle in September and affirms
“that the addition is now part of the complete title.”)
Last Black Man is
non-linear in structure, and largely non-narrative. (Parks’s earliest plays, which include 1987’s
Betting on the Dust Commander, 1989’s Imperceptible
Mutabilities in the Third Kingdom, and Last Black Man, are her most experimental and challenging in form.) Like Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s 1798 poem,
“Kubla Khan,” The Death of the Last Black
Man, says Parks, came to her as a result of a dream. Waking from a nap, the playwright
stared at the wall: still sort of
dreaming. Written up there between the
window and the wall were the words, “This is the death of the last negro man in
the whole entire world.” Written up
there in black vapor. I said to myself,
“You should write that down,” so I went over to my desk and wrote it down. Those words and my reaction to them became a
play.
But it’s more than just a dream. This description is recounted in an essay
called “Possession” (published in the same volume, The America Play and Other Works, in which The Death of the Last Black Man appears) and as an epigram to the
piece, Parks provides a pair of definitions:
possession. 1. the action or fact of possessing, or
the condition of being possessed. 2. the holding or having of something
as one’s own, or being inhabited and controlled by a demon or spirit.
The first meaning
comes into play, but for now, it’s the second part of definition 2 that’s
important. Last Black Man is about reclaiming history and the figures—what
Parks prefers to call the dramatis
personæ—are from the past, from literature, from folk culture, from the
Bible—and Parks seems to feel she’s been possessed by these spirits of
African-American life, demanding that she tell their story. “You should write it down because if
you dont write it down then they will come along and tell the future that we
did not exist,” says a figure called Yes and Greens Black-Eyed Peas Cornbread. As Parks sees it:
A pay is a blueprint of an event:
a way of creating and rewriting history through the medium of literature. Since history is a recorded or remembered
event, theatre, for me, is the perfect place to “make” history—that is, because
so much of African-American history has been unrecorded, dismembered, washed
out, one of my tasks as playwright is to—through literature and the special
strange relationship between theatre and real-life—locate the ancestral burial
ground, dig for bones, find bones, hear the bones sing, write it down.
Indeed, Parks did write it down. What she sees herself doing in plays like Last Black Man is “re-membering,” which
means both reclaiming lost history or putting African-Americans back into the
historical record from which they’ve been erased and putting back together the
black man who’s been systematically dismembered, both metaphorically and even
actually.
This is also where definition 1 above for ‘possession’
applies. For most of African history in
North America, the black man and woman has been a possession; a thing, an
object that could be owned by someone else.
They were non-persons, and even after legal emancipation, hardly more
than that. Non-persons have no place in
history. They can’t make accomplishments
or contributions. They have no standing
(the 1856-1857 Dred Scott case essentially declared that a slave had no right
to bring suit in a U.S. court). They
leave no impression, even—or perhaps especially—when they die. The question Parks asks is If a black man
dies and no one bothers to record it, does his life make an impression
on history? The first half of definition
2 also returns to African Americans the right to their own possessions,
including the power to create and own their own stories. (Are we still in safe territory?)
This is the foundation of Parks’s themes. With respect to form, the dramatist realizes
“that my writing is very influenced by music; how much I employ its methods.” Parks has explained, “When I wrote [Last Black Man] I was listening to a lot
of Ornette Coleman [jazz composer-musician, 1930-2015], The Shape of Jazz to Come, which is a brilliant, brilliant album—and
it very much has some jazz motifs in it. So the play does as well.” One of the play’s most prominent jazz
techniques is “Repetition & Revision,” which Parks defines as “a concept
integral to the Jazz esthetic in which the composer or performer will write or
play a musical phrase once and again and again; etc.—with each revisit the
phrase is slightly revised.” The
playwright continues:
“Rep & Rev” as I call it is a
central element in my work; through its use I’m working to create a dramatic
text that departs from the traditional linear narrative style to look and sound
more like a musical score . . . [.] How
does this “Rep & Rev”—a literal incorporation of the past—impact on the
creation of a theatrical experience?
Coleman, whose musicianship was, to say the least,
unorthodox, unusual, and unstructured, was a controversial figure in jazz. (He played a plastic saxophone in his early
career!) He’s considered one of the
principal innovators of free jazz, a form of the music that essentially broke
the rules of the genre and generally pushed the envelope. (The term itself was invented by Coleman as
the title of a 1960 album, and he never completely accepted it as a label for a
type of jazz music, or that his own music should be called “free jazz.”) My friend Kirk Woodward, who’s been a
frequent guest-blogger on ROT, saw
Coleman perform (he gets a mention in Kirk’s “Some Of That Jazz,” posted on 7
June 2015) and says of the sax-player that “he’s one of those pioneers that
many people detested but then found he’d changed their way of experiencing an
art forever.” (Kirk has also blogged on
Parks twice for ROT: “How America
Eats: Food and Eating Habits in the Plays of Suzan-Lori Parks,” 5 October 2009—which
includes references to Last Black Man—and
“A
Playwright of Importance,” 31 January
2011.) Music critic Steve Huey said of
the album to which Parks was listening when she wrote Last Black Man, 1959’s The
Shape of Jazz to Come, that it “was a watershed event in the genesis of
avant-garde jazz, profoundly steering its future course and throwing down a
gauntlet that some still haven’t come to grips with. The record shattered traditional concepts of
harmony in jazz . . . .” Huey wrote that
“Coleman’s ideals of freedom in jazz made him a feared radical in some quarters.” That’s a little like Parks’s position in
theater—and, like Parks, Coleman was a Pulitzer Prize-winner (for music in
2007) and a MacArthur (“genius”) Fellow (1994).
In plays like Last
Black Man that are structured around Rep & Rev, explains Parks, “we are not moving from A à B but rather, for example, from A à A à A à B à A. Through
such movement we refigure A.” This
effect is very audible in Blain-Cruz’s production. Rep & Rev, however, has other
applications in Last Black Man in
addition to the lines the figures speak.
First, for example, the titular black man dies repeatedly and not always
in the same way, so elements of Parks’s story are repeated and revised. On the macro level, furthermore, the whole
theme of The Death of the Last Black Man
is a repetition and revision as the history—or non-history—of Africans in
America is repeatedly rewritten until it’s eradicated. Now it’s being revised again and
restored. So Rep & Rev isn’t just a
playwriting technique in Last Black Man,
it’s the structural foundation and the conceptual rationale.
In combination with Rep & Rev, Parks also uses call and
response, an element of both African and African-American public discourse and
music. This is defined as a “spontaneous
verbal non-verbal interaction between speaker and listener in which all of the
statements (‘calls’) are punctuated by expressions (‘responses’) from the
listener.” Along with African-American
worship (grounded in African ceremonials), it is an integral element of jazz,
blues, and hip hop, as well as political rallies and street
demonstrations.
On top of Parks’s musical structure and linguistic
legerdemain, the writer roils the text with several other non-linear
elements. One of these is the
temporality of Last Black Man. Time in the play doesn’t move in a straight
line—in fact, it twists around and folds back on itself; the play takes place
simultaneously in the distant past, the more recent past, today: “Yesterday
today next summer tomorrow just uh moment uhgoh in 1317 . . . .” Parks enhances the confusion of time by
mixing up the verb tenses and even composing some forms that defy tense parsing
altogether. In addition, time isn’t the
only aspect of Last Black Man that’s obscured: the play’s location is
indeterminate and undecipherable. At
times were in ancient Egypt, 1492, the ante-bellum South, Jim Crow America,
more-or-less contemporary U.S. (circa 1990 or 2016, take your pick), outer
space, and the hereafter. If you try to
sort this out rationally, it’ll make you crazy and the play will be totally
meaningless. If you accept that Last Black Man takes place in all times
and all places at once and just go with that, it works a lot better. But it’s hardly simple. . . or comfortable.
One of Parks’s influences and models was Ntozake Shange (b.
1948), from whom the younger writer learned to compose in a poetic medium. (Parks had written songs before turning to
playwriting.) Shange called her 1976
play for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf
a “choreopoem,” and the same descriptor could be applied accurately to Last Black Man. Another literary influence on Parks’s work
was playwright Adrienne Kennedy (b. 1931) who showed her the power of writing
in contemporary street vernacular—what Parks refers to as “hip-hop, Ebonics,
jazz speak.” (I saw Kennedy’s Funnyhouse of a Negro, another abstract
performance piece that employs Rep & Rev, at STC last spring and reported
on it in “Signature Plays” on 3 June. I
also saw a production of for colored
girls directed by Shange in 1995, but it predates ROT and there is no report on it.)
During the performance, I was very taken with Parks’s use of
language, and the physical and verbal imagery she evoked—though some of that,
of course, is also creditable to director Blain-Cruz, designers Riccardo
Hernandez (set) and Montana Blanco (costumes), and choreographer Raja Feather
Kelly. In fact, Parks eschews stage
directions and leaves the movements and placements of the actors “mostly to the
director.” Nonetheless, she takes
responsibility for the physical life in her plays:
95 percent of the action, in all
of my plays, is in the line of text. So
you don’t get a lot of parenthetical stage direction. I’ve written, within the text, specific
directions to them, to guide their breathing, to guide the way they walk,
whether or not they walk, whether or not they walk with a limp, whatever. They know what to do from what they say and
how they say it. The specifics of it are
left up to the actor and the director. The
internals are in the line, the externals are left up to them.
In the program for Last
Black Man, Parks quotes another literary figure who had some impact on her
art as well, a few lines from “Dolorous Echo,” a 1965 poem by Beat poet Bob
Kaufman (1925-86): “When I die, / I won’t stay / Dead.,” which can be seen as a
capsule statement of Last Black Man‘s
theme. Known in France, where his work
is still popular, as the “black American Rimbaud,” Kaufman was also a
surrealist inspired, like Parks, by jazz music.
So, at least on a superficial level, so far we have a play drawing on
jazz—not to mention avant-garde jazz—African-American street speech, Beat
poetry, call and response, history and culture as it’s been distorted by
popular stereotyping, a temporal Möbius strip, an evanescent location, and stunning
(literally) movement and visual imagery.
Oh, and all this is packed into a swift 75 minutes. It’s certainly not easy going—and, I wouldn’t
imagine, what someone looking for an evening’s entertainment would find “safe.” As Tina Turner memorably proclaimed: “. . .
we never ever do nothing nice and
easy. We always do it nice and rough.”
Suzan-Lori Parks was born in 1963 in Fort Knox, Kentucky (“where
they keep the gold”), but as the daughter of a career military officer, “grew
up all over,” including “quite a while” in Germany, where she went to local
schools and became fluent in German. “We
were moving around every year. So I’m
from all over,” says Parks, but “I consider myself a Texan, because my mom’s a
West Texan, and we spent a lot of time hanging out in far west Texas.” After high school in Germany and, while her
father was stationed at Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland, at a prep school
near Baltimore, Parks attended Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley,
Massachusetts, one of of the Seven Sisters colleges (the women’s counterpart to
the then largely all-male Ivy League), graduating Phi Beta Kappa with a B.A. in
English and German literature in 1985. Having
at first been steered away from studying literature, Parks took up an interest
in chemistry, but returned to the writing that had marked her earliest
childhood focus, when she wrote poetry and songs. At Mount Holyoke, the incipient playwright
studied under novelist James Baldwin (1924-87) in his first writing course, and
he encouraged her to consider writing for the stage.
When the young writer started with Baldwin, she was writing
novels, short stories, and songs, but when she read her stories aloud in class,
she says, “I was very animated. Like I
would do what the stupid theatre people did, like ‘Laaa Laaaa Leyy! And Read Alouddd! And tell the characters and then paint the
scene! And do all this stuff!’” So her teacher said to her, “‘Ms. Parks, have
you ever thought about writing for the theatre?’ And gave me that look . . . [.] I started writing for the theatre that day,
that very day.” After Mount Holyoke, the
young writer studied acting for a year at the Drama Studio London in order to
understand the stage better. Since her
stage début (The Sinner's Place,
written at Mount Holyoke in 1984, while she was still a student),
Parks (whose given name is spelled with a ‘z’ due to a misprint in an early
show flyer—which she just kept) has so far written 18 plays (plus a revision of
the book for George and Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward’s Porgy and Bess, but not counting all 365 plays of 2006-07’s 365 Days/365 Plays), two screenplays, a
novel, and numerous essays; she has several projects in the works, according to
her own account, including a series for Amazon and a musicalization of the 1972
Jamaican reggae film, The Harder
They Come, for the stage. She
continues (since 2011) weekly to perform (and live-stream) Watch Me Work, a meditation on the artistic process and
an actual work session during which Parks works on her latest project in the
lobby of the Joseph Papp Public Theater before a live audience who get to ask
questions during the last 15 minutes of the piece.
In 2001, Parks received a MacArthur Fellowship (the “genius
grant”) and the following year became the first African-American woman to win
the Pulitzer Prize for Drama for her play Topdog/Underdog
(Public Theater, 2001; Broadway, 2002). Topdog/Underdog also won the 2002 Drama
Desk Award and the 2002 Outer Critics
Circle John Gassner Playwriting Award and was nominated for a best-play
Tony; Parks was nominated for two additional Pulitzers: in 2000 for In the
Blood and in 2015 for Father
Comes Home from the Wars (Parts 1, 2, 3).
Off-Broadway, the playwright received a nomination for the 2015 Lucille
Lortel Award for Outstanding Play for Father Comes Home and won the 1995-1996
OBIE Award for Playwriting for Venus.
(Venus, which I saw at the Public in 1996 before I wrote regular
reports, will be seen at Signature in the spring of 2017. I also saw the Broadway production of Topdog,
but there’s no report on that, either.)
To date, the dramatist has garnered over a dozen awards, honors, and
nominations during her career, including the Academy of Achievement Golden
Plate Award (2007), the NAACP Theatre Award for Ray Charles Live! (2008),
and the Edward M. Kennedy Prize for Drama Inspired by American History for Father
Comes Home (2015). Parks teaches
playwriting at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts in the Rita &
Burton Goldberg Department of Dramatic Writing and is the first holder of the
Master Writer Chair at the Public Theater in New York City.
Parks loved to write even as a child, though she points out
that no one in her family was a writer; her brother and sister would be playing
outside, she recounts, while she’d be hanging out inside, “writing my novel.” She says she doesn’t write so much because
she has something she has to say (though from the evidence of her plays I’d
dispute that as a categorical denial), but rather because the act of writing “is
so . . . like it’s a funnel. And it
pulls my energy.” When she’s inspired,
she says to herself, “‘Wow, I just gahh, oh yo, I gotta write this!’ Because there’s a funnel of energy, a cone of
energy that’s like pulling me toward it.”
The Death of the Last
Black Man, says Parks, is
about a man and his wife, and the
man is dying. . . . This man is dead and
his wife is basically trying to find his final resting place. There’s a reoccurring question in the play:
“Where’s he gonna go now that he done dieded?” And what they find at the end is that his
final resting place is a play called The
Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World. It’s like a funeral mass in a way.
This is where the lines from Kaufman’s poem apply (“When I
die, / I won’t stay / Dead”). The figure
around whom the play revolves, Black Man With Watermelon, essentially the title
character insofar as Last Black Man has
one, suffers serial deaths throughout history; on stage he’s hanged/strangled
and electrocuted. The Black Woman With
Fried Drumstick, the black man’s partner, describes his death(s):
Yesterday today next summer
tomorrow just uh moment uhgoh in 1317 dieded thuh last black man in thuh whole
entire world. Uh! Oh. Don’t
be uhlarmed. Do not be afeared. It was painless. Uh painless passin. He falls twenty-three floors to his death.
Just as the black man’s life has been erased from the public
and historical record, his contributions discounted and ignored, his death(s)
is (are) deemed inconsequential.
But as far as the dramaturgy goes, the author suggests that
we “think of jazz music first of all, think of like free jazz—it moves like
that. It’s not like a tidy, well-made
play that we’re accustomed to seeing in traditional theatre. Think of poet’s theatre, slam poetry, hiphop,
like a poetry slam.” The jazz medium “dovetails
very much with current language today. This
street language, urban language, creative language that we use.” It’s not just in the form, however, where Last Black Man resonates, but in its
content as well—which is why I suspect that Parks is being modest when she says
she doesn’t write because she has something to say. (The writer’s said that she considers form
and content the same thing.) The
playwright continues with her explanation of Last Black Man:
But it’s also dovetailing with
some of the current events, the difficult current events that are going on in
our country today. They weren’t so
apparent and on the surface back in 1990. It was always there, but now it’s kind of on
everybody’s Twitter feed. Revisiting this play now felt like, “Wow this is
going to be cool, there’s more to this than I remember. There’s a lot to this.” It felt very current, it felt like I’d written
it a couple of years ago.
Some of the lines in the play seemed so current, I wondered
if Parks had done some revising for the Signature remount, but that’s
apparently not the case:
Because there’s this part in the
play, this thing where the man is talking about how he can’t breathe. There’s a rope around his neck and he’s dying
yet another death, and he says, “I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t
breathe.” And I’m just like, “oh, that
sounds familiar . . . [.]”
The words “I can’t breathe” clearly echo the 2014 death of
Eric Garner on Staten Island at the hands of New York City police who placed
him in a choke hold. No one who hears
the lines today can miss the reference, even if Parks wrote them in 1989. The appearance of Black Man With Watermelon
with a noose around his neck, however, may be less obvious in its contemporary
allusion. (Of course, the image of lynchings during the Jim Crow era, which is
what Parks doubtlessly had in mind in 1989, is unambiguous. To be sure this allusion is clear, set designer
Hernandez dominated the sage with a huge tree branch running diagonally from
the down right floor level to the up left fly space. It’s virtually the only scenery in the
Signature revival of Last Black Man.)
In 2007, there was a well-publicized
incident on the campus of Columbia University in New York in which a noose was
found hanging on the office doorknob of an African-American faculty member; and
last year, a student hung a noose from a tree in front of the student center at
Duke University in Durham, North Carolina.
The noose, like the burning cross and the Ku Klux Klan hood, remains a
potent symbol of intimidation and subjugation of African Americans and a tool
of rendering black Americans non-persons, and many other incidents in the past
dozen years have made the news.
There are also frequent references to Black Man’s hands
being bound, which call to mind not only the leather straps used to secure the
hands of a condemned man in an electric chair, which figures prominently in Last Black Man, or the rope with which a
black man’s hands were bound behind him when he was lynched, but also slave
shackles and, with a current connection, police handcuffs—such as those which
Freddie Gray was wearing while in custody when he died in the back of the
police van in Baltimore last year.
Of course, the very theme of The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World, the
repeated and serial deaths suffered by African Americans, their apparent
expendability both in the historical record and in life itself, is one of the
most current topics in our society right now.
It’s Sanford, Florida (the figure And Bigger And Bigger And Bigger, an incarnation of Bigger Thomas from Richard Wright’s Native Son—and Baldwin’s Notes
of a Native Son—but also a reflection of the white fear of the big, strong
black “buck,” wears a black hoodie, a design element that points to the 21st century); Ferguson; Cleveland; Baltimore; Staten Island; and other cities where
unarmed black people, including several women, were killed by police or other
authorities—or in the case of Charlotte, a homegrown terrorist. It’s Back Lives Matter.
Even a repeated line by Black Man With Watermelon has
resonance that probably didn’t ring with an audience in 1990: “The black man
moves his hands.” What resonated now, at
least for me, is the implication that this action is the excuse police officers
have used for those shootings of unarmed black men: they were reaching for
something presumed to be a gun. It’s not
what Parks intended the words to mean, but that’s what I heard.
In a “Playwright Letter” published in Signature’s Study
Guide for The Death of Last Black Man,
Parks even asks, “Are there any things going on stage that reminded you of
current events?” Isn’t that what good
plays, good art, does? It refers to our
lives today even if the play was written years, decades, even centuries
ago. I don’t think you can legitimately
dismiss a play that can do that. Not if
you’re honest . . . and paying attention.
(Sorry, Diana.) And I also don’t
think you can take refuge in a theater where that kind of play is on
stage. That’s not a safe, comfortable,
or unchallenging place. And it never
should be. (Sorry, Donald.)
Actually, I’m not in the least sorry. It’s what I love about theater and art. It’s why I go to the theater and art museums,
and read books and essays. It’s why I
have this blog. And it’s why I’m a First
Amendment absolutist. But that’s an
argument for another day.
The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World is
a peculiar play, to say the least. I
can’t do a standard description and evaluation, so I’ll sketch it out very
broadly and say only that I found it exhilarating as a theater piece. (To quote the reviewer of another revival some
years ago, “To call ‘Death’ a play is like calling a Jackson Pollock painting a
landscape.”) The stage of the little
Griffin Theatre is raked and at preset, there’s no curtain. As I noted earlier, the main set piece of
Hernandez’s scenic design is the huge tree limb that bisects the stage. A vintage wooden electric chair sits up left
beneath the branch. A hangman’s noose
drops from the branch ominously. Yi
Zhao’s lighting is stark, as if the sun were directly overhead; nothing is obscured—or
softened—by shadow. The floor of the sloped portion of the stage is covered
with sand or loose dirt, like a huge sandbox or parched landscape—reminiscent,
perhaps, of the Dust Bowl of the 1930s; below this is a narrow strip of level
stage at the front of the playing area.
Two chairs are down front, slightly right of center; in the one farther
right sits Black Man With Watermelon (Daniel J. Watts), dressed in coveralls
like a sharecropper of the ’30s, barefoot and holding an immense green
watermelon in his lap. He looks
dead. In a rocking chair to his left
sits Black Woman With Fried Drumstick (Roslyn Ruff), dressed in a work shift of
the same period as her counterpart. She
wears a knotted kerchief on her head “Aunt Jemima” style.
The performance begins with what Parks labels in the script
an Overture, like a symphony or musical theater, and all the figures of the
play identify themselves themselves and preview a little of their signature
lines we’ll be hearing more of later: Lots of Grease and Lots of Pork (Jamar
Williams), Queen-Then-Pharaoh Hatshepsut (Amelia Workman), And Bigger and
Bigger and Bigger (Reynaldo Piniella), Prunes and Prisms (Mirirai Sithole), Ham
(Patrena Murray), Voice on Thuh Tee V (William DeMeritt), Old Man River Jordan
(Julian Rozzell), Yes and Greens Black-Eyed Peas Cornbread (Nike Kadri), and Before
Columbus (David Ryan Smith). (Each of
these figures, as suggested by their names, is an archetype of some aspect of
lost black history, black stereotyping, and black pop-culture imagery and
there’s so much to say about them that it just won’t fit here.) They move in highly rhythmic choreography
from Raja Feather Kelly, clothed in evocatively stylized costumes by Montana
Blanco (one stand-out example: DeMeritt as “Broad Caster,” the TV news anchor,
is dressed to look like Malcolm X) as they speak Parks’s idiosyncratic
vernacular poetry based on stereotypical (and exaggerated) black English, a
travesty of 19th- and early 20th-century minstrelsy. The New York Times’
Ben Brantley wrote that Parks’s words “suggest tragedy told as a joke.”
It’s not visible (or audible) in the performance, but Last Black Man proceeds not by
traditional scenes, but what Parks calls panels and choruses, each of which is
a Rep & Rev of the one that went before.
Thus, the playwright deconstructs and then reconstructs the story of
black people in America, showing both how they’ve been portrayed in popular
culture and how absurd that portrayal has been.
Even as the panels repeat themselves in slightly altered ways, the figures,
especially Black Man, resist the prescribed roles—Black Man refuses to stay
dead, after all—and Parks resists a conclusive ending. (Black Man’s repeated dying and returning
surely suggests Jesus Christ, especially since Parks, who went to a Catholic
prep school for high school, equates the play’s panels with the Stations of the
Cross.) The last line, “Hold it. Hold
it. Hold it. Hold it.
Hold it. Hold it. Hold it,” plays as if all the figures don’t
accept the final action—the death yet again of the last black man—and are about
to rewind and go again. Will it break
the cycle and change this time? Or will
it play out yet again in the same way?
We don’t know.
Even at only an hour and a quarter, Last Black Man is so dense and packed full of shiny moments of
theater, meaning, symbolism, imagery, wisdom, and admonition that I can’t come
near doing it justice in a blog report—even one that’s bound to go long. I’ll add, too, that it stayed with me for
weeks after I saw it, leaving me to go over it again and again in my mind and
continue to try to sort it out long after I left the theater. I can’t even do right by the excellent
production here; the kaleidoscope of staging, performance, design, and language
often left me in sensory overload—and I mean that in the best possible
way. (The best way to experience this
play is to see it once and just let the presentation wash over you like some
kind of hyper-aroma therapy, and then go back again, maybe a few days or a week
later, and try to observe the details.)
So, in lieu of assessing the performances and the tech as I usually do,
let me just capsulize: the acting ensemble was startling from first to last (Variety’s Frank Rizzo proclaimed the
cast “charismatic”), Blain-Cruz guided them superbly and imaginatively at every
turn, and the designers pulled out all the stops and made a visually dazzling
show that paralleled both the acting and the writing. What’s more, it all worked together like a
perfect symbiosis. The Death of the Last Black Man may not be a play in the
conventional sense—but it damn sure is theater!
As of 30 November, Show-Score has surveyed 25 reviews for an
average score of 75. The tally included
76% positive notices (high score: 95 – websites Theatre is Easy and Front Row
Center; four 90’s), 4% negative (low score: 35 - Hollywood Reporter), and 20% mixed.
(My round-up includes 19 reviews.)
Joe Dziemianowicz of New York’s Daily News characterized Signature’s Last Black Man as “bold and striking, but frustrating,” explaining,
“One is left to grapple and wonder, What's going on?” The Newsman
added, “Then again, maybe that’s [Parks’s] point.” In Long Island’s Newsday, Linda Winer’s “Bottom Line” was: “Tough, prescient Parks
revival—historical pageant and poetry slam.”
On the evidence of Last Black Man, she called Parks “uncompromising,
strenuous and stylistically daring,” adding, “She also was eerily prophetic.” Dubbing the STC revival “expert,” thanks to
director Blain-Cruz’s “self-mocking and serious production, as much of an
ordeal as an enchantment.”
Calling the play “dark and forbidding,” the Times’ Brantley wrote that the STC revival of Parks’s “phantasmagorical
theater piece” is “a sepulchral parade of images: Saying that the play “sometimes feels like a
senior semiotics project,” Brantley described it as a “combination of willful
opacity and obvious symbolism” which “can feel tedious if you strain to make
sense of it.” His suggestion was to “give
yourself over to the sensory flow of Ms. Blain-Cruz’s production” so that “the
play acquires the eerie inevitability of a fever dream from which there is
truly no waking.” The Timesman reported that Blain-Cruz’s staging is “hypnotic,” Blanco’s “bright,
cartoonish” costumes “might have stepped out of a child’s illustrated history
book from the mid-20th-century,” and Hernandez’s set is a “shadowland” lit by
Zhao “with the dark starkness of a bad dream.”
The Death of the Last
Black Man “feels like a bad dream,” declared Max McGuinness in the U.S.
edition of the Financial Times.
“Frequently it’s difficult to make out quite what is going on,” McGuinness
continued, but then added, “And yet certain grim themes come into sharper
relief.” “Under Lileana Blain-Cruz’s
precise direction,” the FT reviewer
reported, the actors “bring that dark vision to haunting life” with “exquisitely
restrained movement.” McGuinness
suggested “a little more variety” in the cast’s delivery, and he found too much
monologue over dialogue, “but all this is never less than engaging,” he concluded. His final judgement was: “This revival offers
a powerful tonic at a time when America’s divisions seem starker than ever.” In the New
Yorker, Hilton Als characterized Last
Black Man as an “exceptional production” directed by a “great new
talent.”
In the Village Voice,
Miriam Felton-Dansky called STC’s Last
Black Man “an exquisite production” of “a surreal, poetic meditation” in
which “[h]istory repeats itself . . . directly—and more heartbreakingly.” While Last
Black Man “evoke[s] music and painting more than drama, the play riffs on
language and remixes racial stereotypes with boldness and grace,” observed
Felton-Dansky, “creating an experience that is both revelatory and irresistibly
watchable.” The Voice reviewer asserted of the content of the play, “These
histories are bleak, but watching Parks's play is not” as Parks transforms “history
into disturbing, evocative ritual.” “Sometimes,
with a good-enough playwright, it’s good to have no idea what’s going on,” observed Jesse Green at
the top of his New York magazine
review. “That was
the case for me with Suzan-Lori Parks’s The Death of the Last Black Man
in the Whole Entire World.” He confirmed that the Signature revival is “a
stupendous staging” which has been “superbly directed” by Blain-Cruz “and
designed” by Hernandez, Blanco, and Zhao.
Green concluded that “it may not be pretty, or even coherent, but it’s
beautiful.”
“Surreal doesn’t
begin to describe watching Suzan-Lori Parks’s postmodern vaudeville of African-American
stereotypes the day after Trump was elected,” declared David Cote in Time
Out New York.. The man from TONY called the play a “jazzy,
poetic fever dream” which warps “temporality and dialect to create music and
noise.” Cote warned that Last Black Man, ”a jagged, angry, weird
text,” “is not an easy play to dissect or digest,” but director Blain-Cruz “stages
it in high style, with a skin-prickling soundscape by Palmer Hefferan . . . and
a raft of brave in-your-face performances.”
Frank Scheck of the Hollywood Reporter lamented in his “Bottom
Line,” “Despite an excellent production, this frustratingly oblique and
elliptical play never comes into focus.”
He explained that he had resorted to consulting the text to “decipher”
the play, but he acknowledged, “Sadly, even going to the printed page left me
flummoxed.” The HR reviewer
proclaimed, “Dense, abstruse and elliptical, the piece is virtually
incomprehensible,” though he allows that “theatergoers who prefer [Coleman’s
style of free] jazz . . . may be more receptive to its challenges.” The “endless repetition” of the language may
provide “the linguistic equivalent of jazz improvisations,” however, “a little
of it goes a long way” and the play’s “70 minutes . . . feels like an eternity.” Scheck declared that “when the evening is over
you’ll be longing for regression therapy,” adding as a final complaint, ‘The
energetic dance sequences, choreographed by Raja Feather Kelly and frequently
performed to deafening electronic music, don't help.” Although the cast “go through their demanding
physical and verbal paces with admirable energy” and the “production elements
are also first-rate,” Scheck’s final assessment was that though “the piece works
on a certain visceral level, its failure to communicate its intellectual themes
in remotely coherent fashion diminishes its intended power.”
In Variety,
Rizzo characterized Last Black Man as a “symbol-laden, language-rich,
ritualistic play” with “many powerful images” that generate a “dramatic and
haunting effect in this handsomely staged, evocative revival” at STC. With her “stylized, fragmented and elliptical”
language, Parks “weaves a woozy spell.”
Rizzo warned, “Your response to the work might parallel how you feel
about a free-form jazz session, one filled with meditative riffs and theatrical
flourishes.” Even Blain-Cruz’s
“hypnotic” direction and the “talented” acting company, however, have trouble creating
“an emotional bond [that] lasts longer than an impulse.” When they do, though, such as in the play’s
final scene, “it’s a heartbreaking revelation.”
In the end, the Variety review-writer warned that “‘Death of the
Last Black Man’ may still be challenging for some audiences as they try to make
connections,” though “others will find the experience resonating down to their
bones, rich with meaning of their own making.”
Charles Nechamkin of Stage
Buddy contended that, like the other actors in Last Black Man, “Black Man With Watermelon . . . doesn’t seem to
understand the part he’s been cast in.” Nechamkin also determined that “the
audience struggles to break through these stereotypes to the people underneath”
(apparently the reviewer took a survey) and even claimed that Parks “struggles
with us.” The play’s dialogue, said our
Stage Buddy, is “a jumble of words: lyrical, emotional, tautological,” yet he
labeled the show “compelling.” The
Signature revival is an “energetic production,” but “it’s the relationship
between Black Man With Watermelon and Black Woman With Fried Drumstick . . .
that anchors us and gives us something human to hold onto.” The “other characters . . . aren’t characters
at all, they’re refrains.” It’s as if,
said Nechamkin, we’d “stumbled upon the funeral procession of a stranger”:
“We’re overwhelmed by a vague but familiar sense of loss.” The SB
reviewer posited, “It makes for a challenging and abstruse piece of theater,
one that may not be satisfying to those seeking a neat and moralizing social
drama,” adding that “even the most
patient and open-minded audience member will come away with more questions than
answers.” Still, he concluded, “Even so,
there’s something valuable and vital here.”
On New York Theatre
Guide, Margret Echeverria decided that Last
Black Man “is one of these pieces of art” that “turn themselves over and
over living actively in our memories for a very long time to reveal new truths,
new beauty, new troublesome anomalies.” Echeverria
admitted, however, that she may not be “qualified to write this review” because
she’s white and feels ignorant about much of the history in Parks’s play. So she proceeded to describe “what I
experienced.” (I’ve done that, too,
under similar circumstances.) She
praised the performances lavishly and reported that Blain-Cruz “directs an
ensemble that pulls our back off our seat cushion to listen and watch closely.” In the end, Echeverria confessed, “I enjoyed
the whole painful thing” and “I turn it over and over again in my memory
discovering more truths.” Matthew Murray
of Talkin’ Broadway called the
Signature production of Last Black Man “a
credible but not quite electrifying” revival of a “fascinating but scattershot
play.” The TB review-writer described Hernandez’s set as “bleak,” Blanco’s
costumes as running “a wide fantasy gamut.” Zhao’s lights as “piercing,” and Hefferan’s
sound as “eerie, cathedral-like.” Though
Murray found Parks’s point “powerful,” he felt “a little of it does go a long
way,” and as short as it is, Last Black
Man “feels overlong” to the
reviewer. Murray felt that “this isn't a
play that much develops or focuses on finely honing its statements,” and that
“the archetypal characters” are limited in their scope. He also deemed “the performances . . . closer
to library-tome dusty than . . . theatrically vivid.”
Jonathan Mandell, calling Last Black Man “striking,” dubbed Parks’s play “surreal and cryptic”
on New York Theatre. The play “offers searing imagery mixed with
repetitive auditory gibberish,” said Mandell, suggesting that “for most of us,
I suspect, the appeal of ‘Last Black Man’ rests largely with the production
values.” In CurtainUp, Elyse Sommer declared that Last Black Man represents “Parks at her most inaccessible,” naming
among its negatives, “the hard to get a handle on . . . narrative with at times
undecipherable dialogue.” The “ensemble
is excellent,” the costumes are “witty,” and the set is “simple but effective.” Though well produced, felt Sommer, Blain-Cruz’s
“handsome, music-infused production isn’t enough to offset the inaccessibility
of the experience.” She found the
repeated aspects of the production “all too often come across as just plain
repetitious,” but the “vivacious performances and staging keep the audience engaged—even
when more than a little confused.” Describing the play as a “free-form dramatic
riff,” Michael Dale asserted on Broadway
World that Blain-Cruz’s “mock-celebratory pageant-like production is
performed by a fine ensemble whose tongues are nimbly set within their cheeks.” Dale suggested that “the exact intention of
the piece may not be easy to grasp, but it's still to be admired as an
uninhibited abstract collage.”
David Roberts of Theatre
Reviews Limited reported (rather floridly) that Last Black Man “captures the attention of the audience and holds
captive its aching heart and sin-sick soul for a powerfully unforgettable
seventy minutes of cathartic ghoulish disquietude.” At STC, Blain-Cruz’s direction is “meticulous,”
Hernandez’s set is “looming,” Blanco’s costumes are “surreal” and “compress
history and its archetypes into a collage of color and form,” and Zhao’s
lighting is “imaginative” and “brings [the play] into an alarmingly sharp focus
that sears the memory of the audience.” On TheaterMania,
Hayley Levitt warned that Last Black Man “is
not the mindless escapism audiences are likely to be craving right now.” Levitt continued, “Instead of letting you off
the hook, it holds your feet right to the fire” and “if you’re up for a mental
and emotional challenge, Parks’ poetic one-act is worth meditating on at this
unsettled social and political juncture.”
The TM reviewer likens Parks’s
poetic monologues to “a spoken-word symphony” and the physical environment is
enhanced by Hernandez’s “sparse set” and projection designer Hannah Wasileski’s “haunting
shadows.” She warned theatergoers,
however, that “Parks’ text is doubly abstract and is likely to lose you along
the way.” Levitt found, though, that the
“tender relationship between Watts and Ruff’s characters [Black Man and Black
Woman] is the only accessible element of the play and succeeds in bringing out
the human emotion that the other noncharacters lack.”
Proclaiming Last Black
Man “eerily prescient,” Jennifer Vanasco of WNYC, a National Public Radio
station in New York City, calls it a “fever dream of a play” which “has a
timeless quality.” The production is “more
like a dance piece or a symphony than a traditional narrative story.” The times have caught up with Last Black Man, Vanasco asserted, making
it seem more relevant today than in 1990; the WNYC reviewer stated, “Few works
have ever seemed more relevant in our political moment—or as worth seeing.”
On 22 May 2017, the Village Voice and the American Theatre Wing handed out the Obie Awards for excellence in Off- and Off-Off-Broadway theater for the 2016-17 season. 'The Death of the Last Black Man in the Whole Entire World' won an award for Directing (Lileana Blain-Cruz).
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