Rites of Man

The desire of American musical comedy to shed its laughter and become "music theater" has always puzzled me. There was never anything to prevent the genre from taking on whatever topic, tone, or technique it chose. Parade, the latest musical offering of director Harold Prince (who also "co- conceived" it), deals with a lynching that took place in Georgia in 1914. But the absence of Prince's dark pretensions didn't stop Irving Berlin and Moss Hart from confronting the subject in 1933's As Thousands Cheer, when Ethel Waters, under the newspaper headline "Unknown Negro Lynched in South," sang about her man not coming home. The old-style musical, with its elasticity of form and insouciance of spirit, offered if anything more awareness of the grim reality outside, and more ways of engaging with it than today's self-proclaimed music drama. The new-style musical wants to annex the grandeur and complexity of opera, but it still wants to please as many people as possible. The result, too often, is a kind of opera for simpletons, dramatically crude, musically vapid, and larded with cheap crowd-pleasing strokes.

Not that such condescensions are visible in Parade, which conducts itself throughout with a solemn, gray-hued gravity that could allay anybody's fears of the subject being treated coarsely. The hard part is trying to figure out what subject the musical's makers think they're treating. Leo Frank, the lynch victim in this particular case, was a Jew from Brooklyn, a pencil-factory manager accused of raping and murdering a teenage girl employee whose corpse was found in the factory basement. Convicted, largely on falsified or exaggerated testimony, Frank had his sentence commuted to life imprisonment by the state's governor, John Slaton— an act that destroyed Slaton's political career. His brave gesture didn't save Frank, who survived another inmate's attempt to slit his throat only to be dragged from his cell by a mob and strung up on a nearby tree. Parade spares its audience the details of what the mob did to his lynched corpse, as well as the photo of the grisly result that was sold as a postcard for years afterward in small-town general stores in the Deep South.

There are many possible reasons to retell this repugnant story— to ponder the ways prejudice and politics interact, or the collision of rural-agrarian attitudes with urban life and its dangers, or the anomalous position of Jews in a South already rife with black-white tensions. The local media painted the meek and unassuming Frank as a monster; world media reversed the image and made him a martyr-hero, on the order of Mendel Beilis in Russia. But Beilis was tried on the completely fictive charge of ritual murder; in Frank's case there was a very real and very dead 14-year-old girl. The minuscule possibility exists that he did it, though the state would not have needed to fake so much evidence if it had had even a shred of real proof. The most damaging witness against Frank was also the other most likely suspect, the factory's sweeper, a black man whose punishment, if he had been charged with the crime, would have been even swifter in its violence than Frank's.

Leo Frank (Brent Carver) and hostile witnesses in Parade: Can there be comic relief at a lynching?
Joan Marcus
Leo Frank (Brent Carver) and hostile witnesses in Parade: Can there be comic relief at a lynching?


By Alfred Uhry
Music and lyrics by Jason Robert Brown
Vivian Beaumont Theatre
Lincoln Center

Prince and his colleagues try to convey all these aspects of the story and more, but they also try to please everybody and offend no one. The result has an eerie, denatured quality in some ways more disturbing than the case itself. The opening is a Confederate soldier's song about "the old red hills" of Georgia, but the landscape we see on Ricardo Hernandez's set, before it's blocked by a wall of factory windows, is a bare, flat horizon, with tiny farmhouses in the distance. Judith Dolan's costumes run across a black-white-gray spectrum, relieved by sparing shades of pastel.

The noncommittal tone extends to what's selected for our viewing. What sort of home did the murdered girl come from? We don't really hear about it. Did the local Jewish community rally around Leo Frank? (His wife's family owned the factory.) We never see them. Who supported Tom Watson, the populist rabble-rouser, in his fulminations against Jews? We can't even guess. (The miscarriage of justice was so blatant that even arch anti-Semite Henry Ford signed an appeal for clemency.) Everything is touched on, in little scene-bites, but nothing's revealed.

Where the show does spell something out, it usually makes a misstep. One number shows the black community experiencing modified rapture at the thought that someone non-African will get strung up for a change, but black Georgians in 1914 were unlikely to find anyone's lynching cause for cheer. Slaton is seen dropping in on the suborned witnesses— factory girls and chain gang prisoners— to take new statements, which hardly conveys the reality of a state inquiry under Georgia's medieval justice system.

Prince and his colleagues, schooled in contemporary urban cynicism, give next to no sense of the pervasive apathy and rot in that region where time stood still, history had been revoked, and law— like education, nutrition, and common decency— was seen as the intrusive voodoo of savages from up north. Though presented as wanly sedate even while lynching— you've never seen such a courteous, individualized little mob— the spirit of the Old South is Parade's principal character and Leo Frank's nemesis. The show opens and closes on April 26, "Confederate Memorial Day." The one-legged veteran of the opening will become the leader of the lynch mob; his marching song will be taken up by the widowed Lucille Frank, linking her with the South that murdered her husband, as if he, too, had somehow served the Confederate cause.

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