By Alexis Soloski
By Molly Grogan
By R. C. Baker
By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Alexis Soloski
By Alexis Soloski
By Lilly Lampe
Do we want the theater to deal with social conditions, issues, ideas? Yes, always, constantly, and from every point of view. Do we want it to offer us predictable conclusions, morals, easy messages to take home? No, never. Too often, people who indict the theater for not dealing with "real life" only want it to tell them what they already know. Their desire's understandable; after all, as Gertrude Stein remarked, we need a kiss a lot more often than we need criticism. But the Judas kiss of ambiguity is the only one the theater knows how to give. If we go home tormented by the questions it raises in us, it's done its social duty.
Suzan-Lori Parks's In the Bloodis as co-gently phrased, and as unanswerable, as such questions get. It has the frantic feel of a trapped creature: On one side there's its literary source, Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter,its Puritan hypocrisy, loathing of the flesh, and obstinate individualism all carried over complete. On the other, there's the terrifying everyday world of the homeless and their children, clawing to survive a crumbling welfare system and the flock of hard-nosed, harder-hearted exploiters eager to take its place. Parks's Hester is a ghetto mother, encamped under a bridge with her brood of five, all by different fathers, including "Chili," the flashy con man she really loved, and "Reverend D," the reformed gutter-dweller who's cleaned up hisact and is about to move into the churchly big time.
Though hopelessly out of synch with the system, enterprising Hester is a model of resource, clutching at every straw that can feed, clothe, and educate her kids. Eschewing her usual Steinian introspection and repetition, Parks tells her story in taut forward-hurtling prose, shot through with unexpected jolts of poetic feeling. The style, like the image of a driven mother with kids by multiple fathers, evokes Brecht but never apes him. In addition to Mother Courage, Hester resembles Courage's Kattrin and the Caucasian Chalk Circle's Grusha in being crazy about children. In her naive generosity of spirit, which has made her the optimal sex partner of all the play's other characters, male or female, she's likethat other virtuous mother, Shen Te, the good person who's also the good whore of Szechuan.
Contact With the Enemy
By Frank D. Gilroy
Ensemble Studio Theatre
549 West 52nd Street
By Arthur Miller
Broadway and 45th Street
What Hester isn't, though, is wily, like all Brecht's women. While everyone from her welfare caseworker to the street-smart white hooker who's her best girl-pal exploits her, she goes on believing until the thread of hope she's clutched at finally snaps. The immediate cause is the state-ordered excision of her "woman parts," and Parks gets another angle on reality by hinting that the whole event may be an anesthesia-induced dream: the reality of poverty as a nightmare from which inner-city women are trying to awake. But Parks, a woman of infinite dramatic resource, has plenty of angles: Each stage of Hester's exploitation is followed by a "confession," in which her exploiters get the chance to speak in their own defense. The last confession is Hester's, implying that in some sense she's her own worst exploiter. It presents her devotion to her offspring as a kind of bipolar disorder, violently repudiated and then megalomaniacally embraced. From there it's only one step to the violence that settles unanswerable questionsdirected, inevitably, against the children who are as much Hester's enemies, in her struggle for survival, as they are her reason for surviving and, as the next generation, her survival itself.
Parks ventures far and digs deep; the script marks a quantum leap for her stylistically. Even so, questions crop up beyond the big ones she succeeds in raising. Isn't Hester altogether too patient and passive? Why hasn't she ever directed her anger outwards? Why is she seen as an anomalous loner when the cities are full of women with similar troubles (who've found innumerable small ways of helping each other out)? Andgranting that even the most sympathetic souls have their own agendaswhy must everyone else be so actively against her, and so unhelpful?
These are quibbles, ultimately, because Parks's aim is to grasp reality, not reproduce it. To hedge the play's stark us-versus-them feeling would blur its elegant formality as a parable. If Parks's assertions oversimplify, it's to boil her harsh question down to its essence: Having made it next to impossible for the poor to survive, how do we expect them to do it? Don't like Hester's answer? Better invent your own.
David Esbjornson's production virtually invites you to open the discussion there and then, by seating the audience on the two long sides of the rectangular space, so that you can watch your fellow theatergoers react to Hester's travails. You won't have much time for it, though, sinceCharlayne Woodard, as Hester, is onstage at virtually every moment, and rivetingly so. If you've seen Woodard's own storytelling pieces, her transformation's as startling as it is total: Tight-mouthed, desperate, astringent Hester, with her inner pain and dogged energy, is a whole new person. Esbjornson's had mixed results with her victimizers, who double as her children. Bruce MacVittie's Doctor seems too fuzzy and sluggish-tongued for either his profession or his downscale clientele, while Reggie Montgomery's dry-voiced, affected Reverend D could send any congregation to sleep. In contrast, Gale Grate is perfect as both Hester's gender-befuddled elder daughter and her haughty welfare worker, and Deirdre O'Connell draws a vivid portrait of her buddy. Rob Campbell, charmingly goofy as Chili, is too refined as his son. But Woodard's tragic dimension, and the power she finds in Parks's fierce words, give the evening its stature.