By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
For their sake, this week I've foregone Hamlet and The Misanthrope, and have postponed commenting on Mauritius at MTC. Hamlets and Misanthropes, hardy perennials, will bloom again; Mauritius (rhymes with "factitious") can wait. The chance to discuss Tolstoy in a theater column, or to experience American rarities like Margaret Fleming or Night Over Taos, comes only once in a critic's lifetime, and must be seized.
The press release for The Power of Darkness made much of its suppression by czarist censors when Tolstoy wrote it in 1886, but what's kept it off English-speaking stages is the darker hand of silent disapproval. Adultery, illegitimate pregnancy, murder to gain an inheritance, and even quasi-incest could pass, but infanticide just offstage, harrowingly described while it's happening, remains largely a no-no for theaters that don't want to drive off subscribers, no matter how much Christianity Tolstoy pours in to sweeten this parade of villainies. Much produced on the Continent after its world premiere in Paris in 1888, the play was banned in England till 1904; the ban was one of Shaw's principal arguments against British stage censorship.
You can see what provoked the censors. Darkness, spiritual and often literal, is the play's prevailing condition. Its characters behave as rottenly to one another as those in any of today's low-down stage ventures. But Tolstoy, unlike our contemporary sensationalists, roots his story in the social and psychological realities that have shaped his peasant-farmer characters, drawing on their folkways and their flickering religious sense, as well as supplying their village perspective on abstract matters like law and economics, so that his grim story illuminates the larger world. God and a guilty conscience may win a meager triumph over evil at the end, but you could no more accuse Tolstoy of being preachy than you could expect Joel Osteen to write the next War and Peace.
The play's dark powers are vested in a greedy, ambitious mother, Matryona (played with burning-eyed ferocity by Randy Danson), who edges both her weak but arrogant son (Mark Alhadeff) and the frustrated young wife (Angela Reed) of his tightfisted employer (Peter Bretz) toward a steadily worsening series of crimes. Tolstoy doesn't settle for blaming Mom, though. Instead, he juxtaposes Matryona's materialist hungers with the miseries of her hardscrabble marriage to a prattling, rigidly pious loser (Steve Brady). The mordant comedy scene in which an old soldier turned farmhand (a lovely, ripe performance by Jeff Steitzer) explains the mechanics of banking to this saintly codger is, in fact, Tolstoy's hidden key to the human viciousness his story displays. The fetishizing of other humans as lust objects goes hand in hand with the materialism aroused by commodified wealth. Goodness, as Mae West once remarked, has nothing to do with it.
Martin Platt's production, on a somber set by Bill Clarke that effectively shifts from indoors to outdoors with minimal fuss, falls into the tolerable, modest category that we put up with because New York lacks a major repertory theater. Apart from Danson and Steitzer, nobody in Platt's cast rises much above adequacy. Alhadeff, a resourceful actor not ideally fitted for the role, makes a game try at it; Brady's elocutionary approach effectively sets him apart from the others, but also occasionally makes him sound like a holdover from the Mint's John Ferguson. The anomaly may come partly from the uncredited translation, a maddening jumble of contemporary and archaic, British and American, urban and rural. Still, obstacles notwithstanding, Platt's staging provides a clean map of the play, letting both its horrors and the richness of Tolstoy's vision seep through.
Much the same could be said for Estelle Parsons's production of Night Over Taos, though the acting of her large cast wavers far more erratically, sometimes dipping well below the adequacy mark. Written for the Group Theatre, Maxwell Anderson's 1932 drama deals with the band of wealthy hidalgo planters who, in 1847, when cut off from royalist Spain by Mexican independence on one side and U.S. annexation on the other, hoped to preserve the ways of feudal monarchy in their chunk of New Mexico-a hope about as feasible as Brigadoon's. It ended in a massive attack by U.S. troops, who illustrated egalitarian principles by slaughtering hidalgos, peons, and enslaved Indians alike. Anderson's play, which ends shortly before the expected slaughter, focuses on the conflict inside the feudal leader's hacienda, with his antiquated principles opposed by his two rebellious sons, the elder a cynical appeaser who's secretly conspiring with the U.S. military, and the younger a loyal but hotheaded juvenile burning for his father's designated new bride.