The front lines of U.S. dramatic arts sustained much transformation -- and loss -- in the early '40s. Competing with the massive popularity of music halls and talkies, Broadway turned to easy consumables like sitcoms, musicals, and detective thrillers, and brandished its cache of superstar actors. One such blast from the past was John Barrymore -- a behemoth who broke box-office records in the 1920s Big Apple with his electrifying Richard III and Hamlet, then cocktailed himself right off the stage for a dozen or so years.
Riding the revival wave, he returned in 1942 for a last chance at the limelight in a revival of Richard III, an attempt chronicled in writer William Luce's two-character play Barrymore, starring Canadian-born actor Christopher Plummer. They give us a brief glimpse into an after-hours Barrymore in which we see not so much a titan of the theater but a man struggling to remember his lines, suppress his d.t.'s, and blind himself to the impossibility of recapturing that Broadway tingle.
The play begins when a blue-nosed Barrymore in pinstripes staggers onto the rehearsal stage. Brandishing various props -- swords, fly swatters, bananas -- he begins to prepare for his comeback as "Ruthless Richard ... the turd." As he swashbuckles imaginary foes, his memory is jarred open. He reminisces aloud about many things: his violent, abusive lout of a father; some very private elocution lessons with his actress-debutante stepmother; and the wise words of his eccentric grandmother -- the famed 19th-century diva Mrs. John Drew. She gave him the power to believe in himself, but cautioned, "Jack, you dream too long and too deep. You'll be shocked by awaking." Meanwhile he's mixing and sucking down potions not known to Shakespeare, and the drinkies lead him to forget what the Bard did know -- namely, the play. Between swallows Barrymore barks at his prompter, offstage presence John Plumpis, to give him a line.
The simple pop-psych cause-and-effect explanation of the great actor's downfall is neatly avoided thanks to Christopher Plummer's brilliant performance, which juxtaposes the petulant actor-child with the ironic octogenarian baring the open wounds of a fishbowl life lived with cocktail shaker in hand. Plummer gives the audience a completely convincing portrait of a brilliant, witty, self-knowing, yet asshole-ish has-been suffering from a rather universal problem: the debilitating fear of screwing up.
It is unfortunate that he doesn't have a better script to work from; Luce is writing down to the lowest common denominator. His Barrymore's concentrated, soul-revealing moments are too often punctuated and even obliterated by a whirlwind of callow references with misogynistic overtones: "If I don't pay alimony next week, can my wives repossess me?" And Luce tends to overwrite. The prompter abuse is too much, and giving Barrymore lines like "Now, like Richard, I am lost" probably has the actor spinning in his grave.
Yet, for the most part, Plummer's masterful performance overcomes the script's thudding flaws. And maybe Luce's writing shouldn't be slammed too hard: Maybe, like his '40s counterparts, he's just keeping the theater afloat by providing the fodder -- star billing and ready-mades -- that contemporary audiences' conspicuously consumptive appetites demand.
-- Frederick Luis Aldama
"Elements of Soul." Featuring Michael Dolman, Alfreda Mitchell, the Idris Ackamoor Ensemble, and Denise Perrier. Presented as part of Afro Solo V at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission (at Third Street), Aug. 22. Call 346-9344.
Last year I pointed out that no review of a single Afro Solo event could sum up the whole festival, which had nights of political theater, poetry, music, and dance; and this year the same thing held true, since not much on the menu had changed. So last weekend I decided to take in the main, Saturday-evening lineup of music rather than any of the theater.
"Elements of Soul" included piano spirituals, gospel, jazz, and an upscale blues tribute to Dinah Washington; and it has to be said, in all strictness, that not every performance was "solo." Three out of four involved a band.
Michael Dolman played a few old spirituals on the grand piano -- plangent, mournful melodies like "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child" and "Steal Away to Jesus" -- which were graceful and beautiful but demure, somehow lacking in force. Dolman alternated with some shimmery minor-toned ragtime, especially Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag," the tune that made Joplin world famous in 1898 and opened the way, Dolman said, for other black composers to get published. (Back then you got "published," as a musician, not recorded.) "The spirituals tell us about Sunday," Dolman said suavely, "but ragtime tells us about the other six days of the week," and after his set came the redoubtable Alfreda Mitchell, a gospel singer who told about Sunday as if it were late on a Friday night. Mitchell belted out born-again gospel anthems like a woman possessed (if that's not a blasphemous thing to say), showing off on the high notes and making everyone get to their feet. Her backup band was a little disappointing -- glib and unremarkable -- but a song she called her "prayer-time" exercise, a brooding, a cappella repetition of the line "Talkin' about a child/ That sho loved Jesus," was raw and beautiful, as strangely awe-inspiring as the sound of a huge pipe organ loosening up.
Even Mitchell could have been called a "solo" performer, though, since she dominated the stage in front of her band. But the Idris Ackamoor Ensemble was undeniably a group effort, a progressive jazz band fronted by an alto saxophonist (Ackamoor) and a playful, bittersweet vocalist named Daria Nile. Like every act on Saturday they seemed to pull punches; the band was tight and turbulent, exciting and smooth, but they felt unaggressive in moments where they could have pushed things. Denise Perrier's supper-club blues ensemble was
like that in a totally unexpected way, though: Perrier sang a tribute to Dinah Washington, a legendary blues singer from the '50s, and her band was supposed to be edgeless and unaggressive, but the players kept losing their way through the piles of charts on their stands, and two of the songs faltered and died. "That's what happens when you try to squeeze an hour-and-a-half show into half an hour," said Perrier, who didn't need to apologize nearly as much as she did, because her versions of "Drinkin' Again" and "Salty Papa Blues" were marvelous. She also did a rowdy blues shuffle about a trombone player's "big long slidin' thang" that made the house as happy as Mitchell's gospel singing.
-- Michael Scott Moore
My Kingdom for an SUV
Richard III. By William Shakespeare. Directed by Patrick Dooley. Starring Michael Storm, Beth Donohue, Antoinette Abbamonte, Keith Davis, and Marin Van Young. At Hink's Garage, Kittredge at Milvia in downtown Berkeley, Aug. 16. Continuing at various parking lots in Berkeley through Sept. 6. Call (510) 655-0813.
"Shakespeare in the Park" is a summer staple. The Shotgun Players are giving their first-ever "Shakespeare in the Parking Lot" tour not just to be smartasses, but also because Richard III has an atmosphere of evil that doesn't quite blend with green grass, birds, and wine. This is true enough. But it also has a grandeur that doesn't quite go with stripes painted on concrete, or with a big sign in the background that says "KITTREDGE STREET PARKING," or with cars moving back and forth while the ghosts of Richard's victims haunt his dreams. To me the smartass name of the tour doesn't need any excuse, but I have to concede the point; would A Midsummer Night's Dream work in a parking lot?
Richard III is the fourth in a tetralogy of Shakespearean histories that presented Elizabethan audiences with the background to their royal house. It shows the end of the War of the Roses, which had the families of York and Lancaster fighting for the crown. Richard is a deformed Duke of Gloucester on the York side with royal ambitions, and when the play opens, his brother Edward IV is king. Richard kills both Edward and his other brother, George, leaving himself in line for the crown; he's already killed his nephew, Prince Edward, in order to get at his nephew's wife, Lady Anne. ("Was ever woman in this humour wooed?" he famously says.) He becomes Richard III for a while until Henry, Earl of Richmond -- a Lancaster -- marshals an army to free England from his reign and at last marries a daughter of the house of York, joining "the white rose and the red" into a new House of Tudor, and bringing peace to England. The Earl of Richmond becomes Henry VII, who grandfathered Elizabeth I. So this was recent history for Shakespeare, making it not just emotional for his audience but also much easier to follow.
The Shotgun Players do it without props or regular costumes. The only frill is an oil drum pounded for dramatic effect. Michael Storm plays a seething, violent Richard, with a nimble feel for the rise and fall of anger in his lines. His monologues are the strongest, but the vicious bickering with Lady Anne and other members of the court is also powerful. Marin Van Young, though, plays Lady Anne with almost no subtlety, screaming at Richard out of grief rather than letting the emotion steam up with a quiet heat, and to me all the scenes that don't work in this production are the same way: noisy when they should be dark and intense. A deaf woman, Antoinette Abbamonte, plays the witchlike Queen Margaret. She signs most of her lines and has to be interpreted out loud by another player, but her body is so expressive that the role is fascinating. Since most of the actors play more than one character, and since the costumes are so fluid, it's not easy to tell the cast apart without a script, but the show is self-respecting and strong, and so involving by the end you forget you're sitting in a parking lot.
-- Michael Scott Moore