Wee Thomas's Army

This week I went out to Berkeley Rep to see their production of The Lieutenant of Inishmore. Even though I love Martin McDonagh, I wasn't originally planning to see this show, until a friend invited me on the spur of the moment. I'd already seen Lieutenant of Inishmore when it was on Broadway, and in general I'd rather spend my money to see a play I've never seen before, than to see a second production of a play I'm already familiar with. Especially when it's a play that doesn't vary a lot in the interpretation, as McDonagh's works tend not to--I mean, any Shakespeare play allows for multiple good stagings that do not resemble one another in the least, but I would think that all good productions of Lieutenant of Inishmore would basically resemble one another.

One reason it was good to see Lieutenant of Inishmore again is because I wasn't an ideal audience member when I saw it the first time. That was in the summer of 2006, on a day when I had flown to New York on a red-eye from Portland that morning, met a whole lot of new people (my fellow winners of the Young Playwright's contest, plus the contest's organizers), run around the city all day... So as I sat up in the balcony of the Lyceum Theater that night, watching the play, I alternated between thinking "This is fecking amazing!" and "I can barely keep my eyes open!" Yes, even though Lieutenant has a lot of stuff to rivet your attention--a tight plot and structure, McDonagh's great dialogue, plenty of gunfire and gore--I missed parts of it due to my own tiredness. And I appreciated getting to experience it as a complete work of art at the Berkeley Rep on Tuesday.

As I said, I think all good productions of this play are going to substantially resemble one another--but that's not to fault it as a work of art. In fact, it made me realize again the control that McDonagh has over his material, and his skill at creating memorable images as well as memorable dialogue--when the lights come up to reveal a shirtless James hanging upside-down by his ankles, for instance, or the visual contrast of the girl with short hair and the boy with long hair.

One major difference I noticed between the two productions was in the character of Davey, the aforementioned boy with long hair. Davey is none too bright and none too brave, and a lot of the laughs in the play come at his expense. On Broadway, he was portrayed by the tall and gangly Domhnall Gleeson, who "reads" as several years older than Adam Farabee, who played the role in Berkeley. Gleeson's Davey came across as being maybe 20 years old--close to Padraic's age, and certainly older than his 16-year-old sister, Mairead. He also wore an intentionally silly costume that included a Motörhead T-shirt and a ridiculous headband. The effect of all of this was to make Davey a real moron--a character whom it was easy to laugh at, but hard to identify with. Farabee, though, comes across as being about 15 years old--thus, Mairead's put-upon kid brother rather than her stupid older brother. And while his red wig was decidedly silly, he had no headband and wore a plain white T-shirt, the better to show the eventual bloodstains. Therefore, while Davey was still pretty dumb (I mean, you're never going to get around the fact that he loves the smell of shoe polish), his stupidity was more forgivable, because you saw that he was just a terrified 15-year-old kid underneath, rather than a too-dumb-to-live 20-year-old. I just can't decide what's the better approach to his character, now: to give him this more rounded and human dimension, or to make him into a mocking caricature like many of the other inhabitants of McDonagh-land?

Photo: James Carpenter as Donny and Adam Farabee as Davey. (credit: broadwayworld.com)

Theater is Disturbing, And I Love It

For all of last year (senior year of college) I basically lived in a Theater Bubble: writing my thesis play, founding and managing the Dynamo Theater Lab, going to all the drama kids' parties. I could even have conversations about Sondheim musicals and McDonagh plays at any hour of the day or night with one of my housemates, who, though she wasn't a drama major, was a devoted and opinionated theatergoer.

But living in such a bubble means forgetting that the rest of the world is outside the bubble. And over the past week, I've had a couple of rude awakenings: moments where I talk as though I were still surrounded by my theater friends, only to realize that 99% of the population thinks that theater people are really weird.

Last week I had a job interview (unsuccessful, for reasons that will become clear in a moment) where, after my interviewer asked me the typical questions, he threw me this curveball: "What's your favorite comedy movie?"

I hesitated. I don't have one favorite comedy movie, and usually I prefer films that, while they may have humorous elements, are also dark or poignant or something else besides pure comedy. E.g. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. And while I do have a surprising amount of fun at silly comedies like Superbad, I'd never call that movie my "favorite" anything.

Seeing my hesitation, my interviewer added, "Or your favorite comedy play, if you'd prefer." (We'd already discussed my playwriting/theater background.)

So naturally, I decided that this would be the perfect time to talk about how amazing Martin McDonagh is, not least because he has written both plays and movies! I started off by describing The Lieutenant of Inishmore--"It's about this terrorist who is too violent even for the IRA, and the only thing he loves in the world is his kitty-cat, and when his cat dies he goes on a murderous rampage..."

"Wow," said my interviewer, clearly disturbed.

Somehow I didn't get the message, and pressed on. "And In Bruges, well, that's his movie that came out this spring, and it's about these two hit-men in Bruges, and it's really dark, and violent, and irreverent, I mean there's a midget..."

I think I might have even said "dark" and "violent" a few more times before I realized that I should shut up.

I must've cut a strange figure--a young lady in a pantsuit and pink blouse, revealing her love for bloody and twisted humor! Lord help me, the man probably expected me to say Sex and the City. It occurred to me later that I would not have talked this way to a female interviewer--that I'd been acting like "one of the boys" on purpose--and I was a little surprised that I had bought so willingly into gender stereotypes.

Then, a couple of days ago, my new housemates and I were hanging out in our living room with the first Harry Potter movie on in the background. One girl said she heard Daniel Radcliffe was starring on Broadway in a play where he had a nude scene.

"Oh yeah, Equus," I said, as my house's resident theater geek. "It's a really good play."

"There's a nude scene?" my housemates asked. "What's it about? I heard it's about this kid who has sex with horses..."

Anxious to clear up their misconceptions (especially because they seemed very grossed out at the thought of Harry Potter having sex with horses), I said "Oh, no, no, what it's really about is, he plays this kid who blinds six horses with a metal spike--"

Grimaces of shock and disgust on their faces, worse than before.

"--no, it's a really good play!" I protested. And I delivered the following speech with a big smile on my face, in an attempt to prove that I am Friendly and Not Psychotic, but that probably made it even worse: "Well, what it is, is he's got this kind of mystical obsession with horses, and then he tries to have sex in the stable with a girl he's met there, just a normal girl, but he can't do it with the horses looking on, and so he blinds them... I know you all think I'm very disturbed right now, to like this play, but it's really good, I swear!"

I am not sure they were convinced.

I thought McDonagh's works and Equus are relatively accessible as far as contemporary plays go--they've got strong plots, memorable characters, a vivid theatrical sense in the case of Shaffer and a unique sense of humor in the case of McDonagh--they're not off-puttingly experimental or avant-garde. And yet people still seem so resistant to them! Why will people happily go see violent R-rated movies but grimace at the thought of seeing a violent play? (Maybe this testifies to the power and immediacy of theater--it's more disturbing because it's happening right in front of you.)

And yet, isn't this what theater has always done, maybe even its raison d'etre: to raise provocative questions, to test the boundaries of society, to reproduce scenes of terror and violence in order to provoke a catharsis?

I can picture it now, how Theater People have been defending themselves for thousands of years:

"Dude, I just went to the amphitheater and saw this play about a guy who kills his father and marries his mother, I mean like they have kids and everything together--and then it gets better...when they find out the truth, his wife, I mean his mom, commits suicide and then he blinds himself! What? No, I'm serious, it's not gross, it's a really good play! Didn't you see, it got great reviews? Aristotle thinks it's genius! No really, just because I liked this show doesn't mean I'm a freak..."