The Wild West
Road trip! American Players Theatre—in lovely Spring Green, Wisconsin—opened its season in late June and we were there. Side trip to Viroqua, the Berkeley of the Driftless Area, and points between. Fine food at the Driftless Cafe; book browsing for the politically adventurous in the “Anarchism,” “Marxism,” and “Survival” sections of the Metaphysical Graffiti bookstore; a stroll around Mazomanie; and a whole lotta shoes at The Shoe Box in Black Earth. Click on the image to see full-size photo and caption.
The Royale
The Royale is about boxing, but like boxing itself, Marco Ramirez's 2013 play is about so much more. Based the story of Jack Johnson's 1910 championship bout with James Jeffries, American Players Theater’s production is as visceral and musical as a 10-round title match.
Jaylon Muchison, Brian Mani and Jamal James in The Royale.
Musical? You bet your uppercut. From the syncopation of the landed punches to the rhapsodic, grandiloquent fight introductions (intoned with hammy glee by Brian Mani), The Royale pulses with rhythmic energy. For the fight sequences, director Tyrone Phillips places the actors on opposite sides of the stage, facing the audience. When one fighter lands a blow, he stomps the wood floor hard and the other fighter physically reacts.
In between these tour-de-force sequences, dramatic scenes sketch out the stakes. Jay Jackson (Jamal James) is the undisputed black heavyweight champion. He wants a match with the retired (white) heavyweight champion to claim a title not limited by racial category. He agrees to outrageous terms (his opponent will get 90 percent of the purse whether he wins or loses), but Jackson is hungry.
Jamal James in APT’s The Royale.
(The play takes some liberties with the Jack Johnson story. The 1910 “Fight of the Century” was his defense of the heavyweight crown after winning it from white boxer Tommy Burns in 1908. Johnson faced Jeffries—dubbed The Great White Hope— to defend his title.)
Like the historical Johnson, Jay Jackson’s personal hunger has more universal consequences. The upcoming fight stokes racism and violence outside the ring, and Ramirez’s superb script knits together the personal and political to give the play’s final moments a heart-stopping intensity.
APT’s superb cast is led by Jamal James, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Johnson, and delivers a stirring performance. But this is truly an ensemble piece, and it’s one that you won’t soon forget.
Pants on Fire
Kelsey Brennan and Josh Krause in APT’s The Liar.
There's music of a different sort in APT's production of The Liar, the 17th-century comedy by Pierre Corneille freely translated and adapted by David Ives. As were the plays of his era and ilk, Corneille wrote Le Menteur in rhyming couplets. Ives--one of American theater's most gifted wordsmiths--does the same.
For a taste, here's the opening volley, delivered with musical ease by Josh Krause, playing Cliton, a servant for hire.
Ladies and gentlemen! Mesdames, messieurs!
All cell phones off? All cellophane secure?
No eating, please. You think you're incognito?
Yes, you. The lady with the bean burrito.
Put it away. I have a crucial message!
(Points to a man in the audience.)
This guy looks worried. "Whoa, what does this presage?
I shell out for the tickets plus a meal,
The waiter's late with her organic veal,
We had to chug-a-lug that nice Bordeaux,
I hoped I'd be asleep by now, but no,
The curtain should be up, this bird comes on,
Some actor's probably holed up in the john..."
Well, set your minds at ease, reduce the strain,
And with your gadgets, please--turn off your brain.
Leave complication to our comic hero,
A lying genius, if a moral zero.
No, my announcement may be even worse:
Today our actors will be speaking verse!
In case you hadn't noticed that small fact.
We'll speak pentameter, to be exact.
And what the blank's pentameter, you say?
It's what I'm speaking now! On with the play!
Daniel José Molina and Josh Krause in American Players Theatre’s The Liar.
Cliton eventually allies with Doronte (Daniel José Molina), who has just arrived in Paris to pursue the pleasures of the flesh, and the ensuing farce contains the usual suspects: mistaken identities, merry pranks, egos deflated and nuptials celebrated.
But here, the meat is in the meter. Ives' language is a heady blend of tradition and irreverent modernization, and the crazy rhymes come fast and furious. The references range from Shakespeare and bowdlerized Socrates ("the unimagined life is not worth living"), to souped-up Corvettes, thermostats, and multiplexes. Ives will do anything to secure a couplet, and eventually I wore out my pen hand trying to jot down the most gleefully outrageous among them: "circling planets/pomegranates," "hungry kiss/dentifrice," "experience/Siberians." (And later, just to up the ante, he does it again: "experience/Presbyterians").
It is a language feast, and APT's crew of actors--directed by Kiera Fromm--gorge themselves with lip-smacking relish. I saw the final preview, just before opening night, and the timing was tight, the energy infectious, and the spirit generous. The anarchic feeling doesn't end with the wordplay. Fight choreographer Jeb Burris stages a hilarious onstage duel. Kelsey Brennan offers impeccably timed entrances and exits playing Isabelle and Sabine, a pair of servants who have quite different dispositions, but look identical save a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. And Holly Payne's costumes are a delicious rendering of Parisian foppery by way of a punk resale shop: The liar Doronte wears gold lame oxfords that would make Liberace swoon, while another character sports Timberlands. Whatever footwear you’re sporting this summer, I suggest you move it in the direction of Spring Green as fast as your tootsies will carry you.
The Good Doctor
Dr. John (aka Mac Rebennack), a fixture of the New Orleans music and mischief for decades, died over four years ago. His final album came out last fall, and it’s a great way to savor his sound and memory. He was in frail health when he recorded it, and the final product is somewhat controversial. But he never sounded like a young, healthy crooner, and hearing him ease his way into “Funny How Time Slips Away" reminds you of that great New Orleans melting pot that gave American some of it’s finest music.
Peachy Poesy
Last week, the trucks started arriving from the south, bringing their cargo of freestone peaches to the hearty northerners that look forward every year to six-or-so weeks of fuzzy sweetness. You may find them at a farmer’s market. Or you may be lucky enough to find a roadside stand as you’re cruising the countryside.
For those who can do neither, here’s a bit of verbal honey to celebrate the season.
From Blossoms
By Li-Young Lee
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
Have a great week.