By Chris Lane
By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
A similar series of progressively thunderous annunciations have trumpeted the approach of Angels in America itself: more Tony and Drama Desk awards than any play within recent memory; critics' ecstatic accolades; T-shirts; lofty, full-color newspaper previews; sold-out houses weeks in advance; and a chic opening night crowd. As the press packet, which is accompanied by a white feather, says in ornate letters: "Prepare the Way." It feels rather as if humble Houston is being visited by the Pope, or Elvis. With such brouhaha, it's almost a letdown when you see the actual event. Almost -- except that Angels is such a powerful, all-encompassing work, both epic and intimate, that it holds its own against this preparatory fuss.
With eight actors playing 20 characters, Angels' interweaving story focuses on two couples -- one gay, one straight -- and Roy Cohn, the lawyer who was Senator Joseph McCarthy's right-hand man during his Red Scare rampage, and who died in 1986 of AIDS. The straight couple, Harper and Joe, are Mormons. Harper is an agoraphobic; she stays home all day in their Brooklyn apartment, taking Valium and playing in the field of her hallucinations. Meanwhile, Joe negotiates the impossible tightrope of being Cohn's protege while remaining ethically upstanding and takes long walks at night to the Central Park boatyards to watch the homosexual liaisons. The gay couple, Louis and Prior, have been lovers for four years. But when Prior shows his companion a Karposi's Sarcoma spot on his arm, the didactic, philosophizing Louis soon can't handle the prospect of his lover's decline into awful infirmity and abandons him.
In an epic such as Angels, in which we get to spend an extended period of time with the characters, a certain intimacy sets in; the play's episodic, twined tales give the audience a feeling of connectedness that engenders tenderness. We get to know these people; their lives become part of our lives. The Alley's radical choice to put Angels on the Arena Stage accentuates this intimacy. The audience begins to feel as though it's sharing in a cooperative experience, the actors and playgoers in plain view of each other, some front-row audience members almost entering into the performance as the spotlights lap at their feet.
But the Arena's close quarters also tend to detract from Angels' magical theatricality -- the "multi-media" screens above the four exits, the Sensurround rumblings. Lately, the Alley's been going for more cinematic effects (fireworks projected behind the stage of Arms and the Man, a grass-rattles soundtrack behind The Crucible) with dubious success. Kushner calls his style "Theater of the Fabulous," and a simultaneous tongue-in-cheek and serious tone marks the whole show. The angel's arrival especially is a fairly schmaltzy affair, "very Steven Spielberg," as Prior calls it in the midst of a Close Encounters of the Third Kind light show. (Applause is due whoever was under his bed, scooting it all over the stage.) With a certain over-the-top, half-camp grandeur, the angel is wheeled on-stage perched atop a glorified TV cart, looking like a cross between the Statue of Liberty and Mozart's father, a wedding-cake ornament of a celestial visitation. Although the special effects are intended to be simultaneously cheesy and thrilling, they tend more toward high hokeyness.
Michael Wilson's direction capitalizes on the Alley's strengths -- its superb resident company, its cozy underground venue (stage painted celestial blue) -- while adapting the play slightly for Houston's less adventurous audiences. (Despite being sold out with a crowd of standbys, the opening night house sported many empty seats, I suspect because season ticket holders may have feared Angels was too strong for their blood.) Drag scenes and Prior's "girl talk" with a friend named Belize were pitched at a suburban sensibility, the very act of drag itself being an occasion for nervous hooting. But these small matters aside, Wilson's direction was both deft and tender, encompassing the important material with a maturity and grace.
With a play this heroic we don't have just one protagonist acting as a gravitational center but several. We follow Prior as he dives inexorably into the pain and vision of his illness, and John Feltch gives a resounding, full-bloodied performance as the abandoned yet ever-laconic victim of disease; he lives the role of the dying man with a wry sensuousness, an all-or-nothing submersion. Unfortunately, his fire is not matched by Joseph Haj as his weak partner, Louis. We don't get any of the tumult of a man who grapples with politico-philosophic conundrums but can't bear to be present when real, bloody life comes down. Nor do we get his playfulness (when he flirtingly teases Joe it just seems out of character), nor his love for Prior. Haj's Louis is stiff, pat and set; his character supposedly anguishes, but he doesn't seem to change.