By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
By Marco Torres
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
Fog and steamy rain made downtown Houston look something like Gotham City late last week, an effect that was strangely appropriate for the Alley's season opener, In the Jungle of Cities. One of three plays that Bertolt Brecht set in Chicago, Jungle is a mythical representation of the town, where a Malaysian lumberman mixes with an employee of a lending library, and there's a port from which ships sail to Tahiti. Needless to say, Brecht never set foot in Chicago, and his depiction of the place is closer to Hong Kong than it is to the Illinois city. (There are brief moments of humor when the dialogue shows how unfamiliar Chicago was to Brecht. In a late scene on the shores of Lake Michigan, Brecht has a character fancy he hears "the crawfish mating.") But whether or not he had a gift for geographical accuracy, Brecht's artistry, and his argument for a return to the epic drama, shaped theater in the 20th century. For Brecht, theatrical stories were shaped in long arcs instead of linear scenes, and the audience was distanced from a character's plight in order to allow a more complex and, ideally, intellectual understanding of a play's action.
Jungle is one of Brecht's early plays, written during the years 1921-24 and influenced largely by Upton Sinclair's 1906 novel of the Chicago meatpacking industry, The Jungle. Brecht's Jungle follows the destruction of the Garga family and, more particularly, the struggle for control between the mysterious Malaysian Shlink and Joe Garga, the family's son. In 11 scenes, Brecht weaves a picture of a city shaped by gangster ethics, socialist politics and despair. But the true tension in the elliptical work is the mental wrestling match between Garga and Shlink. In the play's first scene, Shlink humiliates Garga, and in the second, he gives Garga his prosperous lumber business -- a move motivated by Shlink's desire to see Garga fail utterly. The rest of the play drives toward that end.
Brechtian theater requires coordinating various production elements so that they inform the story, the idea being that a single element such as lighting or music can bring greater understanding instead of just helping the narrative glide along. Unfortunately, such well-tailored elements don't surface in this Alley production. What the audience gets instead is an orgy of sensual elements: German graffiti scrawled across the back walls; a set lit from above with Christmas bulbs and below with blue neon; sound effects that range from dripping faucets to blowing wind; a live jazz band playing from an elevated platform; a large square panel of the set that rises to and lowers from the ceiling.
With the exception of the jazz band, these elements distract the audience from focusing on the struggle between Garga and Shlink. The busyness of the lights and the exotic set pulls the audience's focus to the ancillary characters, petty thugs and whores who parade around the Neuhaus Arena Stage in a variety of costuming and makeup. Two Salvation Army girls gone wrong, played by Tricia Cox and Shelley Calene, show up in no less than four elaborate costumes and coordinating fright wigs. Their presence in the play should be relegated to the sidelines, but instead they writhe around in crucial scenes like absurd centerpieces.
While the supporting cast often drives this production close to -- and on occasion over -- the brink of spectacle, John Feltch plays a wry and desperate Garga. When asked by Shlink what he expects from life, Garga replies, "I expect more from life than to wear out my shoes kicking you." When Feltch is given the opportunity to work at the play's core -- the deadly fascination Garga has with his own ruin -- the production is lifted above its junky, overprocessed set. As Shlink, a man who's handed the poor Garga his fortune and humbly walked away (while at the same time undermining Garga's relationship with his family), James Black is wicked and calm, though his decision to stumble into Tarantino territory by holding a gun sideways a la Reservoir Dogs is strange indeed, and departs from the play in a way that doesn't serve the art or the production.
In many ways, what the Alley's production of Jungle suffers from is a preoccupation with looking contemporary. It's ironic then that the attempts to render Brecht hip are what fail the play. The Chicago the playwright drew is a city of alienation, as Shlink points out with the line, "If you cramp a ship full to bursting with human bodies, they'll all freeze with loneliness." Brecht strove for meatiness and entertainment in the same package. It would have been refreshing if director Gregory Boyd had attempted to reach beyond Brechtian theater in search of substance instead of simply dressing up his actors in outlandish costumes, propelling them onto a junk heap of a set and leaving them to bump around in the humor and grace of Brecht's language.
Despite the large amount of attention lathered on playwrights, such as David Mamet, who write in the dialect of the street, there is a palpable yearning among theater audiences for a return to graceful language. Too often, though, when a play is fortunate enough to express its story eloquently, the story fails to rise to the level of riveting entertainment. The exception is the work of Tom Stoppard, the British playwright who's more likely to dabble with the dialogue of Derrida than he is with that of Downtown Julie Brown. In his latest comedy, Arcadia, which is making its Houston debut at Main Street Theater, Stoppard weaves modern scholarship and higher math into a satisfying combination. Under the artistic direction of Becky Udden, Main Street has proven to be the kind of small theater that always tries hard -- and with its production of Arcadia, Main Street hits the mark with a comic, lively show.