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
If ever days were ripe for a good political satire, these are they. Wondrously, as if right on cue, Stages has pulled some timely magic from the theatrical closet. Artistic Director Rob Bundy had the foresight to choose the Russell Lees play Nixon's Nixon, about Nixon's last late-night meeting with Kissinger before he resigned his presidency. It provides an imaginative and sometimes stunning answer to all the political handwringing and headshaking now being acted out on TV.
Shadowy light falls across a brown and somber Lincoln Sitting Room. Tall windows reveal the navy-colored nighttime sky. Lamplight reflects off the panes. There is something still and ominous about this space, something reverential and historical. It is August 7, 1974.
Tchaikovsky plays on the hi-fi. And standing center stage is Nixon, wildly conducting the phantom orchestra blaring from the speakers. In gestures as grand as the music itself, his arms and fists go flailing through the air as if he were wrestling with some malcontent god. But this is only the beginning of a long, dark night spent struggling with a decision that would forever change American politics.
There's one peculiar truth about director Mark Ramont's striking production: It does not matter one whit that James Belcher does nothing to remind us of the Nixon who lived inside our boxy, wood-grained TVs with his unforgettable profile and singular voice. What Belcher does instead is invent a totally new character who shares all the internal qualities that made Nixon the man he seemed to be. His arrogance, intelligence, cutting wit and a painfully sad-sack awareness of the cultural distance between himself and most of the other men in power on Capitol Hill are all brought to searing life in Belcher's character.
Another truth is that Paul Menzel as Kissinger looks, moves and talks so much like the real-life Kissinger that it would seem he'd grown up in New York in the same house with the man.
What is most astonishing is that the seemingly antithetical approaches to the characters work so well together for Belcher and Menzel. These are tour-de-force performances that fully engage the nuances and small pleasures in the script, of which there are many.
There is no intermission. Neither actor leaves the stage; thus, the structure is completely internal to the dialogue. Indeed, this play is gathered into a series of lovely, almost musical movements that flow into a crescendo as Nixon moves closer to his fate. While Kissinger works to persuade Nixon that resigning is the best course of action, Nixon pulls Kissinger into a kind of reverie about their past accomplishments. Kissinger acts out Mao or Brezhnev to Nixon's Nixon, as the president relives the triumphs of his presidency.
But in seconds he's careening into the bad stuff, the shameful moments of his career, such as when Kennedy "sneered" at his shoes. He comes to a brutal and acute awareness of the duplicity of politics. "The true statesman is a chameleon," says Kissinger. "You've got to be larger than life."
"But there's no back stage," says Nixon. "The mask gets stuck. You end up asking yourself, 'What color are my goddamned eyes?' "
This is a Nixon who talks with a gutter-speak honesty. He declares such things as if he were pope, "I'd grab the world by the tits and give it a whirl." He calls Kissinger "my Machiavelli with a belly." Nixon imagines himself as a man "wandering on some hellish golf course" after resigning. He continually refers to Kissinger's Nobel Prize as "that peace thing."
He's a grocer's son, without pretension, who "had to work for everything" he got. This is a president, but a disarmingly human one.
Kissinger, too, is brought down off his revered pedestal in this play. Portrayed as constantly worried about his job once Nixon resigns, this supreme statesman becomes a shrew, forever nagging at Nixon, wanting to know what Ford's plans are. He discovers the existence of an inflammatory audiotape of himself, and he's stopped cold with fear for his reputation.
But one of the loveliest moments of the night comes from a childhood memory. During his first night out on the streets of New York, after having fled Nazi Germany with his parents, Kissinger encounters a group of blond school boys. Panic-stricken, he wonders whether he should run, try to hide, or what? And then he realizes that he is in America and safe, able to go where he pleases, both literally and figuratively. It's a moving story and, given the context, a telling demonstration of the paradoxical nature of American politics.
Ray Hill has always been a sort of one-man show. As a modern day Socratic gadfly, he's spent years gleefully whacking the backsides of local police and politicians. He's a prison- and gay-rights activist whose perennial runs for City Council have never won him a seat. No matter: His weekly prison show on KPFT/90.1 FM has reached lots of locals, many of whom can't get out of their cells to vote, even if they were eligible.