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
The final moments of Matthew Lopez's thrillingly theatrical TheWhipping Man, now smoldering inside Stages Repertory Theatre, now bursting into scalding flame, are silent.
There's a steady downpour outside the war-ravaged Richmond, Virginia, house in early April, 1865. It's been raining on and off for days, but the heat inside can't be extinguished. Two young men, one laid out on a ratty divan, one dressed to leave, share a bottle of whiskey. After all that has come before, we don't know what will happen next. It's just as likely that the whiskey will go flying, smashing into someone's head.
John, a young black man (Joseph Palmore), reels back into the room. He wants to leave; he has threatened to leave and has big plans to go up north; but he can't quite make that first step. He's free at last, but what's he to do? The house pulls him back. Caleb (Ross Bautsch), the young white man recuperating on the couch, pulls him back. Without any words, as he has done so many times before, John pulls out that whiskey bottle and takes a drink, sitting across from Caleb. After a pause, wherein we can fill in all sorts of meaning, he moves closer and hands the bottle to Caleb. The gesture, replete with resignation and acceptance and forgiveness, is everything. The two young men, now sitting across from each other, share the bottle in silence, the dingy room bathed in candlelight, while the rain outside gently falls.
The drama ends on this quiet note, an enigmatic gesture that perfectly sums up the great themes Lopez has intertwined throughout — freedom, liberation, personal choice, religious belief and, most important, scars from the past, both psychic and graphically physical. The healing has just begun for these two "peas in a pod," as they're described by stalwart house steward Simon (Shawn Hamilton), before he, too, rushes off into that rainy night in search of his missing wife and daughter.
The "well-made" play, especially when accompanied by accomplished stagecraft, never dates, no matter the fashion or era. The Whipping Man, quickly making Lopez's reputation as it burns through the stages of America, scorches anew at Stages. After the play's finish, you're likely to look up to see if the roof is still there.
Dramatic reversals and revelations come swift and powerful, like Grant's bombardment of Richmond, which has left that city in ruins and all but deserted. These three men now tentatively share what's left of the house and what John can "liberate" from their neighbors' property. (Each subsequent scene has more stuff piled about, like chipped dishes, a broken chandelier and an extra chair.) Whose are all these things, asks Caleb to John after another midnight foray. "Mine now," says John. "What are you going to do with it?" "Own it." "Why?" John smirks triumphantly, "Because I can!"
These men are inextricably bound to each other. Newly freed, Simon and John are still slaves to their past, daring to move forward into unknown territory, while Caleb, dependent upon them after a brutal amputation, has had his independence horribly curtailed. Perhaps the most surprising twist of all is that the family and their former slaves are Jewish. Faith drives Simon, whose celebration of Passover ironically occurs when victory is declared at Appomattox, but is tempered by the news that Lincoln has been assassinated. When he reverently intones "Father Abraham" and stirringly sings "Go Down Moses" during their meager seder, where collard greens and hardtack stand in for bitter herbs and unleavened bread, the strength of his moral resolve and his implacable goodness in the face of unspeakable barbarity shine forth. He is the play's bedrock, and Hamilton is downright magnificent in the part: wise, stoic and seething underneath with a prophet's righteous anger.
He is matched by Bautsch's pain-wracked Caleb and Palmore's John. This three-man cast, dredging up the past that forever haunts the present, keeps Lopez's finely etched period drama aboil and exceptionally fragrant. Under Seth Gordon's tightly paced direction, the drama takes time for comedy (the horse-meat-eating scene is a little gem), but the big moments are fraught with edge-of-your-seat excitement. The amputation scene is shockingly conveyed not by the actual event, but by Simon's autopsy-like description of exactly what's going to happen when he saws through bone, muscle and skin. Held down by John, Caleb screams in drunken anguish as Simon pours whiskey on the old saw and approaches the couch. We grit our teeth and push back in our seats. A thunderclap resounds with a blackout. You can hear the audience gasp.
The physical production is every bit as wondrous as the performances. You can almost smell the smoke and mold of the once-fine house laid bare in Jodi Bobrovsky's nuanced set design, with the lath work of the plaster walls exposed and soot staining the columns. Claremarie Verheyen's costumes are masterworks of the threadbare, of blood and soil. Renee Brode's lighting is exceptionally exquisite, echoing dim candlelight; and Philip Owen's atmospheric sound design, perhaps with a bit too much Ken Burns "Civil War" inspiration behind it with the ubiquitous solo violin, is nonetheless effectively simple, especially when "Shenandoah" underscores Caleb's reading of his love letter to Sara, Simon's daughter and house slave. That's another family secret Lopez reveals at the most appropriate, dramatic time.