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Paquin and piano, redux
Charles Isherwood
Anna Paquin is reunited with a piano, oddly enough,
in "The Glory of Living," Rebecca Gilman's bleak
slice-of-lowlife play about amoral young killers in
the American South. The Oscar-winning star of "The
Piano," now 19, is making her stage debut Off Broadway
as an abused, neglected teenager who winds up on death
row. The sad symbol of the childhood she never had is
a toy piano she clings to as a memento from a distant
but scarcely happier time.
Glory of Living actually predates the two Gilman
plays that already have been produced in New York,
Spinning Into Butter and Boy Gets Girl.
Originally produced in Chicago in 1997 and seen at
London's Royal Court Theater in early 1999, Glory
is less overtly a think piece than the other two, but
it is also the product of a skilled, intelligent writer
with a fondness for diagnostics (and an occasionally
heavy hand: The thuddingly ironic title is dubious).
This time the case study is culled from a lower social
milieu, the white trash of the Deep South. The play's
grisly opening scene finds 15-year-old Lisa (Paquin)
making desultory conversation with the older Clint
(Jeffrey Donovan), a clumsy sweet-talker, while her
mother has noisy sex with a customer on the other
side of a sheet strung up in the middle of their
dingy one-room apartment.
In the course of the second scene, which takes place
some time later, we learn that Lisa and Clint are
married. He's been in and out of jail. She's had twins
and spent some time in foster homes. They're now holed
up in a dumpy hotel room (Michelle Malavet's sets are
grimily on the mark, and lit in apt, ugly antiseptic
shades by James Vermeulen).
Clint, played by Donovan with frighteningly amiable menace,
alternates physical abuse and ugly threats with words of
affection. Midway through the scene, Lisa storms angrily
into the bathroom and Clint drags from behind a bed the
limp body of a barely clothed young girl. Lisa, it seems,
has become a kind of procurer for Clint; eventually it's
revealed that she also dispatches the victims afterward
with his gun.
We see a couple of their hapless victims: vague, empty-eyed
girls whose histories, it is hinted, mirror Lisa's. Moved by
inchoate feelings of remorse, Lisa calls the police afterward
and describes the locations of their bodies. In act two,
Lisa's lawyer tries to probe her blank mind for some
understanding of the circumstances that turned her into
the willing tool of a monstrous man, but she's hardly
capable of the perspective required.
Because it deals with characters whose capacities for complex
thought and feeling have been left undeveloped by neglect,
Gilman's play cannot really illuminate their interior lives
through dialogue. The playwright presents the ugly facts in
authentic-feeling detail, but serious emotional engagement
is hard when a play's characters can only reveal how hollow
they are. We can cluck sadly at the circumstances that
brought about this waste of humanity (or snort at the
inescapable bit of white-trash black comedy), but since
there's actually no humanity on display, there's nothing
to move us beyond simple disgust.
Philip Seymour Hoffman's direction emphasizes, even exacerbates,
the play's chilly, clinical tone. Paquin is convincing as a young
girl who has had all the potential drained out of her by 15, and
the furtive way she moves her eyes, seeming always to be trained
on a corner of the room, is effective. But her affectless delivery
of the dialogue, while presumably intentional, is nevertheless
monotonous and serves to alienate us further from the character.
An actress with more stage experience might be able to communicate
nuances in the character's stunted psyche more movingly.
Many of the other actors tap into the same zombielike key: the
talented actresses who play the victims, for example, and even
Andrew McGinn, playing a man who was shot by Lisa and whose
girlfriend was killed by her. When he exhorts her lawyer,
"Give her the chair," he says it with an almost complete
absence of emotion.
Only late in the second act, when Lisa's lawyer, Carl
(the skilled, affecting David Aaron Baker), begins coaxing
some glimmers of awareness out of her, does the play begin
to resemble something other than a documentary. But the
drama that is the play's ostensible subject -- the
destruction of a child's humanity -- is essentially
over before the production begins. We see only the
aftermath, which is a repellent spectacle, certainly,
but not particularly dramatic and definitely not what
you'd call entertaining.
Sets, Michelle Malavet; costumes, Mimi O'Donnell;
lighting, James Vermeulen; music and sound, David
Van Tieghem; fight direction, Rick Sordelet; dialect
coach, Kate Wilson; production stage manager, Stacy P.
Hughes. Artistic directors, Robert LuPone, Bernard Telsey.
Opened Nov. 15, 2001. Reviewed Nov. 13. Running time: 1
HOUR, 50 MIN.
Variety, November 15, 2001
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