To Hell and Back

I’m so sorry that I didn’t see Melinda Lopez’s play Sonia Flew at the Contemporary American Theatre Festival in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. If this work had the quality of the other three plays I saw, then I really missed something by leaving early so I could get back to New York in time for work.

But I’m so glad I came! The signs outside the troupe’s two theaters (on the campus of Shepherd University) have the word “Festival” in the biggest letters, but the word “Contemporary” is in the boldest type. That’s fitting, because Ed Herendeen, founder and producing director, offers a balanced diet of new plays by American writers. Father Joy by Sheri Wilner and American Tet by Lydia Stryk are world premieres, while Sonia Flew and Sam Shepard’s The God of Hell are local premieres. Last October, Sonia debuted at the Huntington Theatre in Boston, And Hell played in New York at the Actors Studio Drama School Theatre. But I missed it then — and considering what I saw here, I was grateful for the second chance.

The God of Hell turns out to be about The Guest from Hell. Haynes has come to Wisconsin to his old pal Frank’s farm, for he must seek refuge from his job. Right now, Haynes is sleeping downstairs, as Frank goes about tending his heifers and Emma works around the house. Then someone rings the doorbell, and when Emma doesn’t immediately answer, that someone continues pressing it until she does. (In a Sam Shepard play, even the doorbells are angry.) As Emma points out, The Visitor didn’t even have to ring. “We leave doors open in Wisconsin. It’s an open door policy,” Emma says blithely, enjoying her little joke.

The Visitor at first seems to be a salesman of Americana who chastises Emma for having “no Mount Rushmore, no Statue of Liberty in your house” and that “your flagpole outside is empty.” He tries to at least get her to buy a recording of Pat Boone singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Emma simply says, “I am not in the market” — to which the Visitor sternly implies that she’ll pay for this attitude. Soon, though, he’s asking if anyone lives in the basement, and Emma, just wanting to get rid of him because he’s scaring her (especially in Lee Sellars’ chilling performance), says no. The Visitor reluctantly leaves, but you know he’s going to be back.

Emma immediately clangs the Liberty Bell-style bell that farmers often use to call far-away workers back to the house. Frank answers the call, but he doesn’t worry too much about the Visitor because, after all, “there’s no tension here. We’re in the country, where it’s nice and peaceful.” (Ah, don’t they remember what happened in Oklahoma City? No. That was an aberration, and too many years ago now). Soon after, Haynes comes up from the basement, and he’s quite the zombie. He doesn’t want to talk about his job; indeed, he goes ballistic when someone even mentions where he worked. Its is, by the way, a nuclear power plant, and considering what happened to him there, he’s got a point. Both Frank and Emma learn that when they touch his hand, electric sparks emerge that make Haynes look like Lumiere on acid.

The Visitor returns. Turns out that he doesn’t want Haynes and his affliction to reach the press or the public. Pretty soon, The Visitor is torturing Haynes, and sending electric shocks into his penis. That he puts a black hood on him makes him resemble one of the unfortunate prisoners at Abu Ghraib, which makes this play all the more contemporary. The Visitor notes that “We flush rats out of their nests,” before admitting that the government has changed over the years. “No more of that nonsense about checks and balances,” he says pooh-poohing even the idea of it. “No more of that red tape. You didn’t think you’d get a free ride on the back of democracy forever, did you?”

How does Frank feel about The Visitor? “He’s from the government,” he says to Emma. “He’s smarter than us. He knows who the enemy is. We weren’t paying attention.” Emma rebuts, “The whole world can’t turn upside down overnight” but the audience remembers when it did just that a little less than four years ago. Frank then gets an oddly nostalgic monologue that will have many a theatergoer nodding his head, when he says, “I miss the cold war so much.” By the end of the play, he has left with The Visitor, and Emma, not knowing what else to do, tolls the bell for help. Interestingly, the Liberty Bell-like sounds are those that we associate with patriotism. But no one is there to answer her call.

Father Joy is more light-hearted, but a work of fascinating metaphor. Abigail is an art student at college, where her professor Paul says that she hasn’t found a suitable medium in which she can excel. “I haven’t yet found my shampoo,” Abigail says glumly, referring to a fellow student who has been using shampoo as her artistic medium. Granted, that sounds far afield, but Abigail must acknowledge that the kid did land on something that suits her artistic purposes — which is more than she can say.

Paul expects that Abigail will eventually find her medium, for he can see by her work that, “You’re a passionate young woman, Miss Margolis — Abigail,” he adds. Abigail picks up on that, and says, “I’d like to work with you in any capacity that presents itself.” When Paul reminds her that he’s going on sabbatical, Abigail asks if she can give him a hug. “As long as it’s not initiated by me,” he says pleasantly. After the hug, she blurts out, “917-291-3385,” and bolts out of the room.

He calls. Abigail is 26 and Paul is 51, so there will be people who won’t sanction their dating — including Ruth, Abigail’s mother. “Our daughter is dating a senior citizen,” exclaims an aghast Ruth. Then she asks Abigail, “How do you think your father feels, you’re dating a man his age?” But as Abigail has already told Paul, “I consider my father — well, uh,” she says, before coming to the conclusion, “Actually, I don’t consider my father at all. He’s a terrified child. My mother dominates him.”

To say the least. Ruth buttons Harry’s coat, and immediately says, “Where’s your hat?” We later see that Ruth won’t even allow him to spread garlic on his cinnamon raisin bagel. And while most of us will agree that those two foodstuffs would make for a ghastly taste sensation, we ultimately side with him, because if that’s what he likes, that’s what he should have. But Ruth won’t let him.

Wilner has a fascinating notion here: The castrating mother has made the father irrelevant in his own home; so that’s why a young woman, who’s never really known a genuine father, is attracted to an older man. Thus, if moms weren’t as domineering, fathers could function. Young women would then get their fathering while growing up, and would be able to move on to a relationship with someone more age-appropriate (if there is such a thing).

But Wilner has much more to say than that. She’s had the fascinating idea of showing that a father disappears in his own home. Literally. Every day, Harry’s becoming more and more transparent. This old father never dies, but he is just fading away. (Of course the actor can’t do that; Jonathan Bustle, who has a genial Jack Gilford quality, is only dressed in white. We see him his fading through the eyes of the rest of the cast.)

But why is he fading? Here’s where Wilner goes out on a metaphorical limb, where I gladly followed her. Dad has been saving his skin substance so that he can give it to Abigail as a gift — for he believes it may just be the medium she’s been looking for in which she can work. Harry has no illusions, and knows he’s failed his daughter. But now he can give something back of himself. Abigail embraces this opportunity, but Paul doesn’t. “It repulses me, it horrifies me,” he says, speaking, I suspect, for some theatergoers, too. Abigail looked to Paul for the nurturing she never got at home, but there really is no substitute for a caring father who’d give all he had of himself for his daughter.

The God of Hell and Sonia Flew were produced on the mainstage, while Father Joy and American Tet were staged in an intimate black box. Notice what word is missing from Contemporary American Theatre Festival: Repertory. Amazing how many regional theaters in this country blithely use the word “repertory” in their titles, when they’re actually not entitled to. Repertory, after all, means a rotating schedule of plays, and very few theaters now schedule shows that way, but opt for one show opening and closing before starting the process all over again. Bless the Contemporary American Theatre Festival for offering us four plays at a time — especially when one of them turned out to be the finest drama I’ve seen in months. More on that in my next column.

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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]