"Two Trains Running"... in opposite directions.
The first non-Shakespeare play I ever read was by August Wilson. It was 10th grade English Class at Minnehaha Academy and the play was 'Fences'. I thought I was not only very literary, but also very cultured for reading and discussing it at length; which is a big reason I was looking forward to seeing Wilson's "Two Train's Running" at his beloved Penumbra Theatre in St. Paul, MN. My tenth grade self would have been as bemused by the show as my current (no age here) self is; the difference lies in my ability to articulate what is was I found so... derailed.
The show was a part of August Wilson's decalogue of plays intended to represent the African American experience in America through each decade of the 20th century. And it played exactly like that: a piece of history. Set in 1969, I felt like I was getting a brief glimpse of life on the block complete with the bookie working out of the cafe, the tired and discontented waitress, the stubborn owner, the local old man with his stories of lore, the homeless crazy and the drifting newcomer. There even was a coroner in the play, which often gave me hope that he would quickly pronounce it dead and I could go out for my slice of pizza.
Let me be quick to say, for production value alone, the show was really amazing. It was beautiful. The sets and the lighting and the sound design were exceptional. Every time the door was open to the small cafe which was the central point of action you were greeted with dog's barking, or car's honking or general street noise; which reminded me very much of the FILM "Rear Window" and it's ability to establish place with just some sound cues. The problem with the play was, as an audience member, you always wished that the door would stay open, you could walk through it and see what more interesting events were occurring over the rainbow... er, out of the door. In brief, the play was a beautiful watch that doesn't work: despite it's bejeweled appearance, it still gets tossed into the bin of misfit toys. It wasn't that the show was devoid of beauty, it was just built in such a manner as to not be of much use at the end of the day.
The actors were all fine. They clearly did tons of homework on the 1960's and the tone and tenor of the times; but it left caricatures where we needed to see real people. Their affected accents and postures added to the overall sense of place established by the cafe and the street noise. I didn't doubt for a second that they were complete 'characters'; if they were the right characters for the show was another matter. They all seemed more interested in slouching the appropriate way, or looking cool, or clunking their heels down in a very percussive manner rather than connect with each other-- let alone the audience. The emotional moments were all manufactured and often some of the characters were lost in their own dialogue.
I genuinely hate to be rough on a show; and I know criticizing August Wilson is tantamount to theater treason; but here the emperor had no clothes, and I'm unsure who sewed them: August Wilson with lazy, unmoving exposition, the producers for picking a play that was more thesis than drama, the director for allowing his actors to get away with their disconnected nature, the actors for their over reaching emotion yet under reaching connection; or everyone for putting it up in such a cursory manner.
I believe that theater is losing it's youth audience, it always has been. It wasn't until I went to Juilliard that much of the theater world made any sense to me. Growing up in Minneapolis, theater seemed very distant; put up for the older generation in an older manner; and this show did nothing to debunk my perception. Now, theater does not need to exist solely for the young, that would be absurd, but if it exists at all I would hope that it does so with great yearning and force: desperately needing to engage the audience in a dialogue or reach them on a very visceral level, pulling and tugging at their insides. Something that any age group will respond to. On that level, this play missed the boat, er... train, entirely. I felt like I was watching the history channel and had lost the remote.
Penumbra's 'Two Trains' was a stunning production lost in it's own glitz and light. It lost it's soul somewhere along the way, and hoped that it could sell me on a fancy looking watch that doesn't work. Well, sorry forks, this is Victoria Crossing, not Times Square; and here, I just won't buy it.
The show was a part of August Wilson's decalogue of plays intended to represent the African American experience in America through each decade of the 20th century. And it played exactly like that: a piece of history. Set in 1969, I felt like I was getting a brief glimpse of life on the block complete with the bookie working out of the cafe, the tired and discontented waitress, the stubborn owner, the local old man with his stories of lore, the homeless crazy and the drifting newcomer. There even was a coroner in the play, which often gave me hope that he would quickly pronounce it dead and I could go out for my slice of pizza.
Let me be quick to say, for production value alone, the show was really amazing. It was beautiful. The sets and the lighting and the sound design were exceptional. Every time the door was open to the small cafe which was the central point of action you were greeted with dog's barking, or car's honking or general street noise; which reminded me very much of the FILM "Rear Window" and it's ability to establish place with just some sound cues. The problem with the play was, as an audience member, you always wished that the door would stay open, you could walk through it and see what more interesting events were occurring over the rainbow... er, out of the door. In brief, the play was a beautiful watch that doesn't work: despite it's bejeweled appearance, it still gets tossed into the bin of misfit toys. It wasn't that the show was devoid of beauty, it was just built in such a manner as to not be of much use at the end of the day.
The actors were all fine. They clearly did tons of homework on the 1960's and the tone and tenor of the times; but it left caricatures where we needed to see real people. Their affected accents and postures added to the overall sense of place established by the cafe and the street noise. I didn't doubt for a second that they were complete 'characters'; if they were the right characters for the show was another matter. They all seemed more interested in slouching the appropriate way, or looking cool, or clunking their heels down in a very percussive manner rather than connect with each other-- let alone the audience. The emotional moments were all manufactured and often some of the characters were lost in their own dialogue.
I genuinely hate to be rough on a show; and I know criticizing August Wilson is tantamount to theater treason; but here the emperor had no clothes, and I'm unsure who sewed them: August Wilson with lazy, unmoving exposition, the producers for picking a play that was more thesis than drama, the director for allowing his actors to get away with their disconnected nature, the actors for their over reaching emotion yet under reaching connection; or everyone for putting it up in such a cursory manner.
I believe that theater is losing it's youth audience, it always has been. It wasn't until I went to Juilliard that much of the theater world made any sense to me. Growing up in Minneapolis, theater seemed very distant; put up for the older generation in an older manner; and this show did nothing to debunk my perception. Now, theater does not need to exist solely for the young, that would be absurd, but if it exists at all I would hope that it does so with great yearning and force: desperately needing to engage the audience in a dialogue or reach them on a very visceral level, pulling and tugging at their insides. Something that any age group will respond to. On that level, this play missed the boat, er... train, entirely. I felt like I was watching the history channel and had lost the remote.
Penumbra's 'Two Trains' was a stunning production lost in it's own glitz and light. It lost it's soul somewhere along the way, and hoped that it could sell me on a fancy looking watch that doesn't work. Well, sorry forks, this is Victoria Crossing, not Times Square; and here, I just won't buy it.
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