Review - Kicking a Dead Horse: Ramblin' Man

The title character - well, actually the title prop - of Sam Shepard's new entry, Kicking a Dead Horse, doesn't have to lift a hoof to make an impressive star entrance. Lying beneath a sheet that covers the entire curtain-less stage as the audience enters The Public's Martinson Hall, the slow deliberate removal of its covering at the play's commencement tantalizes viewers until we get what we came to see; a big dead piece of symbolism placed somewhat to the left of center stage. Also revealed at that moment are two large mounds of dirt suitable for tandem mountings of Samuel Beckett's Happy Days. The wide open spaces prairie scene, put together by designers Brien Vahey (set) and John Comiskey (lights) has a Kind of respectful artificial beauty to it, similar to the environmental displays you might see at New York's American Museum of Natural History.

And that's quite an appropriate visual because the fellow doing the kicking in this (mostly) solo piece is an art dealer. Hobart Struther, first seen coming out of the grave he's digging for his four-legged traveling companion who died in a freakish accident, was originally from these parts, but moved to Park Avenue after discovering he could plunk down twenty bucks or so for western themed art found in old saloons, barns and attics - pieces of junk the owners didn't care about - and sell them for hundreds of thousands of dollars to collectors and museums. "Authenticity!" supplied his eureka moment. "The quest for 'Authenticity.'"

But now, late in life, Hobart has chucked away his lucrative career and his marriage to go back and find the real authenticity he left behind. In the 80-minute piece he talks to the audience of the death of an old west that his very vocal alter ego refers to as "sentimental claptrap." Between bouts of cursing and kicking at the title character, Hobart recalls legendary figures such as Meriwether Lewis and Crazy Horse.

The author directs Irish actor Stephen Rea, as he did for this production's premiere at Dublin's Abbey Theatre. While very believable in accent and manner as a former cowpoke turned Manhattanite, there is little variety in the character's vocal and physical presentation, making the play's frequently repetitive passages all the more taxing to watch. What seems like attempts at dark humor comes off more like fits of anger. There's always a sense that something significant and heartfelt is in the works but just isn't coming out.

What does come out, albeit briefly and silently, is actress Elissa Piszel, dressed in a slip and a cowboy hat, while Rea, draped in a multi-colored blanket, sings a western ditty. What this appearance adds to the play, besides a moment for Comiskey to come with some striking lighting, I couldn't say.