The Fever: Post-Radical Chic

Back in 1970, Tom Wolfe sold a lot of books and, I presume, made a lot of enemies with his essay Radical Chic, which described a party thrown by Leonard and Felicia Bernstein where Black Panther leaders laid it on thick with the guilt to procure donation dollars from an assemblage of wealthy white liberals for the benefit of oppressed Negroes, several of whom were hired to prepare and serve hor'dourves throughout the evening.  Twenty years later Wallace Shawn began performing his monologue play The Fever, about a man who suffers so from the guilt of his privilege that he would have handed Huey P. Newton a blank check, at small parties and gatherings of friends before its paying customer premiere at the The Public. 

 

The New Group's Scott Elliott-directed revival of The Fever attempts to re-create the feel of those intimate gatherings where the piece was first seen.  Derek McLane's set is an otherwise bare stage containing a small playing area made to look like a section of the nicely furnished apartment of our unknown host.  Shawn himself is there as guests enter the theatre, chatting with early arrivals.  Everyone is invited to come up on stage for a free glass of champagne, but we're limited to only one half-filled flute per person.  I imagine that's done to give us a sense of what cocktail receptions are like among the impoverished, who often must stretch a single bottle of champagne to serve an entire dinner party of eight. 

 

Once showtime is near and the audience is asked to take their seats, Shawn casually looks out to us with a warm convivial smile, still waving hello and greeting friends in the crowd.  His opening comments are actually the pre-show announcement, where he sympathizes with theatregoers who are usually greeted, not with a half-flute of champagne, but with a booming voice telling us all the things we're not allowed to do.  After a delightfully charming talk about the stress of attending theatre ("Some of us like it, even though we know how horrible it is.") he performs the ninety-minute intermissionless play, almost all of which is done while sitting in a chair.  At its conclusion he does not bow, but rather humbly walks off the stage, giving us a friendly wave or two and strolls up the aisle through the exit, where he converses with audience members in the lobby.  It's all very sweet and welcoming. 

 

Now… the actual play: 

 

Wallace Shawn plays an anonymous fellow called "The Traveler", a comfortably upper-middle class urbanite who wakes up with a terrible fever in a strange hotel room in a war-torn country where he doesn't speak the language.  There's a revolution taking place outside his window and a he can't stop shivering or vomiting.  Through the course of the piece we learn nothing specific about the guy, but to call him an everyman would be presuming too much about the background of the viewer.  To put it in simple terms (I'll leave it to Mr. Shawn to put it in complex terms.) the traveler has spent his life working hard to make a nice living so he can enjoy a comfortable home, attend many fine arts events and have nice meals at expensive restaurants. ("The city with its lights, theaters, coffeeshops, newsstands, books. The constant celebration. Life should be celebrated. Life is a gift.")  But now he comes to the realization that his entire way of life contributes to an imbalance of global wealth where nearly every move made by people in countries like…  oh, I don't know… America, perhaps… helps tighten the chains of poverty on those whom the well off can feel momentarily sorry for, but are not willing to truly sacrifice for. 

 

The Fever could certainly anger (or inspire) those who take Shawn's monologue as an indictment against their own lifestyle, and that might very well be what he intended.  But his non-confrontational performance leaves open the possibility that this is simply a fictitious self-examination.  When he asks, "Do you have any friends who are poor?" he seems ready to accept a "yes" from at least a few of us. 

 

But no matter how you feel about the piece as a social commentary, there are flaws in its presentation that deaden The Fever's emotional impact.  Though Wallace Shawn's homey wit and cherubic presence can be engaging during his introductory speech, his storytelling and acting rarely dig into the material, giving the evening no greater impact than watching an author giving a reading in a local bookstore.  Coupled with Jennifer Tipton's frequently dim lighting, the play can severely test the endurance of even the sharpest attention span. 

 

But The Fever is certainly an interesting read, allowing Shawn's eloquent language and dark imagery to linger more effectively in the imagination.  I'd suggest you buy a copy, but that might contribute to the abuse of millions of impoverished workers and I couldn't bear to live with the guilt. 

 

Photos of Wallace Shawn by Carol Rosegg

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