"Dry Hours" at CENTERSTAGE

It seems like every season local theatre companies, large and small, produce one show that is wrapped up in its own self-importance.  These plays generally are so smug in their own ARTISTRY, that real artistry - making a point eloquently within the theatrical milieu - is all but impossible.  These are the plays that society snobs love to say they've seen; to a person, they have that smug, self-congratulatory look on their faces during intermission as if to say, "I love art.  Look at me loving art."  These are also almost exclusively the plays that have far fewer people in the seats at the start of act two.  CENTERSTAGE is certainly not immune to such self-indulgence - last season's haughty production of The Three Sisters was certainly that - and this season CS has come closest to that with Naomi Wallace's Things of Dry Hours, which opened last night.  The play itself is the problem here; the acting and direction of the production are superb.

Ms. Wallace's play concerns a black father, Tice, clinging proudly to the dictates of The Communist Manifesto and the Bible, as he tries to find his place in a world where most other political doors are shut to people of his race.  He lives with his daughter Cali in Alabama during the height of the Great Depression, 1932.  Cali is a widow, who helps make ends meet by taking in laundry while keeping her father just out of harm's way.  Finally, the third character is Corbin, an illiterate white man who is out of work and at the end of his rope.  He bullies his way into the house causing fear with threats of turning Tice in to the authorities, who don't take kindly to "Commies", black, white or otherwise.  The vast majority of act one is used to set up these relationships and conflicts - nearly at the expense of plot, of which there is surprisingly little.  In sharp contrast, act two flies by as one huge plot point happens after the other, until the final, climactic scene, which is full of tension and a number of deft twists.  The final scene shows what Dry Hours could have been all along.

Poetry as drama has been around since the beginning of theatre, from the Greek classics to Shakespeare to Eliot and beyond.  There are probably hundreds of beautifully written, truly poetic plays, but even the masters knew when to lighten up and save the big guns for actual poems, meant to be read and individually savored - The Sonnets come readily to mind.  But the real key here is that the masters knew that they should never let their gift for imagery, metaphor and keen word play interfere to the point that all meaning is lost.  It is in this regard that Ms. Wallace, who does have an amazing gift with the language, gets into trouble.  Her imagery and use of extended metaphor on paper is first-rate.  But put it on the stage and the effect is severely diminished.  Many, many times, particularly in act one, the characters begin long image-laden speeches that are so flowery and extended that by the time they are finished with the imagery, you have long since forgotten what they are talking about in the first place.  It happens with such frequency and with such an in-your-face style that it is impossible to believe that Wallace didn't fall a little too in love with her own work.  An equally gifted hand with the editing pen might have helped - much of the same ideology is stated, re-stated, re-imagined and stated again.  It would help if what the characters were saying was interesting enough to hear three and four times over the course of the evening, or if the words coming out of the mouths of these specific characters fit the characters.  Corbin, for example, is remarkably well-spoken and literate for an illiterate working man.

 Add to this some rather heavy-handed, obvious symbolism - vulgar: daughter secretly tears out Bible pages from father's beloved tome to have something to wipe herself after using the outhouse - or obtuse: the recurring symbol of the apple - the white, sweet flesh is tasty, while the black underappreciated seeds which have the potential to grow are easily spit out, blah blah blah.  The apple symbol, in fact, outstays its welcome - it is used so frequently and often without full explanation.  One wonders, considering the communist theme that runs throughout the play, how Wallace could have missed the obvious "red" skin that holds the white, sweet flesh and underappreciated black seeds together.  As a whole, act one is at best a pretentious exercise in word play on the part of the playwright.

 Act two, it seems, was written by another Naomi Wallace.  The flowery poetry is noticeably sparse in the second half, and much more time is spent on things happening, often with a much richer, yet decidedly more subtle symbolism and clearer meaning.  This half of the play flies by with an edge of your seat pace and tension.  If you can make it through the first act, the second is definitely worthwhile.

 Set designer Riccardo Hernandez seems to have caught the heavy-handed bug.  His two room log cabin set resembles neither two rooms nor a log cabin, but more a fenced in yard, with imposing fencing and gate work along the upstage wall, an expansive floor which seems at odds with the close, poor quarters near the tracks in which these folks allegedly live.  A supernatural twist to the character of Tice is handled with obviousness by Hernandez and lighting designer Michelle Habeck - he walks the perimeter of the cabin floor on industrial grating that lights up underneath him as he moves around, casting a spectral light on the ceiling and into the seats that surround the playing space.  But it is the gigantic Communist Negro warning poster that hangs at a perilous angle over the proceedings that is almost laughably obvious.  There is something about the whole set and script that just conjures images of playwright and designer rubbed raw from patting themselves on the back at their own cleverness.  Both design and script also allow for the audience to say, "Aren't we something!  We go to art that also sends a powerful message!"  Someone needs to tell these people that power doesn't come from size, vulgarity or million dollar vocabulary usage; it comes from knowing when to let things speak for themselves with clarity and passion.

Director Kwame Kwei-Armah has similarly directed the piece as if it were two separate plays, though his somewhat lighter touch creates some powerful stage pictures in both acts.  Less wise is his decision to allow his actors to inflate the bloated language even further with so pretentious I'm-an-ACTOR posturing.  It is those few times (all in act one) that the acting becomes ACTING, rather than a natural portrayal.  Nothing about the characters suggests a need for heightened acting style, but the script does.  It says something about the work that the characters don't seem to fit the play they are in.  Meanwhile, Mr. Kwei-Armah has directed the second act with a more aggressive, poignant style.  Not only is there more action, there is more meaning.  In one scene, Cali calls Corbin's bluff, coming on to his suggestive pleas for a kiss.  She wraps him in a sheet, paints his face black and hers white and completely turns the tables on him.  These are exciting minutes pregnant with meaning and excitement.  Another such scene occurs right at the climax where threats of physical violence and some crafty arguing create an almost unbearable tension.  It is these types of instances when you can see all of the potential this piece has.

Erika Lavonn is a lovely young actress, calling to mind a more delicate version of Whoopi Goldberg in The Color Purple.  At once youthfully wide-eyed and world-weary, Ms. LaVonn brings appropriate depth to the complex woman she is playing.  An interesting mix of innocence, street savvy and inner strength, her Cali should keep any man on his toes guessing.  Often, it is her quieter moments that are the most dramatic, though she more than holds her own against the loud histrionics of the two men.  Her been-there-done-that veneer also provides several of the evening's laughs.

Steven Cole Hughes, as Corbin, is a natural actor, always fully in the moment, even when what he is saying is ludicrous given his character's lack of social grace and education.  Like most men who are lacking in some areas of their lives, Hughes allows his Corbin to over-compensate with a heady mix of machismo, sexuality, and raw energy.   When he isn't fully concentrating on learning to read or to mind his manners, he stalks the room with a painful wince, and a simmering anger that reminds one of a caged bear.  It is when Hughes shows us the softer, but more determined side (he strips naked in a ploy to gain the respect of Cali) that things get the most interesting.  He has literally and figuratively bared his soul for the opportunity to love.  Mr. Hughes, against the grain of the script, handles it all with dignity.

 Tony-nominated actor Roger Robinson (for August Wilson's Seven Guitars) cuts a powerful figure as Tice, our narrator and hero.  His flares of righteous indignation will give you goose bumps, and the fire in his eyes is a call to action.  It must also be noted, that while he is saddled with the lion's share of poetry, he does a remarkable job of making it work the best he can.  One can imagine him selling a million copies of poetry books on tape.  Robinson also provides the emotional anchor of the work and has excellent, if completely opposite types of chemistry with his cast mates.  His loyalty to his beliefs is matched only by the ferocious passion he has for protecting his beloved daughter.

 In an odd (though perhaps purposeful) twist, the final image is that of an actual apple.  Concrete and right there before us is the oft discussed apple - sweet white flesh, black seeds, red skin and all.  Ironically, it is when this previously obscure symbol becomes clear that all of its potential meaning gets any real weight.  Unintentionally, it also serves as a concrete reminder that simple can indeed be more powerful.

Parental advisory:  Things of Dry Hours contains brief, full male nudity and profanity.

PHOTOS: (TOP to BOTTOM): Erika Lavonn and Roger Robinson; Steven Cole Hughes and Erika Lavonn; Steven Cole Hughes and Roger Robinson; the Apple.  Photos courtesy of CENTERSTAGE.

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