DOWNTOWN
NEWS
June
21, 2004
THEATER
REVIEW
By Rob Kendt
CONTRIBUTING
WRITER
It's not every play that explicitly spells out a staging
concept for a like-minded director--and not many productions that so
single-mindedly follow such a directive to the hilt.
But
when Song Liling (Alec Mapa), a Peking Opera diva who's lured French diplomat
Gallimard (Ayre Gross) into a longstanding affair, announces, "We're all
prisoners of our time and place," we get what director Chay Yew has done
to M Butterfly, David Henry Hwang's brilliant, penetrating 1988 examination of
gender, empire and identity. In the East West Players production that runs
through July 18, Yew has set the whole thing in a rusty, imposing prison (a
startling set by Yevgenia Nayberg) from which Gallimard spins his bittersweet
tale; a harsh all-clear Klaxon begins and ends each act (in John Zalewski's
tension-filled sound design), and our narrator spends the evening in drab,
loose regulation pyjamas, often backed by barred jail doors.
It's
a stark frame for the colorful and finely shaded story of Gallimard, a
nondescript Western functionary stationed in China in the late 1950s, and Song,
the carefully constructed persona of a young male actor. Unhappily married to a
priggish blonde (Shannon Holt), Gallimard drifts into an affair with Song--a
relationship so freighted with cultural confusions and master/servant dynamics
that Gallimard manages to believe he's found the submissive and solicitous
"perfect woman," even as he lets her lay down the rules of their
assignations. The main taboo, of course, is that "her" clothes never come
off.
Our
imagination is invited to fill in the rest and, in Hwang's most ambivalent and
sympathetic touch, to speculate searchingly about the ways emotions,
prejudices, even economics shape a thing so seemingly simple and biological as
sexuality. The cultural baggage we bring to sex may be what raises it from a
mere physical transaction to a more rarefied delight, but it's also what causes
the complications and misunderstandings, and allows for the most elaborate
self-deception.
Yew's
insistently oppressive design, unfortunately, gives the game away; even when we
want to be seduced along with Gallimard by the darkly thrilling world he
describes, there's that set glaring down at us, sneering: Dream on,
suckers--life is a prison.
While
this single set allows Yew and his actors to move the play along fleetly, with
disarming presentational asides that let us know it's all a story being told,
he hasn't solved some of its basic problems--he often strands actors on a
catwalk and has them traipse up and down visible stairs for exits and
entrances. The fetish-like frisson he seems to have intended, between forbidden
passions and a punishing environment, just doesn't spark off this cage-like
grid.
The
play really belongs to the actors, and Gross and Mapa do some absorbingly
subtle work as they trade the roles of suitor and prey. Gross may in fact be
too subtle--he's such a defeated nebbish that we don't quite feel the
exhilaration his peers see in him when hi is career and his affair are riding
high. His quiet, well-observed performance pays off, though, accumulating a
full measure of heartbreak by the end.
And
Mapa is otherworldly, almost frightening. He's hypnotic and daringly feisty in
full Song mode, and blisteringly blunt when stripped down to his swaggering
male self.
As
Gallimard's sourpuss wife, the brittle Holt is surprisingly moving, and as his
Alpha male ur-conscience, Erik Sorensen is pushing a bit, but the overall
effect is winning. Emily Kuroda turns in a bracing, fiery performance as Song's
mean-spirited Party liaison, and both Matthew Henerson, as Gallimard's blustery
boss, and Jennifer Rau, as an assertive young hottie, make quick, sly work of
their parts.
It's
not that this Butterfly doesn't occasionally soar or flash its exotic colors, even
if ironically. It's just that Yew's penitent approach puts us at an extra
remove from the text. On the one hand, this has a curious equalizing effect,
viewing both Western arrogance and "Oriental mystery" from outside
and seeing both as means of cultural battle, perhaps not evenly matched in
strength but roughly equivalent in depravity.
That's
a bold insight. But it might have hit us much more powerfully if we were
implicated emotionally in either of these dubious positions; if we'd been
lulled, just for a moment, into enjoying the butterfly kisses of this
cross-cultural love rather than being kept wide awake in Yew's hard cell.