Theatre in Review: Clive (The New Group)Clive is billed as being "based on/inspired by/stolen from" Bertolt Brecht's Baal, and, like many such acts of homage, it remains trapped in the shadow of its source material. Written when Brecht was 20, long before he wrapped himself, however uncertainly, in the red flag of Marxism, Baal is closer to Spring Awakening than to The Threepenny Opera, being a sustained -- and not very focused -- howl of disgust at the way of the world. It is also unconstrained by any sort of political theory. The title character basically boozes and whores his way through 21 disconnected scenes (called "shards" in Clive), killing his best friend and ending up in a near-animal state, close to death, in a cabin in the woods. Baal is nothing but trouble, and his nihilism is meant to generate its own potent fascination. Although it is tried from time to time, a straightforward revival of Baal is probably a fool's errand; its shapeless structure and the author's pointed lack of interest in plot and character will probably sink it for most audiences. In any case, the sustained assaults against bourgeois manners and morals by several generations of playwrights and novelists have blunted the impact of Brecht's fury. Reading Baal today, it's almost impossible to figure what all the fuss was about; it's even more difficult to figure out how it would have been staged. Most productions try to recapture what must have been its furious vitality by framing it in a more easily recognizable context. (For example, the Flea Theatre presented a version, several years back, set in late-'40s New York among the Beats.) In Clive, Jonathan Marc Sherman has transplanted Baal to New York and Canada in the '90s, making Baal into a rock musician, our age's signature figure of self-destruction. On the face of it, this seems like an inspired plan. Sherman, who, by his own account, suffered through years of addiction, would seem to be the man to bring out the material's serrated edge, and Ethan Hawke, always an energetic and attention-getting stage presence, should be the ideal Clive (as the character is known here). But the most shocking thing about Clive is its relative sedateness. For all its strenuous attempts at evoking an atmosphere of decadence and reckless pleasure-seeking -- Clive snorting a line of coke off a compliant young lady's breast, Clive running around with a toilet seat around his neck, Clive's tentative, foiled attempt at bedding twin sisters -- there's nothing likely to shock even a mother superior. Even the language is pulpy rather than provocative: "I fatten my belly on creamy young flesh," says Clive, sounding rather like one of those vampires at your local cineplex. Any attempts at wit fall flat: "I'm as pure as the driven mud," Clive tells a disillusioned young lady after a night in bed together. There is the occasional, and very faint, touch of homoeroticism, for example when Clive, in a game of Truth or Dare, makes a male opponent kiss another man's neck, but is this really supposed to shock anyone? (The sex scenes are so carefully staged that they lack any erotic charge; can this be the same company that took such matters right to the edge in Thomas Bradshaw's Burning?) The studied nature of Clive's sins and the deadening routine of sex and drugs seems less like Brecht and more like the works of Bret Easton Ellis. Lacking a coherent dramatic structure, with no real characters to speak of, Clive -- a play that Brecht expert Eric Bentley has describe as being "about nothingness" -- has one shot at grabbing one's attention, through a furiously concentrated staging that suggests the rage with which the title character rejects conventional morality. But Hawke's direction is surprisingly lacking in urgency, and he brings to his performance less than half the nervous energy of his star turn earlier this season in Chekhov's Ivanov. Among the supporting cast, Vincent D'Onofrio, relying on his tremendous stage presence, comes off best as Clive's mysterious and disturbing friend Doc. As a variety of fatuous authority figures, Brooks Ashmanskas lets himself run amok, delivering a series of caricatures that seem more suited to a musical revue. And, really, what is the point of casting the likes of Zoe Kazan, Aaron Krohn, and the author himself (also an accomplished actor) if you're going to give them little or nothing of note to do? The cleverest thing about Clive is Derek McLane's set design, which wraps the action in a three-sided surround of shiny cardboard beer cases. More puzzlingly, there are seven doors, designed by Gaines, each of which functions as a musical instrument. (For example, one door has a set of piano hammers on it, which is manipulated by a cast member at one point.) The point of this device isn't very clear, and it creates a certain amount of onstage clutter. Jeff Croiter's lighting carves out a series of different looks with his usual precision and invention. Appropriately, most of Catherine Zuber's costumes wouldn't be out of place at the old CBGB. Shane Rettig's sound design, which combines effects and reinforcement, is subtly and tastefully done. And, in a way, that's the trouble with Clive. Surely, any version of this material should challenge, disturb, and put one on edge. Ideally, you should leave the theatre angry or in a fury, eager to forget this production and, even more ideally, unable to do so. None of that happens here. Clive, our modern Baal, should be a monster, a creature who haunts our dreams; in this version, he's just another rebel without a cause.--David Barbour 
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