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Theatre in Review: Head of Passes (The Public Theater)

John Earl Jelks, Arnetia Walker, Phylicia Rashad, Francois Battiste. Photo: Joan Marcus

The more we get to know Tarell Alvin McCraney, the more elusive this young playwright (and sometime director) seems to be. He displayed a certain talent for poetry and theatricality in Wig Out!, about drag queens in Harlem, then further pursued the possibilities of stylized storytelling -- arguably, to an off-putting degree -- in The Brother and Sister Plays, a complicated family trilogy. Choir Boy, about prep school homophobia, was a kind of young adult novel for the stage; it was followed by a misbegotten attempt at reimagining Antony and Cleopatra in the Caribbean, a project undone by a listless, confusing staging and questionable casting choices. His new play, Head of Passes, consists of so many things that it's hard to know where to begin.

For most of the first act, Head of Passes plays like something from the 1955-56 season, so old-fashioned is its family-reunion dramaturgy and its careful parceling out of secrets. There's a storm brewing over the house owned by Shelah, the matriarch of a Gulf Coast family. As the downpour reveals, the house has grown porous with age, and water is seeping in practically everywhere; it's an apt metaphor for Shelah's family, a shaky assemblage rife with unspoken truths and hidden agendas. At the stroke of midnight, it will be Shelah's birthday, and among those gathering to celebrate are her sons Aubrey and Spencer; Creaker, her house servant, and Crier, his son, an aspiring singer; Mae, an old friend; and Dr. Anderson, her physician.

Actually, Shelah isn't all that happy to see Dr. Anderson, because she wants to be the one to break the news to her loved ones that she has a serious, probably fatal, lung disease. She is even more dismayed to learn that Aubrey and Spencer are hoping to move her out and sell the house for a tidy profit. Most upsetting of all is the arrival of Cookie, Shelah's greatest source of heartache. Many years earlier, Shelah's husband brought the infant Cookie home and handed her over to his wife's care, without explanation or apology: Shelah raised the child as her own, but something went wrong along the way, and Cookie ended up a drug addict with two young boys to care for and various louche men lurking in the background.

Presided over by Phylicia Rashad, who can take the most unexceptional line of dialogue and turn it into a dire, roof-rattling prophecy from heaven above, the first act plays like a fairly standard laughter-and-tears domestic drama, with some tartly funny dialogue and a fair bit of suspense about when the penny will drop about Shelah's health. "Creaker know I love him like a bunion," growls Mae, who has clearly seen it all in her time. Later, still complaining about Creaker, Mae says, "Man foolish. Jealous as he is at his age." "Our age," corrects Shelah, making clear that she will brook no discussion on the topic. Crier, who is desperate to earn some attention for his vocal prowess, launches into an impromptu version of "House of the Rising Sun," but Creaker isn't impressed by his son's talents; gazing coldly at the bowl of potato salad in the younger man's hands, he pronounces his verdict: "If it's ruined, you did it, it's done." Dr. Anderson, the only white person on stage, earns a gimlet stare from the others when he comments, "Black folk don't like the rain," only to have them collectively crack up a second later, gleefully admitting that it is so.

McCraney sets up the many conflicts and cross-currents, the most heartbreaking of which is the appearance of Cookie, who shows up only to cadge some money from Shelah. In Alana Arenas' incisive performance, she is an edgy, embarrassed presence, avoiding eye contact and doing a little two-step from side to side due to nervousness, narcotics, or both. She is anguish personified, desperate to get what she came for and to get out as quickly as possible. (There's a car waiting outside for her, and although not much more is said about it, you just know that whoever is in it is up to no good.) As it happens, Cookie makes off with some of Shelah's jewelry, which kicks off an exodus of her guests, leaving her alone as the storm begins to tear the house apart.

The script for Head of Passes says that the play is inspired by the Book of Job, but what happens next plays more like a modern pass at Greek tragedy. Shelah is discovered the next morning, lying in the rubble of her house, and, one by one, others arrive bearing dreadful news about the family. The sheer pileup of calamities is borderline ridiculous; even more so is the fact that everybody leaves again, inexplicably abandoning a critically ill woman -- who has just slept through a hurricane-like storm -- to a house that has been reduced to deathtrap status.

This has to happen because the last part is a monologue in which Shelah -- a woman so pious she won't permit anyone to say the words "deviled eggs" -- rails against God for her ill fortune. It's the passage that the play has been leading up to all along, and your reaction to it will seal your opinion of Head of Passes. It's an astonishingly challenging piece of writing -- really, Lear's mad scene looks like a walk in the park in comparison -- and you'll either be dazzled by Rashad's technical virtuosity and stamina or rolling your eyes, bored by the bombastic display and wondering how a woman who, in the previous scene, was gasping and coughing up blood has acquired such lung power. This is nothing against the actress, who commits herself with abandon to a mind-bogglingly difficult role, but by the final scene Head of Passes has become a bewildering mish-mash of ideas and styles, its tenuous connection to Scripture notwithstanding. In the end, it seems to be about nothing but giving a grand-manner actress the workout of her career.

Under Tina Landau's direction, everyone else performs with skill. John Earl Jelks' crusty, curmudgeonly delivery as Creaker is steadily amusing, as is Arnetia Walker's sassy, attitude-filled turn as Mae. Kyle Beltran sings beautifully and simmers effectively as Crier. Francois Battiste and J. Bernard Calloway are effective as Shelah's very different offspring. Robert Joy makes the most of the moment when the very-buttoned-down Dr. Anderson cuts loose, executing a wild dance for the entertainment of the others.

G. W. Mercier's set design -- depicting the house's Florida room and tiled patio, is a knockout, falling apart in spectacular fashion. Jeff Croiter's lighting features a flattering series of washes replaced by vivid storm effects; the sound design, by Rob Milburn and Michael Bodeen, adds menacing thunder and wind cues to the mix. For a play filled with characters from different age groups and social strata, Toni-Leslie James' costumes are well-suited to each character.

Head of Passes draws on many old stage traditions, but its climactic scene is its most old-fashioned aspect. Shelah's condemnation of church people feels tired and secondhand, as does her apparent conclusion that a life's worth of prayers have been delivered into a void. McCraney hasn't laid the groundwork for this long, loud burst of emotion, so it feels like a series of calculated effects. If he set out to write a powerful drama pitting a dying woman against her God, what he has ended up with is an overwrought star vehicle. -- David Barbour


(29 March 2016)

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