Theatre in Review: Murder in the First (59E59)

	Guy Burnet and Chad Kimball. Photo: Carol Roesegg

Musicals based on films are a dime a dozen, but plays drawn from cinematic source material are exceedingly rare. This alone makes Murder in the First an object of curiosity. Dan Gordon has adapted his own screenplay, which was filmed in 1995 with Kevin Bacon, Christian Slater, and Gary Oldman. Going in, I wondered why anyone was interested in doing a play based on a film that received mixed-to-negative reviews, underperformed at the box office, and is more or less forgotten. Two and a half hours later, I was still wondering.

Murder in the First centers around a 1941 trial that allegedly exposed the horrific abuses practiced at Alcatraz Prison, but this is historical drama in only the loosest sense. Gordon has fictionalized the original case beyond all recognition; much of it sounds like a Warner Brothers melodrama of the forties, the kind of potboiler that might have starred James Cagney or Pat O'Brien as a crusading lawyer. The most notable thing about Murder in the First, the play, is how awkwardly it sits on the stage.

Sitting in the defendant's chair is Willie Morris, a prisoner at Alcatraz accused of murdering another inmate. That he did the crime is beyond question; there were hundreds of witnesses. Assigned to the case by the public defender's office is Henry Davidson, a 24-year-old making his courtroom debut. Given little or nothing to work with, Henry, who is expected to expedite the case, moving it to a quick guilty verdict, focuses on the fact that Willie has spent a cruel and unusual three years in solitary confinement, where he was repeatedly beaten, starved, and left in his own waste. (As he puts it, Willie has been left in a "psychological coma," a term that I strongly suspect isn't found in any diagnostic manual.) This notion is picked up by Houlihan, a Walter Winchell-ish radio reporter in search of a scandal to prop up his ratings. "You and me will put Alcatraz on trial," he tells Henry.

This is more or less what happens, with the result that everyone -- Henry's corporate lawyer brother, his lawyer girlfriend, even the boss who assigned him to the case -- pressures him to bow out. As his brother warns, "You've been under surveillance. For putting Alcatraz on trial, for putting their whole system on trial." In one of many first-act delaying tactics, Henry is fired, replaced by Mary, his girlfriend. It doesn't last, however; Mary flees from a meeting with Willie after she discovers him masturbating himself while she tries to discuss the fine points of his case.

In the right hands, this story could make for a gripping melodrama, but what's most striking about Gordon's script is how much happens offstage. Surprisingly little of the first act is devoted to the trial that, we are repeatedly told, is stirring up so much trouble. (On a radio broadcast, Houlihan says, "The testimony has been fast and furious," -- something we have to take on faith.) When Henry goes to meet with a potential star witness, he is beaten up by a quartet of goons -- an event that we only hear about after the fact. We never learn what motivated Willie to tear out someone's larynx with a spoon; no one seems to care about his motive.

Then again, what we do see of the trial strains credibility to the breaking point. Henry's opening remarks achieve the remarkable feat of making the trial all about himself and his deeply felt idealism; it's the kind of thing that would have gotten him booted out of law school. The climax -- when Henry puts Willie on the stand as a hostile witness -- is so filled with irregularities and examples of unprofessional behavior that it amounts to a massive case of collective malpractice. "I don't intend to have this turned into a mistrial," the judge says at a point where mistrial is just about the only viable option.

Under Michael Parva's generally listless direction, the cast struggles to bring any conviction to the dialogue; I can't remember when I last heard so many phony-sounding line readings. Chad Kimball brings his considerable presence to the role of Willie, but he comes off only as passive and a little addled; at no point does he suggest someone who has endured torture. (A scene in which Willie fails to perform with a prostitute Henry has smuggled into his jail cell is both pointless and a tad embarrassing.) Guy Burnet seems deeply uncomfortable in the role of Henry, making him into something of a blowhard. In the large supporting cast, Daren Kelly is fairly effective as the prosecuting attorney, and Robert Hogan pulls off a chilling cameo as the warden of Alcatraz, whose gentle manner and humane policies mask a seething, sociopathic rage.

Mark Nayden's set design places the courtroom at stage center, with Willie's cell at stage right. The space at stage left is occupied, at different times, by Henry's office and living room. Even so, given the play's filmic structure, with many scenes lasting only a minute or two, there is more than enough dead time between scenes to kill the play's pace, despite the best efforts of the lighting designer David Castaneda. (His skill in creating graceful crossfades is really put to the test here.) Tristan Raines' costumes are perfectly okay. But the intrusive original score by the sound designer, Quentin Chiappetta, quickly gets on one's nerves; he constantly deploys mournful solo trumpet passages and tense piano chords, a tactic that seems ever more manipulative as the evening wears on.

It should probably be clear by now that Murder in the First does nothing to advance the cause of film-to-stage adaptations. In fact, it should serve as a warning to anyone similarly inclined that the transition from one medium to another is much harder than it looks.--David Barbour