Theatre in Review: The Brothers Size (The Shed)

	Andre Holland. Photo: Marc J. Franklin

Brotherly love functions as an embrace and a manacle in The Brothers Size. This wrenching tale, part of the trilogy The Brother/Sister Plays (last seen in New York at the Public Theater in 2009), centers on a triangle shaped by blood ties, frustrated desire, and the corroding effects of incarceration. Running only ninety minutes, this highly concentrated drama achieves a power that eludes so many contemporary plays. Tarell Alvin McCraney, working from a Yoruba folk tale, unsparingly probes relationships formed of equal parts love, rage, and responsibility. It has the authentic feel of tragedy.

The Brothers Size are Ogun, an auto mechanic, and Oshoosi, an ex-con recently released on parole. The hard-working Ogun is a loner, up with the sun, ready to face his responsibilities, which seem to consist almost entirely of work; Oshoosi, giddy at being back in the world, is bent on salving the pain of his past with any available pleasure. McCraney has fun in the early scenes with the siblings' temperamental differences. Ogun has hired Oshoosi to work at his shop, but getting the latter out of bed is a major operation. "You gone work yourself to death, man," Oshoosi says, oozing mock sympathy. "Death kill the lazy last."

Oshoosi is even less impressed that Elegba, his friend and former prison mate, has picked up a gig at the local funeral home. "Man, you working on dead people," Oshoosi grumbles. "Better than working with live people," Elegba replies, hinting at the cruelties suffered behind bars. "This way nobody don't bother me," he adds. Ogun takes a dim view of Elegba's presence, in part because he wants Oshooshi to live down his criminal record. But maybe Ogun also senses something else in Elegba's affection for his friend. Going out of his way to praise Oshoosi's singing, Elegba says, meaningfully, "I was born a choir boy. But you? You a siren." Indeed, his early memory of Oshoosi reveals plenty: "He was strong. Strong. Quiet to hisself. Singing to hisself always. Most beautiful man ever seen."

On the surface, not much happens in The Brothers Size; the men circle each other, their confrontations spiked by dream sequences, recollections, and the odd musical interlude, but McCraney digs deeply, exposing layers of unspoken and/or repressed feeling that become explosive in the light of day. In this production, originally seen at Los Angeles' Geffen Playhouse, all three characters are brought to ferocious life. Andre Holland's Ogun has the posture of a man with enormous burdens draped across his shoulders; he is deliberate, dedicated to staying out of trouble, and prone to saying less than he means. In contrast, Alani iLongwe's Oshooshi is a rubber ball bouncing on every available surface. Absent any money or job -- he doesn't last long in the auto repair game -- he seeks enjoyment avidly and, given his status, recklessly, putting his parole in jeopardy by ending up in the presence of drugs. Watchful, yet keeping his own counsel, is Malcolm Mays as Elegba, whose complicated history with Oshoosi will put them both in harm's way.

Indeed, this three-way emotional tangle looks radically different depending on who is talking. Oshoosi may insist, loudly, that he is interested in "pussy," but clearly, more is going on with Elegba than he is willing to admit. Elegba isn't shy about recalling Oshoosi, behind bars, crying out heartbreakingly for his brother ("Sound like a bear trapped in some flesh-tearing snare, hollering like that."), using the memory to call out Ogun for his indifference to his brother's suffering. Oshoosi, racing from one enthusiasm to the next, is headed for a terrible fall, unaware that being out of jail isn't the same thing as being free. And when Oshoosi and Elegba run afoul of a white cop only too happy to indict a couple of Black men, Ogun delivers a scalding account of years spent cleaning up Oshoosi's messes. ("That's my fucking life sentence. That's my lockdown. All my life, I carry your sins on my back.") It's an astonishing speech, remorseless and exact in its grievances; the sight of Oshoosi, crushed, fallen to the floor, rocking in sorrowful acknowledgement, is terrible to behold.) It marks the moment of no return, ending with Ogun's agonized acknowledgment that their tie must be broken, irrevocably, if they are to survive. Written when McCraney was in his early twenties, the scene has the intensity of the late-career Eugene O'Neill.

Bijan Sheibani, co-directing with McCraney, stages the play with stark simplicity. Suzu Sakai's set design, placing the audience on four sides of the action, is little more than a ground plan with a playing area demarcated by a circle of white gravel. (Touches like these give the play a ritualistic aspect; it's as if we're seeing a story that has unfolded many times before.) Spencer Doughtie's lighting, based on Adam Honore's original, uses rigs of cold and warm white washes, laid out in rigs of concentric squares, to strike contrasting emotional tones; the one instance of color, seen during a moment of improvised dance moves, is almost shocking. Dede Ayite's costumes consist of well-worn work clothes that underline the characters' place in the world. Stan Mathabane, the sound designer and composer, provides solid support for drummer Munir Zakee, who paces the action throughout the evening.

For reasons I can't fully explain, this production lands with exponentially greater force than the original at the Public. (To be sure, it earned its share of praise at the time, and it has received numerous major revivals.) Back then, the tendency of the characters to speak about themselves in the third person, narrating their actions even as they carry them out, seemed infinitely more distracting. (Even here, during an argument in the garage, Holland is made to say, "Ogun Size goes under the car" so many times, I wanted to yell, "Cut!") Has the script been trimmed? Is the effect entirely due to the incantatory staging and raw electricity of the cast? Or have we sadly learned more about the way jail time derails lives rather than rehabilitating them? All are questions worth pondering.

Also, one wonders if we might not get the entire trilogy, once again, for The Brothers Size sometimes misses its companion pieces. For example, a lengthy sequence recapping the action of In the Red and Brown Water (another of The Brother/Sister Plays), is something of a distraction when one doesn't hear the full story of Oya, the woman Ogun loved, and her terrible fate. Nevertheless, The Brothers Size has much to say about the many forms of love (friendly, fraternal, sexual) that can sometimes only be honored in the breach. McCraney's characters are locked in a chain of need and resentment that must be broken, even if it can never be fully escaped. --David Barbour