Theatre in Review: The Ford/Hill Project (Waterwell at BAM's Fishman Space)Alas, we live in a perfect time for documentary theatre, a format in which the calm, unemotional presentation of excerpts from the official record inevitably lays bare the scoundrels among us. Only a month or two ago, we had a revival of Are You Know or Ever Have Been, taken from the HUAC's spurious investigation into the imaginary Hollywood Red Menace, an act of political theatre that destroyed the lives of many. Now comes The Ford/Hill Project, which crosscuts between two of the seamier episodes of modern political history, leaving us questioning what kind of society we inhabit. Elizabeth Marvel and Lee Sunday Evans' script chops up and rearranges testimonies from the hearings of two Supreme Court candidates, each of which went wildly off the rails: Anita Hill's 1991 account of Clarence Thomas' sexual harassment, and Christine Blasey Ford's report of being sexually assaulted as a teenager by a drunken Brett Kavanaugh. If you were there, The Ford/Hill Project brings it all back: The halls of Congress ringing with comments about pubic hair on Coke cans and stories of teen parties descending into rape scenarios. These are impossible scenarios outside of an Allen Drury potboiler, and yet they really happened. The women are clear-eyed and plainspoken in leveling their charges; the men are ulterior and melodramatic, carrying on like B-movie actors. Indeed, Thomas' shameless self-defense, evoking the lynch mobs of the past, continues to scald, as does Kavanaugh's insolent treatment of his interrogators. (When asked by Senator Amy Klobuchar if he has a drinking problem, he snaps back, "No. Do you?" It's a strategy worthy of a sixth grader.) In Evans' stripped-down production, which relies entirely on the unbelievable truth, they remain riveting and dismaying in equal measure. To be sure, anyone unfamiliar with these episodes won't find The Ford/Hill Project to be especially educational. Much is made of the polygraph test administered to Ford, but one doesn't learn that experts concluded with near certainty that she was truthful. Kavanagh's other accusers are mentioned, but their evidence is not weighed. We hear about the letter, signed by 65 women, defending Kavanaugh, but context is missing. Thomas' alcohol problem in the 1980s is mentioned, yet it is unclear if it played a role in his alleged harassment of Hill. Still, the back-and-forth onstage is constantly tense, humming with suppressed emotion; lives and careers are on the line, and grace under pressure is often conspicuously missing. Seeing both narratives, separated by a quarter-century, unfold simultaneously is a scorching reminder of how little things have changed. And having the four actors switch roles and genders underscores the clash of narratives and the stark power imbalance between accuser and accused. In a way, The Ford/Hill Project succeeds as an object of contemplation, a conjuror of disturbing thoughts. Among them: A Senate hearing, designed to explore a potential judge's legal vision -- think of the convincing case made against Robert Bork -- is entirely unsuitable for settling allegations of criminal behavior. It amazes how quickly conservatives who trumpet their Christian values circle their wagons when one of their own is accused. The most nagging question: What possible motivation, other than telling the truth, would make Hill and Ford expose themselves to media scrutiny and harassment? Ford recalls a youth shattered by trauma, an adulthood haunted by fear. Hill says her acute stomach pain, incited by Thomas' unwanted attentions, sent her to the hospital. Yet, for standing up, Hill was smeared as "a little bit nutty and a little bit slutty" in David Brock's book-length screed, The Real Anita Hill. Ford and her family were subjected to death threats. It's a cauterization of unhealed wounds carried out by four expert performers. Teagle F. Bougere, coming off his incisive turn in The Winter's Tale at Shakespeare in the Park, is especially good at evoking Thomas' affronted dignity, his insistence that his reputation has been destroyed. Gabby Beans captures Hill's flat Oklahoma delivery, tellingly hesitating when asked to provide unsavory details on Thomas' bizarre ruminations on the porn star "Long Dong Silver." Josh Hamilton nails Kavanaugh's surly, combative manner, a demonstration of flop sweat that all but indicts him. Listen to the break in Marvel's voice as Ford recalls forcing herself out from under Kavanaugh's body and locking herself in a bathroom; it's an exquisite expression of the character's internal strain. The actors circle each other, swapping roles and forming different groupings, many of which prove revealing, especially the finale, when the men don judicial robes as a sign of triumph. Production values are largely minimal, although Oona Curley's lighting maintains an inviting atmosphere, and the sound design by Mikhail Fiksel and Jeffrey Salerno maintains the right atmosphere of murmuring voices and photo clicks. (The designers make good use of the song "Make It Right," performed by Tune-Yards.) Salerno is also billed as audio editor, which may point to one of the play's more unusual aspects: According to the script, "The actors wear in-ear monitors that feed them edited clips from the real audio of the hearings that correspond to the script." These often act as prompts, kicking off some of the more elaborate speeches, a technique that adds to the feeling of documentary authenticity. In retrospect, the Hill-Thomas hearings can be seen as a preview of coming attractions, in which a devastating scandal is uncovered yet ignored; the Ford-Kavanaugh affair looks like the full flowering of Trumpian morality, in which a woman's testimony is heard only to be dismissed. It's all a matter of tribes: Evil, it seems, is something practiced by the other side. So many politicians, especially conservatives, love to rail at a world where nobody takes responsibility for their actions. Charge them with wrongdoing, however, and see how quickly they style themselves as victims. Sadly, we are all snowflakes now. --David Barbour 
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