Theatre in Review: Sally and Tom (The Public Theater)

	Sheria Irving, Gabriel Ebert, and company. Photo: Joan Marcus

Suzan-Lori Parks's new play is most interesting when the characters stop talking to each other and confront the audience. Tom, you should know, is Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States and a lifelong slaveowner. "I owned people," he says, staring straight at us. "Contemplate, for a moment, if you will, the depth of what means." Among other things, he notes, "An investment in land and slaves was the best way to bring profit to an individual and to a country. My Negroes make a yearly profit of 4%. Not bad."

If the last comment doesn't cause a sharp intake of breath, Tom adds that "on their deathbeds," contemporaries like Benjamin Franklin and George Washington freed their slaves, yet he did not, a fact for which he offers no apology. "You might hate me," he adds, "Go ahead. I did hateful things." The speech is a tightrope for an actor and Gabriel Ebert traverses it nimbly, offering a carefully darkened portrait of a character often rendered in romantic/heroic terms. Yes, he admits, he usually gets credit for being rather kinder than most to his slaves. But on what moral ledger should that count as an asset?

Tom has taken as his lover the slave woman Sally Hemings, and, near the end, she finally gets her say. As Sally and Tom notes, their relationship remains poorly understood. We can't be certain it took place and, even if it did, could such an arrangement, with its grotesque power imbalance, have been touched by love and/or affection? Addressing us evenly, almost dispassionately, Sally refuses to provide simple answers. "It was not rape as such," she says. "Or maybe it was. And maybe that's all it was. The things we have to give, the things we have to give up. Don't think you're immune. I sleep with a man some would call the enemy. And for what? For a better life." (Sheria Irving, who plays Sally, gives the character an almost unnerving poise, preserving her essential mystery. She made a bargain. Or maybe she had no choice. Either way, how can we know what she felt about it? And who would dare judge her?

These speeches feature some of Parks' most glittering writing, which is saying something; where other playwrights prefer to shout, she makes her points quietly, observantly, and devastatingly. If all of Sally and Tom were on this level, it would stand among her finest works. But, in an attempt at creating a conversation between then and now, she has embedded her observations about one of American history's most tantalizing enigmas inside a backstage comedy that sometimes feels carelessly conceived. In broadening her argument, she occasionally distracts from it.

Sally and Tom, the lead characters in The Pursuit of Happiness, the play-within-the-play, are portrayed by Luce and Mike, lovers and founders of an ever-struggling troupe called Good Company. They are devoted to creating challenging political theatre, a point the playwright undermines by giving their previous works jokey titles like Patriarchy on Parade and Listen Up, Whitey, 'Cause It's All Your Fault. (It's hard to get a read on Good Company's place in the theatrical hierarchy; it sounds like a scrappy, long-running downtown operation like Paul Zimet and Ellen Maddow's The Talking Band. Then again, the work it presents is surprisingly conventional.) As the play begins, an angel, flush with cash, appears in the form of Teddy, a producer who senses a breakout hit if only Luce, who also wrote the piece, will cut a long, angry speech given to James, Sally's brother. Also, if Luce softens the ending, making it more uplifting. And if she will address a few dozen other notes.

Parks, who has long been supported by the Public and Signature Theatre Company, probably knows from hard experience what happens when big money comes calling, but her points are haphazardly made, often inconsistent with reality. It's hard to believe that Teddy (whom we never see) would perceive potential mainstream success in Good Company's work. When we hear the disputed speech, it is powerful yet flagrantly unrealistic and wildly out of sync with the rest of The Pursuit of Happiness, a fact that Luce candidly admits. Further complicating matters, the role of James is being played by Kwame -- K-Dubb to his fans -- Luce's ex, who, with his long list of film and TV credits, is avid to replant his theatrical roots. We're expected to believe that, amid all these pressures, the show reaches opening night with Luce still undecided about eliminating the monologue and settling on an ending scene. When exactly does she plan to make up her mind?

Other sources of financing are even less promising. One potential money source comes and goes quickly, but not before unhelpfully suggesting that Jefferson must have been on the spectrum. Maggie, a member of the acting company, is loaded, thanks to her wealthy spouse, but she refuses to support the production for no discernible reason. Then there's Mike's former girlfriend (gifted with a trust fund), whose offer of help gets Luce's back up. On the other hand, she isn't demanding fundamental changes to the script.

Parks draws many parallels between her two plot lines: Both Mike and Tom are driven by fiscal concerns (Monticello, like Good Company, is constantly in debt), which they use as justification for selfish actions. Both Luce and Sally are pregnant, news that neither is racing to impart to their lovers. But the play's bifurcated structure sometimes makes for awkward contrasts. The scenes at Monticello -- which turn on the question of whether Jefferson, who is leaving for New York to take a job in George Washington's administration, will break up Sally's family, farming them out to various slaveowners -- are much more compelling than the contemporary plot, which focuses on the decline of Luce and Mike's rather chilly, distant relationship. It's frankly difficult to believe they ever felt passionately about each other.

The believability issue persists in other respects as well. One wonders how the play has gotten to opening night without financing. Although the company ostensibly operates on a shoestring, with actors pitching in on the design work, the richly historical appointments of Riccardo Hernández's set design and Rodrigo Muñoz's costumes suggest that money is no object. (Teddy has insisted on them, we are told, a comment that feels more like a justification than an explanation.) A late-in-the-evening rush of events, including the last-minute defection of a cast member, a surprise gay romance, an incident with the police, and a sexual betrayal, don't always feel convincing. And do actors really drop life-changing bombshells just before the curtain goes up?

Still, if Sally and Tom seems unlikely to make it into the top tier of Parks' work, and if neither of its plots even comes near a dramatic boiling point, it certainly has its moments, especially in Steve H. Broadnax III's production. The opening, elegantly choreographed by Edgar Godineaux, is a charming introduction to the cast. A scene in Tom's bedroom, in which Sally is repeatedly forced to hide from visitors, tells you plenty about the constraints on their relationship. There's an especially amusing bit of business featuring the actors chatting backstage and, rushing to make their entrances, pausing to assume in-period postures. The finale, a scenic coup featuring the cast silhouetted against an illuminated wall listing the names of Jefferson's slaves, is a legitimate goosebump moment. (Alan C. Edwards' lighting is one of his most gorgeous achievements.)

Ebert, an actor of tremendous versatility, fearlessly exposes the less attractive sides of Tom and Mike's characters, whether urging everyone at Monticello to stifle their emotions in the name of "harmony" or confessing that he is sick and tired of being Good Company's in-house savior. Sally and Luce both keep their cards close, yet Irving gives each character a distinct and intriguing profile. In a generally solid cast, standouts include Leland Fowler as Devon, an actor who gets upgraded to a more important role on opening night, Kristolyn Lloyd as the tough-minded confidant Maggie; and Alano Miller as Kwame, who makes the most of that speech, whether or not it belongs in The Pursuit of Happiness.

Still, this remains a major, if imperfect, work by one of our finest living playwrights. You can pick at Sally and Tom all you like -- and there's plenty to pick at -- but there is much to enjoy, too, including the lovely music composed by the playwright and sound designer Dan Moses Schreier. In its best moments, it asks us to contemplate one of American history's most intriguing question marks. And however we choose to interpret it will say much more about us than it does about Sally Hemings and Thomas Jefferson. --David Barbour