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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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051589
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05158900.043
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1990-09-22
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THEATER, Page 87Bowing Out with a FlourishThe season ends with works evoking families and everyday magicBy William A. Henry III
APPROACHING ZANZIBAR
by Tina Howe
A vacationing family meets a boy in the Blue Ridge Mountains
willing to take a group snapshot. He turns out to be a deaf-mute
astrological visionary. High up in the Smokies, the menopausal
mother of the family keeps hearing a baby crying out in the woods.
After she leaves the tent, the audience hears it too. The family
tumbles into its car outside a diner near Amarillo, Texas, and
resumes squabbling, only this time father and daughter swap roles
and accustomed dialogue, and so do mother and son. The elders
squeak about needing a bathroom break. The children trade curses
about whose bad idea this adventure was, anyway. Then they screech
off into the night, ostensibly with a grade-schooler in command of
the steering wheel.
As the family huddles around the Taos, N. Mex., bedside of an
aged aunt to hear her final addled reverie of childhood, the dying
woman whisks off a grizzled wig to reveal blond locks, sits bolt
upright and brays delightedly at having sneaked in one last prank.
At the sight of this transformation, the daughter's attitude shifts
from terror to wonder. Moments later, she and the dying woman are
jumping on the bed as though it were a trampoline, mingling the old
one's romantic memories with the child's geography game in exultant
shouts of "Zanzibar! Zanzibar!"
What do these increasingly fantastical scenes mean? The
audience may never be quite sure, but one thing is certain:
playwright Tina Howe, overpraised in the past for her wan Wasp tone
poems (Painting Churches, Coastal Disturbances), has infused new
energy into her work. At the same time, she has sustained her gift
for hinting at profound meanings in humdrum moments. To Howe, the
eternal in life is clearest in its ephemerality; the memories that
haunt us to the end of our days are of the most ordinary, and thus
revealing, events.
Howe has always had an ear for plausible conversation and a
keen eye for the elegiac beauty of the everyday. Blending them with
the subtly magical in Approaching Zanzibar at last relieves her
work of a seeming pettiness and dullness. In the production that
opened off-Broadway last week, she is aided by a superb cast,
including Jane Alexander and Harris Yulin as the parents and Bethel
Leslie as the dying aunt -- all established stars who delicately
avoid star turns -- and the exceptional Clayton Barclay Jones and
Angela Goethals as the children. Heidi Landesman's brilliantly
simple sets fill a postage-stamp stage with bits of cloth to create
a mountain, a river, a campsite and a twinkling night sky,
capturing not physical essence but distilled recollection. The
entire event is ethereal yet spellbinding.
ARISTOCRATS
by Brian Friel
Social standing is always relative. To the hardscrabble
peasants down in the Irish village of Ballybeg, the clan in the big
house on the hill is the nobility. But at Ballybeg Hall the members
of that gilded tribe are keenly aware of a wider world and their
piddling place in it. They glamourize the past: a tatty cushion or
tarnished candlestick becomes an heirloom by reason of a (probably
fictitious) anecdotal link to some bygone celebrity. They embroider
the dismal present. They deny the looming future of dissolution and
dispersal.
If all this sounds like the umpteenth rewrite of Chekhov's The
Cherry Orchard, the best defense Brian Friel might offer for his
superb play, now off-Broadway, is that his characters seem
Chekhovian only because they are so candid and self-aware. Kaiulani
Lee is the older sister who sacrificed by staying home to tend to
her father, Haviland Morris the sister who opted to marry for
money, Margaret Colin the one who drowned herself in the Molotov
cocktail of alcohol laced with utter honesty. John Pankow excels
as the village lad who romanced each girl in turn, settled for the
one who would have him, and went on to a diplomatic career that
eclipses the golden clan's luster in every mind but the one that
counts: his own.
Against these plangent strings of personality is the oboe howl
and twitter of Niall Buggy as the only son, a pixilated and
desperate man steeped in family lore who nonetheless bolted half
a continent away. For him and his kin, heritage is a cruel joke
masquerading as an oracle.
LARGELY NEW YORK
by Bill Irwin
Performance artist. New vaudevillian. Silent clown. However
you label limber-jointed Bill Irwin, he is one of the most winsome
presences in the American theater. In the sketchbook Largely New
York, which opened on Broadway last week, he wears a top hat and
spectacles, carries a white cane and resembles an elongated Jiminy
Cricket. All around him are people he might befriend, if only he
could break through their obsessive isolation with entertainment
machines -- a Walkman, a boom box, a video camera, a TV monitor.
Irwin himself carries a remote control, purportedly hooked up to
the tiers of curtains onstage and the sound system that
sporadically blares Tea for Two while he attempts a soft-shoe.
Not much happens during these 70 sweetly silly minutes:
pratfalls and swan dives, break dancers accosted, a girl lost and
maybe won. Some technology-inspired images are new -- Irwin
silently screams from inside a TV until someone vacuums up his
video image and expels it into an old trunk, from which the lanky
actor unfolds -- but the show owes a lot to Chaplin and Harpo,
Jacques Tati and Marcel Marceau. Still, they are the people to
copy, and Irwin surely has the gift.