By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
In the theater world as in society, a happy few are much more fortunate than the rest. Consider the prosperous and respected Florida Stage. Now entering its fifteenth season, the Stage is blessed with a lovely facility (a 250-seat thrust theater with excellent sightlines), critical acclaim (22 Carbonell nominations for the 2000-2001 season), a solid financial base (8200 Palm Beach subscribers), and an artistically ambitious mission (its entire production slate is focused on new plays). This year the Stage kicks off its season with Thief River, a new play by Lee Blessing, a playwright of national renown who has had a long association with Florida Stage producer/director Louis Tyrrell's company. By any measure the production is a significant theatrical event in South Florida.
It is not, however, a reason to celebrate. Thief Riveris a misfire. It bears all the trappings of what celebrated British director Peter Brook called "deadly theater." It's beautifully produced, with superb technical support. But at its weak heart are generalized acting and static direction, lots of crocodile tears, and very little passion or honesty.
Passion and honesty are precisely what Thief River requires. Blessing's saga is a gay melodrama, tracing the lifelong relationship between a troubled gay boy, Gil, and his best friend, Ray, who is confused about his sexuality. Their story begins in 1948, when both are teens in a repressive Minnesota farm community. When Gil shoots and kills another boy in a fit of jealousy, he flees to Ray for help. They hide in Ray's family's farmhouse only to be attacked by a homophobic drifter. The crisis forces Gil to flee town. By 1973 Gil has become an established travel writer living in New York with his flamboyant boy-toy lover. Ray has long since married and fathered a son, keeping his early gay dalliance a secret. But he continues to write Gil weekly. When Ray suddenly stops his correspondence on the eve of his son's marriage, Gil returns to their hometown to investigate, with his lover in tow. Gil wants Ray to come to terms with their love for each other and for the two of them to live together, but Ray balks. He won't leave his wife, his son, or their community. The visit ends badly when the lover gives one of Ray's letters to Ray's son, thus outing the father. In 2001 Gil again returns to the town, now alone long after his lover has died of AIDS. Ray has remained in the Minnesota town, a widowed outcast long estranged from his son. Once again the two childhood friends meet for what seemingly will be a final confrontation.
Thief Riverhas the makings of a great gay play: one complicated relationship set against the awakening of contemporary gay culture. Blessing plays with narrative structure, telling his tale out of chronological sequence in bits and pieces, punctuated by the characters' narrations to the audience. This device, and several flashes of poetic language, recall Blessing's obvious model, Tennessee Williams, the godfather of contemporary gay theater, who, writing in a far less tolerant era, expressed many of his own thoughts and desires through his fantastic array of female characters. Blessing has more choices, but his personal, emotional dramas, his poetic realism, and his interest in Middle-American sensibilities echo Williams. Like Williams's work, Blessing's play is filled with dark and brooding touches. Teen Ray suffers from the trauma of his parents' deaths, a murder/suicide. Suddenly orphaned, Ray refuses to give up his family's farmhouse, keeping it for years as it molders, unoccupied. Each time Ray meets Gil, their encounters take place in the empty house, like ghosts dancing an endless minuet.
Among the play's flaws: There's a good deal of revisionist history. Young Ray terms gay Gil as "special," a PC attitude that's way wrong for 1948. The 1973 Gil and his lover are defiantly out, as was the case for Gay Priders of that era, but when he explains his sexuality to a farmer in coveralls, the latter gets some anachronistic yuks by claiming to be tolerant. Then there's the matter of that murder subplot, a hyperventilated sideshow that obscures rather than enlightens the central issue. A lot of the play focuses on this event and its aftermath, but the real issues here are Gil's longing and Ray's sexuality, not their potential criminal records. Blessing may be comparing the two issues to make a point about repression, but if so, he's sacrificing emotional focus to do it. It's one repression too many. And it almost feels like one play too many. The cornfields, the farmhouse, a murder, a secret grave -- it's as if Blessing's gay historical romance has been invaded by Sam Shepard's Buried Child.
Blessing's complex saga is a tough project to pull off onstage, requiring three sets of actors to portray Gil and Ray in three eras. The company of six must also portray all the others in the story. This not only requires exceptional emotional facility, but it demands that six actors agree on two characters. That takes a lot of work, a lot of agreement, and -- significantly -- much rehearsal time. But Tyrrell had his cast for only three and a half weeks. That's not nearly enough time to get to the heart of this play, and as a result, this cast looks significantly underrehearsed. The play requires a burning connection between Gil and Ray, but none of the three sets of performers manages to serve up much more than tepid friendship. In his floppy overalls and bare feet, young Gil is a sort of gay Huck Finn with Ray as his Tom Sawyer, more civilized and proper. As young Gil, Paul Whitthorne is a tearful nelly with very little variety or color. The same could be said for David McNamara, who plays young Ray as tongue-tied and befuddled rather than intensely conflicted. They share a kiss but little other physical contact and very little heat. And since the entire narrative rests on the premise that these two were made for each other, this connection should be apparent onstage. It isn't.