Apologies for the hiatus. I haven't posted anything for two months or so. That doesn't mean I haven't been writing--I've been working on the voluminous survey of The Sparrow that is just below this post. However, over the past few months my Ben Franklin gig ended, I transitioned to a new job as an office-monkey, and I've been out of town frequently for grad school interviews and one matzahlicious Jewish holiday.
There are two bits of good news: the first is that the long, agonizing process of writing the Sparrow piece is over: it is a very rich, deep show, and the writing process on it was long and difficult. I know it's long, so I've divided it into two parts. The first part attempts to place the House's work into a contemporary critical context. The second part strives to illustrate how they and their designers are telling stories in this instance.
The second bit of good news is that I've been accepted and will attend a dramaturgy MFA program at Columbia University in New York. So I'll be moving soon. While this means that this particular project will be ending soon, I hope to resurrect it in New York soon under a new domain name. I'll post it here.
I also hope that the type of project I've undertaken here can be continued in the future. I still believe that this type of discussion is necessary, and I believe that there is enough smart theater viewership in Chicago to pull together a staff of writers to do it. If and when I return to Chicago, I'll try to do it myself.
And, come to think of it, I have a third bit of good news: I've been hired to lead an adventure program for groups of kids to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. So following May there will be another long hiatus as I work on my tan, my camping and fishing skills, and my childish over-exuberance. Then, following my move to the Upper West Side, I'll resume posts in some respect.
To everyone who has visited--thanks for reading and supporting the project. It has been the beginning of a real adventure for me, and I hope you can be a part of the next step.
--Dave
Thursday, April 05, 2007
The Sparrow, Part I
In the absence of an "effective general mythology," writes Joseph Campbell in The Hero With A Thousand Faces, each person, in his dreams, furnishes himself with a particular language of dreams and images springing forth from deep beneath consciousness that expresses all of the terrors, angst, and exhilaration stemming from confrontations with the movement across the stages of life. Psychoanalysis, for Campbell (what he calls the "modern science of the reading of dreams"), represents an effort to navigate and understand these images so as to successfully bring full mental effort to bear on the quotidian, trivial, and many times (for Campbell) regressive tasks into which we are inextricably woven by virtue of our having been born in the USA in the second half of the 20th century.
Mythology, however, has always been a living metaphor through which such dreams have found meaning. Mythology, in every culture, according to Campbell, guides us, teaches us, and reassures us as we take on new roles in our development. For Campbell, life in the USA has an inherently regressive character. In a more mature society, mythology establishes social conventions through which its inhabitants actually take on new roles both internally and externally. In the USA, psychoanalysis aims to ameliorate internal tensions of development to enable participation in an external fantasy of everlasting youth. Mythology aims to guide the individual internally through such tensions--as well as teach societies of the nature of social roles which we all, simply by virtue of certain constants of the nature of the human the human experience, must confront.
There is a universal form to both creation and hero myths, that, according to Campbell, expresses these tensions across every cultural barrier. It should not surprise us that adolescents facing their own pressing crises of development have relied throughout the 20th century on comic books of all sorts, movie myths (Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, for example), and sports stars and athletics as their guides. We laugh at the archetypal gawky teenage boy in braces, hanging out at the comic book shop. But this aesthetic impulse reflects, specifically, what Campbell is talking about.
One role of storytelling, in this formulation, is the contemporary reinvention of the mythological forms. But something has happened in the 20th century, apart from what Campbell sees as the aforementioned regressive permanence of the American glorification of youth. Artists have grown deeply afraid of myth, in my view. Sarah Kane's work articulates this fear, especially in Red Orchid's current production of Blasted. Blasted is more than an absurd portrayal of violence and war--it is a systematic attack on the idea that we can be safely guided in large-scale questions of war and death by storytelling itself. Storytelling, narrative, and myth all retrospectively make some sense of violence as the result of a meaningful chain of causality. But the experience of violence, especially the violence enacted by the contemporary war-machine, is highly decontextualized. There is no army approaching the countryside in wars with sensible causes. There are bombs that drop randomly from the sky, and soldiers who appear out of nowhere. The traditional forms of storytelling, for Kane, when it comes to violence, are inherently misleading, except from a most facile perspective.
As participants in a western democracy, we vote, from a safe distance, by way of just these very facile, inaccurate narratives of violence, whether they are supplied by the media or the strictly creative artist. We encounter these narratives between Cheerios and the morning paper. We never experience the true, decontextualized nature of violence in war. And thus, Sarah Kane has made works that illustrate this non-narrative, senseless reality.
I have meditated at length on this blog as to The Pillowman and Martin McDonagh's perspective on questions of the balance between suffering as a result of, and truthfulness in, art. My interpretation of the Pillowman holds that Katurian's stories are necessarily meaningful, if flawed, and that his brother's response to those stories is not necessarily one of mechanistic recreation. However, The Pillowman is the perfect vessel for the questions of the contemporary artist's fear of myth, because depending on one's interpretation we see arguments for and against meaning and myth, and arguments that directly press on the nature of readership. Kane, and possibly the director of the Broadway production, might hold that Katurian's stories are infused with narrative meaning, but that readers are too irresponsible in their relationship to story, and will necessarily recreate violence irresponsibly and harmfully. (Actually, Kane might hold that Katurian is deluding himself into believing that narrative can be a vessel for making his experience meaningful, too). Hannah and WB Worthen, in their recent article in Modern Drama, tend toward an interpretation that holds that Katurian's stories are internally devoid of meaning, and therefore become "blank allegories," externally—that is to say: easily subject to a mechanistic recreation.
The ideas woven into Blasted and contained within interpretive discussion of The Pillowman nicely encapsulate the contemporary artistic-intellectual reluctance to embrace myth and meaning as Campbell defines it classically. However, myth has lost none of its currency with audiences either in Hollywood or in publishing--Frank Miller's "300" is the perfect example of this. And the enduring currency of myth may also explain the popularity of Chicago's House Theatre.
The House has succeeded in attracting an impossible demographic (ages 15 to 35) to come out in droves to the Viaduct Theater--which is especially impressive considering The Viaduct's remoteness from CTA lines at Belmont and Western. Commercial and big-time non-profit theater relies on 40+ viewership and that audience’s subscriptions. Any ensemble that can inspire devotion amongst 20-somethings has captured an audience of which every big theater in Chicago is envious, as this is the building block for those theaters' plans for the next generation.
Steppenwolf, I assume for both perfectly altruistic artistic reasons, and to develop a younger audience base, has recently started commissioning many of the younger companies in the city to create work for their Garage space, and occasionally invites current productions to extend their runs in that space too. They have wisely done this with The House's "The Sparrow."
On the Sunday night on which I attended The Sparrow, the devotion amongst 15 to 35 year olds was apparent. Not only was this Sunday evening show sold out (Sunday shows are notoriously tricky for storefronts in Chicago), but also the entire rest of the run was sold out.
I attribute this devotion to a number of factors, aside from general considerations of high-quality work (scores of high-quality productions go perfectly unnoticed): First, a deft guerilla marketing strategy that utilizes the internet and social networks to publicize the House. Then, a reinvention of every detail of the theater-going experience from the moment an audience member enters the space (which also incorporates the marketing strategy)--the net effect of which is that attending a House show is a far less imposing, formal, intimidating cultural experience than attending a show at a more "institutional" theater. Moreover, this reinvention extends to an innovative story-telling technique that utilizes the cinematic and visual possibilities at a theater's disposal in addition to design work that creates events with sound and light in previously unseen and viscerally effective ways. They also creatively use dance and incorporate physical storytelling into their work.
Most importantly, however, in my view, they embrace contemporary reimaginations of the ancient mythological structure in original work. This embrace of myth by The House is tantamount to their endorsement of meaning in storytelling--and their staking out a significant position with respect to the theater's pressing dilemma on some of the questions previously considered here. The success of this focus is tantamount to a ratification of meaning in storytelling by the American theater's most elusive target--20-somethings. They are thirsting for this type of work and the House is providing it.
Other prominent directors, like Mary Zimmerman and JoAnne Akalitis have done and continue to do excellent work in the mythological vein. But The House's work differs in two respects--it almost universally utilizes contemporary scenarios (along the mythological lines) and it lives within its own universe. In Akalitis' work especially, there is an active "standing outside of the text" by the ensemble performing. This amounts to a contemporary running commentary on the ancient texts that she reimagines. This is fine and important work. But there is no "meta-theatricality" in The House's work. While they are happy to break the fourth wall, their work is in earnest, and is contained within an enactment of the world they have imagined, apart from running commentary on that world. This work is clearly in demand.
In part two of this article, I'll try to survey the work being done by the House in The Sparrow. Their work is rich: and a document of this densely packed, technically detailed work is bound to be a bit long. However, I believe that the House will be an important theater in the future of Chicago theater and that we should study their methods in order to understand what audiences are responding to right now.
Mythology, however, has always been a living metaphor through which such dreams have found meaning. Mythology, in every culture, according to Campbell, guides us, teaches us, and reassures us as we take on new roles in our development. For Campbell, life in the USA has an inherently regressive character. In a more mature society, mythology establishes social conventions through which its inhabitants actually take on new roles both internally and externally. In the USA, psychoanalysis aims to ameliorate internal tensions of development to enable participation in an external fantasy of everlasting youth. Mythology aims to guide the individual internally through such tensions--as well as teach societies of the nature of social roles which we all, simply by virtue of certain constants of the nature of the human the human experience, must confront.
There is a universal form to both creation and hero myths, that, according to Campbell, expresses these tensions across every cultural barrier. It should not surprise us that adolescents facing their own pressing crises of development have relied throughout the 20th century on comic books of all sorts, movie myths (Star Wars and Lord of the Rings, for example), and sports stars and athletics as their guides. We laugh at the archetypal gawky teenage boy in braces, hanging out at the comic book shop. But this aesthetic impulse reflects, specifically, what Campbell is talking about.
One role of storytelling, in this formulation, is the contemporary reinvention of the mythological forms. But something has happened in the 20th century, apart from what Campbell sees as the aforementioned regressive permanence of the American glorification of youth. Artists have grown deeply afraid of myth, in my view. Sarah Kane's work articulates this fear, especially in Red Orchid's current production of Blasted. Blasted is more than an absurd portrayal of violence and war--it is a systematic attack on the idea that we can be safely guided in large-scale questions of war and death by storytelling itself. Storytelling, narrative, and myth all retrospectively make some sense of violence as the result of a meaningful chain of causality. But the experience of violence, especially the violence enacted by the contemporary war-machine, is highly decontextualized. There is no army approaching the countryside in wars with sensible causes. There are bombs that drop randomly from the sky, and soldiers who appear out of nowhere. The traditional forms of storytelling, for Kane, when it comes to violence, are inherently misleading, except from a most facile perspective.
As participants in a western democracy, we vote, from a safe distance, by way of just these very facile, inaccurate narratives of violence, whether they are supplied by the media or the strictly creative artist. We encounter these narratives between Cheerios and the morning paper. We never experience the true, decontextualized nature of violence in war. And thus, Sarah Kane has made works that illustrate this non-narrative, senseless reality.
I have meditated at length on this blog as to The Pillowman and Martin McDonagh's perspective on questions of the balance between suffering as a result of, and truthfulness in, art. My interpretation of the Pillowman holds that Katurian's stories are necessarily meaningful, if flawed, and that his brother's response to those stories is not necessarily one of mechanistic recreation. However, The Pillowman is the perfect vessel for the questions of the contemporary artist's fear of myth, because depending on one's interpretation we see arguments for and against meaning and myth, and arguments that directly press on the nature of readership. Kane, and possibly the director of the Broadway production, might hold that Katurian's stories are infused with narrative meaning, but that readers are too irresponsible in their relationship to story, and will necessarily recreate violence irresponsibly and harmfully. (Actually, Kane might hold that Katurian is deluding himself into believing that narrative can be a vessel for making his experience meaningful, too). Hannah and WB Worthen, in their recent article in Modern Drama, tend toward an interpretation that holds that Katurian's stories are internally devoid of meaning, and therefore become "blank allegories," externally—that is to say: easily subject to a mechanistic recreation.
The ideas woven into Blasted and contained within interpretive discussion of The Pillowman nicely encapsulate the contemporary artistic-intellectual reluctance to embrace myth and meaning as Campbell defines it classically. However, myth has lost none of its currency with audiences either in Hollywood or in publishing--Frank Miller's "300" is the perfect example of this. And the enduring currency of myth may also explain the popularity of Chicago's House Theatre.
The House has succeeded in attracting an impossible demographic (ages 15 to 35) to come out in droves to the Viaduct Theater--which is especially impressive considering The Viaduct's remoteness from CTA lines at Belmont and Western. Commercial and big-time non-profit theater relies on 40+ viewership and that audience’s subscriptions. Any ensemble that can inspire devotion amongst 20-somethings has captured an audience of which every big theater in Chicago is envious, as this is the building block for those theaters' plans for the next generation.
Steppenwolf, I assume for both perfectly altruistic artistic reasons, and to develop a younger audience base, has recently started commissioning many of the younger companies in the city to create work for their Garage space, and occasionally invites current productions to extend their runs in that space too. They have wisely done this with The House's "The Sparrow."
On the Sunday night on which I attended The Sparrow, the devotion amongst 15 to 35 year olds was apparent. Not only was this Sunday evening show sold out (Sunday shows are notoriously tricky for storefronts in Chicago), but also the entire rest of the run was sold out.
I attribute this devotion to a number of factors, aside from general considerations of high-quality work (scores of high-quality productions go perfectly unnoticed): First, a deft guerilla marketing strategy that utilizes the internet and social networks to publicize the House. Then, a reinvention of every detail of the theater-going experience from the moment an audience member enters the space (which also incorporates the marketing strategy)--the net effect of which is that attending a House show is a far less imposing, formal, intimidating cultural experience than attending a show at a more "institutional" theater. Moreover, this reinvention extends to an innovative story-telling technique that utilizes the cinematic and visual possibilities at a theater's disposal in addition to design work that creates events with sound and light in previously unseen and viscerally effective ways. They also creatively use dance and incorporate physical storytelling into their work.
Most importantly, however, in my view, they embrace contemporary reimaginations of the ancient mythological structure in original work. This embrace of myth by The House is tantamount to their endorsement of meaning in storytelling--and their staking out a significant position with respect to the theater's pressing dilemma on some of the questions previously considered here. The success of this focus is tantamount to a ratification of meaning in storytelling by the American theater's most elusive target--20-somethings. They are thirsting for this type of work and the House is providing it.
Other prominent directors, like Mary Zimmerman and JoAnne Akalitis have done and continue to do excellent work in the mythological vein. But The House's work differs in two respects--it almost universally utilizes contemporary scenarios (along the mythological lines) and it lives within its own universe. In Akalitis' work especially, there is an active "standing outside of the text" by the ensemble performing. This amounts to a contemporary running commentary on the ancient texts that she reimagines. This is fine and important work. But there is no "meta-theatricality" in The House's work. While they are happy to break the fourth wall, their work is in earnest, and is contained within an enactment of the world they have imagined, apart from running commentary on that world. This work is clearly in demand.
In part two of this article, I'll try to survey the work being done by the House in The Sparrow. Their work is rich: and a document of this densely packed, technically detailed work is bound to be a bit long. However, I believe that the House will be an important theater in the future of Chicago theater and that we should study their methods in order to understand what audiences are responding to right now.
The Sparrow, Part II
I cannot speak at length to The House's marketing strategy, but I can survey their other methods, as evidenced by this production of The Sparrow, and I'll try to do so here. From the start, the experience of a House show is different--we enter the cavernous warehouse of the Viaduct lobby, which doubles as a bar. Drinks are cheap, and although this was a Sunday, the slightly shabby interior (reminiscent of the Skylark in East Pilsen) puts aside any of the high-art anxiety we might have in attending theater. Company members are almost always present, and there is an open, inquisitive, sweet atmosphere present before we enter the space. Our tickets for the show, in keeping with the creative marketing genius of the company, are baseball cards themed to the show being performed that feature all of the ensemble and designers, with biographies. As the Sparrow is set in a rural midwestern high-school, the cards feature pictures of the ensemble and designers from school portraits.
As we file into our seats, we see cast and crew milling about--the scene is somewhat reminiscent of a moment in the film Rushmore, with characters in bizarre costumes in a high school filing past. There is high-energy music pumping from the sound system--Goody Mob and Christina Aguilera, for example. The stage is a square in a high-ceilinged warehouse. The audience is on three sides of the square, and there is a wall that conceals the dressing areas. Entrances and exits are almost universally unmasked in House shows, even when an entrance is a surprise, plot-wise.
As the music fades, a Master of Ceremonies enters. There is a "pep rally" feel to the atmosphere, as experienced House audience members and current ensemble members from off-stage hoot and holler to welcome the MC. Nominally, he is there to publicize future House shows, and to hawk merchandise. But his real role is to indoctrinate the audience into a different kind of theater going experience, one that condones childish response, one that doesn't seek to intimidate the layperson by placing an implacable pedagogical barrier between the audience and the interpretation and enjoyment of art. The New York Times, in their recent profile of Chicago theater, compared the House's audience experience to that of the groundlings in the time of the Globe. There is an energy, a frankness, and a joy in the atmosphere of a House show, and the curtain speech at the top sets this atmosphere in place. The theater, for the House, should be akin to the experience of a rock show--we should release our inhibitions and respond viscerally and intuitively. We shouldn't have to think about how we should respond, or how we should look to the other audience members and the artists. The audience, at various points in the curtain speech, cheers enthusiastically, encouraged by the ensemble.
The set is a blank stage with a wall behind it, featuring a hanging square to the right side in front of the wall. There are panels behind the audience on either side of the stage. During the introduction, the panels behind the audience were lit sky blue, and the panel behind the stage was a warm orange. We are encouraged to "make some noise" for The Sparrow. The production opens to a community meeting at which Principal Skor, played by by Stephen Taylor, is setting a very civil, restrained tone for a tense discussion. An advanced student wants to study at the high school. She needs to study with the Junior class, but graduate this year. Her grandmother has passed away. She needs to live with someone.
The audience hears these facts, but cannot string them together into any meaningful inference other than the tension underlying the admission of this outsider into the community. The writers are content to tease the audience with limited knowledge of a complex plot--and this is for better and worse. Throughout the first act we find ourselves anxiously trying to piece the story together (and as the play is driven by a rather straightforward plot, this is sensible). But we simply cannot do it comprehensively, and this inability inhibits the drama at certain points. On the other hand, the audience is intrigued by these facts, and does work to piece them together. The writers succeed in inspiring us to work with them to put things together.
One problem for me in this vein was my seating on the night on which I saw the show initially. I was sitting in the stage left section of the bleacher-like seats. Later, seeing the show—in its remount at the Steppenwolf—from a frontal perspective (and with the benefit of a prior viewing) many of the subtler points seemed to be communicated more easily.
However, from the top, the characters are clearly eccentric, bold, and yet communicate a certain pathos in this eccentricity that is touching. Michael E. Smith as Albert McGuckin and Lauren Vitz as Margaret Rosenthal are wonderful this way. As these rather oddball parents speak, holding framed school-age portraits of children, we sense their restraint. This is the atmosphere of the piece in a nutshell, a warm, genial, small-town brightness that is holding something horrible at bay. The community consents to allow the advanced student, and one of the families agrees to take her in. The girl enters, dressed darkly, and holding her own school portrait. To the sounds of original music that is somewhat reminiscent of Badly Drawn Boy (which is being featured prominently in a national ad campaign now) the parents and the girl arrange themselves in a living class portrait. The parents, to the sound of an explosion, turn the picture frames ninety-degrees at a time clockwise, in sync.
In another interesting usage of picture frames, Principal Skor and Margaret Rosenthal stand stage right and take the parents’ portraits (pictures of their children) and exchange them for framed landscape scenes, that the parents, one by one, display, walking behind a girl seated in a chair (simulating a car). Thus, the images, as they are handed off simulate expressionistically, the passing of scenery. This is a highly cinematic effect that does not use moving picture at all.
The images are of small town scenes and rural landscapes, but something in the characters and costuming of the oddball small-town parents in the meeting has tipped us off to the nature of the quirky small town already. Still, the montage is used to good effect here and it is a cinematic story-telling technique that the House uses frequently--occasionally bordering on overindulgence. Still it holds our attention and it connects, emotionally, especially with the original music.
She complains to her driver, a mysterious, bearded fellow named Thomas (about whom we learn very little) that she “can’t do it.” He insists “tell them what you did.” In the “Sparrow” theme, he insists that she, like a bird must be pushed from the nest to learn to fly.
The girl is unsubtly surnamed Emily Book (Carolyn Defrin). As she enters in the next scene, to a strange applause, her unwieldy brown case awkwardly breaks open, and she awkwardly rushes to gather her things. She is greeted by the community at an even, if halting pace that divulges some inner tension. For a moment the crowd’s attentions diffuses, and then clears. A woman openly stares at her. A chandelier lowers from the ceiling, and we find ourselves in the home of the McGuckens, Emily’s new family.
They greet her awkwardly, and they sit for dinner. Emily comments in a robotic tone that they have “nice plates.” The father, Albert (Michael E. Smith), speaks haltingly, at an almost snail’s pace that, again, reveals some raging inner tension. By contrast, his wife, Joyce (Kat McDonnell) speaks with an utterly sincere air–at a high pace that betrays nothing. Their son, Charlie rages, with an energy that reveals the community’s tension, at Emily, and she rushes from the table with her formidable old black case. At this outburst, we hear a sound event composed of what sounds like bass feedback from an amplifier or loose sound cable connection. It is highly jarring. Charlie, in response to Emily’s staying in “Sarah’s room” protests that not even he is allowed in Sarah’s room.
Many of these revelatory details were unclear for me in the first viewing and in the seat I occupied upon that viewing. After seeing the show a second time much of the elegance of the unfolding details made a strong impression on me. I wonder, however, whether Allen, Chris Mathews, and Jake Minton, the creators of the piece, could have done a better job in taking the audience from plot-point to plot-point.
Following Emily’s exit, Joyce reenters, saying “let me get that for you” offering Emily a small doll’s house diorama that is lit warmly from within, one of the most clever, intelligent design devices in the show. The chandelier rises. The music changes to the sounds of synthesizer vibraphone (reminiscent of Mr. Rogers’ xylophones). Joyce sets the doll’s house down and removes a room from it. They face each other, awestruck. Joyce’s pace slackens, and we sense for a moment that the inner tension that the ensemble has so capably been suppressing is also very much alive in Joyce. She comments, among other things, that Emily “has glasses now.” On the second viewing, it became abundantly clear that Joyce was acting as if Sarah had been away for a long time and was suddenly appearing before her in the form of Emily. However this was unclear on my first viewing of the piece. She hands the tiny room to Emily in a touching moment, and then reassumes the light, sincere tone she held previously. As Joyce exits, Emily reminds her that she’s “not Sarah.”
At this line, the music changes, with a shift in light. We see a series of projections on the back wall with violins being plucked and then violin music. They start with constellations, then moving landscapes. We see a bus, and then hear a build in music, and then the inside of the bus and children’s faces. We hear train sounds. Emily approaches the projection with her back to us. The projection and music suddenly stop, and we hear someone say “welcome to school.”
We hear a new music cue start, and we feel the baseline rhythm of the school to be different and higher from that of the home and of the projections that represent Emily’s memories. In the cinematic school montage of moving students and dance routines, Principal Skor dumps coffee on himself in the bustle. Emily, in her conservative dark suit, is, in her movement, a living rhythmic contrast to the colorful, playful costumes and frenetic pace of the hallways of the school. The students, at this pace, fetch lockers and place them at the back of the stage. They then rush from place to place and toss footballs to one another as Emily is spun around. A cheerleading squad takes the stage and performs apart from Emily. We see pink light, and Wilco-esque acoustic percussive sounds. We see yellow light that transitions to organ music. The students set a classroom of desks in place. Emily finds herself alone. The students enter on a school bell.
We see a young teacher, Mr. Christopher, giving a lecture in low light, with a transparency projection on the small rectangle at the back of the stage, of the heart. This youngish teacher is describing the heart as moving “involuntarily.” There is an adolescent, hormonal atmosphere set by the ensemble to begin with, but the young teacher describing the anatomical nature of the heart cleverly establishes a very flirtatious atmosphere. The teacher points to us in the audience and includes us in the atmosphere. He constantly shifts directions in his movement, constantly running himself at a higher pace than his students. The lights go up, the overhead goes out. Emily, again, is clearly out of rhythm in this young, raucous classroom. He asks Jenny, a brightly dressed girl, who, like every girl is class is somewhat ga-ga for him a question which she answers perfectly. In contrast the boys are almost all slacking off in the back of the classroom.
In the closest that the House comes to metatheatricality, Christopher asks a question that is, in his own words “arbitrary and unfair.” The feeling here is that the writers are letting us in on the joke of their obvious device for illustrating Emily’s bookishness (although her dress and her demeanor bespeak this without the additional elaboration). He asks her this exaggeratedly difficult and unfair question, to which she doesn’t bat an eyelash. She answers. He informs the class of the upcoming fetal pig dissection, which everyone celebrates. He pumps his fist enthusiastically. They cheer, and exit.
Emily is slower than the rest to leave (Emily’s rhythmic dissonance is continually used by Allen throughout the first act). Before the class is gone, Mr. Christopher introduces Emily to Jenny McGrath, that blonde who answered his question earlier, a head cheerleader-type, to give her an opportunity to make nice with someone who is obviously amongst the most popular in school. They greet, awkwardly, and Jenny exits.
Until now the play has more or less followed what Campbell would consider to be a standard monomythic form. The creators of the show, in the press pack, credit Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster for inspiration in their creation of the Midwestern “hero-myth” (through Superman). Superman is among countless comic-book heroes who correspond to Campbell’s mythology.
In Emily’s case, the hero is compelled to traverse her communal boundary–interestingly, this breaking of the barrier is presented initially from the perspective of the PTA meeting at which Emily entry into the community is discussed. Also interesting is the fact that, in this interpretation of the monomyth, the hero’s breaking out of the boundaries of her home community represents a homecoming in her return to the high school.
Initially, she refuses to accept her place in the new school–she stands apart. The bearded driver, Thomas, who reasons with her that she must be pushed from the nest may be her initial helper or mentor (another key theme in classic myth is this bearded, Obi-Wan-like helper), however Thomas is never elaborated upon.
She is then incorporated into the belly of a monster–another standard monomythic scenario–in this case the school itself is the whale swallowing up the contemporary Jonah. The ancient structural narrative points–Emily’s refusal of the challenge and the incorporation into the beast are communicated to us physically, in a manner that can only be accomplished in a theater.
Now, the hero faces the helper, who, in this case, is Mr. Christopher. Typically, according to Campbell, this is an older, bearded figure who bestows upon the hero an amulet of some sort that will aid the hero in his or her quest.
He takes an enormous bite of an apple (given to him at the top of the previous scene by Jenny). The apple is lovely here—it is dual symbol of the teacher and temptation. Jenny exits. He lamely jokes, in counterpoint to Emily’s bookish restraint and seriousness. He innocently flirts with Emily, and his frenetic pace is matched by another, awkwardly frenetic pace from Emily. He is pumping himself up, she is restraining something. Both are masking something. She blushes.
He recites to her from Whitman’s Body Electric, which is appropriate on several levels–first, as he is a biology teacher he glories in the wonders of the human body, which the poem celebrates. Second, the poem works as an invitation to physically self-conscious, highly intellectual girl to join the humming physical life of the school–so the implication of her aphysicality coming from the text in the use of this poem is foreshadowed physically throughout the first act prior to the poem’s recitation. In the scene it works as a form of flirtation (which, we might infer, is one of Mr. Christopher’s chief tactics), especially as it is coupled with his munching of the apple.
It is, in Campbellian terms, both a call to adventure and an amulet that will guide her in that adventure. Christopher gives her his wife’s copy of Leaves of Grass (the collection containing the poem), which serves as a physical counterpart to the words of the poem itself. Those words settle the dissonant rhythmic tension present at the top of the scene. In this interaction, the breadth of Emily’s reading is clear: she has read all of Dickens, among others.
To the strains of another musical sound event with accordion, Emily is then confronted en masse by a group. During my first viewing of the piece, the nature of this scene seemed a bit “mashed-up.” However, on my second viewing it was clear that it consisted of parents or other students asking Emily about their brothers and sisters or sons and daughters. Once I had a fuller understanding of the plot (after seeing the show through on the first viewing), this made sense.
We then transition to a scene in which Jenny suggests that Emily has arrived at school at just the right time–homecoming. She encourages Emily to join the cheerleading squad, a big favor considering that she would be bypassing the normal auditions and be placed on the team on Jenny’s authority. Emily refuses, but accepts a job as “towel girl” for the basketball team. Here, as elsewhere and with other characters, Jenny’s fluidity, play and grace are contrasted against Emily’s halting dischord.
Emily then finds herself confronted by Charlie (Sara Hoyer), the son of the couple that has taken her in. He is wearing an American Indian headdress and is fantasy playing. He orders her to halt and she gives him an offering to be allowed to pass. She walks toward the house, and as she does, he fires his slingshot at her. She instantly senses and catches the rock, which magically appears in her hand (the incorporation of live visual magic effects is very compelling aspect of the House’s work). He demands that she not talk about his sister.
I believe this moment of silliness turned to drama, besides another opportunity to highlight Emily’s alienation is a perfectly monomythic moment, in which Emily, the hero, must face and, using her wiles, appease a monster, namely the pesky monster with whom she finds herself living. Tasks like these are common in mythology–and here, the silly moment with Charlie is such a task.
The interaction closes with Charlie imploring Emily not to mention his sister. At the mention of the sister, we see a blue flash and hear a synthetic wind sound effect. Orange light fills the stage. Then we hear a bell and voices saying “happy homecoming.” Principal Skor mentions the hated rivals, the Hornets. We find Emily in PE class, where the coach asks whether Emily has a safety strap for her glasses. When she replies that she doesn’t, he goes off to get her “rec-specs” (Emily’s ostracization through such physical impediments is well-clarified). He leaves the class to play a game of their choice, and they elect to play the perfect game for abuse of the weakest, outcast classmates: dodgeball. We hear the vibraphone sounds and Wilco-esque percussion , and the lights cool. The action ramps up. The game becomes a choreographed movement piece in which, yet again (and at this point, the theme is redundant) Emily’s physical energy is contrasted with that of her classmates. We find ourselves in a montage in orange light followed by darkness. The class gangs up and circles her. Someone yells “get her!” and the students aim all the dodgeballs at her. The coach enters, rebukes the class, and escorts Emily out.
We hear the slow ticking of a clock, which harmonizes with the bomb imagery that we have just taken in. We find ourselves in a classroom, but this time, Emily isn’t the first to arrive, she is the last. Mr. Christopher is presiding. On my first viewing of the piece I did not get that this was detention, although Mr. Christopher’s statement that they all “know why they’re here” and the students dejected body language should have tipped me. Details like these may have been lost due to my perspective from the stage right seats.
As this is detention, and Emily is not being punished, her arrival is a dramatic act of solidarity and forgiveness. In a small way she includes herself. When a boy ridicules her that he hit her in the mouth, Emily retorts: “It must not have been that hard, because I didn’t feel it.” The delicious subtle double-meaning devastates the boy. Mr. Christopher then implores the students to be safe, in that he, and the community surrounding them, is trying to protect them. When a student asks “from what?” we hear the sound of passing trains, and the scene changes to orange light. The students then reenact a catastrophic accident in which they are turned upside down. After a long silence following this instantaneous, unannounced reenactment, Mr. Christopher again argues that the rules are present is there for their protection. Emily agrees, speaking chillingly: “the future has pain in store for all of us,” the implication being that there is no need to look for more pain.
A great deal of cultural comment is encapsulated in this business, and whether it is really necessary in terms of telling the story or not, it does bear discussion. First is the question of the American impulse toward creating a “pure” atmosphere for the upbringing of children, which is an outgrowth of the idea of America as a “city on a hill” in which a community could purify itself. The relationship between such a community and its youth, who push the boundaries of “safety” is artfully explicated here.
There is another interesting cultural spin stemming from this particular interpretation of the monomyth, that is related to this quest for purity (and hence the exclusion of Emily who is impure): Midwestern American hospitality. Emily is an outsider who, as will be made entirely explicit later, was complicit in a terrible accident in the town years ago. She is different, and yet, for all that, there is a veneer of kindness and love worn by nearly every student in the school. This veneer seems absolutely genuine to me–and yet it is a mask. This is an interesting critique of suburban, exurban, and rural values, as it highlights the peculiar contemporary character of the exclusion of outsiders in small-town life. The outsider is shunned, but this is done with a smile that may be sincere. The town is sincerely fighting its own impulse to ostracize Emily, but rather than lessen her pariahdom, this causes the ostracization to take on a more virulent and yet insidious quality. This portrayal is invaluable as a metaphor for how many perfectly polite and reasonable-seeming Americans process their discomfort with any number of types of minorities and outsiders in an age of Political Correctness, in which, in most communities, there is a deep impulse toward purification, yet in which it is impermissible to openly voice biased words.
We hear the sounds of the vibraphone again, and find ourselves in Emily's room. Joyce, it is clear has been asleep in Sarah’s old, and Emily’s current bedroom. Joyce asserts that she knows that Emily is not her daughter, but then reiterates her welcome to her. She mentions that she comes to Sarah’s room when she feels overwhelmed. The lights cool. Again, there is a sincerity to the Joyce’s rhythm here which she loses in an effective unraveling of composure. There is also a pathos illustrated by her sleeping in her late-daughter’s room. She begs to know what happened on “that day.” We hear a train sound. Joyce cannot, she says, remember what her daughter wore. As she exits, Emily replies: “yellow.” She heads downstairs to “make spirit boxes” for the homecoming festivities. Emily agrees to join her, in an unspoken acceptance of her role as surrogate daughter.
There is some elegant conceptually tight storytelling here, and there is also the need for fuller detail. For me, on a second viewing, with a full knowledge of the fact of the story in advance, it was easy to see the clues that the storytellers and designers give us to the accident and Emily’s role in it. We hear a train sound in the distance when it is mentioned. We have seen a catastrophic reenactment of it. But without a knowledge of the facts, and without a full frontal perspective on the action, many of these clues, I fear, are lost. However, the various light shades, the various musical styles that link to scenes and themes, and sound events are elegant and tightly woven together to communicate implications in a very creative way. Balance is the key here, and the House, I feel, is working of the balance between explicit and implicit storytelling techniques.
We hear the sound of an organ playing a school song. Cheerleaders enter in pricelessly tacky brown and red uniforms. The students sing in corny harmony, and the boys enter in basketball uniforms. We hear Wilco-esque drums as the music gets peppier, eventually taking on a dance beat. In the words of South Park: “we’re gonna need a montage.”
One problem in House shows is the disproportionate segmenting of things like this. To illustrate to an audience Emily's status as an outcast or the fervent atmosphere of a school event, can, especially given the energy with which their ensemble works, be accomplished in relatively short time. But oftentimes in The Sparrow, we spend a disproportionate amount of time on certain points in the narrative, and disproportionately little time on other points that might have greater impact.
Following the school song sequence, the music changes, and we hear the voice of a PA announcer. Cleverly, the actors playing for the Sparrows (Emily's new high school team's mascot), simply turn their jerseys inside out to assume the roles of the opposing basketball team. Again, in a very essentially theatrical way, the House makes the elegant equation between the kids on opposing sides of this rivalry (in which the Sparrows have been thoroughly dominated of late). The lights are warm and orange on the pre-game cheer routine.
The lights brighten as we transition to the game. The basketball game is a wonderfully unreal, highly choreographed dance of athletics, again, making use of the House's profound sense of physical expression. It is tempting for them to overuse this tool; in sequences like the basketball game, we find ourselves playing the role of the crowd in the bleachers. It is never explained why homecoming is, at this school, a basketball rather than football event, but as an audience we accept it without question. The game and the culture of the school enfold us naturally and thoroughly.
The cheerleaders perform a routine, and then the aggravated coach in a wonderful plaid jacket barks at Emily, to “get more towels,” as it’s so wet that a player could get hurt and cost the school the game. The possibility that Emily’s actions might lead to a loss clearly motivates her. We then find ourselves in the locker room, where the cheer squad is frantic. The lights cool. The cheerleaders are considering an outrageous, dangerous stunt: to catapult Jenny up to the rafters, have her pull down the opposing team's banner (which hangs there as a token of their recent dominance of the rivalry) and fall into her teammates' arms. When Emily, who has walked in to get the aforementioned towels overhears the plan, she objects. At the threat of her revealing the dangerous plan, the cheerleaders strip her, revealing her conservative underwear, and stuff her into a locker. A thrilling sound even coincides with this violence.
Again, at this point, the audience has experienced certain suggestions of Emily's involvement in a train disaster. But we know nothing of the specific circumstances of that disaster or her subsequent exile from the community. Furthermore, we have seen evidence that she has some strange power, but we don't know what that power is. We need more concrete plot development in this first act, and less indulgence in effective, but overused atmosphere-setting music, montage, and dance sequences.
Why? Because Emily's restraint from fighting back against her attackers is a key event in the piece, as is what follows. Until now, Emily has struggled to conceal superpowers from her community. She does this, I take it, as she fears for her safety—revealing these powers would implicate her (accurately) in the deaths of the rest of her kindergarten class years ago, in a school bus accident. We learn these details in full detail later, but the scene that follows Emily's attack constitutes a major event, because it amounts to her performing a key act in Campbell's understanding of the monomyth: “accepting the call to adventure.” Until now, Emily has denied the call. But forced to choose between unmasking her own powers, (and, she can presume, her culpability in her classmates' deaths) and the death of a classmate in a senseless stunt, Emily bravely accepts the dangers of heroism, calls out from inside her locker into a halftime meeting of the boys basketball team.
Now, this event is highly bracketed by Allen and his design team. And, poetically, Emily's half-nakedness articulates her unmasking. But without more concrete plot development up to this point, the gravity of her acceptance of the call is unclear, and as storytellers, The House lose the opportunity to throw their hero into the sharpest possible relief.
Emily frantically explains the danger and the team rushes to stop it. We transition in focus to the cheer routine in which Jenny is catapulted to the rafters to pull the Hornets’ banner down (the banner is located over the panel on the upstage wall. The music and the stunt turns slow at the climactic point of action. A montage is used effectively, as the slow violin music takes us in transition to the locker room. Emily bursts from the locker and puts on the only thing she can find–a bright white cheerleaders uniform. The lights transition us to the gym, as the same music piece plays. This time, as we find ourselves in the gym, Mr. Christopher is flat on the floor, reaching for Jenny, who is still hanging from the banner. This is another very clever device from Allen and the House. Rather than execute a complex stunt in the Viaduct loft space, they rely on their Cliff Chamberlain’s (Mr. Christopher) physical commitment to communicate the danger, from flat on the floor.
The string music swells. The lights go orange, and same violin musical piece builds as Emily flies. Her flying is implied in the “looking up” of the crowd, and her grace in pulling Jenny from the banner. The crowd circles, and Jenny is passed “down” into the circle. The frantic pace of the danger recedes. As it does, and the crowd realizes what Emily has done, they stare at her. On the basketball game’s “sub” horn, she zips away at a high pace, and her classmates chase her. We then hear the sounds of crickets. Mr. Christopher finds Emily, and, awe-struck exclaims that Emily just “flew.” He’s raving to himself that Emily is a superhero, and he gives her an enthusiastic high-five.
We transition to a plodding song incorporating the vibraphone sounds, transitioning to saxaphone sounds. Emily dances as the tempo increases. She executes a clearly bird-like “sparrow” dance that is very well designed and executed. The rhythm, and the dance, build, and the lights shift to a cool shade. We see a projection of stars projected, and as the music and dance crescendo, the show goes to intermission.
On the return from intermission, we see warm orange light, and Emily in a rather more "chic" black outfit. The lockers are out again, and we hear the voice of Principal Skor, (the high-pitched ringing tone used to bracket events, especially Emily’s magic plays underneat the announcement). We see another music montage in which Emily catches and returns the balls thrown about the hallway. We hear her new nickname "The Sparrow." Emily is in full physical harmony with the pace of the school. Meanwhile, Jenny is “bumped” by a rolling projection cart, underlining her diminished status.
We then find ourselves in Mr. Christopher's biology class. They are dissecting fetal pigs. Again, Mr. Christopher, in his energy, stays ahead of the class to whom he's speaking. In a nice effect, the House uses stuffed pig puppets in this scene. To expose what's hidden is the goal, and elegantly, the subtext of the class, and of the piece is articulated metaphorically through a science class exercise. In the first act, the biology class dwelt on the function of the heart. Now it is focused on the entire system of life beneath the surface–to “make ourselves better.”
The students fight to be Emily’s partner. During the experiment, Mr. Christopher guides Emily’s hand. We see the lights turn orange, and hear the high-pitched event tone. Suddenly the pigs’ hearts starts beating. Christopher, astonished, asks with fear if Emily is “doing this,” to which she replies in an entranced tone “yeah.” When he asks her what else she can do, we hear a big band play.
To the music of Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Got the World on a String”, we see a choreographed dance piece with the pigs. Mr. Christpoher sings. The other kids snap along as background dancers. The puppet pigs sing along in the back. Mr. Christopher, as part of this 40s style musical montage then, walks along a line of desks as they are placed in a line before him beneath his feet on a makeshift “bridge.” One of the boys allows a declaration of love for Mr. Christopher to escape. We hear a scream and learn the Jenny made out with a pig. One of the students asks if there is homework, to which Christopher hilariously shouts “GET OUT!”
What follows is an awkward interaction in which Mr. Christopher compliments her “aside from” her “superpowers” and confronts her about what appears to be her acting out on a crush through her powers. He calls her the “cats pajamas,” and acknowledges that he’s worked on this whole “cool teacher” persona. He asks if she’s going to the dance. The talk concludes with a dispirited high-five, and an awkward platonic understanding between them.
We hear the vibraphone sounds that take us home, and we see the inner-lit diorama. Emily's foster father, Albert, interrupts her reading. They have a persistent, matching, suppressed, halting energy in the interaction. He encourages her to attend the homecoming dance, and informs her that Margaret Rosenthal and Joyce want a picture of her with it. He touchingly lays the corsage on the floor. Again, the subtext of the tension is still not specifically clear, and we are in the middle of the second act.
Emily refuses to attend. Why? Is this related to her outsiderness, still? Is it related to her embarrassment at what has just happened in science class? Emily would appear not only to have transformed into an overnight school celebrity, but also to enjoy it. If the subtext of her reluctance is the danger she senses in the exposure of her powers (and thus, potentially her complicity in the decade old tragedy), it is unclear.
After a moment of chilling silence, in which Emily seems to rebuff the quintessential midwestern over-hospitality (betraying something underneath), Albert re-welcomes her. We hear the sound of the train. He encourages her again. Their interaction seems to calm to an intimate comfort and ease. We hear the easy sound of crickets. She takes the corsage from the floor and suddenly embraces him, again in acceptance of her role, fulfilling her foster family’s need for a high school age daughter, at the time when their daughter would have been of high-school age.
We move to the dance, with the mirror ball, and a jazz-sounded montage. We see another choreographed sequence featuring an electric piano and a baritone sax. As Emily enters, she is surrounded by a circle of admirers. She is the hero of the school. She dances with them, again, in harmony with the community.
The music slows, and there is a slow dance. Lauren Vitz is hilarious as Phoebe Marks, who is heart-breakingly rejected after asking for a dance. The dancers dissolve off stage–and Emily last. The scene shifts to Mr. Christopher's biology classroom, where we hear the muffled sounds of dance music. Mr. Christopher is alone with Jenny. He encourages her to return to the dance. She complains of Emily's newfound popularity–insulting her neck, and commenting that the other students want an encore from that days’ performance in class. She also, punctuates a sentence by addressing Christopher as “Dan.” As an audience, we sense a dangerous romantic tension between these two characters from the moment we see them alone. As the scene progresses, Christopher shines a light from the overhead projector on Jenny, complimenting her. They dance to the muffled music, and she kisses him. As she does, Emily enters, saying “...so I came...” We see the cue (orange light, ringing, a flash of light, crashing sound) signifying Emily's magic and we hear a crashing sound. Following the magic cue, we see a stain of blood on Jenny’s cheek.
In the ensuing blackout, we see projections of pictures of houses and another confrontation with a group of people en masse, just as in the first act. They are firing questions at her to the sounds of violins being plucked. Just as in the first act, this firing line questioning is followed by Charlie shooting at Emily with his slingshot, outside their home. This time, however, she does not catch the rock, and it hits her in the head. She sobs, and she and Charlie hug. She then senses Mr. Christopher behind her. We hear the sounds of crickets. In the subsequent interaction, he attempts to explain that he hadn't meant for the kiss to happen, that it had been a “one time thing.” Based on Jenny’s use of Christopher’s first name, we are left to wonder. He protests, in Whitman’s language, that “the body is not the soul.” Emily admonishes him on behalf of his wife. We then hear the sounds of trains, our cue to the mystery behind Emily’s exile from the town. Christopher reveals that his wife is dead, and was killed in "the" accident--she was driving "the" bus. He then reveals that he, too, bears a portrait--ie he also grieves.
The use of the portrait to signify a long-held grief is another elegant conceptual touch by the house. They create their own creative language from show to show, and when we see the portrait that Christopher bears, we automatically link him to the other grieving parents, and begin to assemble the details of the plot more clearly. The image of grief links in popular consciousness to 9/11 and crime victims and is very provocative.
In the scene change we hear the ticking of a clock, and see the panels behind the stage on all sides turn orange. Various character from the show appear as music starts again, striking poses–e.g. Charlie with his slingshot, and Albert with a bit of doll’s house furniture. We then a dance sequence featuring the characters moving through space, tearing pages from books in their hands. Mr. Christopher appears, sobbing. The characters toss the pages across the stage, in what I believe is a symbolic representation of the town’s self-imposed ignorance as to the details of the past. Jenny alone, appearing behind them, gathers the pages in her arms and makes a connection, to digital sounds and projected storm images behind. This conceptual point is again, very elegant, but it is rather lost unless we have a somewhat more advanced knowledge of the subtext of the play–a knowledge that is denied to us.
We see, in projection, behind Jenny with her arms full of pages, a series of projections and sounds from the bus. We see a young girl with glasses (clearly Emily). We see her make a fist, and we see rocks floating and train track bolds moving. We see a look of ferocity on Emily’s face. We see and hear a crash, that then fades and changes to a simple sound of moving water.
The film and graphic design work apparent in the projections is sophisticated and stylish, and without a strong background in film, I don't feel capable of placing it in any context. However, it is colorful, crisp, and very stylized.
We hear a bell and the school desks are arranged on stage (this scene was changed slightly in the Steppenwolf remount–I will describe it as it was presented at the Viaduct). We see Jenny in the same spot in which she was left during the previous choreographed montage, her arms full of the pages. A cacophony of students enter the room. Before class starts, Emily says to Jenny that she “won't tell anyone.”
Principal Skor enters and informs the class that Mr. Christopher has resigned. Jenny stands and confronts Emily: "Did you kill the senior class?" Emily runs from the scene, and Jenny sobs. All the students exit with their chairs, in horror. We hear a bell and see a scene and light shift. To the sounds of plucked violins, groups of parents on stage holding framed portraits are whispering to one another. Someone says "call Joyce!" We hear a phone ring off-stage. The scene shifts to the McGucken home, with the house diorama. Sobbing, Joyce and Emily embrace.
In an even, sincere pace, Joyce asks: "did you kill my daughter?" When Emily answers "yes." Joyce slaps her ferociously. Emily, restraining herself, attempts to defend herself. In a shriek that stands out from her composure throughout the piece, Joyce begs for her daughter back, and wants to know, suddenly, in all seriousness and need, if Emily can do that. Joyce then takes the diorama away.
In this scene as in many others, the actors on stage are not encumbered by a physically realistic portrayal of things. Joyce's act of expulsion from the family group isn't a slammed door or a scene that might be seen on "Cops." Rather, it is the simple, elegant appropriation of a diorama that, for the audience, has come to represent, and totally abstractly, home.
In the ensuing darkness, we hear piano music and voices discussing a "special school." We hear Emily protesting that she "doesn't want to go!" When the lights come up, we see Albert, at the front door informing the mob of neighbors that Emily has gone–that the window was open. The lights shift, cold, again, and we see Emily fleeing. This is interesting: the pretext for tehir search for her is, nominally, to save her, as a runaway. In fact she is being chased by an angry mob, and as she lugs her suitcase, she runs into Mr. Christopher, in orange light, that then fades. He offers her his ticket to Chicago--a talisman that will enable the hero to take her power to (in the words of Campbell) "purify" the larger world. In the Steppenwolf remount, this interaction was much angrier than it was in the first production.
The mob finds her, and, grasping the pictures of their children, lunges at her. The orange light and high-pitched magic sound intensify, as Emily “fires” magic at each person reaching for her, knocking them back. With is “firing” we hear a crash and see a flash. The Sheriff pulls a gun on her, and Jenny McGrath enters, seizes the gun, and shoots Mr. Christopher. The bullet pierces the eye of Mr. Christopher’s wife’s portrait, and hits him right in the heart.
There is a moment of silence. We then hear the sound of wind. The lights warm. A crowd with a medical background surrounds Mr. Christopher, and tends to him, with a professional suppressed panic that is compelling. The lights cool, and we hear a music cue swell. The crowd instinctively senses Emily approaching, and makes way for her. In another moment which elegantly incorporates live visual magic, we see her summon her power to pull the bullet from his body. As she does this the orange light intensifies almost unbearably, and we hear the high-pitched magic sound. The lights on the side panels turn orange. A spotlight highlights the body and the floating bullet. The spot fills in with orange, and all the lights on stage return to a normal wash color. We hear the sound of a heartbeat, and he gasps, coughing. Emily holds him. He tries to thank her, and she refuses his thanks. The separate, and we hear violin music.
To that music, Jenny begins building a choreographed "Sparrow" dance with the rest of the ensemble, that mirrors the dance done at the end of the first act. We see the projections of stars, and Emily sitting in a makeshift train car, made up of rows of seats, and we a projected Chicago skyline in movement on the screen behind, a link to her earlier position in the car in the first act. This time, she accepts the call of adventure, and embraces the journey to Chicago.
Emily has learned to use her magic to save a life, and in Campbell this is thought of as the "life-granting boon." A hero wrests or is granted this boon as a result of the struggle with the gods. In localized tales, the hero uses this boon to purify the community. In more general tales, the boon is used to save civilization. In this tale Emily will leave the confines of the town and come to Chicago.
Many 20-somethings living in Chicago left similar small towns (or reminiscent suburbs), and thus, the link between the audience and Emily is profound. And so, while certain narrative points are disproportionately emphasized, and while certain plot devices are rather simple, transparent, and frankly "Buffy-esque" (the scene in Mr. Christopher's class in which Emily answers an absurdly difficult question with ease comes to mind), the fact remains: The House's work resonates importantly with a very important audience. That their current run at the Steppenwolf is sold out is an indication of this.
Their work, technically, is creative and unique. And while the story seems simple at times, in its unique contemporary portrayal of the monsters and tasks of mythology, it is in fact a sophisticated portrait of our times that, should they continue to develop their work even more from a literary standpoint, may outgrow their current popularity and endure for years to come.
As we file into our seats, we see cast and crew milling about--the scene is somewhat reminiscent of a moment in the film Rushmore, with characters in bizarre costumes in a high school filing past. There is high-energy music pumping from the sound system--Goody Mob and Christina Aguilera, for example. The stage is a square in a high-ceilinged warehouse. The audience is on three sides of the square, and there is a wall that conceals the dressing areas. Entrances and exits are almost universally unmasked in House shows, even when an entrance is a surprise, plot-wise.
As the music fades, a Master of Ceremonies enters. There is a "pep rally" feel to the atmosphere, as experienced House audience members and current ensemble members from off-stage hoot and holler to welcome the MC. Nominally, he is there to publicize future House shows, and to hawk merchandise. But his real role is to indoctrinate the audience into a different kind of theater going experience, one that condones childish response, one that doesn't seek to intimidate the layperson by placing an implacable pedagogical barrier between the audience and the interpretation and enjoyment of art. The New York Times, in their recent profile of Chicago theater, compared the House's audience experience to that of the groundlings in the time of the Globe. There is an energy, a frankness, and a joy in the atmosphere of a House show, and the curtain speech at the top sets this atmosphere in place. The theater, for the House, should be akin to the experience of a rock show--we should release our inhibitions and respond viscerally and intuitively. We shouldn't have to think about how we should respond, or how we should look to the other audience members and the artists. The audience, at various points in the curtain speech, cheers enthusiastically, encouraged by the ensemble.
The set is a blank stage with a wall behind it, featuring a hanging square to the right side in front of the wall. There are panels behind the audience on either side of the stage. During the introduction, the panels behind the audience were lit sky blue, and the panel behind the stage was a warm orange. We are encouraged to "make some noise" for The Sparrow. The production opens to a community meeting at which Principal Skor, played by by Stephen Taylor, is setting a very civil, restrained tone for a tense discussion. An advanced student wants to study at the high school. She needs to study with the Junior class, but graduate this year. Her grandmother has passed away. She needs to live with someone.
The audience hears these facts, but cannot string them together into any meaningful inference other than the tension underlying the admission of this outsider into the community. The writers are content to tease the audience with limited knowledge of a complex plot--and this is for better and worse. Throughout the first act we find ourselves anxiously trying to piece the story together (and as the play is driven by a rather straightforward plot, this is sensible). But we simply cannot do it comprehensively, and this inability inhibits the drama at certain points. On the other hand, the audience is intrigued by these facts, and does work to piece them together. The writers succeed in inspiring us to work with them to put things together.
One problem for me in this vein was my seating on the night on which I saw the show initially. I was sitting in the stage left section of the bleacher-like seats. Later, seeing the show—in its remount at the Steppenwolf—from a frontal perspective (and with the benefit of a prior viewing) many of the subtler points seemed to be communicated more easily.
However, from the top, the characters are clearly eccentric, bold, and yet communicate a certain pathos in this eccentricity that is touching. Michael E. Smith as Albert McGuckin and Lauren Vitz as Margaret Rosenthal are wonderful this way. As these rather oddball parents speak, holding framed school-age portraits of children, we sense their restraint. This is the atmosphere of the piece in a nutshell, a warm, genial, small-town brightness that is holding something horrible at bay. The community consents to allow the advanced student, and one of the families agrees to take her in. The girl enters, dressed darkly, and holding her own school portrait. To the sounds of original music that is somewhat reminiscent of Badly Drawn Boy (which is being featured prominently in a national ad campaign now) the parents and the girl arrange themselves in a living class portrait. The parents, to the sound of an explosion, turn the picture frames ninety-degrees at a time clockwise, in sync.
In another interesting usage of picture frames, Principal Skor and Margaret Rosenthal stand stage right and take the parents’ portraits (pictures of their children) and exchange them for framed landscape scenes, that the parents, one by one, display, walking behind a girl seated in a chair (simulating a car). Thus, the images, as they are handed off simulate expressionistically, the passing of scenery. This is a highly cinematic effect that does not use moving picture at all.
The images are of small town scenes and rural landscapes, but something in the characters and costuming of the oddball small-town parents in the meeting has tipped us off to the nature of the quirky small town already. Still, the montage is used to good effect here and it is a cinematic story-telling technique that the House uses frequently--occasionally bordering on overindulgence. Still it holds our attention and it connects, emotionally, especially with the original music.
She complains to her driver, a mysterious, bearded fellow named Thomas (about whom we learn very little) that she “can’t do it.” He insists “tell them what you did.” In the “Sparrow” theme, he insists that she, like a bird must be pushed from the nest to learn to fly.
The girl is unsubtly surnamed Emily Book (Carolyn Defrin). As she enters in the next scene, to a strange applause, her unwieldy brown case awkwardly breaks open, and she awkwardly rushes to gather her things. She is greeted by the community at an even, if halting pace that divulges some inner tension. For a moment the crowd’s attentions diffuses, and then clears. A woman openly stares at her. A chandelier lowers from the ceiling, and we find ourselves in the home of the McGuckens, Emily’s new family.
They greet her awkwardly, and they sit for dinner. Emily comments in a robotic tone that they have “nice plates.” The father, Albert (Michael E. Smith), speaks haltingly, at an almost snail’s pace that, again, reveals some raging inner tension. By contrast, his wife, Joyce (Kat McDonnell) speaks with an utterly sincere air–at a high pace that betrays nothing. Their son, Charlie rages, with an energy that reveals the community’s tension, at Emily, and she rushes from the table with her formidable old black case. At this outburst, we hear a sound event composed of what sounds like bass feedback from an amplifier or loose sound cable connection. It is highly jarring. Charlie, in response to Emily’s staying in “Sarah’s room” protests that not even he is allowed in Sarah’s room.
Many of these revelatory details were unclear for me in the first viewing and in the seat I occupied upon that viewing. After seeing the show a second time much of the elegance of the unfolding details made a strong impression on me. I wonder, however, whether Allen, Chris Mathews, and Jake Minton, the creators of the piece, could have done a better job in taking the audience from plot-point to plot-point.
Following Emily’s exit, Joyce reenters, saying “let me get that for you” offering Emily a small doll’s house diorama that is lit warmly from within, one of the most clever, intelligent design devices in the show. The chandelier rises. The music changes to the sounds of synthesizer vibraphone (reminiscent of Mr. Rogers’ xylophones). Joyce sets the doll’s house down and removes a room from it. They face each other, awestruck. Joyce’s pace slackens, and we sense for a moment that the inner tension that the ensemble has so capably been suppressing is also very much alive in Joyce. She comments, among other things, that Emily “has glasses now.” On the second viewing, it became abundantly clear that Joyce was acting as if Sarah had been away for a long time and was suddenly appearing before her in the form of Emily. However this was unclear on my first viewing of the piece. She hands the tiny room to Emily in a touching moment, and then reassumes the light, sincere tone she held previously. As Joyce exits, Emily reminds her that she’s “not Sarah.”
At this line, the music changes, with a shift in light. We see a series of projections on the back wall with violins being plucked and then violin music. They start with constellations, then moving landscapes. We see a bus, and then hear a build in music, and then the inside of the bus and children’s faces. We hear train sounds. Emily approaches the projection with her back to us. The projection and music suddenly stop, and we hear someone say “welcome to school.”
We hear a new music cue start, and we feel the baseline rhythm of the school to be different and higher from that of the home and of the projections that represent Emily’s memories. In the cinematic school montage of moving students and dance routines, Principal Skor dumps coffee on himself in the bustle. Emily, in her conservative dark suit, is, in her movement, a living rhythmic contrast to the colorful, playful costumes and frenetic pace of the hallways of the school. The students, at this pace, fetch lockers and place them at the back of the stage. They then rush from place to place and toss footballs to one another as Emily is spun around. A cheerleading squad takes the stage and performs apart from Emily. We see pink light, and Wilco-esque acoustic percussive sounds. We see yellow light that transitions to organ music. The students set a classroom of desks in place. Emily finds herself alone. The students enter on a school bell.
We see a young teacher, Mr. Christopher, giving a lecture in low light, with a transparency projection on the small rectangle at the back of the stage, of the heart. This youngish teacher is describing the heart as moving “involuntarily.” There is an adolescent, hormonal atmosphere set by the ensemble to begin with, but the young teacher describing the anatomical nature of the heart cleverly establishes a very flirtatious atmosphere. The teacher points to us in the audience and includes us in the atmosphere. He constantly shifts directions in his movement, constantly running himself at a higher pace than his students. The lights go up, the overhead goes out. Emily, again, is clearly out of rhythm in this young, raucous classroom. He asks Jenny, a brightly dressed girl, who, like every girl is class is somewhat ga-ga for him a question which she answers perfectly. In contrast the boys are almost all slacking off in the back of the classroom.
In the closest that the House comes to metatheatricality, Christopher asks a question that is, in his own words “arbitrary and unfair.” The feeling here is that the writers are letting us in on the joke of their obvious device for illustrating Emily’s bookishness (although her dress and her demeanor bespeak this without the additional elaboration). He asks her this exaggeratedly difficult and unfair question, to which she doesn’t bat an eyelash. She answers. He informs the class of the upcoming fetal pig dissection, which everyone celebrates. He pumps his fist enthusiastically. They cheer, and exit.
Emily is slower than the rest to leave (Emily’s rhythmic dissonance is continually used by Allen throughout the first act). Before the class is gone, Mr. Christopher introduces Emily to Jenny McGrath, that blonde who answered his question earlier, a head cheerleader-type, to give her an opportunity to make nice with someone who is obviously amongst the most popular in school. They greet, awkwardly, and Jenny exits.
Until now the play has more or less followed what Campbell would consider to be a standard monomythic form. The creators of the show, in the press pack, credit Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster for inspiration in their creation of the Midwestern “hero-myth” (through Superman). Superman is among countless comic-book heroes who correspond to Campbell’s mythology.
In Emily’s case, the hero is compelled to traverse her communal boundary–interestingly, this breaking of the barrier is presented initially from the perspective of the PTA meeting at which Emily entry into the community is discussed. Also interesting is the fact that, in this interpretation of the monomyth, the hero’s breaking out of the boundaries of her home community represents a homecoming in her return to the high school.
Initially, she refuses to accept her place in the new school–she stands apart. The bearded driver, Thomas, who reasons with her that she must be pushed from the nest may be her initial helper or mentor (another key theme in classic myth is this bearded, Obi-Wan-like helper), however Thomas is never elaborated upon.
She is then incorporated into the belly of a monster–another standard monomythic scenario–in this case the school itself is the whale swallowing up the contemporary Jonah. The ancient structural narrative points–Emily’s refusal of the challenge and the incorporation into the beast are communicated to us physically, in a manner that can only be accomplished in a theater.
Now, the hero faces the helper, who, in this case, is Mr. Christopher. Typically, according to Campbell, this is an older, bearded figure who bestows upon the hero an amulet of some sort that will aid the hero in his or her quest.
He takes an enormous bite of an apple (given to him at the top of the previous scene by Jenny). The apple is lovely here—it is dual symbol of the teacher and temptation. Jenny exits. He lamely jokes, in counterpoint to Emily’s bookish restraint and seriousness. He innocently flirts with Emily, and his frenetic pace is matched by another, awkwardly frenetic pace from Emily. He is pumping himself up, she is restraining something. Both are masking something. She blushes.
He recites to her from Whitman’s Body Electric, which is appropriate on several levels–first, as he is a biology teacher he glories in the wonders of the human body, which the poem celebrates. Second, the poem works as an invitation to physically self-conscious, highly intellectual girl to join the humming physical life of the school–so the implication of her aphysicality coming from the text in the use of this poem is foreshadowed physically throughout the first act prior to the poem’s recitation. In the scene it works as a form of flirtation (which, we might infer, is one of Mr. Christopher’s chief tactics), especially as it is coupled with his munching of the apple.
It is, in Campbellian terms, both a call to adventure and an amulet that will guide her in that adventure. Christopher gives her his wife’s copy of Leaves of Grass (the collection containing the poem), which serves as a physical counterpart to the words of the poem itself. Those words settle the dissonant rhythmic tension present at the top of the scene. In this interaction, the breadth of Emily’s reading is clear: she has read all of Dickens, among others.
To the strains of another musical sound event with accordion, Emily is then confronted en masse by a group. During my first viewing of the piece, the nature of this scene seemed a bit “mashed-up.” However, on my second viewing it was clear that it consisted of parents or other students asking Emily about their brothers and sisters or sons and daughters. Once I had a fuller understanding of the plot (after seeing the show through on the first viewing), this made sense.
We then transition to a scene in which Jenny suggests that Emily has arrived at school at just the right time–homecoming. She encourages Emily to join the cheerleading squad, a big favor considering that she would be bypassing the normal auditions and be placed on the team on Jenny’s authority. Emily refuses, but accepts a job as “towel girl” for the basketball team. Here, as elsewhere and with other characters, Jenny’s fluidity, play and grace are contrasted against Emily’s halting dischord.
Emily then finds herself confronted by Charlie (Sara Hoyer), the son of the couple that has taken her in. He is wearing an American Indian headdress and is fantasy playing. He orders her to halt and she gives him an offering to be allowed to pass. She walks toward the house, and as she does, he fires his slingshot at her. She instantly senses and catches the rock, which magically appears in her hand (the incorporation of live visual magic effects is very compelling aspect of the House’s work). He demands that she not talk about his sister.
I believe this moment of silliness turned to drama, besides another opportunity to highlight Emily’s alienation is a perfectly monomythic moment, in which Emily, the hero, must face and, using her wiles, appease a monster, namely the pesky monster with whom she finds herself living. Tasks like these are common in mythology–and here, the silly moment with Charlie is such a task.
The interaction closes with Charlie imploring Emily not to mention his sister. At the mention of the sister, we see a blue flash and hear a synthetic wind sound effect. Orange light fills the stage. Then we hear a bell and voices saying “happy homecoming.” Principal Skor mentions the hated rivals, the Hornets. We find Emily in PE class, where the coach asks whether Emily has a safety strap for her glasses. When she replies that she doesn’t, he goes off to get her “rec-specs” (Emily’s ostracization through such physical impediments is well-clarified). He leaves the class to play a game of their choice, and they elect to play the perfect game for abuse of the weakest, outcast classmates: dodgeball. We hear the vibraphone sounds and Wilco-esque percussion , and the lights cool. The action ramps up. The game becomes a choreographed movement piece in which, yet again (and at this point, the theme is redundant) Emily’s physical energy is contrasted with that of her classmates. We find ourselves in a montage in orange light followed by darkness. The class gangs up and circles her. Someone yells “get her!” and the students aim all the dodgeballs at her. The coach enters, rebukes the class, and escorts Emily out.
We hear the slow ticking of a clock, which harmonizes with the bomb imagery that we have just taken in. We find ourselves in a classroom, but this time, Emily isn’t the first to arrive, she is the last. Mr. Christopher is presiding. On my first viewing of the piece I did not get that this was detention, although Mr. Christopher’s statement that they all “know why they’re here” and the students dejected body language should have tipped me. Details like these may have been lost due to my perspective from the stage right seats.
As this is detention, and Emily is not being punished, her arrival is a dramatic act of solidarity and forgiveness. In a small way she includes herself. When a boy ridicules her that he hit her in the mouth, Emily retorts: “It must not have been that hard, because I didn’t feel it.” The delicious subtle double-meaning devastates the boy. Mr. Christopher then implores the students to be safe, in that he, and the community surrounding them, is trying to protect them. When a student asks “from what?” we hear the sound of passing trains, and the scene changes to orange light. The students then reenact a catastrophic accident in which they are turned upside down. After a long silence following this instantaneous, unannounced reenactment, Mr. Christopher again argues that the rules are present is there for their protection. Emily agrees, speaking chillingly: “the future has pain in store for all of us,” the implication being that there is no need to look for more pain.
A great deal of cultural comment is encapsulated in this business, and whether it is really necessary in terms of telling the story or not, it does bear discussion. First is the question of the American impulse toward creating a “pure” atmosphere for the upbringing of children, which is an outgrowth of the idea of America as a “city on a hill” in which a community could purify itself. The relationship between such a community and its youth, who push the boundaries of “safety” is artfully explicated here.
There is another interesting cultural spin stemming from this particular interpretation of the monomyth, that is related to this quest for purity (and hence the exclusion of Emily who is impure): Midwestern American hospitality. Emily is an outsider who, as will be made entirely explicit later, was complicit in a terrible accident in the town years ago. She is different, and yet, for all that, there is a veneer of kindness and love worn by nearly every student in the school. This veneer seems absolutely genuine to me–and yet it is a mask. This is an interesting critique of suburban, exurban, and rural values, as it highlights the peculiar contemporary character of the exclusion of outsiders in small-town life. The outsider is shunned, but this is done with a smile that may be sincere. The town is sincerely fighting its own impulse to ostracize Emily, but rather than lessen her pariahdom, this causes the ostracization to take on a more virulent and yet insidious quality. This portrayal is invaluable as a metaphor for how many perfectly polite and reasonable-seeming Americans process their discomfort with any number of types of minorities and outsiders in an age of Political Correctness, in which, in most communities, there is a deep impulse toward purification, yet in which it is impermissible to openly voice biased words.
We hear the sounds of the vibraphone again, and find ourselves in Emily's room. Joyce, it is clear has been asleep in Sarah’s old, and Emily’s current bedroom. Joyce asserts that she knows that Emily is not her daughter, but then reiterates her welcome to her. She mentions that she comes to Sarah’s room when she feels overwhelmed. The lights cool. Again, there is a sincerity to the Joyce’s rhythm here which she loses in an effective unraveling of composure. There is also a pathos illustrated by her sleeping in her late-daughter’s room. She begs to know what happened on “that day.” We hear a train sound. Joyce cannot, she says, remember what her daughter wore. As she exits, Emily replies: “yellow.” She heads downstairs to “make spirit boxes” for the homecoming festivities. Emily agrees to join her, in an unspoken acceptance of her role as surrogate daughter.
There is some elegant conceptually tight storytelling here, and there is also the need for fuller detail. For me, on a second viewing, with a full knowledge of the fact of the story in advance, it was easy to see the clues that the storytellers and designers give us to the accident and Emily’s role in it. We hear a train sound in the distance when it is mentioned. We have seen a catastrophic reenactment of it. But without a knowledge of the facts, and without a full frontal perspective on the action, many of these clues, I fear, are lost. However, the various light shades, the various musical styles that link to scenes and themes, and sound events are elegant and tightly woven together to communicate implications in a very creative way. Balance is the key here, and the House, I feel, is working of the balance between explicit and implicit storytelling techniques.
We hear the sound of an organ playing a school song. Cheerleaders enter in pricelessly tacky brown and red uniforms. The students sing in corny harmony, and the boys enter in basketball uniforms. We hear Wilco-esque drums as the music gets peppier, eventually taking on a dance beat. In the words of South Park: “we’re gonna need a montage.”
One problem in House shows is the disproportionate segmenting of things like this. To illustrate to an audience Emily's status as an outcast or the fervent atmosphere of a school event, can, especially given the energy with which their ensemble works, be accomplished in relatively short time. But oftentimes in The Sparrow, we spend a disproportionate amount of time on certain points in the narrative, and disproportionately little time on other points that might have greater impact.
Following the school song sequence, the music changes, and we hear the voice of a PA announcer. Cleverly, the actors playing for the Sparrows (Emily's new high school team's mascot), simply turn their jerseys inside out to assume the roles of the opposing basketball team. Again, in a very essentially theatrical way, the House makes the elegant equation between the kids on opposing sides of this rivalry (in which the Sparrows have been thoroughly dominated of late). The lights are warm and orange on the pre-game cheer routine.
The lights brighten as we transition to the game. The basketball game is a wonderfully unreal, highly choreographed dance of athletics, again, making use of the House's profound sense of physical expression. It is tempting for them to overuse this tool; in sequences like the basketball game, we find ourselves playing the role of the crowd in the bleachers. It is never explained why homecoming is, at this school, a basketball rather than football event, but as an audience we accept it without question. The game and the culture of the school enfold us naturally and thoroughly.
The cheerleaders perform a routine, and then the aggravated coach in a wonderful plaid jacket barks at Emily, to “get more towels,” as it’s so wet that a player could get hurt and cost the school the game. The possibility that Emily’s actions might lead to a loss clearly motivates her. We then find ourselves in the locker room, where the cheer squad is frantic. The lights cool. The cheerleaders are considering an outrageous, dangerous stunt: to catapult Jenny up to the rafters, have her pull down the opposing team's banner (which hangs there as a token of their recent dominance of the rivalry) and fall into her teammates' arms. When Emily, who has walked in to get the aforementioned towels overhears the plan, she objects. At the threat of her revealing the dangerous plan, the cheerleaders strip her, revealing her conservative underwear, and stuff her into a locker. A thrilling sound even coincides with this violence.
Again, at this point, the audience has experienced certain suggestions of Emily's involvement in a train disaster. But we know nothing of the specific circumstances of that disaster or her subsequent exile from the community. Furthermore, we have seen evidence that she has some strange power, but we don't know what that power is. We need more concrete plot development in this first act, and less indulgence in effective, but overused atmosphere-setting music, montage, and dance sequences.
Why? Because Emily's restraint from fighting back against her attackers is a key event in the piece, as is what follows. Until now, Emily has struggled to conceal superpowers from her community. She does this, I take it, as she fears for her safety—revealing these powers would implicate her (accurately) in the deaths of the rest of her kindergarten class years ago, in a school bus accident. We learn these details in full detail later, but the scene that follows Emily's attack constitutes a major event, because it amounts to her performing a key act in Campbell's understanding of the monomyth: “accepting the call to adventure.” Until now, Emily has denied the call. But forced to choose between unmasking her own powers, (and, she can presume, her culpability in her classmates' deaths) and the death of a classmate in a senseless stunt, Emily bravely accepts the dangers of heroism, calls out from inside her locker into a halftime meeting of the boys basketball team.
Now, this event is highly bracketed by Allen and his design team. And, poetically, Emily's half-nakedness articulates her unmasking. But without more concrete plot development up to this point, the gravity of her acceptance of the call is unclear, and as storytellers, The House lose the opportunity to throw their hero into the sharpest possible relief.
Emily frantically explains the danger and the team rushes to stop it. We transition in focus to the cheer routine in which Jenny is catapulted to the rafters to pull the Hornets’ banner down (the banner is located over the panel on the upstage wall. The music and the stunt turns slow at the climactic point of action. A montage is used effectively, as the slow violin music takes us in transition to the locker room. Emily bursts from the locker and puts on the only thing she can find–a bright white cheerleaders uniform. The lights transition us to the gym, as the same music piece plays. This time, as we find ourselves in the gym, Mr. Christopher is flat on the floor, reaching for Jenny, who is still hanging from the banner. This is another very clever device from Allen and the House. Rather than execute a complex stunt in the Viaduct loft space, they rely on their Cliff Chamberlain’s (Mr. Christopher) physical commitment to communicate the danger, from flat on the floor.
The string music swells. The lights go orange, and same violin musical piece builds as Emily flies. Her flying is implied in the “looking up” of the crowd, and her grace in pulling Jenny from the banner. The crowd circles, and Jenny is passed “down” into the circle. The frantic pace of the danger recedes. As it does, and the crowd realizes what Emily has done, they stare at her. On the basketball game’s “sub” horn, she zips away at a high pace, and her classmates chase her. We then hear the sounds of crickets. Mr. Christopher finds Emily, and, awe-struck exclaims that Emily just “flew.” He’s raving to himself that Emily is a superhero, and he gives her an enthusiastic high-five.
We transition to a plodding song incorporating the vibraphone sounds, transitioning to saxaphone sounds. Emily dances as the tempo increases. She executes a clearly bird-like “sparrow” dance that is very well designed and executed. The rhythm, and the dance, build, and the lights shift to a cool shade. We see a projection of stars projected, and as the music and dance crescendo, the show goes to intermission.
On the return from intermission, we see warm orange light, and Emily in a rather more "chic" black outfit. The lockers are out again, and we hear the voice of Principal Skor, (the high-pitched ringing tone used to bracket events, especially Emily’s magic plays underneat the announcement). We see another music montage in which Emily catches and returns the balls thrown about the hallway. We hear her new nickname "The Sparrow." Emily is in full physical harmony with the pace of the school. Meanwhile, Jenny is “bumped” by a rolling projection cart, underlining her diminished status.
We then find ourselves in Mr. Christopher's biology class. They are dissecting fetal pigs. Again, Mr. Christopher, in his energy, stays ahead of the class to whom he's speaking. In a nice effect, the House uses stuffed pig puppets in this scene. To expose what's hidden is the goal, and elegantly, the subtext of the class, and of the piece is articulated metaphorically through a science class exercise. In the first act, the biology class dwelt on the function of the heart. Now it is focused on the entire system of life beneath the surface–to “make ourselves better.”
The students fight to be Emily’s partner. During the experiment, Mr. Christopher guides Emily’s hand. We see the lights turn orange, and hear the high-pitched event tone. Suddenly the pigs’ hearts starts beating. Christopher, astonished, asks with fear if Emily is “doing this,” to which she replies in an entranced tone “yeah.” When he asks her what else she can do, we hear a big band play.
To the music of Frank Sinatra’s “I’ve Got the World on a String”, we see a choreographed dance piece with the pigs. Mr. Christpoher sings. The other kids snap along as background dancers. The puppet pigs sing along in the back. Mr. Christopher, as part of this 40s style musical montage then, walks along a line of desks as they are placed in a line before him beneath his feet on a makeshift “bridge.” One of the boys allows a declaration of love for Mr. Christopher to escape. We hear a scream and learn the Jenny made out with a pig. One of the students asks if there is homework, to which Christopher hilariously shouts “GET OUT!”
What follows is an awkward interaction in which Mr. Christopher compliments her “aside from” her “superpowers” and confronts her about what appears to be her acting out on a crush through her powers. He calls her the “cats pajamas,” and acknowledges that he’s worked on this whole “cool teacher” persona. He asks if she’s going to the dance. The talk concludes with a dispirited high-five, and an awkward platonic understanding between them.
We hear the vibraphone sounds that take us home, and we see the inner-lit diorama. Emily's foster father, Albert, interrupts her reading. They have a persistent, matching, suppressed, halting energy in the interaction. He encourages her to attend the homecoming dance, and informs her that Margaret Rosenthal and Joyce want a picture of her with it. He touchingly lays the corsage on the floor. Again, the subtext of the tension is still not specifically clear, and we are in the middle of the second act.
Emily refuses to attend. Why? Is this related to her outsiderness, still? Is it related to her embarrassment at what has just happened in science class? Emily would appear not only to have transformed into an overnight school celebrity, but also to enjoy it. If the subtext of her reluctance is the danger she senses in the exposure of her powers (and thus, potentially her complicity in the decade old tragedy), it is unclear.
After a moment of chilling silence, in which Emily seems to rebuff the quintessential midwestern over-hospitality (betraying something underneath), Albert re-welcomes her. We hear the sound of the train. He encourages her again. Their interaction seems to calm to an intimate comfort and ease. We hear the easy sound of crickets. She takes the corsage from the floor and suddenly embraces him, again in acceptance of her role, fulfilling her foster family’s need for a high school age daughter, at the time when their daughter would have been of high-school age.
We move to the dance, with the mirror ball, and a jazz-sounded montage. We see another choreographed sequence featuring an electric piano and a baritone sax. As Emily enters, she is surrounded by a circle of admirers. She is the hero of the school. She dances with them, again, in harmony with the community.
The music slows, and there is a slow dance. Lauren Vitz is hilarious as Phoebe Marks, who is heart-breakingly rejected after asking for a dance. The dancers dissolve off stage–and Emily last. The scene shifts to Mr. Christopher's biology classroom, where we hear the muffled sounds of dance music. Mr. Christopher is alone with Jenny. He encourages her to return to the dance. She complains of Emily's newfound popularity–insulting her neck, and commenting that the other students want an encore from that days’ performance in class. She also, punctuates a sentence by addressing Christopher as “Dan.” As an audience, we sense a dangerous romantic tension between these two characters from the moment we see them alone. As the scene progresses, Christopher shines a light from the overhead projector on Jenny, complimenting her. They dance to the muffled music, and she kisses him. As she does, Emily enters, saying “...so I came...” We see the cue (orange light, ringing, a flash of light, crashing sound) signifying Emily's magic and we hear a crashing sound. Following the magic cue, we see a stain of blood on Jenny’s cheek.
In the ensuing blackout, we see projections of pictures of houses and another confrontation with a group of people en masse, just as in the first act. They are firing questions at her to the sounds of violins being plucked. Just as in the first act, this firing line questioning is followed by Charlie shooting at Emily with his slingshot, outside their home. This time, however, she does not catch the rock, and it hits her in the head. She sobs, and she and Charlie hug. She then senses Mr. Christopher behind her. We hear the sounds of crickets. In the subsequent interaction, he attempts to explain that he hadn't meant for the kiss to happen, that it had been a “one time thing.” Based on Jenny’s use of Christopher’s first name, we are left to wonder. He protests, in Whitman’s language, that “the body is not the soul.” Emily admonishes him on behalf of his wife. We then hear the sounds of trains, our cue to the mystery behind Emily’s exile from the town. Christopher reveals that his wife is dead, and was killed in "the" accident--she was driving "the" bus. He then reveals that he, too, bears a portrait--ie he also grieves.
The use of the portrait to signify a long-held grief is another elegant conceptual touch by the house. They create their own creative language from show to show, and when we see the portrait that Christopher bears, we automatically link him to the other grieving parents, and begin to assemble the details of the plot more clearly. The image of grief links in popular consciousness to 9/11 and crime victims and is very provocative.
In the scene change we hear the ticking of a clock, and see the panels behind the stage on all sides turn orange. Various character from the show appear as music starts again, striking poses–e.g. Charlie with his slingshot, and Albert with a bit of doll’s house furniture. We then a dance sequence featuring the characters moving through space, tearing pages from books in their hands. Mr. Christopher appears, sobbing. The characters toss the pages across the stage, in what I believe is a symbolic representation of the town’s self-imposed ignorance as to the details of the past. Jenny alone, appearing behind them, gathers the pages in her arms and makes a connection, to digital sounds and projected storm images behind. This conceptual point is again, very elegant, but it is rather lost unless we have a somewhat more advanced knowledge of the subtext of the play–a knowledge that is denied to us.
We see, in projection, behind Jenny with her arms full of pages, a series of projections and sounds from the bus. We see a young girl with glasses (clearly Emily). We see her make a fist, and we see rocks floating and train track bolds moving. We see a look of ferocity on Emily’s face. We see and hear a crash, that then fades and changes to a simple sound of moving water.
The film and graphic design work apparent in the projections is sophisticated and stylish, and without a strong background in film, I don't feel capable of placing it in any context. However, it is colorful, crisp, and very stylized.
We hear a bell and the school desks are arranged on stage (this scene was changed slightly in the Steppenwolf remount–I will describe it as it was presented at the Viaduct). We see Jenny in the same spot in which she was left during the previous choreographed montage, her arms full of the pages. A cacophony of students enter the room. Before class starts, Emily says to Jenny that she “won't tell anyone.”
Principal Skor enters and informs the class that Mr. Christopher has resigned. Jenny stands and confronts Emily: "Did you kill the senior class?" Emily runs from the scene, and Jenny sobs. All the students exit with their chairs, in horror. We hear a bell and see a scene and light shift. To the sounds of plucked violins, groups of parents on stage holding framed portraits are whispering to one another. Someone says "call Joyce!" We hear a phone ring off-stage. The scene shifts to the McGucken home, with the house diorama. Sobbing, Joyce and Emily embrace.
In an even, sincere pace, Joyce asks: "did you kill my daughter?" When Emily answers "yes." Joyce slaps her ferociously. Emily, restraining herself, attempts to defend herself. In a shriek that stands out from her composure throughout the piece, Joyce begs for her daughter back, and wants to know, suddenly, in all seriousness and need, if Emily can do that. Joyce then takes the diorama away.
In this scene as in many others, the actors on stage are not encumbered by a physically realistic portrayal of things. Joyce's act of expulsion from the family group isn't a slammed door or a scene that might be seen on "Cops." Rather, it is the simple, elegant appropriation of a diorama that, for the audience, has come to represent, and totally abstractly, home.
In the ensuing darkness, we hear piano music and voices discussing a "special school." We hear Emily protesting that she "doesn't want to go!" When the lights come up, we see Albert, at the front door informing the mob of neighbors that Emily has gone–that the window was open. The lights shift, cold, again, and we see Emily fleeing. This is interesting: the pretext for tehir search for her is, nominally, to save her, as a runaway. In fact she is being chased by an angry mob, and as she lugs her suitcase, she runs into Mr. Christopher, in orange light, that then fades. He offers her his ticket to Chicago--a talisman that will enable the hero to take her power to (in the words of Campbell) "purify" the larger world. In the Steppenwolf remount, this interaction was much angrier than it was in the first production.
The mob finds her, and, grasping the pictures of their children, lunges at her. The orange light and high-pitched magic sound intensify, as Emily “fires” magic at each person reaching for her, knocking them back. With is “firing” we hear a crash and see a flash. The Sheriff pulls a gun on her, and Jenny McGrath enters, seizes the gun, and shoots Mr. Christopher. The bullet pierces the eye of Mr. Christopher’s wife’s portrait, and hits him right in the heart.
There is a moment of silence. We then hear the sound of wind. The lights warm. A crowd with a medical background surrounds Mr. Christopher, and tends to him, with a professional suppressed panic that is compelling. The lights cool, and we hear a music cue swell. The crowd instinctively senses Emily approaching, and makes way for her. In another moment which elegantly incorporates live visual magic, we see her summon her power to pull the bullet from his body. As she does this the orange light intensifies almost unbearably, and we hear the high-pitched magic sound. The lights on the side panels turn orange. A spotlight highlights the body and the floating bullet. The spot fills in with orange, and all the lights on stage return to a normal wash color. We hear the sound of a heartbeat, and he gasps, coughing. Emily holds him. He tries to thank her, and she refuses his thanks. The separate, and we hear violin music.
To that music, Jenny begins building a choreographed "Sparrow" dance with the rest of the ensemble, that mirrors the dance done at the end of the first act. We see the projections of stars, and Emily sitting in a makeshift train car, made up of rows of seats, and we a projected Chicago skyline in movement on the screen behind, a link to her earlier position in the car in the first act. This time, she accepts the call of adventure, and embraces the journey to Chicago.
Emily has learned to use her magic to save a life, and in Campbell this is thought of as the "life-granting boon." A hero wrests or is granted this boon as a result of the struggle with the gods. In localized tales, the hero uses this boon to purify the community. In more general tales, the boon is used to save civilization. In this tale Emily will leave the confines of the town and come to Chicago.
Many 20-somethings living in Chicago left similar small towns (or reminiscent suburbs), and thus, the link between the audience and Emily is profound. And so, while certain narrative points are disproportionately emphasized, and while certain plot devices are rather simple, transparent, and frankly "Buffy-esque" (the scene in Mr. Christopher's class in which Emily answers an absurdly difficult question with ease comes to mind), the fact remains: The House's work resonates importantly with a very important audience. That their current run at the Steppenwolf is sold out is an indication of this.
Their work, technically, is creative and unique. And while the story seems simple at times, in its unique contemporary portrayal of the monsters and tasks of mythology, it is in fact a sophisticated portrait of our times that, should they continue to develop their work even more from a literary standpoint, may outgrow their current popularity and endure for years to come.
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