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Past Reviews Off Broadway Reviews |
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It's perhaps worth mentioning at this point that neither "Prairie du Chien" nor "The Shawl" is new (the former debuted in 1979 as an NPR radio play, the latter onstage in 1985 at the Goodman Theatre). Nor is either life-changing. For that matter, these works aren't profoundly terrifying. They're more cerebral and less obvious, as you'd expect from Mamet—think loudly creaking floorboards sounding in empty rooms or tangles of cobwebs appearing from nowhere, not plagues of nightmares. Still, they're not easy to scrub from your mind, and that gives them an imposing nature that their subject matter may not warrant at first blush. "Prairie du Chien," the opener, is set in the deceptively mundane parlor car of a train speeding through the Midwest in 1910 (the set, choked with gloomy elegance, is by Lauren Helpern; the costumes are by Linda Cho, and the cannily understated lights by Jeff Croiter). At the outset, it seems to treat nothing more than two pairs of men, one (Nate Dendy and Jim Frangione) playing gin and the other passing the time with a collection of spooky anecdotes. The storyteller of the two (played with magnetic, hollowed-out intensity by Jordan Lage) relates to his listener (Jason Ritter) a web of jealousy, revenge, and murder that acquires an increasingly supernatural twist as the details are explored. It scarcely registers as more than campfire pulp—there's the de rigueur trick ending, or perhaps two—until the card game takes its own impulsive, violent turn. It's then that Mamet's interest in it all becomes more clear, and the relationship of the characters to both the story and the ever-present threat of death it represents, takes on haunting new dimensions. The writing's brevity and the dialogue's clipped nature (unmistakably Mamet) doesn't give the actors much to work with, and the performances ring as professional as they do perfunctory. Even so, the combination is potent enough to brand this as a story worth telling, even if it's not one that burrows too far beneath your skin.
But are they genuine, otherworldly gifts? Or is John merely an expert cold reader and con artist? Excellent though these questions are, Mamet does not give up its answers easily, and he builds the suspense in tiers and variations throughout, accepting as truth only Miss A's dealings with her mother, the money that may be ripping her life apart, and the red shawl that plays an unexpected role in holding the story together or causing it to unravel. As Zigler has staged it, and as it's acted, "The Shawl" is legitimately harrowing at times. Howard's soothing, hypnotic speech patterns (which caress each of the myriad ellipses in Mamet's script) lull you into a dreamlike state just like the one he tries to establish for Miss A. McCann plays her to the hilt, too, blending skepticism with a throbbing yearning to believe as well as a rich intelligence that makes sure you know this is not a woman to be trifled with. Ritter doesn't move much from impetuousness, and is not as threatening as might perhaps be ideal, but he convinces more and more as Charles's own hunger grows. What drives him, and what promises to destroy him, is the uncertainty. He wants to know what John is doing just as much as Miss A does, and believes he's even more entitled. Could anything spell greater doom in a Mamet play? Not that you can be absolutely sure who is the player and who's being played, of course. That's where the real horror is to be found: not possessing, or not being able to possess, the piece of knowledge you most covet. Like the tales spun during the s'mores-fueled wilderness ventures of youth, it's not much. But it's enough to be something you'll cherish mulling (and shivering over) long after "The Shawl," and thus Ghost Stories, has concluded.
Ghost Stories: The Shawl & Prairie du Chien
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