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I went to see [amazon_link id=”0822220644″ target=”_blank” ]The God of Hell[/amazon_link] at Bang and Clatter on Saturday. The place was packed and thanks to the easy-going nature of Sean Derry I was allowed to stand in the tech booth (it was literally standing room) with Kristen, a woman who actually worked on the Ingenuity Festival this year and did one of my pieces.

Pluto is the God of Hell and is they Eponymous name for the title. It comes up during a discussion between the mysterious scientist character, Haynes (John Busser) and Emma (Jen Klika) about Plutonium, which presumably is the McGuffin for this play’s action.

I’m still trying to get my head around all of it, but what I will say struck me about this play is the return to themes in many of Shepard’s earlier plays as well as the strong absurdist techniques which were not present, or at least, not present in as strong a way, in his family plays and his more “realistic” plays.

Like those plays, however, the action begins on a farm in the “heartland.” Whenever this is the setting, Shepard has something serious to say about the state of America. The “heartland” was the setting of his Pulitzer Prize winning [amazon_link id=”0307274977″ target=”_blank” ]Buried Child[/amazon_link] (coming soon to convergence-continuum!) and begins with a homecoming of sorts, as does Buried Child (BC)—as well much of the action of God of Hell (GH) occurs in the kitchen/family room. Similar, also, to [amazon_link id=”0553346113″ target=”_blank” ]Curse of the Starving Class[/amazon_link] (SC), we see a “kitchen” drama that takes place on a farm. In contrast, startlingly so, both BC and SC begin in dilapidated environs. The setting of GH is very nearly idyllic, as noted by several characters in the play, and includes a very homey kitchen with amenities that are of an earlier America—circa 1950’s perhaps. This setting of course is not accidental. True West (TW), the last of the “family trilogy” also begins in a pleasant middle-class kitchen/breakfast nook in California, but the setting is less intentionally idyllic that of a type. The setting here shows us a “heartland” that is reminiscent of the past: a time in America that was good and wholesome and strong. The whole is infused with a sense of strong values and morals, American goodness: farming, hearth, family, Currier and Ives, etc. It is clear what target Shepard has in his sights.

The homecoming in GH is that of the scientist, Haynes, who is reuniting with an old friend, the farmer, Frank (Joe Milan, often at CPT). In place of the lack of recognition in BC, or overt hostility and competition in TW, we see mystery and suspicion. Frank hasn’t seen his friend in years and doesn’t really know what he does and Frank’s wife, Emma is suspicious. All we are told is that Frank suspects Haynes was tortured or that something happened that made him overly sensitive and nervous. Frank leaves to go and feed his “heifers” and we are left with the wife, who is making bacon and obsessively watering the house plants. The wife is nervous and a bit jumpy herself and a bit suspicious of the friend in the basement; but her concerns in this regard is supplanted quickly by the arrival of a salesman. The salesman, Welch (Daniel McElhaney) begins by offering a sugar cookie in the shape of a flag with icing to make the flag an American Flag. His attempt to sell the cookie fails, but he succeeds at getting in the house. While Frank’s wife doesn’t know what quite to make of Welch, she learns quickly that he is not the “usual” salesman and, in fact, is a bit frightening. The revelations come slowly via odd questions (not much of a patriotic display in the house, the empty flag pole out front), then intrusive questions (how many rooms in the house, anyone else in the house), to the frightening ‘over-personal’ nature of his behavior (including the fact that he knows her first name and continues to call her by it). Thoroughly flummoxed, Emma orders Welch to leave, which he does. Emma then rings a bell for her husband (this is how they communicate from the house to the barn), who returns after several nerve-wracking minutes. Emma relates her story, but her husband doesn’t think much of it. Frank then opens the basement door and yells for Haynes to get up and the two farmers continue discussing Welch. Finally, Haynes makes his entrance: disheveled and in a bath robe. He is very nervous. He formally introduces himself to Emma (he arrived late at night) and shocks her when they shake hands. This zap of electricity continues through much of the rest of the play as an indicator that something is off with Haynes. Frank heads back to the barn leaving Haynes and Emma alone. Emma talks to Haynes hesitantly but honestly, eliciting some reactions from Haynes, including his denial that he is a scientist or was tortured and that her husband told her things he shouldn’t have—that Haynes didn’t want anyone to know. This of course adds to our, and Emma’s, suspicion of Haynes, and reveals, at least, that he has something to hide.

Scene One blacks out and opens in the same place on Scene Two, all we are left to ponder is that, presumably, it is a new day and in the same place. This time Emma and Haynes are talking much more openly (Frank is down at the barn with the heifers), though Haynes continues to exhibit his nervous behavior. The conversation reveals that Emma was born, literally, in the house and that many generations have lived there. It reveals some more traditional themes in the [amazon_link id=”0553346113″ target=”_blank” ]Shepard oeuvre[/amazon_link], including a sense of the land and place, a gross sense of distrust for Agribusiness and corporate farms, the sense that the farm has been displaced by the government and corporations to the detriment of our national soul. The conversation touches upon Welch, which visibly frightens Haynes, who makes Emma complicit by ensuring that she tells no one he is there in the basement. The timing couldn’t be better, as who should return? Haynes panics and rushes to the basement. Welch essentially forces his way in, confronting Emma. He bullies her and relentlessly questions her until by accident she reveals that someone is in the basement. She flees the kitchen to get her husband and in her absence Welch bullies and berates Haynes out of the basement and confronts him. As they “talk”, Welch takes out red, white, and blue bunting and begins stapling it to the cabinets and stapling other forms of bunting to the doors, sticking American flags in the plants, and placing decorative magnets on the refrigerator. He reminds Haynes of his duty, of the torture that was used before, and the fact that the torment will have to start all over for programming purposes. As the scene ends Welch is directing Haynes into the basement and talking of a group meeting on “Tuesday” where decisions will be made about what to do.

The final scene opens with Emma in the kitchen and Frank entering in the same suit that Welch has been wearing throughout. Again, thematically this is a technique that Shepard uses often: in Curse, Wesley dresses up as Weston at the end, showing the symbolically the pattern of genetic inheritance continues; in Rock Garden, Shepard again uses this technique to symbolically identify the genetic inheritance from father to son. Here it is not used in a familial context, but nonetheless demonstrates that Frank has become like Welch. As well, we learn that Frank has sold all the heifers and now has a suitcase filled with money. Emma is shocked and protests that Frank loved the heifers and what was he going to do now? Frank has no answer. Again, Shepard is revealing his lifelong outrage at the commercialization of the American land and way of life. Curiously, though Frank is now dressed like Welch, he is more of a mixed breed; for we note that he is a bit nervous, too: showing signs similar to those of Haynes. This is confirmed as Frank shocks Emma, then he begins grabbing his crotch demonstrating physical discomfort: a discomfort that is soon clarified as we hear Haynes screaming in the basement. Soon Welch emerges from the basement bearing a long cable and a control button. When he pushes the button, Haynes screams in the basement. When Haynes emerges we see the cable is attached to his penis and his head is covered in a black hood. The obvious representation here of the incidents at Abu Ghraib cannot be ignored. Emma attempts to stop the proceedings as Haynes is forced through torture to say the things that Welch wishes to hear. She wins a battle, for a moment, getting Frank to ask for the heifers back (who were supposed to be going off to a glorious use). Welch laughs and Haynes reveals that the heifers were not sold for a glorious purpose, but for a grisly, dirty, pointless fate (much like the soldiers have been treated in the war in Iraq). Frank demands the heifers be returned, dumping the money; but he is no match for Welch, who soon has Frank back in line (with a thinly veiled threat), much to Emma’s sorrow. Soon, Frank is repeating those same things and, through ‘his own’ initiative is even indicting his own ‘friend’ for having lapsed from his ‘programming.’ Through torture Welch forces Haynes to march and soon Frank voluntarily joins in. Welch marches them both out the door while Emma pleads with Frank not to go. The play ends with Welch mocking Emma and asking her rhetorically if she really believed that she could live the life she has been living in America with no sacrifice—without giving up something? He leaves as Emma runs out the door and rings the bell, to no avail.

Shepard isn’t known for his happy endings, of course. And this certainly is no exception. The outlook is bleak for the American people who (maybe) stood up for themselves once upon a time. And once-upon-a-time is important to this play: one of its major dialogs being between what is and what ought to be; what never was, but what we dreamed would be.

In my MNO class last night [amazon_link id=”0253214106″ target=”_blank” ]Professor David Hammack[/amazon_link] noted that non-profit groups did not exist in the colonies because they were essentially illegal. Illegal in the sense that only the church provided the sorts of services that non-profits provide today; and in the colonies, you had to be a church or a preacher to practice and you had to be approved of the Church of England and specifically by the Bishop of London: that there were stiff penalties for violating this. He noted, for instance, that many Quakers in early America where hanged by the neck until dead for speaking their minds; and it was illegal to be a Catholic in the colonies. The American Revolution was truly more than a political revolution, but sadly, even after the Revolution these practices continued, with the table turning. Many members of the Church of England were driven from the north of America to Canada, where they live to this day in Catholic Quebec. Professor Hammack commented that many of these details are left out of the history books we get in our elementary schools because the truth is too painful. He then remarked, “and of course, we don’t teach history in high school anymore.” This is, of course, somewhat facetious, but none-the-less proves an important point: many of us grow up with myth and fantasy as our understanding of our American heritage, not the hard-boiled practical reality of how people lived. Professor Hammack, in commenting on Queen Elizabeth I, noted that she had the head of her half-sister, Mary Queen of Scots; else Mary Queen of Scots would have done the same to her. He remarked, “in those days, they played for keeps.” Knowing the practical realities of a situation is important. Living in a fantasy world is not good. Too many Americans live in such a world—either by choice or because the realities have been intentionally withheld. Shepard’s play, I think draws this parallel in stark terms, but makes it clear that just because practical realities exist and are hard is no reason that our ideals should be sacrificed–which is the outcome of much of the abuse of power practices of the Bush administration demonstrate. That is, in a time of war democracy is superfluous or icing (which is, of course, absurd). There is no doubt that we need to “play for keeps” but we must be careful that we do not destroy the very things that make us great. It is a fine line, to be sure, but behaving recklessly only exacerbates the potential that the fragile balance will break the wrong way; and as Shepard’s play also demonstrates, as has American history, people who are afraid are often all too willing to abrogate the important rights that make this country what it is. It takes courage to stand up for what is important and a self-confidence that is grounded firmly in your soul.

Directed by Chris Johnston, [amazon_link id=”0822220644″ target=”_blank” ]The God of Hell[/amazon_link] was an excellently done theater piece which moved at a fast clip, rippled with absurd events, and yet, of course, per the best of Shepard, revealed a nightmarish reality.

I have been trying to figure out just what the point of this play is, really. I mean, one of the strong points or over-arching facets, I’m sure, is something that I, too, have been thinking about for some time: namely, how much of the crap we put up with during our daily lives do we really need? That is, the cell phones, the wireless phones, the laptops, internet connections, dvrs, dish tv, gps devices, home design, redesign, clothing, furnishing, and so-on—and all the pressure that comes with this ‘stuff’ (to quote Carlin, God rest his soul). Always there is the incessant pressure to communicate, to be available, and to be “on” 24×7. It is as if we live lives with no downtime, ever.

One of the main points of In the Garden is that Gabe (Tony Thai) lives in the park (a garden, of sorts, for the city). Of course, here it is reduced to a refuge for the homeless (possibly insane), for sexual trysts, etc. It is a place that people visit, briefly (jog through), but not for any real measure of time. Gabe is the only one who lives in the park (in this play) and the only one committed to experiencing life as lived in the park: some of his better lines involve his observations of the changing light, the clouds and sky, the different pace at which life moves in the “outdoors.” One of my favorite lines has Gabe saying that the Gods were invented at twilight—and through my own personal experience I could see very clearly how—more accurately, perhaps—feel very certainly how. It is at twilight, with the thinning of light, the sun sinking behind trees and casting shadows, sunlight filtering and slicing through the jagged puzzle pieces of leaf, the temperamental transition of energy from that of the active day to that of the hunkering night—that delicate time when a tenuous balance is formed for a moment of eternity; it is at this moment that I can see the Gods walking across the meadow at the edge of the forest; or appearing by a stream in the wood. And perhaps, more broadly, the question of what have we lost that now we spend so little time just out on the land, experiencing the weather and the passage of time—not in cycles of a processor, but in the movement of sunlight and shadow? It is the quiet time that allows us to be in touch with our soul: the element of us all that is most sound and sturdy. And this point, too, Norman Allen makes in one of his more dystopian moments: that we are on the cusp of lives lived as machines (automatons), not as human beings.

Other clues to the meaning of this play involve the obvious parallels with the title and the strong Biblical and Christian themes that run through In the Garden: 1) Eden 2) Gethsemane. The mythic parallels between the two Gardens are strong, of course, and here my reading and understanding of Joseph Campbell comes happily into play: Eden gave us the two trees which actually are one tree: the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and the Tree of Life; Gethsemane gave us the new Tree of Life—the Cross, on which Christ was Crucified (hanged and thus was the fruit of tree). The Garden of Eden is a place of unity, a place where the pairs of opposites are joined, and thus is likely also the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil from whence the knowledge of opposites comes. The mythic significance of this is well known, too, and its representation is everywhere and varied. This is why at the liminal spaces of temples one usually sees a pair of monsters or creatures (guardian figures): one with mouth closed and one with mouth open: representing desire and fear. Those who know fear and desire will not be able to fully enter the temple (unity) as they cannot see beyond the pairs of opposites of which the world is filled. This is why the Buddha’s temptations were of fear, desire (lust), and dharma—or social duty—thou shalt be this and do this… Where Christ’s temptations were food (physical hunger, desire), power (social hunger, duty), and fear (of death, cast yourself down). According to Campbell it is not coincidence that Christ experienced three temptations and had twelve apostles and that the Buddha experienced three temptations and had twelve followers either—Campbell also remarks that you can see the similarity in the personalities of all the apostles. The significance also is that the Buddha lived 500 years before Christ and raises questions about where Christ went for those 30+ years that are absent from this story. But I digress. The point here is that the Garden (Eden) as a symbol shows the hope of eternity (eternal life and a place in unity with the world) and the place of loss (where knowledge of the world is gained); and we see these represented in Allen’s piece. The Garden (Gethsemane) represents a moment of eternity (calm away from the world) and a place of betrayal (loss of that moment).

The sexual escapades with all of the characters, excepting Lizzie (Laurel Brooke Johnson, who, as Tony Brown points out, serves as a sort of Mary Magdalene figure–the irony being that she is chaste in this rendition), represent a sort of odd Garden of Eden for the other characters: John (Vince DePaul), a Philosophy Professor; John’s wife Muriel (Lucy Bredeson-Smith), head of a fashion magazine; and Lizzie’s fiancé, Walter (Arthur Grothe), a narcissistic businessman. For Lizzie and Gabe, the park is likely the Eden of the piece. It is ironic, however, that in this carnal Eden for three of the characters, Gabe entices them to reveal their most raw spiritual moments. In this way, Gabe serves as a sort of touch stone for them—drawing them out of their personas (or put on selves) and back to their souls (or true selves).

As one might expect, with the Biblical overtones and references to Christ, a crucifixion has to come. This aspect of Allen’s piece is difficult for me for several reasons. The first is, from a writer’s perspective, I feel that Allen must have felt forced to put this in. Force is a word I choose carefully because I felt the whole lead up to the end of this play was precisely that: forced. I felt that too much consciousness went into its design and calculation. The reason I feel this is based on my own experience: my own piece, coming up at the end of the season, also contains crucifixion as a metaphor; which brings me to the second difficulty. In my piece, the crucifixion came out unconsciously in the writing and I didn’t even realize it. Unfortunately, later I did realize it. When I did, I tried to use it and force that fate on everyone. It was Clyde, con-con’s artistic director, who pointed out to me that this was predictable and a let-down. I knew this to some extent, having discussed just this issue in the work shopping of the piece in Geither’s MFA class. Though I digress, this problem is still one that troubles me greatly—what the unconscious writes, the conscious will tamper with (edit). So, back to the second point, I realized that the writing had been unconsciously done and was in many respects dreamlike. If there’s anything the conscious mind can’t stand, it’s something that doesn’t make sense—and thus this part of my mind tried to “arrange” the writing so that is was sensible and lovely. The effect was disastrous. For Allen’s work, I don’t know that I would say disastrous, but the crucifixion certainly was expected and was a bit disappointing. As well, as soon as I saw it, I began immediately rummaging through the whole length of the play attempting to find all the other parallels with Christ’s story. An even worse consequence, perhaps, is that I have come to imagine In the Garden as a sort of re-write or re-visioning of this event. As a writer, I wonder more seriously if Allen didn’t get into the middle of this play—letting it go it’s merry way with Gabe and all the bed-fellows—and then wonder one terrible night just what in the hell he was into, and then, just as I mentioned above, force it a direction that seemed palatable and conclusive. The temptation to do this is great and, as I see now, more writers than me have to deal with the challenge it represents.

Ultimately, as many other reviewers have pointed out, the play is often confusing. There is too much philosophy and talkiness pummeling the audience and at times it was ridiculous to think of people having the conversations that these people were having. And in this case, it becomes more seam-splitting for Allen’s piece that the one character is a philosophy professor, which then justifies (or attempts to justify) the elevated level of conversation. That is, this character was created precisely so these conversations could take place: it is less organic. Another difficulty was that sometimes it was difficult to understand what Thai was saying, which muddled the meaning and slowed and strained the pace of the dialog. I think this play is good, but in my heart I feel that it is not finished. If this were my play, I would feel that very strongly—that something else needed for clarification or definition or that something needs examined more closely. Maybe it is because I, in some ways, feel that about my play that goes up in November—maybe I am projecting. I’ll have to get a copy of Allen’s play and read it to be sure. In the end, though, all five actors were strong and convincing. I give special kudos to Lucy Bredeson-Smith, who looked stunning throughout; and to Grothe who created a believable and smarmy Walter and who, with unbelievable grace, stopped the cap of a window blind cord from tapping incessantly against the wall (where the central air was pushing it). Complements also go to the set design, especially the multi-colored floor, which was very pleasing to look upon. I wish I would have seen this play earlier (the run is over), as I would like to see it at least one more time.