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<text id=89TT1292>
<title>
May 15, 1989: Bowing Out With A Flourish
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
May 15, 1989 Waiting For Washington
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
THEATER, Page 87
Bowing Out with a Flourish
</hdr><body>
<p>The season ends with works evoking families and everyday magic
</p>
<p>By William A. Henry III
</p>
<qt> <l>APPROACHING ZANZIBAR</l>
<l>by Tina Howe</l>
</qt>
<p> A vacationing family meets a boy in the Blue Ridge
Mountains willing to take a group snapshot. He turns out to be
a deaf-mute astrological visionary. High up in the Smokies, the
menopausal mother of the family keeps hearing a baby crying out
in the woods. After she leaves the tent, the audience hears it
too. The family tumbles into its car outside a diner near
Amarillo, Texas, and resumes squabbling, only this time father
and daughter swap roles and accustomed dialogue, and so do
mother and son. The elders squeak about needing a bathroom
break. The children trade curses about whose bad idea this
adventure was, anyway. Then they screech off into the night,
ostensibly with a grade-schooler in command of the steering
wheel.
</p>
<p> As the family huddles around the Taos, N. Mex., bedside of
an aged aunt to hear her final addled reverie of childhood, the
dying woman whisks off a grizzled wig to reveal blond locks,
sits bolt upright and brays delightedly at having sneaked in one
last prank. At the sight of this transformation, the daughter's
attitude shifts from terror to wonder. Moments later, she and
the dying woman are jumping on the bed as though it were a
trampoline, mingling the old one's romantic memories with the
child's geography game in exultant shouts of "Zanzibar!
Zanzibar!"
</p>
<p> What do these increasingly fantastical scenes mean? The
audience may never be quite sure, but one thing is certain:
playwright Tina Howe, overpraised in the past for her wan Wasp
tone poems (Painting Churches, Coastal Disturbances), has
infused new energy into her work. At the same time, she has
sustained her gift for hinting at profound meanings in humdrum
moments. To Howe, the eternal in life is clearest in its
ephemerality; the memories that haunt us to the end of our days
are of the most ordinary, and thus revealing, events.
</p>
<p> Howe has always had an ear for plausible conversation and
a keen eye for the elegiac beauty of the everyday. Blending them
with the subtly magical in Approaching Zanzibar at last relieves
her work of a seeming pettiness and dullness. In the production
that opened off-Broadway last week, she is aided by a superb
cast, including Jane Alexander and Harris Yulin as the parents
and Bethel Leslie as the dying aunt -- all established stars who
delicately avoid star turns -- and the exceptional Clayton
Barclay Jones and Angela Goethals as the children. Heidi
Landesman's brilliantly simple sets fill a postage-stamp stage
with bits of cloth to create a mountain, a river, a campsite and
a twinkling night sky, capturing not physical essence but
distilled recollection. The entire event is ethereal yet
spellbinding.
</p>
<qt> <l>ARISTOCRATS</l>
<l>by Brian Friel</l>
</qt>
<p> Social standing is always relative. To the hardscrabble
peasants down in the Irish village of Ballybeg, the clan in the
big house on the hill is the nobility. But at Ballybeg Hall the
members of that gilded tribe are keenly aware of a wider world
and their piddling place in it. They glamourize the past: a
tatty cushion or tarnished candlestick becomes an heirloom by
reason of a (probably fictitious) anecdotal link to some bygone
celebrity. They embroider the dismal present. They deny the
looming future of dissolution and dispersal.
</p>
<p> If all this sounds like the umpteenth rewrite of Chekhov's
The Cherry Orchard, the best defense Brian Friel might offer for
his superb play, now off-Broadway, is that his characters seem
Chekhovian only because they are so candid and self-aware.
Kaiulani Lee is the older sister who sacrificed by staying home
to tend to her father, Haviland Morris the sister who opted to
marry for money, Margaret Colin the one who drowned herself in
the Molotov cocktail of alcohol laced with utter honesty. John
Pankow excels as the village lad who romanced each girl in turn,
settled for the one who would have him, and went on to a
diplomatic career that eclipses the golden clan's luster in
every mind but the one that counts: his own.
</p>
<p> Against these plangent strings of personality is the oboe
howl and twitter of Niall Buggy as the only son, a pixilated
and desperate man steeped in family lore who nonetheless bolted
half a continent away. For him and his kin, heritage is a cruel
joke masquerading as an oracle.
</p>
<qt> <l>LARGELY NEW YORK</l>
<l>by Bill Irwin</l>
</qt>
<p> Performance artist. New vaudevillian. Silent clown. However
you label limber-jointed Bill Irwin, he is one of the most
winsome presences in the American theater. In the sketchbook
Largely New York, which opened on Broadway last week, he wears
a top hat and spectacles, carries a white cane and resembles an
elongated Jiminy Cricket. All around him are people he might
befriend, if only he could break through their obsessive
isolation with entertainment machines -- a Walkman, a boom box,
a video camera, a TV monitor. Irwin himself carries a remote
control, purportedly hooked up to the tiers of curtains onstage
and the sound system that sporadically blares Tea for Two while
he attempts a soft-shoe.
</p>
<p> Not much happens during these 70 sweetly silly minutes:
pratfalls and swan dives, break dancers accosted, a girl lost
and maybe won. Some technology-inspired images are new -- Irwin
silently screams from inside a TV until someone vacuums up his
video image and expels it into an old trunk, from which the
lanky actor unfolds -- but the show owes a lot to Chaplin and
Harpo, Jacques Tati and Marcel Marceau. Still, they are the
people to copy, and Irwin surely has the gift.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>