In the last century, photography, video, and the Internet
provided the world with astounding visuals of war, but unless a person has
experienced war, it’s difficult to fully grasp. It can be argued that only
those who fight on a battleground understand the depth of that journey.
A modern,
award-winning adaptation of “The Iliad,” Homer’s epic poem, “An Iliad,” which
opened at Geva Theatre’s Nextstage
last weekend, exposes war in all its grisly horror, mourns its heroes, and
emphasizes how easily it all begins.
Even though
many audience members will remember (or know) little of Greek literature and “The
Iliad,” save a name here and there — Helen of Troy, Paris, Zeus, Apollo — the
poem has been condensed from its original 15,000 lines into 100 minutes of
comprehensive storytelling. Lisa Peterson and Denis O’Hare, who adapted the
poem for the stage, have done an admirable job filling a fictional tale from
the Bronze Age with relatable analogies for death and war: A phone call or
knock on the door at 3 a.m.; a family member who never returns home; a beloved
friend who dies too young; a battlefield filled with lost souls — was that
Flanders or Hiroshima? Antietam or Thermopylae?
The message
is clear: War is no slave to time, race, or status.
Kyle Hatley (The Poet) delivers the analogies to the audience in
a way that’s at first abrasive, but begins to feel necessary. He enters the
stage with meekness, begging the Muse to inspire him with the inspiration to
tell the story, and his energy amps up with each scene. Hatley
is described in the program as a “theatre artist that used to play football.”
He’s an imposing physical presence who has a firm command over the stage (vital
to a show that only has one speaking role). He paints the battles and bodies in
startlingly vivid ways — in broken, beautiful tones, through whispers and
shouts. He yells, sweats, drinks, cries, and swears, telling the story with
such commitment that at times it’s hard to tell if he’s acting at all. By the
end of the show, he is emotionally spent. Every ounce of him is left on stage.
He forces the audience to partake in his suffering – everyone in the theater is
exhausted, and they haven’t done a thing except observe from their seats.
But even
though Hatley has a commanding presence, the story
would be nearly powerless without Raymond Castrey
(musician, music director), who provides auditory cues and thematic music on
stage for the entire show. Though he never speaks a word, he is the supporting
character — and perhaps the very Muse that The Poet pleads with — in every way.
He seems to send strength to The Poet during the most emotionally draining
moments of the show.There were some
minor speaker issues in the first few scenes of the show, but they seemed to
straighten out by the time Josh Horvath’s sound design began to shine (notably,
his use of an echo for the gods). The instruments used in the show are
fascinating additions, from a ukulele that Castrey
plays in place of a more time-appropriate lute to a dulcimer and a large
xylophone. There’s also an instrument made from PVC pipe and played with a
flip-flop. (The show’s playbill provides an insightful interview about the
instruments with Castrey.)
Both the
scenic design by John Haldoupis and the costume
design by Georgiana Londrรฉ Buchanan are multipurpose,
and transcend a specific time period or place. The set most resembles a ship,
with rigged ropes on both sides of the stage, several levels of deck-like
platforms and a host of wooden crates that Hatley
rearranges as he moves through the plot. Scattered around stage are various
instruments for Castrey. Though it’s subtle, a
landscape of rolling hills and a bright blue river is woven into a large
tapestry that hangs behind the set. Grant Wilcoxen’s
mood-inducing lighting designs depict not only the change from day to night,
but also the fiery blaze of battle.
To accompany
the ship-like surroundings, director Jerry Genochio
captains a show that rides its climactic moments like waves on the ocean,
keeping the audience on the edge of their seats with emotional lurches and
suspense.
A famous
quote often linked to Joseph Stalin states, “A single death is a tragedy, a
million deaths is a statistic.” Near the end of the show, Hatley
stands on a dim stage tinged with red lighting and cries out the names of the
wars fought in the last three thousand years. As he recites them in
chronological order, it seems impossible that so many wars were fought in such
a short time. That so many men were lost. That so many generations lived under
the far-reaching shadows of war.
At the end
of “An Iliad,” there is a collective sigh. It is finished, now comes the time
for rest and reflection. Not so different, perhaps, from a battle.
This article appears in Feb 3-9, 2016.
