Reneé Fleming’s Bel Canto takes one of Edgar Allen Poe’s most famous stories, “The Tell Tale Heart,” and translates it to a jazzy, noir-ish setting among two-bit gangsters. Bel Canto originated at Metropolitan Playhouse as part of an evening of short plays based on famous American literature; among offerings derived from Wharton, Dickinson, and Whitman, this stark, poetic piece stood out as something both original and remarkably deeply felt; I’ve come to learn that that’s almost always the case with Fleming’s idiosyncratic work.
RENÉE FLEMINGS is a playwright, actor, director, and singer. She was born in Louisville, Kentucky, and spent her formative years in Lansing/East Lansing, Michigan. Her summers, however, were spent in the deep south: Alabama, Georgia, and Florida. Flemings works in the educational theatre field for Roundabout Theatre Company, and has been involved in working with teaching artists and teachers in various capacities over the past ten years.
EXCERPT
CLEAVE HUSTLES INTO THE ROOM.
CLEAVE Fellas! We got a problem. Pour me one, Trigger.
TRIGGER Since when I'm workin' the bar here?
CLEAVE Since I say. Pour me a fuckin' drink and pay attention. I say we've got a problem gentlemen, a problem needs our prompt attention.
MAINS What kinda problem?
TRIGGER RELUCTANTLY POURS ONE FOR HIMSELF AND CLEAVE.
TRIGGER You havin' some?
MAINS Yeah, sure, thanks.
THE FIGURE BEHIND THE DRUM BEATS OUT A BRIEF RHYTHMIC PHRASE, THEN STOPS ABRUPTLY. MAINS' HAND TREMBLES VERY SLIGHTLY IN SYNC WITH THE SOUND, THEN STOPS.
TRIGGER Hold the glass still stupid.
MAINS Sorry.
TRIGGER You spill this shit-- this is the real good --
CLEAVE Trigger?
TRIGGER Yeah?
CLEAVE Shut up. We got business to handle. The word's out on the street, Big Tony Hustle wants to take over some of our spots-- Word is he's got a connection uptown, a connection with some connections and some money-- big money, and a lot of muscle. Word is this guy's goin' to make sure Tony gets what he wants.
TRIGGER Uh-uh, not happenin'
CLEAVE I know this. But, he don't know this-- We need to let him know this. So.... Mains?
MAINS Yeah?
CLEAVE It's all yours...
MAINS Mine?
CLEAVE Yeah. Yours.
THE BONGOS BEAT AGAIN. MAINS MOVES ACROSS THE STAGE, HIS MOVEMENTS FOR ONE BRIEF MOMENT STYLIZED AS IF A JAZZ BALLET. THEY BOTH LOOK AT HIM. HIS HAND SHAKES.
TRIGGER The hell was that?
MAINS What?
»
Metropolitan is also the home of Alex Roe’s Salem, which is inspired by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown.” It’s fitting that this fine but perhaps undervalued off-off-Broadway company located in the heart of Alphabet City in New York’s East Village is included in this volume, because this troupe, under the leadership of David Zarko and, now, Roe himself, has made its reputation as an interpreter of classic, often “lost” American drama. This piece—part ghost story, part spiritual exercise—is a splendid addition to that canon.
ALEX ROE is the artistic director of Metropolitan Playhouse in New York City. He was born in Wilmington, Delaware in 1965, and grew up in southeastern Pennsylvania. He graduated from Harvard College with a B.A. in Literature. Roe has acted since childhood, but credits his first foray into producing – an improvisation-based play developed with college friend Eric Ronis – as the thing that permanently hooked him on theatre.
EXCERPT
DEVIL enters.
DEVIL: You are late, Goodman Brown.
ELIPHALET: The resolution which you take, sweet youth it doth me merry make.
THOMAS: And went I, then, to keep covenant. E’en to say, I would not go whither he intended. Yet did I linger.
DEVIL and THOMAS re-enact the events of the night before (cf. Hawthorne’s Young Goodman Brown), as THOMAS describes them to Eliphalet, who looks on but does not participate.
DEVIL: Let us walk on, reasoning as we go, and if I convince thee not, thou shalt turn back. We are but a little way in the forest yet.
THOMAS: Too far, too far! My father never went into the woods on such an errand, nor his father before him, and shall I be the first of the name of Brown, that ever took this path and kept . . . .
DEVIL: Such company, thou wouldst say? Well said, Goodman Brown! I have been as well acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and that's no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem. And it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip's War. They were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends with you, for their sake.
THOMAS: If it be as thou sayest, I marvel they never spoke of these matters. Or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that the least rumor of the sort would have driven them from New England. We are a people of prayer, and good works to boot, and abide no such wickedness. But, to end the matter at once, there is my wife, Faith. It would break her dear little heart; and I'd rather break my own!
CLOYSE enters, as a part of the story Thomas is telling.
DEVIL: Nay, if that be the case, e'en go thy ways, Goodman Brown. I would not, for twenty old women like the one hobbling before us, that Faith should come to any harm.
DEVIL touches CLOYSE with his staff.
CLOYSE: The devil!
DEVIL: Then goody Cloyse knows her old friend.
CLOYSE: Ah, forsooth. And is it your worship indeed?
THOMAS: They talked as fond friends—spoke of my grandfather, of me
CLOYSE: They tell me there is a nice young man to be taken into communion tonight.
CLOYSE exits.
THOMAS: What if a wretched old woman do choose to go to the Devil, whom I thought sure was going to Heaven! Is that any reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?
DEVIL: You will think better of this by and by. Sit here and rest yourself a while; and when you feel like moving again, there is my staff to help you along.
DEVIL exits.
ELIPHALET: Youth forward slips death soonest nips
THOMAS: Would I had stayed. Yet did I hear . . .
Cloud sounds, intermingled with voices.
»
The other great mid-19th century American author, Herman Melville, also gets his due here, in R.L. Lane’s terrific Bartleby the Scrivener. This play is terrifically well-realized theatre; what makes it more exciting is the way that it redefines a story that a lot of people think they know. Lane’s Bartleby is not the existential hero that many of us recall from school. Indeed, he’s not even the protagonist of the play—that honor goes to his employer, the attorney Standard, whose transformation is the moving subject of this finely wrought drama.
R. L. LANE is a writer and director currently living in New York City. He began his career teaching in university theatre at Stanford and M.I.T. In 1984 he founded the award-winning New Repertory Theatre outside Boston, where he served as Producing Artistic Director for twelve years and directed more than thirty professional productions. As a writer, he has received fellowships from The Yaddo Corporation and Lark Play Development Center in New York.
EXCERPT
(GINGER NUT darts toward the door. He halts as BARTLEBY looms motionless in the doorway. A pause. BARTLEBY says something to GINGER NUT. GINGER NUT re-enters the office. BARTLEBY does not move throughout the following.)
GINGER NUT There’s a man, sir, outside the door.
TURKEY (Shuffling papers) Yes? Man? What sort of a man, Ginger Nut?
GINGER NUT Standing by the door, sir, still as stone.
TURKEY (Shuffling papers) Yes? Describe this man, Ginger Nut. Specificity is the soul of the law. Corpulent and practical? Lean and witty? Is it one of Nippers’ creditors come to collect? Tell him he may wait till the crack of doom and never find Mr. Nippers in, ha ha!
GINGER NUT He is very proper, sir. But pale.
TURKEY Pale? Send him away—we want no pale men here!
GINGER NUT Pale as paper, sir. Asked if Mr. Standard was in.
TURKEY In? The Master is in. You may tell him so. The Master is in!
GINGER NUT I'll tell him, sir.
(GINGER NUT darts toward the door. Something causes him to halt. He falls back a step.)
STANDARD (To audience) He stood without moving in the open doorway, calm, neat, pitiably forlorn!
(A pause. NIPPERS looks up from his writing and stares at BARTLEBY. TURKEY, seeing BARTLEBY, stiffens. Momentary pause.)
TURKEY (Stiffly) Good afternoon, sir. These are the law chambers of Mister Standard, Master of Chancery. How may we serve you?
(BARTLEBY does not answer.)
TURKEY I ask, sir, how may we serve you? (To GINGER NUT, after a moment:) He talks, don't he?
GINGER NUT Yes, sir, talked outside.
TURKEY Talked outside, eh? (To BARTLEBY, emphatically:) Allow me to repeat myself. This is the law chambers of the Master of Chancery. I am his prime assistant, Horatio to his Hamlet, his strong right hand. Allow me to be of service, sir. Speak! (With exaggerated gestures) HOW MAY WE SERVE YOU?!
(A pause. BARTLEBY speaks in a clear, thin voice.)
BARTLEBY I am here to see the proprietor.
TURKEY Ahh! speaks at last! He wishes to see “The Proprietor!” Ginger Nut! Is the Proprietor in?
GINGER NUT He’s in, sir.
TURKEY (Turning to Bartleby) There you have it, sir. The proprietor is in. (Deep bow) May we further serve you?
(A pause.)
BARTLEBY I have come about the copying position.
TURKEY Oh ho! The light shines ever brighter! The copying position! Now—if I might ask, sir, your name....?
BARTLEBY Bartleby.
TURKEY
At last! Revelation follows upon revelation! Nothing is concealed! Quickly, Ginger Nut. Run to Mister Standard. Tell him a copyist wishes an interview. Tell him the copyist’s name is Mister Bartleby!
STANDARD (To audience) Never had I seen a face so pale, as if no spot of sunlight had ever touched that cheek, that chalky brow. Even his eyes were pale! He stood without moving before my great mahogany desk.
(STANDARD enters the office. BARTLEBY stands motionless before the desk.)
You have no letter of reference, Mr. Bartleby? And no sample of your hand? (Slight pause) Well then, would you compose a sample for me now? Ginger Nut! Some paper, a pen! Sit down, Mr. Bartleby. Copy from this. Just these few lines.
(BARTLEBY sits. GINGER NUT scurries in with paper and pen. BARTLEBY begins to copy.)
(To audience:) His hand flew like wind across the page, yet with an indescribable calm! When he had completed his lines, he laid his pen to rest and sat still.
(Studying the page) Well. Your hand is neat and swift. You seem a quiet fellow, and respectable. You’ve no evil habits, I assume. I’m willing to hire you at the going rate, that is, four cents per one hundred words. Hours are eight in the morning to six at night, half-day Saturday. These terms acceptable? Hmm?
(Expansive) Well then! Let me introduce you to your new colleagues. Turkey!
(TURKEY rises from his desk. Deep, oriental bow.)
TURKEY Much delighted, Mr. Bartleby. You'll enjoy your labors in these offices, sir—none better. Many gratifications... much to learn and do—
STANDARD (Cutting him off) And Nippers...
(NIPPERS half-rises, nods abruptly.)
STANDARD And Ginger Nut.
GINGER NUT Afternoon, sir, and pleased to meet you. If you want refreshments, sir, I’m your boy: apples, spritzers, pies, confections—
STANDARD (Cutting him off) You'll begin tomorrow morning, Mr. Bartleby?
BARTLEBY I would prefer... (slight pause) to begin at once.
(A pause.)
STANDARD At once? You mean, this afternoon?
TURKEY Oblige him sir, oblige him! Here is devotion, sir, here is industry!
(The light has faded. Music plays.)