October 2, 2002

TOM STOPPARD'S NIGHT and Day (1978), drawing on his former career as a journalist, signaled a turn from the absurdism of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead to the consistently inventive but more realistic structures of later plays. While it hasn't aged as well as the author, American Conservatory Theater's lavish revival proves it's well worth a second look. As civil war brews in the fictitious African nation of Kambawe in the mid 1970s, three journalists hole up near a precious telex machine in the seeming oasis of an English family's postcolonial estate. It's more than the telex line that connects the Carsons to their guests, however. Ruth Carson (René Augesen) was a victim of the tabloids before fleeing England with husband Geoffrey (Anthony Fusco), a mine owner. There's also the coincidence of Ruth's recent affair with one of them, Dick Wagner (Marco Barricelli), and her irresistible attraction to another, young idealist Jacob Milne (T. Edward Webster). You might call hers a love-hate relationship with the press.

Barricelli revels in the part of Dick, a macho careerist and simpleminded union man (whose knee-jerk support of the closed shop makes him the foil for the playwright's ideological skepticism). Webster's bright, perky performance as Jacob contrasts nicely here. Augesen's Ruth is a charming, garrulous mess. Her nervous, sometimes musical asides present a quirky, not entirely successful dimension to the otherwise realistic action. Fusco does exceptionally subtle work as Geoffrey, a laconic member of the master class and a gently devoted husband. The two African characters, the listless servant Francis (Gregory Wallace) and the extravagant dictator General Mageeba (Steven Anthony Jones), reflect familiar stereotypes, though Jones delivers a thrilling performance as the Idi Amin-like Mageeba.

The play is stiff in its attempt to reconcile all of its elements, but this first-rate production remains genuinely enjoyable throughout. Despite the anachronisms of the plot (the old telex machine and the deadline dilemma), the debate over the function of the press unfolds Shaw-like through the sparkling dialogue and ends up being the play's most relevant, intriguing aspect. For all of the flippancy, the ideals defended – particularly by Jacob and photojournalist George Guthrie (a congenial Paul Whitworth) – come across as deeply felt. This is especially true near the end, when the hitherto taciturn veteran George explains, "I've been around a lot of places. People do awful things to each other. But it's worse in places where everybody is kept in the dark. It really is. Information is light. Information, in itself, about anything, is light. That's all you can say, really." Except that now we want to add: so is art.

Early Ibsen

Henrik Ibsen's first great drama, Brand, while universally admired, rarely finds companies daring enough to mount its epic verses about the religious calling of a fanatical parish priest, since the play presents difficulties as notoriously treacherous as its alpine setting. Leave it to audacious Last Planet Theater to rise to the challenge. First a confession (in the secular spirit of professional disclosure): the reviewer worked on previous productions by this company.

The preacher Brand (Matt Leshinskie) – a symbol more than a personality – represents complete submission to the religious ideal. The word of God is absolute; duty to the spiritual takes precedence over the material every time, as Brand tells the starving villagers he meets. To Brand, "the Devil is compromise." His "All or Nothing," as he puts it, makes him a giant among men, gaining him a flock as well as the devotion of Agnes (Lauren Bloom) and the enmity of her spurned lover, Enjar (Cody Bayne). But it also pits calling against conflicting allegiances to family, parishioners, and the state. Brand's lonely, progressively miserable quest finally turns from the reform of society to the fulfillment of individual destiny. A half-mad Gypsy, Gerd (Colleen Stark), speeds the latter with a fateful shot that consummates the prophesy of divine compassion in Brand's earthly demise. The play's tragedy lies in the futile pursuit of the absolute in a world tarnished by original sin.