GUARDS AT THE TAJ: Questions of Obedience and Culpability Haunt This Disturbing New Play

Humayun and Babur, the titular characters in the Atlantic Theater Company production of Rajiv Joseph’s Guards at the Taj, may remind you of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the ill-fated minor functionaries from Hamlet, snatched from obscurity to command center stage in Tom Stoppard’s absurdist play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.  But Mr. Joseph, whose 2011 work Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo took audiences through an existential and hallucinogenic journey through war-torn Iraq, has a lot more on his mind than clever allusion, especially about the constricted lives of those who exist only to serve the powerful. 

The play takes place in 1648, starting in the early hours before the dawn on the day the Taj Mahal – under wraps for the 16 years it has taken to construct it – is to be revealed in all its glory.  It is, by decree of Emperor Shah Jahan, the most beautiful work ever created by humans and will ever be thus.  

Before the play opens, Humayun (Omar Metwally) is already standing at attention before a wall at the site, his scimitar held smartly in place over his right shoulder.  After a few minutes, he is joined by Babur (Arian Moayed), a less enthusiastic soldier who has arrived late and who is not terribly interested in the pomp and ceremony of his duties. In violation of protocol, he immediately initiates a conversation with Humayun, who, though reluctant to relax his stance, gets caught up in what quickly becomes the kind of easy banter you’d associate with close and longtime friends.

Unlike Mssrs Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, they are far from interchangeable. Humayun is the good soldier, content to obey orders and to gather up the tidbits of rewards that occasionally fall his way, such as a promised promotion to serve as guard at the emperor's harem. For his part, Babur imagines a better world than the one in which they find themselves trapped. His dreams are of freedom from the regimented life, and of flying machines that will someday take them to the stars.  

As the dawn breaks, Babur convinces Humayun to disobey orders and to turn around to gaze upon the magnificent palace that will serve as the tomb of the emperor’s favorite wife.  It is a moment of sheer awe, depicted through David Weiner’s stunning lighting that shines on the pair like a fire from the heavens

If the first scene ends on a note of ethereal beauty, the next plunges us immediately into the hellish depths of an ugliness that, sadly, we humans are as equally adept at creating.

This is the strongest of the four scenes plus a coda that make up the 90-minute intermissionless play, aided in no small way by Timothy R. Mackabee’s remarkable and disturbing set design that has the guards soaked to the skin and wading ankle-deep in a pool of red.  

Humayun and Babur have been ordered to carry out a deed of utter cruelty against all 20,000 workers who were involved in the construction of the Taj Mahal, merely to assure the emperor that nothing of such splendor will ever again be constructed.  How the two men handle the burden that has been thrust upon them becomes the core of the play and raises all of the issues that come to mind when considering questions of obedience and culpability, and of honor,  friendship, and loyalty.  

The play does suffer from jarring shifts in tone as the play progresses, moving abruptly from Laurel and Hardy-like badinage, to periods of mythic nightmare, to moments of anguish and tenderness, to soaring lyricism. The dance between realism and surrealism is not firmly fixed, and this does keep us from being fully engulfed by the unfolding events.

Still, under Amy Morton’s taut direction, Mr. Metwally and Mr. Moayed do an exceptional job portraying these two pawns in a game over which they have little control, and the overall impact is certainly memorable.   

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DYING FOR IT: Hope For The Best; Expect The Worst

It’s probably safe to assume that Joseph Stalin did not have much of a sense of humor. Too bad. Because if he did, he might have gotten a kick out of Dying For It, Moira Buffini’s free-flowing comic adaption of Nikolai Erdman’s banned 1928 Soviet-era satire The Suicide, now on view at the Atlantic Theater Company's Linda Gross Theater.

At the opening, and at various points during the play, a duo of excellent musicians (Nathan Dame and Andrew Mayer) sets the mood with Josh Schmidt’s original Russian-style music on violin and accordion. But cast aside images of Fiddler on the Roof and think instead of Mel Brooks’ The Twelve Chairs and the song he composed for it (“Hope for the Best. Expect the Worst”) and you will have a pretty good idea of what’s in store for you—a very funny slapstick comedy about a down-in-the-mouth nebbish (perfectly embodied by Joey Slotnick) determined to end his empty life. 

Slotnick’s character, Semyon Semyonovich Podeskalnikov (everyone has one of these wonderful tongue twister Russian-esque names), is the perfect kvetch. In the opening scene, he starts whining in the middle of the night for a piece of blood sausage that he had refused to eat at dinner because eating in front of his loving, if exasperated, wife Masha (Jeanine Serralles) makes him feel like a parasite. It seems he cannot find work and is dependent on Masha’s salary to survive. Of course, this doesn’t stop him from waking her when he is feeling hungry.  (“You are crucifying me with blood sausage!” he complains.) 

Driven to histrionic despair after a failed attempt at channeling his hopes into a potential career as a tuba player, Semyon acquires a gun and announces his intention to off himself. Word quickly spreads, and suddenly the self-proclaimed “flea in the flea pit” finds himself elevated to the status of soon-to-be martyr for any number of causes, as various characters try to help him shape his suicide letter to suit their purposes. ("You must shoot yourself as a responsible member of society," he is told.)

Thus, Aristarkh Dominikovich Grand-Skubik (Robert Stanton) wants Semyon’s last words to be a plea on behalf of the intelligentsia; Kleopatra “Kiki” Maximovna (Clea Lewis) wants him to die in the name of romantic love; others want him to kill himself for lack of meat, or on behalf of the “beggars and the mad.” All of the sudden, Semyon is the most important man in town, the one person who need not fear speaking out. 

This all plays out in a flurry of low comedic gallows humor and all around great fun by the first-rate cast under Neil Pepe’s spot-on direction. Mr. Slotnick, with his hangdog expression and deadpan delivery, shines as Semyon, but, really, this is a wonderful ensemble effort. 

In addition to the cast members I’ve already identified, there are splendid performances by Mary Beth Peil as Semyon’s mother-in-law; Peter Maloney as Father Yelpidy, a priest who envisions himself preaching a great sermon on the occasion; and Patch Darragh as Viktor Viktorovich, the “people’s poet,” who is readying an epic work in the name of the new celebrity. The other denizens of the wonderfully drab and dreary Soviet apartment building concocted by set designer Walt Spangler are Mia Barron, CJ Wilson, and Ben Beckley. Mr. Beckley plays the one true Soviet functionary, a postman whose claim to fame is his award for “speed and diligence” and whose ultimate fate adds a twist of a denouement to the proceedings.

With Dying For It, the thin line between despair and comedy is in deft hands.The jokes may occasionally veer toward the hoary, but everyone involved in this production understands that all is dependent on precise and straight-faced delivery and timing. They absolutely deliver the goods. 

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'What Rhymes With America': Quirky Characters Stymied by an Underdeveloped Plot

Playwright Melissa James Gibson and Director Daniel Aukin
Photo by Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

There was an interesting article in The New York Times yesterday about efforts to clarify definitions of various personality disorders.  One example given was that of narcissism, characterized by such traits as manipulativeness and callousness.  What comes to mind is someone like Bernie Madoff, the convicted stockbroker who callously and with malicious intent manipulated his clients into trusting him with their money in what turned out to be a grand Ponzi scheme. 

I thought of Madoff while watching Melissa James Gibson’s new play, What Rhymes With America, at the Atlantic Theater Company. In it, we are introduced to Hank (Chris Bauer), a man who shows us that it is quite possible to be manipulative and callous without necessarily having malicious intent. 

Even though this is a comedy, and often quite a funny one, there is a disturbing undertone as we watch Hank—intentionally or otherwise—hurt and possibly more deeply  wound the women in his life. 

There is his wife, unseen, who has tossed Hank out after he has bilked her of her retirement savings, the last straw in a long history of denial, excuses, and irresponsible behavior. 

There is his melancholy teenaged daughter Marlene (Aimee Carrero), taken to writing sighing songs with rhymes like “oyster” and “cloister” and forced to talk to her father through the locked door of her mother’s apartment.  (Has a restraining order been issued?) 

For Marlene, Hank plays the role of the misjudged spouse and the concerned and caring dad, who coincidentally happens to be a little short of cash when asked about the 20 weeks of allowance he owes his daughter. 

There is Sheryl (Da’Vine Joy Randolph, Tony nominee for her portrayal of Oda Mae in the recent Broadway production of Ghost).  She and Hank have temporary jobs performing tiny roles in a production of Wagner’s “Ring Cycle.” They often take cigarette breaks together, during which Sheryl, who longs to play Lady Macbeth, bemoans her fate:  “I wanted to be an actress; instead I’m a Viking.” 

For Sheryl, who has developed a crush on Hank, he plays the role of the sympathetic listener, which she unfortunately interprets as reciprocal attraction. 

Finally, there is Lydia (Seana Kofoed in a standout performance), a timid, awkward, and vulnerable soul who allows herself to be romanced by Hank. He, in turn, treats her in a most callous fashion that spirals his casual narcissism to stratospheric heights. 

There is no doubt that Ms. Gibson, who has garnered praise and awards for such plays as [sic] and This, is a talented playwright and a very clever wordsmith.  Who else do you know who can use words like “supernumerary” and “hippocampus” as punchlines?  

She also does a fine job crafting individual scenes, and director Daniel Aukin, who has worked with the playwright before, handles these well. 

But the problem with What Rhymes With America is that there is not enough meat on the bones.  Each scene sort of hangs there by itself, and it becomes incumbent on the audience to make the connections to a bigger theme, just I have tried to do in this review. 

The play, running 85 minutes with no intermission, received a tepid reception from the audience at the performance I attended.  The man behind me grumbled his displeasure throughout, and towards the end increased the volume of his negative comments, calling the play the “biggest piece of shit" he’d ever seen.  All I can say is, sir, you don’t get out much, do you?   

So, no, it does not come even close to the gentleman's colorful description.  Let's call it a minor or unfinished work by a significant and always interesting playwright. Long may her hippocampus function!

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