By Show and Tell
By Bree Davies
By Bree Davies
By Cory Casciato
By Emilie Johnson
By Robin Edwards
By Bree Davis
By Josiah M. Hesse
I expect to be blown away by any August Wilson play. And I'm used to the fact that at the Denver Center, I'll find skilled and generous-spirited actors, many of whom have held Wilson's words in their mouths and felt his rhythms in their bodies over several years and through many productions, to bring those plays to vivid life. But the current staging of King Hedley II, in the Space Theatre, adds another benefit: a towering performance by newcomer Terrence Riggins in the title role. Riggins's performance reminds me of one I saw in London three years ago: that of Henry Goodman playing Shylock in Trevor Nunn's production of The Merchant of Venice. Nunn stood the usual conception of this play on its head, transforming Merchant from a comedy with some dark undertones to a piercing tragedy over which the figure of Shylock loomed, immense and unforgiving. King Hedley is a completely different character who endures entirely different circumstances, but there's a similarity in the two men's bleak integrity and bitter rage. Like Shylock, Hedley is driven to mad schemes of self-justification, survival and revenge by his country's vicious racism; like Shylock, he himself is hardly a good man.
It has been remarked often -- including by me, in these pages -- that watching Wilson's work is like listening to music. You get involved in the rhythms of the language; every now and then a character launches into something resembling an extended jazz riff, or perhaps an operatic aria. The plots make sense, but they don't really drive the action. You just find yourself caught up in a rich and specific world.
King Hedley II lacks the camaraderie and good humor of some of Wilson's earlier plays. It is set in the mean-spirited years of President Ronald Reagan, when inner cities were left to disintegrate and the poor were left to their own unraveling devices. This was a time of increased homelessness, drive-by shootings, sporadic violence. King Hedley, named for the West Indian he believes to be his father, has recently been released from prison, having served seven years for killing a man who scarred his face with a razor. According to his code of ethics, the killing was inevitable. Blood must follow blood; insults must be avenged. To do less would cause the dissolution of his very self.
King Hedley returns to his wife, Tonya, and his 62-year-old mother, Ruby, in the Hill district of Pittsburgh, where Wilson has set most of his plays. He intends to go straight. Well, straightish. When the play opens, he and his friend, Mister, are already selling off stolen refrigerators in the hopes of making enough money to buy a video store. And it doesn't take long -- what with Mister's financial problems, the fact that Tonya is pregnant, King's inability to get a job -- for the two men to decide to rob a jewelry store.
From the moment he walks on stage and stands, glowering, in the center, Riggins holds our fascinated, and sometimes revulsed, attention. His physical expressiveness is extraordinary. King Hedley is at once a powerfully built man and an awkward, stumbling four-year-old. His gestures are simultaneously forceful and uncertain. King Hedley can kill without remorse. He knows he'll kill again -- except next time, he'll make it look like self-defense. But he's also nurturing a dollar's worth of seedlings in the dry earth of the blighted back yard; he's yearning to bring the child in Tonya's womb into the light; he's nonplussed when he stumbles across the grave of the man he killed and realizes that this man, too, had a family and a life. Trying to fathom these contradictions is physically painful for Hedley; just listening to other people outlining them sets his body in jerky, puzzled motion. When Tonya tells him she's unwilling to have the baby, he wants to touch her and he wants to hit her. It's painful to see the impulses contending in Riggins's psyche, and when he finally manages to take Tonya in his arms, the moment is profoundly moving.
Another soaring performance is that of Charles Weldon as Elmore, Ruby's con-man lover, returned to reclaim her. There's no way a mortal woman could resist this man. When he enters, smiling and oddly graceful, the stage lights up. King Hedley, too, is drawn to him, seeing him as something of a father figure. Elmore is as ruthless as Hedley himself, but his approach to crime is old-fashioned and calculating, his style silken. One of the most fascinating scenes in the play occurs when the two men relax together on the steps and discuss the psychological and philosophical ramifications of taking a human life.
Harvey Blanks plays Stool Pigeon, the demented old reprobate who represents the insane truth-teller or holy fool we've seen in earlier Wilson plays. It's Stool Pigeon who opens the door to the transcendent, inviting some kind of larger truth into the cramped moral universe of the play. He speaks in riddles, hinting at God's plans for humankind, exhorting King Hedley to seek "the key to the mountain." He tells us about Aunt Esther, who has lived 366 years and -- until her death in the course of the play -- seems to have the power to set the world right. He opens garbage cans so that stray dogs can feed, and digs a grave near Hedley's garden for Aunt Esther's dead black cat. Aunt Esther will return, he says, if blood flows on the cat's grave. These are all images of redemption, and they're echoed everywhere. Hedley asks bystanders several times if they can see a halo around his head. Later, he surrounds his sad little garden with strands of barbed wire -- though Mister suggests that razor wire would be more effective. The image speaks of his desperate need to protect the small shoots of life in his world and his inability to do so; it's obliquely reminiscent of Christ's crown of thorns.