"Blackbird' by Theatre Exile (1st review)

In theory there ought be a special place in hell for adults who, by virtue of their age or status, take sexual advantage of the young and immature— like priests who deflower choir boys placed in their charge, or junior high teachers who seduce their students, or the film director Roman Polanski (who had consensual sex with an underage girl), or Woody Allen (who cohabited with his partner's adopted daughter). Aside from murder, no crime is as serious as sexual abuse, for the simple reason that— unlike, say, robbery, battery or property damage— the injury can't be repaired.

But even on this issue, ambiguity rears its annoying head. Our laws are designed to protect the young from their elders, but the law's tools— punishment and condemnation— can't deter or cure pathological behavior. More important, maturity isn't necessarily a function of chronological age. Soon-Yi Previn at 22 was probably more mature than Woody Allen at 56— and indeed, they've been together now for 16 years (legally married for 11) and, if anything, Soon Yi seems the stronger and more grounded half of the pair. So who, exactly, was damaged when Allen abused his role as Soon-Yi's putative guardian?

Clearly we have barely scratched the surface of sexual exploitation of the young by their elders. All the more reason, then, to be grateful for the remarkable intelligence and sensitivity of David Harrower's intense and unsettling Blackbird, which examines the aftermath of such an affair. I've rarely seen a play that so effectively demonstrates the connection between actions and consequences.

A "'stupid girl who had a stupid crush'

Ray, the male protagonist, had sex at age 40 with Una, who was just 12 at the time— "a stupid girl who had a stupid crush," as she describes herself. Ray subsequently spent three years in prison for this offense, then tried, with great difficulty, to put his past behind him by moving far away and changing his name. But for Una the task of moving on proved well nigh impossible; and now, 15 years later, she has tracked Ray down in order to confront him angrily at his workplace.

But is she angry over his initial seduction of her, or his subsequent rejection of her? And precisely what does she hope to achieve now? These don't appear to be things she has thought about; all she knows for sure, she tells Ray, is that "I hate the life I've had— I wanted you to know it."

In the course of their 80-minute confrontation it develops, of course, that Ray is not so much an immoral sexual manipulator as a weak, fallible and guilt-ridden mortal. It also develops that the same passion that fires Una's anger toward Ray played a role in her original attraction toward him.

This production of Blackbird owes much of its effectiveness to the casting of Pearce Bunting and Julianna Zinkel, two superlative actors who seem (the ultimate acting achievement) to have been born for these roles: Bunting as a soft and slovenly middle-aged man who's unequal to the manly task of taking charge of his life and responsibility for his acts; Zinkel as a brittle young woman hardened too early by her life but clinging in some corner of her soul to the hope of recovering her soft and gentle side.

Two small quibbles

I have two small quarrels with Harrower's otherwise vividly realistic script. First, people who experience trauma of this sort are usually advised to seek the help of therapists. But neither Ray nor Una appears to have seen one; indeed, their dialogue conveys no awareness that such a remedy exists. Instead, their confrontation itself becomes a sort of therapy session, in which they try to work out their mutual feelings of anger, aggression and guilt. In real life the drama might have been less gripping, and their wounds might have healed a little sooner, if they'd seen professionals.

Second, their confrontation takes place in what appears to be the company lunchroom where Ray works. The place is a mess: The wastebaskets and sink haven't been emptied for days, and consequently the floor is such a pigsty that no normal employee would dream of eating there. Harrower apparently intends this setting as a metaphor for the messed-up lives of his characters— lives that can never be entirely cleansed. But I found it distracting. In a play this realistic and powerful, metaphors are not only unnecessary but counterproductive.





To read another review by Jim Rutter, click here.
To read another review by Robert Zaller, click here.
To read a response, click here.
For a further discussion by SaraKay Smullens, click here.