For a group that has been systematically persecuted in many places over many centuries, Jews have received relatively little attention in the vast discussion of historical wrongs accompanying the rise of identity politics. At least, that was the case until anti-Semitism was brought into sharper relief by a recent wave of attacks stretching from Europe to Pittsburgh, and by growing concerns about white nationalism in general—not to mention the dangling of old tropes on the other side of the political spectrum.
It’s in this environment that Ben Power’s adaptation of Stefano Massini’s The Lehman Trilogy arrives at New York’s Park Avenue Armory, following a sold-out, lavishly acclaimed run at London’s National Theatre. Helmed by the pretty much infallible Sam Mendes—currently represented on Broadway by another duly celebrated import, The Ferryman—this epic production traces, in three acts presented over three hours and 20 minutes (including two intermissions) that fly by, the story of three brothers who arrived on our shores from Rimpar, Bavaria, in the mid-19th century, to pursue their American dream.
[Read Steven Suskin’s ★★★★★ review here.]
The legacy of Hayem, Mendel, and Mayer Lehman would be shattered in 2008, when Lehman Brothers Holdings filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy, a victim of the financial crisis that would see other big banks bailed out, precipitating the surge in populism and progressive critiques of capitalist excess that also make this staging extremely timely.
Before the fall, though, there were the more than 150 years of struggle and survival that are the true focus of Trilogy, which takes us through the Civil War, two world wars, the Great Depression, the swinging ’60s, and the dawn of the digital age with a breathtaking combination of simplicity and sweep. The text is, it must be said, not long on depth or nuance; this is not the play that Tom Stoppard would have delivered on this subject—and if he’d like to have another stab at it, by chance, I’d be the first on line for tickets.
But Trilogy is nonetheless a masterful work on its own terms, its economy and directness serving to reconcile an expansive, gripping narrative with a strong lyrical bent. Massini and Power make artful, if sometimes obvious, use of repeated lines, patterns and allusions. There are a number of Old Testament references, informing a series of nightmare sequences that link three generations, nodding to the Tower of Babel and Noah and the Flood, which becomes a metaphor for the bank’s troubles in the wake of the Depression.
The three superlative actors who play the brothers, in addition to their descendants and various other characters—Simon Russell Beale, Adam Godley, and Ben Miles—tell their story primarily in the third person, underlining its parable-like quality. Beale’s Henry and Miles’ Emmanuel, as Hayem and Mendel are respectively renamed in this country, and Godley’s Mayer stay on as periodic guides long after their deaths, while the players deftly, wittily juggle a range of men, women and children, shifting from role to role with as little as an exaggeratedly feminine gesture or a sudden change in accent or intonation. Godley has a particularly funny turn evoking, in rapid succession, a series of contenders for marriage to Emmanuel’s son, Philip, played by Beale.
It’s in the brilliant, callous Philip that we first truly see the risks of moral decay in a system that ostensibly lets individuals from the most humble of origins build fortunes through toil and ingenuity. Henry and Emmanuel, for all their ambition and wiles—Henry is the “head” of the Lehman trio, we are told early on, the more patently aggressive Emmanuel the “arm,” and the reconciliatory Mayer the smooth “potato” who keeps peace between them—are men of faith, and at least some humility. Henry thanks God repeatedly, in Hebrew, as his luck progresses, and his siblings close the general store they have set up in Montgomery, Alabama, for a week to sit shiva after he succumbs to yellow fever in 1855.
The tension between spiritual and material pursuits begins in earnest when, under Philip’s growing influence, the Lehman firm redirects its priorities, from providing needed goods—fabrics and suits at first, then raw cotton, then coffee and transportation after the devastation of the South prompts a relocation to New York—to simply being “merchants of money,” as Philip puts it, foreshadowing the increasingly crass and reckless culture that banking will embrace over the next century, and into the 21st. Assimilation into American life, which the Lehman immigrants seek eagerly and with great dexterity, but observe wistfully in their progeny, is also a key factor; when World War II arrives, there is no explicit mention of Hitler’s genocide—only talk of serving the American military effort, and profiting from it.
Herbert, Mayer’s son, played by Miles, emerges as Philip’s foil—the conscience of his generation of Lehmans, who eventually leaves the bank to pursue a career in politics, championing regulation and other reforms as governor of New York, and thus reminding us of the long tradition of social justice that has also flourished among American Jews. Philip’s son, Bobbie, also clashes with his father initially, though for different reasons; a bon vivant who would rather spend his time at horse races and collecting art than sweating in offices or boardrooms, he sees his dad’s strategies as antiquated.
But the stock market crash of 1929 hardens the childless Bobbie, whose new mettle and lingering shallowness are bracingly captured in Godley’s performance. Under the last Lehman to work in the family business, the bank becomes even further enmeshed in the pursuit of money for money’s sake, bringing on marketing and trading teams to keep pace with an increasingly frantic and soulless dance that becomes literal in one of the third act’s more dazzling and harrowing scenes.
Scenic designer Es Devlin sustains the story through all its sprawl and chaos with a set that matches the stark majesty of the play. A rotating glass box is the centerpiece, furnished with a conference table, chairs, and boxes that serve a multitude of functions from the first moments, when they are packed up in a prelude nodding to the bank’s demise, then restored to accompany Henry’s arrival in New York.
Luke Halls’ video design provides a stunning backdrop, melting from a New York skyline to the seas that carry the first Lehmans from abroad, then later erupting into fires and floods, apocalyptic dreams and dizzying bursts of psychedelia. Massini has crafted a play that spans a range of eras and a specific immigrant experience in a way that feels timeless and universal. More crucially, The Lehman Trilogy encourages us to approach history, and the future, with an open mind—a strategy that should be adopted more often than it is, onstage and off.
