There’s always talk of authenticity in art. But the gritty, lyrical plays of Stephen Adly Guirgis invite a simpler term: realness, a quality manifest in characters who speak their painful truths in sometimes profanity-pocked dialogue that can make you snort with laughter or sigh with recognition as readily as it can rip your heart out.
The lives of the men and women we meet in Guirgis’s Our Lady Of 121st Street, now being gorgeously revived by Signature Theatre under Phylicia Rashad’s direction, have been defined by bad breaks, both tragic and ridiculous—terms that are hardly mutually exclusive in this playwright’s milieu. These folks have also made some extremely poor choices; Giurgis has too much respect and compassion for his characters to write them off as victims. Besides, victims are not, as a rule, much fun to watch, and Our Lady is a comedy—one in which children and adults die gruesomely or are damaged beyond repair, and the survivors mine bleak, blazing humor, and poignance, from their own suffering, and from the randomness of terrible events.
The raw, exquisite pungency of Guirgis’s language and, particularly, his insistence on looking for truth and even hope in dark corners elevate his work above those of other dramatists who would romanticize despair and rage. As Our Lady’s title suggests, Catholicism figures into the play, as it informs his others; raised Catholic, Guirgis is certainly not an advocate, but there is a moral compass in his work—an acknowledgment of the struggle for goodness, for lack of a better word, in a broken world—that reminds us that faith is not something to be scorned or dismissed out of hand. And that while it can be used to justify intolerance or exclusion, it has also been, and remains, a source of empathy and humility for those who don’t exploit it.
The title character of Our Lady is, in fact, a nun. We never actually meet Sister Rose, as she has already died when the play opens—and her corpse has, inexplicably, disappeared from its casket, a focal point of Walt Spangler’s spacious, functional set. The deceased was a beloved neighborhood teacher who, as we’ll discover through others’ recollections, emerged from a traumatic childhood intent on nurturing the children of her community, even if her past lingered in an apparently unpredictable temper, and a fondness for the bottle that proved lethal.
What follows is not a mystery tale; though there will be a resolution of sorts—one that only reinforces the futility of looking for neat answers, or justice—the emphasis is on the individual and interwoven struggles of the characters, each of them drawn so richly and vividly that you want to follow them after the curtain falls (even when your hunch is the destination won’t be pretty).
The original Labyrinth Theater Company production, which I regrettably missed, was directed by the late, great Philip Seymour Hoffman, and drew acclaim for mining both the anger and the lyricism of Guirgis’s writing. Rashad’s staging carries as much tenderness as it does bracing wit. A number of characters are former students of Sister Rose, now entering middle age. Some have traveled back to the neighborhood to pay respects, while others had remained, among them one of the police officers searching for the body, but they assemble at and around the Ortiz Funeral Home with their own demons.
There’s Balthazar, the cop, who has endured his own unspeakable loss, captured in Joey Auzenne’s movingly calibrated performance. Edwin still lives with and cares for Pinky, the brother he left brain-damaged during a violent episode in childhood; Erick Betancourt shows us the former’s regressed guilt and rage, while Maki Borden makes the latter’s dependency and constant trust heartbreaking. And as neighborhood menace Norca, the marvelous Paola Lázaro (also a playwright and protégé of Guirgis) shows us the hurt under a seeming predator’s shell.
Flip has moved away and made good as a lawyer, but is afraid to introduce his old pals to his boyfriend, an actor named Gail; Jimonn Cole and Kevin Isola are effective foils as, respectively, the self-conscious, covertly sensitive Flip and the flamboyant, needy Gail. Hill Harper brings blazing charisma and expert timing to the role of Rooftop, whose success as a radio personality hasn’t left him immune to regrets; Quincy Tyler Bernstine lends her own distinctive, crackling comic presence to the role of Inez, his superficially feisty but shattered ex.
Victor is older, and clearly more isolated, and the superb veteran actor John Procaccino reveals the depths of his loneliness in his ferocious desperation and indignation over Sister Rose’s fate—which, in a Guirgisian touch, has left him missing a pair of pants. There are also a couple of relative strangers, with their own sad stories and funny quirks, and, fittingly, a local priest—played with a wonderful balance of street gravitas and weariness, by John Doman—whose wheelchair-bound body reflects an aching soul.
“Most of the time, I don’t believe in God at all, and when I do, I’m furious at Him,” Lux admits at one point. “That’s as honest as I can be.” And trying to be that, Guirgis might add, is at once courageous and the least we can ask of ourselves.
Our Lady of 121st Street opened May 20, 2018, at the Signature Center and runs through June 17. Tickets and information: signaturetheatre.org
