Stephen Adly Guirgis—that sabre-penned, serpent-tongued rhapsodist of the city streets—is back on display with Our Lady of 121st Street, at the Signature Center. When Signature presented his Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train in November, we urged readers to get over there even if the play, in description, sounded like it might not be for you. Those who did hop over to see that opus are certain to have eagerly booked seats for 121st Street. To the rest of you I say: Guirgis is a true and pure present-day poet. When an impeccable production of one of his plays comes your way, grasp it.
Guirgis has written a string of unconventional new-style dramas since 2000 or so, when he was a founding member of The Labyrinth Theater Company. Co-artistic director Philip Seymour Hoffman directed the original productions of ‘A’ Train (in 2000) and 121st Street (in 2003) as well as the next two Guirgis plays. The playwright likely never anticipated an invitation to the commercial theater, let alone Broadway, but found himself with an unlikely opportunity in 2011. The scabrously funny Motherf**ker with the Hat was an overall sensation when it stormed the Schoenfeld, with a cast headed by Bobby Cannavale.
This was followed, and surpassed, in 2014 by Between Riverside and Crazy, which nabbed the author a Pulitzer Prize. We still impatiently await someone to remount the latter; it sold out limited runs at the Atlantic and Second Stage, but New York audiences deserve a chance to see this wonderful play (along with a monumental performance by Stephen McKinley Henderson).
Given the playwright’s sudden and merited prominence, the folks over at Signature anointed Guirgis as one of this season’s Playwrights-in-Residence. Those of us who only discovered the playwright with Mother or Riverside have had the opportunity to see the two early plays upon which he founded his reputation. After three exhilarating adventures with Guirgis, I took my seat at Signature wondering: and where is he going to take us tonight? Not knowing the answer, I was nevertheless convinced that it would be—once again—a wild and rewarding ride.
And what a joy is Our Lady. The action takes place in and around the Ortiz Funeral Home in Harlem. At rise we find worn, locally raised street cop Balthazar (Joey Auzenne) questioning a distressed middle-aged Italian-type named Vic (John Procaccino) with missing trousers, in front of a gaping casket from which the body of the revered Sister Rose has been swiped. “What kinda fuckin’ world is this?” Vic asks—now there’s an arresting opening line for you—and we are off on another Guirgis escapade.
We move to the church confessional, where an inveterate sinner and street character named Rooftop (Hill Harper)—now a prime-time drive time radio personality in L.A., back for Sister Rose’s wake—simply won’t stop talking at Father Lux (John Doman), an all-but-cashiered, legless, “bummy old” priest who is afraid to leave the rectory. We next meet Flip (Jimonn Cole), a closeted black lawyer also in town for the funeral, pursued and annoyed by his very much gay lover Gail (Kevin Isola), an unemployable actor. They are joined by Inez (Quincy Tyler Bernstine), who comports herself like Porgy’s Bess twenty years later and sports a flashy red dress that compels attention. Also prominent are Sister Rose’s niece, Marcia (Stephanie Kurtzuba) and a supremely out-of-place bystander named Sonia (Dierdre Friel). “I’m sorry,” Guirgis has her repeatedly apologize, “I’m from Connecticut.”
The magic comes, in great part, from the playwright’s character skills. He presents us with a dozen denizens of the street, here. All are not untypical as types, I suppose; but Guirgis—in the four plays I’ve seen thus far—seems never to have written a standardized character. Each and every one of them is empowered by their creator with a rich inner life and thoroughly individualized traits, plus fanciful vocabularies. The language soars, over and over again, as the playwright unravels his story with small scenes of only two or three characters. And when you begin to wonder just how he’s going to bring them all together, he does so with style. Sister Rose, whose absent corpse is the through-line of the play, turns out to be the (very much invisible) glue.
Let it be added that there is a superfine job of directing here from Phylicia Rashad, the noted actress who has been directing regionally of late but appears to be making her New York bow here. Our Lady is chockful of flavorful characters, and Rashad has gotten good performances from her cast. I would single out, if commanded to do so, Bernstine, Harper, Kurtzuba, Auzenne and Friel.
Walt Spangler provides a sectional set—dominated by the coffin in the funeral parlor crime scene—with effective lighting by Keith Parham. Special honors go to Alexis Forte, who has conjured some costumes (that sultry red dress which seems to promenade across the stage on its own, Vic’s half-clothed ensemble, the impossible potted-plant dress on the Connecticut interloper) that do in clothing what Guirgis does in words.
But it is the author, with his rhapsodic flights of street talk set aloft, who dominates the evening. This is a playwright to savor, and we can only look forward to wherever he chooses to take us next time.
Our Lady of 121st Street opened May 20, 2018, at the Signature Center and runs through June 17. Tickets and information: signaturetheatre.org
