The setting is Haiti in 1964, and because the production of ATL’s Cry old Kingdom was staged in the round and the characters all had heavy accents, I had trouble distinguishing exactly what was said when they were not facing me. But my reading of the script merely clarified some details of dialogue and reinforced my appreciation of Jeff Augustin’s poetic writing. The events of the play are intense, horrifying, exhilarating in spirit and depressing in effect, but all more suggestive in mood than literal in meaning. It is a tone poem about the brutal political rape and impoverishment of a lovely and rich civilization.
Only three characters stand for what has happened to Haiti under “Papa Doc” Duvalier, what early attempts at revolution came and failed in the early ‘60s, and what failed struggles to escape led to betrayal. Edwin is a “dead man,” a formerly rebellious artist now allowed to live harmlessly as a failed shadow of his former self with his fast-fading beautiful wife, Judith.
A strong young man, Henri Marx, comes to Edwin’s seashore home, trying to build a boat of wood and plantain to escape with friends to the United States. Revitalized by Henri Marx’s energy, Edwin offers to aid him if he can make a painting of Henri. But Henri Marx, sharing a background of folktales and old acquaintances with Edwin (they come from the same rural background), also stirs a sensual attraction. When Duvalier’s forces regain control, Edwin is forced to betray Henri and his friends because his wife Judith has been captured among rebels and tortured; she will otherwise be killed. The play ends somewhat unsatisfactorily with a view of a restored Judith meeting a ghost of Henri Marx for eloquent but not entirely persuasive commentary on what has gone before.
The three actors give subtle, complex performances with secure command and considerable empathetic appeal. Natalie Paul manages a good deal of physical expression within limited dialogue. Andy Lucien seems to have many pages of conflicting emotional responses compressed into Edwin’s often laconic communication. And Jonathan Majors’ younger Henri Marx gives an almost mime-like performance, saying volumes with his silent struggles to put together the small boat. When he strips to reveal the many scars Henri had suffered as a boy, Majors’ spectacular torso distracts us from noticing any scars; but the moment explains Edwin’s unexpected erotic attraction as he caresses the young man’s chest.
Despite the violent recollections, Tom Dugdale’s direction is clearly concerned with mood and subtlety, not anything melodramatic. Augustin’s script specifies a spare setting to change from above ground to the underground studio, the bedroom, and the beach; so Daniel Zimmerman’s set is less informative than the complicated lighting plot by Russell H. Champa and Dani Clifford. Benjamin Marcum’s sound effects are also more telling than usual in such a stark drama, especially the politicking on the radio. But the play is too brief and elliptical to be effective tragedy; it is more an evocative lament.
