A Period Piece

NOT UNTIL THE '30's did American theater begin to come into its own, freed from the trappings of burlesque and tinny melodrama by a rising generation of playwrights with something to say about America, not just about the commonplace, tired excuses for dramatic themes that until then were the bulk of theater in this country. The best, or at least the most successful, of that generation of writers was Maxwell Anderson, whose Winterset (1935) is currently in performance at the Loeb. Anderson tried to work modern themes into the dramatic contexts of his plays without overwhelming the drama for the sake of the message. Sometimes it worked-as in High Tor, a delightful play about "progress" and a poltergeist-inhabited mountain overlooking the Hudson River.

Although Anderson deserves endless praise for leading American theater into relevance, it must also be noted that sometimes his techniques didn't work. Unfortunately, Winterset is one of those plays that didn't work; at least it doesn't now, forty-odd years after its premiere. In its relentlessly hammering sweep of great social themes, the powerful story of a star-crossed couple's evanescent love is overwhelmed and rendered somewhat cloying and melodramatic. Mixed into this background are poverty, injustice, collective as well as individual culpability, and the Sacco-Vanzetti trial.

The story line follows a young man, Mio, the son of an anarchist executed for a murder he did not commit. Fate brings him to New York, seeking to clear his father's name. Who does he fall in love with but the sweet young sister of a witness to the murder who refuses to speak out and is being strong-armed by the actual killer, lately out of the joint.

Winterset presents a formidable challenge for any company because it is so unwieldy. The Loeb's ensemble though blessed with excellent technical work and some fine actors, does not quite manage to overcome the sheer leaden ness of this three-hour-plus, heavy drama. They give it a good try, only to fold up, as does much of the audience, by the time the third act rolls around.

Director Tommy Thompson, who returns to Harvard after staging Failing here last fall, tries to wring the life from every line in the show. The technique works for a while, but is finally overwhelmed by the script's weight and wordiness (although some of the passages are truly beautiful).

Tim Choate comes close to saving the show with an electric performance as Mio, the embittered young man tormented by the shadow of his father's humiliation. Choate rather easily dominates every scene he is in. He has an easy well-modulated voice and the timing and movement of an experienced actor. He is at his best taunting a classically idiotic Irish cop (James P. Horan) in a near-melee in the first act, or raging against the Judge who presided over his father's trial in a scene that crackles with emotion.

Cynthia Milstead starts out strong in her portrayal of Mariamne, the lover-heroine, but she fades badly as the play wears on, and is in fact, wholly inadequate when it comes to the climactic last scene. Her attempt to do a Juliet number falls very, very flat-it is better, perhaps, to think of her brighter moments in the earlier acts, as she gives an engaging rendition of youth and wisdom, innocence and ethereal presence.

SEVERAL OTHER interesting performances make this Winterset at least bearable. If you tune in on the actors and let the play slip away, you can watch some good talent hard at work. Robert Owezarek, who movingly played Anton in Failing last fall, largely recreated that role here, this time with a Jewish accent rather than a Hungarian one. As Esdras, the aging, protective father, he rages and coddles, all with a sense of powerlessness and imminent death. David Eddy returns to the Harvard stage as Carr, Milo's chum, and the only regret about his part is that it is too short. William Leach brings a kind of manic power and an eloquent voice to Judge Gaunt, and Donald James Campbell renders an eerie, effective portrait of Shadow, the underworld sidekick. Unfortunately, his boss, John Britt as Trock, just about chews the scenery in his overcooked attempt to play the heavy. At times, Britt sounds as if he were imitating John Wayne-not a good thing to do in a serious play.

Winterset is one of the few productions that can justly point to its set as a major attraction. Joe Mobilia's looming set is a masterwork, using the Loeb's rather spacious capacity to the fullest. The ominous bridgehead (all action takes place under a bridge or in a house next to the bridge) towers above and the main playing area is both cleverly designed and fully utilized. Chris Stone's lighting design is tremendous, as usual. This is the way the Loeb should be used, at least for sets.

But even if everyone on stage is working very hard and even if the set is gorgeous, Winterset somehow does not connect. Anderson was undoubtedly a major force, but his plays are better read than seen. The devices he used to break fresh ground in the '30s are old hat now; even if his themes of the injustice of American society and the innocence of Sacco and Vanzetti are true, they are buried in the inevitable and agonizingly slow lurch towards a mawkish, yet depressing conclusion. Anderson's plays are strongly reminiscent of another expression of his times-Socialist Realism art. Like that famed WPA stuff, Winterset incorporates bold, tradition-smashing design with a sense of social justice; and like a Socialist Realism mural in a post office, it looks heavy and over-muscled-an awkward reminder of the not-so-distant past.