Bruce Norris’ dialectic Clybourne Park (Royal Court Theatre) pulls no punches. Loosely inspired by Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun this confrontational piece takes on some mighty subjects such as territorialism, insincerity, prejudice in America and its inconsistency with all that democracy promises. Ultimately, the play asks, have things genuinely progressed over the past 50 years?
Split between two eras, Act One opens with the seemingly perfect all-American late-1950’s couple Russ (Stefan Rhodri) and Bev (Sophie ‘sister of Emma’ Thompson) quibbling good-naturedly over geography related trivia. Sweet Bev is over-solicitous to the point of condescension, most noticeably around guests. There’s a bizarre cheerfulness about the couple, somewhat forced and it doesn’t take long for their apparently idyllic existence to unravel. Russ and Bev are still in the throes of grief over their son, Kenneth. On his return from the Korean War the young man is tormented by what he’s witnessed on the battlefront. He receives no comfort or hero’s welcome from the people back home; rather they isolate him afraid of what he has become. Unable to cope with post-war living Kenneth commits suicide. Bev deals with it by living in giddy delusion; Russ seethes with resentment over how his son was treated by the townsfolk. He’s a powder-keg of suppressed emotion ready to go off at the slightest provocation. Not even the gentle entreaties by the well-meaning if anodyne young minister Jim (Sam Spruell) can get Russ to address his anguish head on. Instead the clergyman is seen by Russ as a source of irritating platitudes.
Meanwhile the local busybody-bigot Karl (Martin Freeman) is trying to whip the neighbourhood into a frenzy over an African-American family’s plans to move into the area, dragging his deaf pregnant wife Betsy (Sarah Goldberg) unwittingly into the affray. Russ and Jim support Karl in theory but don’t share his fury; Bev is appalled by their small-mindedness. The antics of hypocritical Caucasian suburbia are observed by Bev’s African-American maid Francine (Lorna Brown) who is just about to quit the job, and her plain-speaking, sharp-as-a-tack husband Albert (the wonderful Lucian Msamati). When tension between her employers and their neighbours reaches boiling point, Francine is determined to mind her own whereas Albert instinctively intervenes, much to his wife’s annoyance.
Fast forward 50 years in Act Two to a derelict house where six strangers discuss its possible purchase and renovation (all played by actors from the previous act). As the scene unfurls we discover garrulous lawyer Kathy (Thompson) is the daughter of Karl and Betsy and po-faced Lena (Brown) is the great-niece of Francine. Lena has reservations about young Caucasian couple, Steve and his toothy, naive wife Lindsey’s (Freeman, Goldberg) plans to move into what has been an African-American neighbourhood for decades. As the meeting progresses and the racial slurs fly back and forth beneath the veil of polite conversation, we are reminded that prejudice in contemporary Western society is a far more covert and thus complex animal.
Clybourne Park is a thought-provoking, thoroughly enjoyable, if not entirely comfortable theatrical experience. Norris’ hilarious yet poignant script seamlessly alternates between tragedy and comedy, particularly in the first act, without being ruined by bathos. Dominic Cooke’s direction keeps things at breakneck speed, perfectly complementing the simmering nature of the play; characters swap heated dialogue at a realistically vigorous pace. Clybourne Park casts doubt on our supposedly ‘tolerant’, liberal post-modern society. Discrimination is ever-alive; we’ve simply found more varied, sophisticated ways to indulge it. This idea is captured splendidly in Act Two during a scene in which the veneer of civility slips off and some of the characters exchange incredibly offensive (racist, sexist, homophobic) jokes. It’s indicative of how fearlessly Norris’ urbane script explores discrimination in its many guises. Clybourne Park handles these themes with an intelligence and subtlety that Sucker Punch for example (which also played at the RCT earlier this summer) lacked. Paradoxically, for all its subtlety Norris’ piece still has an unapologetic, in-your-face quality.
Clybourne Park is not without its drawbacks, however. In an attempt to deconstruct and expose the folly of stereotypes it isn’t always clear if the play is guilty of perpetuating a few of its own. In both acts for instance, Lorna Brown portrays the continuously p*s*d off, hen-pecking African-American woman and Sarah Goldberg as Lindsey is a variation of the dizzy blonde valley chick. It’s not certain whether these depictions are a deliberate, statement-making move on Norris’ part or unconscious stereotyping. There’s something disjointed about the final scene too; although connected to the storyline in the first act, it feels like an unnecessary appendage.
Nevertheless Clybourne Park is an exhilarating, highly humorous, heart-tugging ride. Each of the cast is on optimum form. It’s especially refreshing to see Martin Freeman play something other than the long suffering Englishman and he affects an American accent with aplomb. Norris’ play is a must-see.
Pics (c) Johan Persson
Written by Bruce Norris
Directed by Dominic Cooke
Cast: Lorna Brown, Martin Freeman, Sarah Goldberg, Lucian Msamati, Steffan Rhodri, Sam Spruell, Sophie Thompson, Michael Goldsmith
Royal Court Theatre until 2 October 2010
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