Fucking A

Caught in the crosshairs of Nathanial Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” and the stranglehold of slavery, with miscreant bounty hunters running around, singing, wearing kilts, Fuckng A seems hell bent on being too clever and mischievous for its own good.

The play covers a lot of territory, probably too much, and the shock value laden title grabs attention in a coarse and crude sort of way.  Yet somehow, through the sheer force and will of her writing that seems to work in spite of itself, Parks maintains a clear and steady focus on key themes in this busy, epic-wanna be play– the importance of procreation in society and the intensity of the maternal bond.

Known for her bizarre and unforgettably imaginative characters, Suzan-Lori Parks seems to have jumped off the deep end in cramming so many references, metaphors and allusions into A, but each time a scene starts to sink under its own weight, she shifts a tone, or throws in a twist, or tosses out yet another tantalizing morsel for the audience to chew on, and we’re back in her grip again.

While the transitions are a bit bumpy, she at least knows where she’s going, or wants to go, with each beat.  We’re in trustworthy hands with the dynamic combo director team of Keith Alan Baker and  Rahaleh Nassri who are so in tune to her that they guide the production through particularly confusing terrain, when even Parks herself doesn’t seem to know what the F’!! is going on.

Parks isn’t known for subtlety. Quite the contrary, she’s notoriously attention grabbing whether it’s writing a play a day for a year, blending Lincoln and Booth lore with scheming brothers playing 3-card monte, her Pulitzer winning Top Dog/Under Dog, seeking a hidden treasure in her novel Getting Mother’s Body, or opining about peculiarly large derriere assets of the Hottentot Venus.  Her expletive-laden title leaves no question about her penchant for the spectacular.  The question is – does the play live up to the hype of a title that can’t even get past security cyber firewalls? Well, maybe and sort of.

If nothing else, the story is mythically powerful and comprehensive — the subjugated women even have their own invented language.  Hester has the guilt-ridden job in a small rather post-apocalyptic country as the only abortionist.  Her profession as “baby killer” is so reviled, that she doesn’t even admit what she does when writing her son in prison.  From the set-up, Parks evokes how hatred is unleashed on whole classes of workers throughout the ages, doing the “dirty work” that’s often a bedrock necessity in society,  that nobody wants to do, that relegates the worker to “beneath scum” status.  Being an abortionist is so heinous that she has the [play title here] letter branded into her flesh that has to visible at all times.  As an aside here, the make-up artist (not identified in the program), deserves recognition for the beautiful large script that seems to be raised out of Hester’s branded flesh, oozing and moist and glistening reddish, kind of  keloid-like, quite authentic in a sickening sort of way.

In a way, the entire show is like that, a freaky, freshly scarred wound that was supposed to be healed by now but still is blisteringly painful.   There’s enough blood spattered everywhere, on bloody aprons, and smeared along the walls, a reminder that abortionists have been compared to butchers.  To make that point perfectly clear, in her smashing across the head style, Parks includes a butcher in the script, played endearingly by Vince Brown who is actually the only bright loving spot in this dark, unsettling production.

Hester is torn between two raw festering emotions, one of which is yearning for her son who she hasn’t seen in decades but who she “marked” by biting a hole in his arm to identify him, and then did the same to herself so they would be forever matched.  The other emotion is a Sweeney Todd like hell-bent vengeance when she thinks her child has been killed. Jennifer Nelson plays the hell out of her character and actually relays both extreme emotions with seething and raging intensity.  She goes through the motions in the first act, maybe she’s just warming up or saving it so she’ll have a reserve when its time to unleash.  Whatever the reason, when its time to switch gears and deliver Hecuba level rage, she stomps the stage, glares and trembles with unshakeable resolve plotting her revenge and finally does the unthinkable.  It’s quite a performance.

Among the other characters, Jahi A. Kearse who burst onto the theatrical scene last year in MetroStage’s Cool Papa’s Party plays “Monster” and represents the worst aspects of the criminal “justice” system in hardening criminals and perpetuating their criminal offenses.  Craig Wallace plays the controlling despot who rules the kingdom with an iron fist, intent on having an heir, while Jjana Valentiner  plays his wife who knows her fate if she doesn’t produce.

Canary, played by Ashley Ware represents the profession that will always be among us, sings the hauntingly beautiful “Gilded Cage,” and really seems to believe that the Mayor guy will leave his wife and marry her.  Apparently, even in harsh, post-apocalyptical times, naivety still rules.  Again, that’s the kind of crazy juxtaposition that Parks seems to be so f**king fond of (see how old and tired that gets after awhile?), as seen for example in the white bounty hunters/ warriors/ slave catchers laughingly recounting particularly horrific torture they’ve perpetrated on a recent hunt, then they break out in a raucous number, “Hunter’s Creed,” a sweet and simple tune that could fit on Nicholodeon.

The upbeat, pop-style music (original music and lyrics by Parks, and additional arrangements by Youstra) is obviously intended to lighten the oppressive darkness that lurks at every turn, and while it feels good at the time, the style is still so glaringly different that the contrast seems to underscore the horror instead of be a respite from it.

Finally, the design elements work wonders, especially the set, which takes up the same amount of space as the audience, which thrusts us smack dab in all the action, whether we want it or not.  The sliding metal door clanks open and shut with prison-like finality for entrances and exits, and stage right has a fascinating three-tiered set of cages where prisoners/slaves sit huddled on top of each other for some of the numbers.

Fucking A has had no shortage of some of the highest level actors clamoring to dive in the muck to wrestle out Park’s incredible ideas, notably S. Epatha Merkerson and Mos Def  in New York.  While that must have been a stunning collaboration, the production at Studio is just as fully committed to Parks’ extraordinary even if unnerving theatrical voice, and if you’re not careful, this full throttle rendition will leave an indelible mark on your psychic soul.

Fucking A
Written by Suzan-Lori Parks
Directed by Keith Alan Baker and  Rahaleh Nassri
Produced by Studio Theatre
Reviewed by Debbie Minter Jackson

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