Displaying items by tag: Pulitzer Prize

Susan-Lori Parks’ Topdog/Underdog, the Pulitzer Prize-winning masterpiece, is the kind of play that changes depending on when—and how many times—you see it. Directed by Kenny Leon, this revival stars Tony nominee Glenn Davis as Lincoln and Namir Smallwood as Booth, two brothers whose names alone tell us that Parks is preparing to play a very dangerous game with her audience.

The play was originally produced in Chicago by Steppenwolf Theatre Company in 2003, directed by ensemble member Amy Morton, with ensemble member K. Todd Freeman as Booth and David Rainey as Lincoln. More than two decades later, this revival demonstrates just how much material Parks packed into the story of two brothers living on the edge of survival.

Parks begins her own version of Three-Card Monte by giving us the names Lincoln and Booth. We already know the historical ending: John Wilkes Booth assassinated Abraham Lincoln. Parks puts that card on the table immediately—and then spends the rest of the play moving it around.

Lincoln and Booth are not historical figures, of course, but the names become a psychological trap. Lincoln works as an Abraham Lincoln impersonator, repeatedly allowing strangers to “assassinate” him as part of the act. The brothers themselves simulate the murder, turning history into performance and performance into something increasingly dangerous.

That is where Parks’ Three-Card Monte becomes so effective. We know the card. We know what is coming. Yet Parks keeps moving our attention elsewhere—to money, women, abandonment, brotherly rivalry, masculinity and the desperate need to survive. The audience is watching closely, thinking we know exactly where Parks is going. But like the mark in a Three-Card Monte game, we can never be completely sure which card we are actually watching.

The brilliance is that Parks gives us the ending and still manages to create suspense.

The question isn't simply, “Will Booth kill Lincoln?” We already know that story. Instead, Parks asks us to consider how and why these two brothers arrive at that moment. By the time the real gun is fired, we have become so invested in these men that the historical inevitability becomes a genuine emotional shock.

Having seen Topdog/Underdog several times, I’ve gained new insight into Lincoln and Booth with each production. I’ve always imagined these brothers as relatively young men—perhaps somewhere between 21 and 35 at the oldest. There is something about their desperation, their dreams and their constant jockeying for position that feels connected to men still trying to figure out who they are.

Seeing older actors inhabit these roles changes the equation. This production brings a greater sense of history and introspection to Lincoln and Booth. These aren't simply two young men making bad decisions. They feel like men who have accumulated years of disappointment, mistakes and missed opportunities. Their arguments have the weight of history behind them.

That being said, the acting is first-rate.

Glenn Davis delivers some of the best work I have seen in his storied career. His Lincoln carries weariness beneath the humor, as though every card trick, every performance and every attempt to maintain dignity has taken something from him. Davis understands that Lincoln is not simply trying to make a living; he is trying to hold onto an identity.

There is an extraordinary sadness to his Lincoln because he has found a way to make a living by pretending to be someone who, historically, has already been dead for generations. Every night he puts on the stovepipe hat, becomes Abraham Lincoln and allows strangers to reenact his assassination. The joke is that he survives the murder every night—until, of course, the night he doesn't.

Namir Smallwood is equally compelling as Booth. Smallwood has the remarkable ability to morph into whatever character is placed before him, and here he creates a Booth whose swagger and insecurity exist simultaneously. Booth wants to be seen, respected and successful, but beneath that ambition is a brother desperate to prove himself.

Their relationship is the heart of the play. They love each other, resent each other, depend on each other and compete with each other. They are simultaneously brothers and adversaries. One minute they can make each other laugh; the next, they are fighting over money, women or the invisible scorecard of who has accomplished more.

Arnulfo Maldonado’s set—a room in a New York City boarding house—captures the basic circumstances of their existence, but for me, it is far too sanitized for the gritty New York City world Parks has created.

Rooms like this were common, particularly in neighborhoods such as Hell’s Kitchen. They were tight. Space was at a premium. They were not necessarily neat or clean. These were places where people lived because they had few alternatives. The room should feel less like a place where two men are actually struggling to survive.

That distinction matters because Lincoln and Booth are in survival mode. The room is not simply their home; it is a pressure cooker. Every inch of space should remind us that there is nowhere for these brothers to escape—not from each other, not from their past and ultimately not from the consequences of their choices.

Kenny Leon's direction keeps the focus where it belongs: on two brothers trapped between history, memory and survival. He allows Parks' language, humor and repetitions to accumulate rather than rushing toward the inevitable conclusion.

Ultimately, Topdog/Underdog remains a remarkable piece of American theatre because Parks refuses to let history stay in the past. She takes two names everybody recognizes, places them on two Black brothers living in New York, and transforms a familiar historical tragedy into an intimate story about family, survival, masculinity and fate.

We may enter the theatre believing we know who Lincoln and Booth are and how their story ends. But Parks makes us see them as brothers first—two men desperately trying to survive each other, their circumstances and the histories they have inherited.

By the time the final card is played, the tragedy is no longer about Abraham Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth. It belongs entirely to these two brothers. And that is Parks’ greatest trick: she makes us think we are watching history repeat itself, when what we are really watching is the heartbreaking collapse of an American family.

Highly Recommended

When: Through Nov. 1

Where: Steppenwolf Theatre, 1650 N. Halsted St.

Running time: 2.5 hours (15 minute intermission)

Tickets: $20 -$142.50 

312-335-1650 

www.steppenwolf.org

Mother-daughter relationships are somehow deemed different.  More seminal than the bond between a father and son. More instinctive than between sisters.  When trust is broken, all bets can certainly be off.  But that doesn’t seem to be the case for Thelma and Jesse, a mom and her daughter who live together in Marsha Norman’s magnificent ‘night Mother, just opening at Redtwist Theatre in Edgewater.  They have a balance and flow that suggests a seasoned understanding.  A harmonic acceptance of their lives together.

Thelma, played so fully by Redtwist ensemble member, Kathy Ruhl, is a pleasing mix of pragmatism and discreet earnestness.  A woman who’s lived a long life, withstood a lot and is making the most of the years in her final season.  Knitting on her well-cushioned sofa, cell phone dangling from her lanyard, TV playing in the background, she’s thinking about how she’s going to satisfy her sugar fix.  And settles on a snowball before contemplating many other options as the evening passes.

Thanks to the prodigious thought and scrupulous detail Bobbie Buie poured into the set design, Thelma’s modest home has the soft glow of easy unpretentious comfort.  Everywhere there are signs that point to a contentment that’s been well earned.  The world she created, along with Harper Justus’s precise and subtle sound design, saturated you in place.

Anne Sheridan Smith in the role of her daughter, Jesse, is much more wired; frenzied in an organized way.  When she shoots out of her bedroom door, she’s clearly a woman on a mission to get a lot of things done.  Quickly.  As she settles down, she’s simply determinedly methodical and impressively so.  There’s some light haggling with her mother.  It seems like something they just occasionally do.  Normal.  Tonight, giving her mother a manicure is high on Jesse’s to do list.  It’s not long before they settle down at the kitchen table and normal goes away.  

A small cloud of foreboding drifted in when Jesse began looking for some things in their makeshift attic. One of them is a gun. When her mother keeps pressing her on why she wants or needs one, she forces her daughter’s hand. Jesse declares to her mother, not coldly but matter-of-factly, that tonight she’s going to use it to kill herself.

It’s the kind of statement that instantly triggers incredulity.  And automatically, by reflex, Thelma’s “mom” response zooms past tilt.  Even though she may not initially believe Jesse, she hears her.   And intuitively she wants to fix it as she struggles to even comprehend the magnitude of what she’s been told.   ‘night Mother soon becomes a push and pull with Jesse always exhibiting the greater strength against a formidable opponent.  She has the inner conviction to see this grim task through.  You can sense that when she first told her mother what she was going to do. Like her mother, we too want to know why.

A dissection of one person’s why is what this intricate and intimate story is all about.  And the way Smith inhabits her character, she functions as an outstandingly plausible stand-in for many of us.   People who not only have had enough but also look at themselves and don’t see enough. 

Her mother doesn’t really understand. Not at first.  It’s as the tandem airing of their lives that reveals how it’s come to this. 

Well into this gripping one act performance, wonderfully directed by Redtwist’s Artistic Director, Dusty Brown, Thelma describes herself as a “plain country woman”.  Life for her is something you just did.  It’s the kind of existence where naivete and ignorance may thrive in abundance, but neither carries an especially detrimental cost.  When it came to Jesse’s early childhood rearing of Jesse though, perhaps it did. Thelma and her husband discovered late in their daughter’s development that the fits she experienced as a child were epileptic.   Undiagnosed and untreated for far too long, Jesse internalized them as manifestations of a personal flaw.  A flaw that inevitably, in her mind, produced terrible consequences.

She never directly states it, but it’s clear she blames herself for the way her son, Ricky, is turning out.  A thief, drugs, regularly in run-ins with the police.  Thelma says it’s just a phase.  He’ll grow out if it and be a “fine young man”.  But through a haze that’s draped in quiet anguish, Jesse senses otherwise.  It’s the same with her ex-husband. In Cecil’s case, he was there and then he was gone.  The man her mother found for her, who she came to love and who chose not to stay.

They’re all hard blows.  Jesse has weathered them.  Now it sounds like she’s tired.  Sick of it all.  Living with her mother.  Lonely present.  Lonely future.  She’s felt this way for so long that she’s used the last 10 years to plan for this night.    She’s gotten it so fine-tuned, she can give her mother detailed instructions on who to call when after the deed is done, and why.

For this compassionate plunge into the unthinkable, Marsha Norman won the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 1983.  A native of Kentucky, you can hear a faint sound of the south in the way Thelma and Jesse talk to one another.  The weight of the subject matter, the care in which these two women are drawn and portrayed, the way every argument Thelma raises against this tragic decision is rebuffed by unswayable conviction, keeps you rapt.  A sliver of life captured beautifully and unforgettably on the stage.

‘night Mother

Through May 24, 2026

Redtwist Theatre

1044 W. Bryn Mawr Ave.

Chicago, IL    60660

For tickets and more information:  https://www.redtwisttheatre.org

Highly Recommended

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