Theatre Review by Matthew Murray - December 2, 2012
The Anarchist Written and directed by David Mamet. Scenic & costume design by Patrizia von Brandenstein. Lighting design by Jeff Croiter. Cast: Patti Lupone, Debra Winger.
What exactly are those ideologies here? Thatís an excellent question, but the answer to it is one that Mamet, also the productionís director, keeps tightly under wraps for all but the concluding moments of the 70-minute running time. Along the way, of course, he imparts a few key facts ó or at least what appear to be facts. Cathy (LuPone) has been incarcerated for 35 years for killing a police officer, and Ann (Winger) is charged with determining whether she deserves to at last be released. Ann does not believe Cathyís insistence that sheís surrendered her life to Jesus Christ and wishes only to live out the remainder of her years performing acts of selflessness with cloistered nuns. But sheís willing to overlook it if ó and only if ó Cathy reveals the whereabouts of her one-time accomplice, Althea, which is information Cathy is adamant she does not have.
Many playwrights might have trouble keeping a premise this thin upright, even if only for slightly more than an hour, but Mamet never falters. Yes, thereís his dialogue, and whether itís about sex, God, or the role society plays as the ultimate arbiter between guilt and innocence, itís rich with the subversive brutality youíd expect from the writer of American Buffalo, Speed-the-Plow, and Glengarry Glen Ross (which is slated to reopen in revival next week). Beyond that, however, Mamet constantly releases pieces of new data that change how we view both women and their actions. Which is the aggressor and which is the victim at any given point depends on a vast array of factors, your own interpretation of the current state of events being at the top of the list: Some scenes, particularly the last, take on chillingly different depths depending on who you think is lying or telling the truth.
This kind of uncertainty, deceptively laid out in front of a morally binary backdrop, is the kind of thing that Mamet has always done best. (It was a key feature of his outstanding last new Broadway play, Race, as well.) But thereís quite a bit more going on here. Even while keeping the discussion between Cathy and Ann bracingly ó even uncomfortably ó personal, Mamet tightly weaves their behavior together with an examination of the eternal sparring match between the state and the individual. This forces you to also consider, and reconsider (perhaps multiple times), whether itís possible for either to go too far in pursuit of truth, justice, reconciliation, or retribution. Being challenged to rethink your own perceptions and prejudices in that light is a refreshing thrill of the sort that has otherwise been in short supply so far this season.
Even so, what is present finds full expression in Mametís quietly explosive staging, which contrasts the raging humanity of the story against the harshly institutional setting of Patrizia von Brandensteinís stark office set beneath Jeff Croiterís piercing lights, and particularly the actressesí performances. LuPone does her finest, and most restrained, Broadway work in more than a decade, infusing Cathy with palpable angst and anger that seem destined to burst through her thickened skin. Yet these attributes are tempered by an oddly casual serenity that unquestionably imparts the impression that this is a woman who, for better or worse, is at peace with herself. You therefore believe both necessary halves of the equation, and are left guessing until the climactic revelations ó and perhaps beyond ó what her true motives are.
If LuPoneís Cathy is a creature of pure instinct, opposite her is the paragon of order. Wingerís work is more subtle than LuPoneís, and confined by her character to a narrower range, but no less involving. Projecting the mien of a deadly serious businesswoman, she radiates the proper authority for someone who holds anotherís life in her hands. But Annís usually squelched hard-sell demeanor slowly appears and begins taking over her personality, evolving into someone just as potentially dangerous as Cathy ó but someone who could cause even more trouble, as she has the rule of law on her side. Winger expertly negotiates the transformation from matron to monster, proving how little difference there is between good and bad intentions.
Thatís the real point of the evening, and much of what makes it so compelling: To whom does the title really refer? Thereís no way to know for sure, as circumstances, of all kinds, can easily make sinners into saints and the best of people into the most evil of souls. What comes after, Mamet argues, is even more important, because not all changes can (or should be) permanent. Mamet may have made sharper versions of the whoís right/whoís wrong arguments elsewhere (in at least Oleanna and Race), but its unforgiving look at whether the governmental cure is always (or ever) better than the social disease that spawned it makes The Anarchist is one of his most trenchant and timely offerings ever.