LESSONS IN LOVE, RACISM AND SLAVERY
‘Whole business of identity is lampooned at a rollicking pace ’
This madcap reboot manages to envelop deadly serious themes in an outrageous comedy
An Octoroon AbbeyTheatre
Until May 14 ★★★★★
The word ‘octoroon’ was used by the Irish playwright Dion Boucicault to describe any person who was one-eighth black (and therefore socially considered fully black anyway). His original, long-discarded 1859 play The Octoroon, set in the American South, was a daring piece of work at a time when the abolition of slavery was a hot topic. It was produced shortly after the execution of the fiery abolitionist John Brown.
Some saw it as a piece of proslavery drama, others saw a piece of abolitionist propaganda.
In a letter to The New York Times, Boucicault described himself as a Southern Democrat who didn’t want to be mixed up in politics in any way – he was merely trying to paint a picture of life on a Southern plantation.
But being neutral has never been an option in dealing with slavery.
This latest treatment by black playwright Branden JacobsJenkins is over-stretched at two hours 40 minutes, but it’s a firecracker, madcap reboot of the original that uproots all normal theatrical conventions to confront the whole business of slavery, racial language and theatrical treatment. It’s interesting that the original play was named The Octoroon, while this explosive remake calls it An Octoroon, implying widespread racial intolerance.
It’s a mixture of the deadly serious, caught up in outrageous comedy, beginning with Patrick Martins in the role of Playwright, dressed only in underpants, talking about his psychiatrist and asking what exactly is a black playwright.
He then slaps on white-face make-up because he can’t afford to employ white performers. He also takes on the white roles of nice guy George and super-villain M’Closky, at one stage hilariously playing both roles at the same time.
The play is ostensibly about the love between the sweet octoroon Zoe and George, white inheritor of a Southern plantation. But a mixed race marriage is both illegal and unthinkable, something the villainous estate overseer M’Closky won’t tolerate.
Zoe, an unambiguously tragic character, played with great feeling by Umi Myers, thinks her condition makes her an ‘unclean thing’ since one drop of black pollution poisons all the rest.
In the best traditions of melodrama, there’s a plot to steal the plantation and
Zoe from George by the malevolent M’Closky; a vital stolen document; an auction of the plantation slaves; a murder – and an ending that doesn’t tie up the loose ends in traditional style.
It’s funny, tragic, and a blistering critique of racial attitudes in America, and by inference, everywhere else. The whole business of identity is lampooned non-stop at a rollicking pace, while drawing a deeply disturbing image of intolerance. The glaring red set is a constant reminder of evil under the eloquence and evening gowns of the self-obsessed Southern belles, Maeve O’Mahony and Jeanne Nicole Ní Ainle.
Boucicault himself (Rory Nolan) makes a drunken appearance, annoyed at his current lack of recognition in the theatrical world. Nolan with some outstanding comicopportunities, also slaps on redface to portray American Indian chief Wahnotee, complete with warrior headdress and tomahawk. And the innocent Wahnotee is of course blamed for the murder of a black servant. Jolly Abraham in blackface, plays Pete and Paul, servants looking and acting like real-life golliwogs. One of the more admirable things about the play is the lack of inhibition in its use of images, and of language that I couldn’t use here.
‘Lack of inhibition in its use of images, and language that I couldn’t use here’
There’s no high jinks about the slave auction scene, conducted like a cattle market. But the fight between George and the predatory M’Closky for possession of Zoe is a comic highlight since both characters are played by Patrick Martins, dressed half as George and half as M’Closky.
On board also are female slaves, discussing life on the plantation in a matter-of-fact way while considering whether it’s worthwhile trying to escape. But the thought of being sold on is terrifying.
In one scene near the end Jacobs-Jenkins discards the artifice of theatre, while performers explain the mechanics of getting the best theatrical effects, quoting Boucicault’s own recipe for ‘sensation’.
It’s that sort of risky interference with convention that makes the play an extraordinary piece of entertainment while remaining a compelling reflection on racial intolerance. And is that nimble Brer Rabbit that pops on and off just a wry joke about the playwright’s ability to mix reality with fantasy, to show that a writer has to entertain the audience?
On a side issue, the Irish Life car park happily tells us that it’s only three minutes from The Abbey, then adds obligingly that if the play runs after 10pm, you had better park somewhere else. An Octoroon ends at 10.10pm.