Theatre in Review: What the Constitution Means to Me (New York Theatre Workshop)

	Heidi Schrek. Photo: Jon Marcus.

For a lively, provocative assertion that the personal is political, look no farther than Heidi Schreck's fearless, funny examination of the American legal system. And when it comes to the United States Constitution, she ought to know. "When I was 15 years old," she says, "I travelled the country giving speeches about the Constitution at American Legion halls for prize money. This was a scheme invented by my mom, who was a debate coach, to help me pay for college. I would travel to big cities like Denver and Fresno, give a speech, win a bunch of money and take it home to put in my safety deposit box for later. I was able to pay for my entire college education this way." She adds, parenthetically, that this was twenty years ago, and she attended a state school -- but still.

The first part of What the Constitution Means to Me consists of Schreck, impersonating her younger self, going through her paces at one of these debates. In the original format, she had seven minutes to give a prepared speech about the Constitution overall, followed by an impromptu talk about one of the amendments, chosen by draw. If this sounds like something you slept through in high school, think again: Schreck is a charmer, an innately witty performer whose passion for the subject shines through. Her interest is hardly theoretical. Much of the piece focuses on how Justice William O. Douglas managed, in a 1965 case -- Estelle Griswold, of Connecticut, who was arrested for selling intrauterine birth control devices (!) -- to carve out a right to privacy. This concept was further extended by Justice Harry Blackmun in Roe v. Wade.

The import of all this becomes clear when the young Schreck, discussing a woman's right to an abortion, adds, "although, it's a choice I would never make personally." Assuming her adult persona, she adds, "And then, six years later, I got pregnant, so that was confusing. I got pregnant while playing Miss Julie at a tiny theater in Seattle. By the actor playing Jean." A beat. "Obviously." Her hometown is "an abortion-free zone," so her search for medical assistance includes a side trip to an office of Birthright, an organization that offers pregnancy testing but exists largely to talk women out of choosing to terminate. (The walls, she remembers, were covered with pictures of fetuses.) Here, the "psychotically polite" Schreck engages in a "nice-off" with Marcy, the receptionist, pretending that she really wants to keep the baby, for fear of rocking the boat.

Earlier, Schreck's suspicious mother nearly freaks out over the idea of a pregnant child, a surprising reaction for a deep-dyed feminist. Then again, the actress reveals the details of her family history, an appalling saga of abuse across several generations. It began when her great-great-grandmother was imported from the East Coast to Seattle as part of a shady 1865 scheme to deliver 500 marriageable young ladies to the supposedly woman-poor city. People of my generation will remember this as the premise of the television series Here Come the Brides. Or, as Schreck puts it, "My great-great-grandmother Theressa was purchased for 75 dollars by my great-great-grandfather when he ordered her from the Matrimonial Times."

Schreck goes on to note that Theressa died young, in an institution, the official cause being "melancholia" -- whatever that meant. The family history seems to get more horrific with each generation. In one especially grisly example, she says, "When my mom's older sister turned 16, my grandma's husband raped her. She got pregnant and went away to have the baby. He got her pregnant again. She went away again. She came back home after giving birth to a second child, and graduated valedictorian of her class."

Schreck hastens to add that things have gone much, much better in her generation -- indeed, her entire Constitutional debate plan was her mother's way of providing her with an independent future. It also set the actress on a lifelong contemplation of our laws, which were devised by men for men, and which often seem frighteningly tone-deaf when faced with issues that are crucial to women. Presenting an audio clip of Supreme Court Justices considering the Griswold case, she says, "So, here are nine men deciding the fate of birth control. Four of whom are cheating on their wives." She also included another audio clip relating to Castle Rock v. Gonzales, in which a woman sued her local police, who had done nothing about her abusive husband, allowing him to kidnap their children. The tape features Antonin Scalia examining, in the most torturous way, the meaning of the word "shall," in order to avoid a favorable verdict for the plaintiff. It's an act of casuistry that makes Bill Clinton's similar abuse of the word "is" seem like small potatoes, since, Schreck notes, it led to the gutting of the Violence Against Women Act. The clip is very brief, but it thoroughly destroys the image of the cute, cuddly Scalia put forth in the recent Off Broadway play The Originalist.

For three quarters of its running time, What the Constitution Means to Me creates drama as Schreck pursues her argument, weaving together legal history with her personal story and elegantly posing some very troubling questions. She has no axe to grind -- her immediate family is happy, her marriage is solid, her existence teems with male friends -- but without becoming tendentious, she neatly frames the framers of the Constitution and their successors, making an unpleasantly convincing argument that, for most of this country's history, and, quite possibly, right now, the system is rigged against women.

Schreck's timing is exquisite: You can imagine the effect of her show on an audience at this moment; seeing it last week, during the bruising Brett Kavanaugh confirmation battle, one had the feeling of having a nerve operated on, in public. Caveats abound about the final passages, however. First, Mike Iveson, who represents Mel Yonkin, Schreck's debate coach, feeding her questions and glaring at the audience when it breaks debate protocol by applauding, steps forward and talks about his coming-out issues, particularly with a father who saw him as too effeminate. It's a nice bit of writing, but it doesn't substantially contribute to the thrust of the piece. Then, as a topper, Schreck brings on one of two alternating teenagers to take part in the same Constitutional debate. At the performance I attended, Rosdely Ciprian was a delight -- so poised and well-spoken that if she is typical of the next generation, we have nothing to worry about. She and Schreck take part in a mock debate on whether the Constitution should be abolished or replaced, followed by answers to audience questions. As charming as all of this is, it comes as something of an abdication, a bit of fun and games that leaves her pertinent questions unaddressed.

Oliver Butler's direction keeps the enterprise engaging even when it veers off on such tangents, and he has obtained an appropriate design package from his creative team. Rachel Hauck's set depicts a theatricalized version of an American Legion hall. (Commenting on it, Schreck says that Hauck helped her "reconstruct it from my memory. It's like one of those crime victim drawings.") Michael Krass has dressed Schreck attractively and Iveson amusingly in an appropriately schlumpy suit. Jen Schriever's lighting is perfectly fine, as is Sinan Zafar's sound.

Zafar delivers one final audio clip that, whatever one feels about the show's digressions, really brings it all home. It features Ruth Bader Ginsburg -- the Notorious RBG herself -- saying, "People ask me sometimes when...when do you think it will be enough. When will it -- will there be enough women on the Court. And my answer is: When there are nine." Say it, sister. -- David Barbour