Theatre in Review: Jerusalem (Music Box Theatre)

	Mark Rylance. Photo: Simon Annand

How many tours de force does Mark Rylance have in him? In the past couple of seasons, he has given us some memorably conceived losers and louts, but nothing can quite prepare you for his appearance as Johnny "Rooster" Byron, Jerusalem's principal lord of misrule. Slurred of speech and slippery of mind, he enters from his trailer, strutting like a bantam. (His peculiar gait is, in fact, the result of a bad leg.) Johnny is a boozer, lay-about, and drug dealer; he's also a magnet for the troubled, aimless youth of his particular corner of Wiltshire, who assemble in the little grove where he lives for orgiastic parties. None of this is lost on the larger community, which wants to get rid of Johnny by any means possible. As the play begins, two representatives from the local council are pasting a notice on his trailer, informing him that he is living on public ground and will be evicted several hours hence.

None of this means anything to Johnny, who simply ignores any reality that seems too unpleasant. He should take care, however; too many intimations of fundamental change are making themselves known. One of his tribe is leaving Wiltshire for Australia. A former lover shows up to berate him and demand that he take some responsibility for their young son. And another member of his set -- an adolescent girl -- has disappeared, and her family is demanding some answers from Johnny.

As long as Johnny remains oblivious to the forces massing against him, Jerusalem offers a deliciously detailed portrait of the fine art of living down and out in rural England. Staggering around on a brutal morning after, he launches into something resembling a cross between an African tribal dance and the death throes of a headless chicken; he then makes himself an eye-opener consisting of milk, a raw egg, and plenty of vodka, then plunges headfirst into a trough of water. He's absolutely priceless when spinning bizarre stories, especially the one explaining how he is "the first man in history to be conceived in two separate postal zones" by a mother who was a virgin. (It's far too involved to go into here.) And it's quite possible that you have never experienced a fury as intense as Johnny's when, banging on a drum, he summons the pagan gods of England to his aid.

There's a great deal more to like about Ian Rickson's fast-paced production, with its lively gallery of weirdos, fantasists, and substance abusers. Mackenzie Crook's dazed manner is perfect for Ginger, Johnny's skeptical sidekick. John Gallagher, Jr. is touching as Lee, who is emigrating to Australia largely because he's afraid to stay put any longer. Max Baker makes a fine butt of many jokes as a local barkeep forced by his wife to take up Morris dancing. Geraldine Hughes makes the most of her one big scene as Johnny's angry ex. Molly Ranson is particularly antic as one of Johnny's most enthusiastic acolytes.

There's also Ultz's marvelous setting, which places a beat-up Airstream-style trailer in a leafy grove lit with photorealistic fidelity by Mimi Jordan Sherin. Half of Johnny's belongings are strewn around the stage, making for a plausible image of both natural beauty and human disarray. Ultz's costumes are as appalling a collection of dirty T-shirts, torn jeans, and vulgar skirts as you will ever hope to see - which is to say they're perfect. The sound design, by Ian Dickinson for Autograph, provides subtle reinforcement for Stephen Warbeck's original music in addition to other selections, including Ralph Vaughn Williams' "The Lark Ascending," plus a fairly nonstop array of effects that include thunder, airplanes passing over, bells, and helicopters.

In Act III, however, Jerusalem begins to seriously overstay its welcome, as character after character shows up to remind Johnny that the clock is ticking on his way of life. (In this context, it's hardly necessary to have him take part in a romantic fox trot to "Who Knows Where the Time Goes.") For all the amusement that Johnny has provided, the playwright, Jez Butterworth, hasn't convinced us that Johnny is really worth caring about. And Butterworth's attempt at giving the action a mythic dimension -- suggesting that Johnny is that last remnant of the pagan England of magic and fairies and communing with nature - -is pretty hard to swallow. (To demonstrate his magical powers, in one scene, he forces his ex to experience an undefined vision that has the effect of somewhat calming her hostility.) The references to William Blake and St. George and the Dragon don't feel organic to the action. In the end, the expected leap from a naturalistic characterization to a kind of supernatural, Falstaffian grandeur doesn't quite happen.

It's interesting that, in each if his recent New York appearances, Rylance has scored a major success in a play that was either problematic or polarizing. Boeing-Boeing was rightly seen as a triumph of style over weak material. La Bête has always been an audience divider, with many dismissing it as a thing of sound and fury, signifying nothing. It's even true of the actor's clever vest-pocket staging of Cymbeline at Brooklyn Academy of Music several years ago; even when he has appeared here in Shakespeare he has chosen one of the problem plays. Despite a strenuous rave from The Times, Jerusalem earned somewhat mixed reviews, and I was surprised to see so many empty seats at a press performance. The play has been characterized by some as being too British in its preoccupations, a charge I rejected during the first two acts but began to succumb to in the third. In any event, it would be interesting to see Rylance take on of the great roles - Macbeth, say, or Iago, in which he could be compared more explicitly to the work of his colleagues and predecessors. In the meantime, he is putting on quite a show in Jerusalem and that will certainly be more than enough for his many admirers.--David Barbour