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A CurtainUp Review
Kicking A Dead Horse
— The original review by By Les Gutman
My CurtainUp editor, Elyse Sommer, is the author of a book called Metaphors Dictionary, which says on the cover it contains 6,500 metaphors. Sam Shepard doesn't say how many metaphors he has worked into his new play, but he's giving Elyse a run for her money. Kicking a Dead Horse seems to be many things, and it seems Shepard wants it to be all of them. On the one hand, it feels autobiographical — Hobart Struther (Stephen Rea) is undoubtedly a surrogate for the playwright (who is also the director). On another, it is political — Hobart also serves as a stand-in for a certain "cowboy" mentality that plays out all too literally nowadays. At times, the play is very specific, as we focus on the very real emotional not to mention phsyical crisis Hobart is confronting somewhere in the Badlands — "Horizon to horizon. Far as the eye can see. No road- no car- no tiny house- no friendly Seven Eleven. Nada." Elsewhere, it is long lens historic —- the quote above should give that flavor. The themes of Dead Horse sometimes hint at classic Shepard, and that glorious language of his is present in abundancem, yet it is an exercise in retrospection and introspection that seems unlike anything he has ever done before. What all of this means is hard to say, though fun to ponder. What we see, however, is fairly easy to describe. Hobart struck it rich buying western art off the walls of saloons while he traveled around on horses like the one that's dead on the stage now. Those were what he called his "truer days". Buying low and selling high was his ticket out of the old West and onto Park Avenue. But once he and his wife became "empty nesters," he became stir-crazy — "Sitting around, folded up on sofas, sipping tea and reading 'The Week in Review'— the world going up in smoke across the blue Atlantic. Internecene warfare. Pathetic stuff. Truly. Impotent. What's there to do?" — and longed to head back to the land of "truth". Those paintings had become his "demons"; he needed to confront them. As we find him, he has dug a grave for his old "colt" that let him down — the horse kicked the bucket on day one of his western journey, and now all Hobart can do is return the favor. In the process, the magic of the old West has turned black, and it's time for Hobart to repay old debts. This is a one-man play, but not really. There is a woman who materializes before the end but never speaks; of more significance, perhaps, are two other characters: Hobart spends a good part of the play in vivid conversation with himself (or some variation thereof), and of course there's also that dead horse. Though he does turn to the audience to narrate or explain, its these "dialogue" that make this horse worth riding. Brien Vahey's rocky round platform fronting an often vivid western sky well situates the show. John Comiskey's lighting, which at times shifts quite meta-theatrically, underscores the play's tones beautifully. Costumes and sound are both quite fine. What's missing from the credits is the person(s) responsible for the horse, an artistic and technological marvel that deserves acknowledgement. Shepard wrote this play for Stephen Rea, and the Irish actor, best known for portraying the central character in The Crying Game, delivers a remarkable performance in return. Exhibiting an implacable restlessness, he displays hints of Hobart's soul as he frisks his mind for an explanation. Having escaped the "otherness" of Park Avenue (yes, the existential themes run deep here too), Hobart is all too aware he is an alien in his old stomping grounds. (At one point, Hobart mentions a doorman; Rea stops, looks around and says the word again, his face practically pleading for a white-gloved hand he seemingly took for granted.) The irishman, on the other hand, seems right at home. There is of course this irony (did I mention that the play also offers up a healthy dose of them?) in Rea's personal alienage in relation to this material, though if anything it renders it all the more astonishing. And to confuse matters even more, I should add that the ghost of another Irishman is very much in the house; I refer to Samuel Beckett, to whom this work at times comes close to paying homage. Performance and poetry notwithstanding, this piece throws many more than one too many ideas out over the apron. Is it a writer's exercise in psychoanalysis? It would seem so. It is wonderful to hear these fresh words from one of our true American playwrights, but the whole often feels like such a mélange of thoughts that one can't help but think — or maybe I mean hope — that it is still a work in progress. This seems like it could be the start of the play Shepard has spent his whole life preparing to write.
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