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By the Second World War's end, German theater was nearly decimated. Hitler's rise to power had already bled Germany and Austria of many leading playwrights; at his fall, most of the leading theaters lay physically ruined, though all theater companies had been forced to disband by decree in 1944. The future held little promise for restoration. Brecht was in America; Kaiser and Werfel were dead, as were Toller and Zweig, who had committed suicide. Gerhart Hauptmann, who had remained in Germany throughout the war, chose silence after penning a blank verse tetralogy on the doom of the Atrides. But a revival of German theater was under way in an unlikely place. Switzerland had no illustrious theater history like Germany and Austria, nor had it produced any playwrights of note. Yet because of its neutrality during the war, Switzerland's German theaters remained intact and active. Swiss-German writers were also in a unique position to explore the recent horrors from an independent perspective. Swiss-Germans, though detached from the German catastrophe, were nonetheless haunted by the madness of their kin, with whom they shared a language and culture. The impact of these historic accidents produced the first great German playwrights of the postwar period: Friedrich Durrenmatt and Max Frisch. Martin Esslin said of both that they "developed a dramatic idiom of their own...a theater of intellectual fantasy to air contemporary problems in a vein of disillusioned tragicomedy"; at the center of these fantasies squats guilt. The question of "how did war come" gnawed at Frisch, a young architect who guarded Switzerland's border with Germany during the war. On nights lit by the far fires of cities, how many refugees and fleeing Jews did Frisch watch be turned back or turn back himself? How to make sense of it? His epiphany came during the Zurich première of Our Town, where Thornton Wilder was in attendance. Afterwards, he had a personal meeting with Wilder, and it rekindled his youthful passion for theater. Three of Frisch's plays have established his name in international repertories: The Chinese Wall, Andorra and Biedermann and the Firebugs--the last universally reckoned his masterpiece. Subtitled A Morality Play Without a Moral, Biedermann is a scathing political satire on the inability of the common man to take responsibility for his inaction. Biedermann (the name means honest man, an "everyman") is a hair-tonic magnate who will go to great lengths to lead a quiet life. But the burg in which he lives is plagued by arsonists, who seem hell-bent to destroy all. Though outraged that nothing is being done to stop the "firebugs," Biedermann is unwilling to turn the arsonists out of his own attic once they've set up residence. Frisch's point is plain. Everyone is complicit in their own destruction. Why was Hitler allowed to rise? Why did Czech president Benes allow the Communists into his government? Why do we allow the proliferation of arms in the world and sell our lives piecemeal to the corporate leviathans who rule us? We live a life spent mostly in blinders, in a world unworthy of its own tragedy. Bridge City Productions should be commended for its daring. Here is a young company (too young at times) that is willing to take on Ping Chong, Beckett and Havel. There are many strengths to the company's current production of Biedermann, but the piece fails through want of a consistent tone and through misinterpretation. Of the latter accusation, it is the depiction of Biedermann that is the show's downfall. Rather than a self-satisfied burger and self-made man, Rod Harrel performs, on one note, a petulant, whining neurasthenic. Though a moral coward, Biedermann is far from being a squirming physical wreck; the comedy lies in observing this hearty captain of light-industry accommodate evil. In Harrel's pantomime--a "nervous breakdown of a salesman"--defeat is accomplished within minutes, and the show goes nowhere. Arlene East's Babette is little better. East is one of those actors peculiar to Portland who seem discomfited being on stage. East's trademark of fluttering hands and lost gaze could work in her portrayal of Biedermann's wife, if only she weren't slow to greet cues and didn't deliver her lines like a memorization exercise. The find in this production is Erick Reddekopp, who brings the vulcanian Schmitz gloriously to life. There ialso a chance to see Casey D. Brown--who was superb in Bridge City's Godot--take on the Ph.D. role. The chorus of firemen, led by Eric Kilgore, is also finely done, though Ian Sieren's need to upstage the action at times wants curtailing. Llewellyn Rhoe's scenic design is excellent, though one could happily live in ignorance of Steve Swanson's music. But until director Chuck DeKlyen addresses the problem of his central character, this Biedermann will lie unignited. |
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