MATTERS OF LIFE AND DEATH IN SOUTHERN BAPTIST SISSIES

MUNCIE, IN—Southern Baptist Sissies, written by Del Shores and directed by Robby Tompkins, continues its run at Muncie Civic Theatre’s studio space through March 2. The show left me winded. I’m trying to understand its impact on me by writing about it. Too, I grasp at some way to say thank you for the ways theater can illuminate, quicken and confound. I mean these words to convey some sense of my gratitude.

SPOILER ALERT: These ruminations assume you’ve seen the show, and make little effort to conceal plot denouement.




Matters of Life and Death in Southern Baptist Sissies

I've been there, been there in the church when the preacher stands over the closed coffin and says, "We ask ourselves the why question—"why?"—over and over again. His death leaves us with a great sadness and a great many questions. We don't know why he chose to take his own life."

In that moment I wanted to stand up and shout. "Like hell we don't! Some of us have a pretty damn good idea why.” But I kept my mouth shut. I am well-schooled in repression.

We had known each other a long time, the deceased and I. We were not confidantes; we shared more in common than we were willing to admit, even to ourselves. We used denial, repression and self-induced unawareness to shield ourselves from self-knowledge.

Some of his story I pieced together after the fact, some of this is conjecture. I can't know with certainty what was going on inside him. Yet I've lived enough of his story to make an educated guess. He grew up in a church, family and society that told him in a thousand ways, "A man shall not lie with a man as with a woman. It is an abomination." In a small town where everyone knew everyone else's business, he hid as best he could. He prayed, believed, served church and community. Thought it would go away. Hoped it was a phase. Tried to accept it as his cross to bear, the dark angel he had to wrestle to win his way to heaven. Deep down he hated himself. Hated how and who and what he was. Hated the constant struggle. Lived in fear of anyone ever finding out. And then someone did. His secret uncovered. About to be made public. How could he go on? He knew what awaited. He'd seen it before, most recently, in my case: drummed out of town, marriage up in smoke, career terminated, kicked out of the church, left friendless and alone.

He must have panicked. It happened so suddenly, so irrevocably—the discovery, threatened exposure, fateful decision. Did he talk to anyone first? Wish he would have called me. Wish I’d have known to call him. I heard the report on the local news. His body had been found. Damn, damn, damn.

This is where you take me, David W., in your portrayal of the Preacher, presiding at the funeral of the beautiful boy with the deep soul. You look out over the congregation, your face troubled. How can your perplexity be genuine? Yet you almost convince me it is.

 “We ask ourselves the question ‘why?’ over and over again,” you say.

No closed coffin in front of the pulpit, just his framed photo in the center of a funereal wreath. And now what happens? Did you bump against it, knock your pulpit against the easel? For whatever reason, his picture falls face forward onto the floor. By your reaction I can tell this isn’t in the script. A moment’s hesitation and you go on with your sermonizing as if you haven’t witnessed his fall, as if nothing has gone awry. “A troubled young life is gone, and we ask ourselves why….”

Damn you, Preacher. Damn the unfeeling religious system you serve. Damn the ways you represent my own unseeing, unthinking, unfeeling responses to others. Another beautiful life ended, yet another deep soul sacrificed on the altar of power, tradition, institutionalized bigotry and willful ignorance. The accidental tumble his photo takes only echoes and underscores the insidious evil done daily in the name of fundamentalist religious belief. Another one bites the dust and so what. Who cares. Who even deigns notice.

THE NAKED TRUTH IN SOUTHERN BAPTIST SISSIES

MUNCIE, IN—Southern Baptist Sissies, written by Del Shores and directed by Robby Tompkins, continues its run at Muncie Civic Theatre’s studio space through March 2. The show left me winded. I’m trying to understand its impact on me by writing about it. Too, I grasp at some way to say thank you for the ways theater can illuminate, quicken and confound. I mean these words to convey some sense of my gratitude.

SPOILER ALERT: These ruminations assume you’ve seen the show, and make little effort to conceal plot denouement.




The Naked Truth: Nudity in Southern Baptist Sissies

In one of his poems (“To Cavafy,” in Turtle, Swan, Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1987), Mark Doty descries five boys on a small raft anchored in a pond. Each maintains a careful distance from the others. They stand looking at the water, the far banks, the setting sun, engaging in laconic conversations. Watching from shore, Doty and his companion fix their attention on one of the taller high-school boys. He stands wet and gleaming, splendid in the slanting light, unaware of his audience. Doty writes,

Of course we wanted him,
but more than that—we have
each other’s bodies, better
because they are familiar.
We wanted to enter the way
he dove unselfconsciously

from the little dock,
certain, the diver
become pure form, the exact shape
for parting water.

This my husband and me, our shore the second row of seats in Studio Theatre, our focus the four young men who open the play with an enthusiastic rendition of an old gospel hymn. We take in the details. Handsome actors. Thin, fit. Ethan L.’s expressive eyes, hair dark brown and curly. Matthew B., black hair, heavy brows, slight build, erect posture. Chandler C., bright button eyes, pencil waist. Jake R., long in both body and face, the latter a playground of emotions. Each a study in black and white: black trousers, long-sleeved white dress shirt, thin solid-colored tie. Of course we wanted them.

Engaging to see them dive into their roles, later surface in various states of undress in service of their art. Enthralling to be caught up in the characters they portray, witness the marriage of teller and story. Chandler’s T.J. rolls words around in his mouth like a cough drop before spitting them out. He swallows often. Ends sentences with his lips tightly sealed. How much T.J. holds inside, must keep pressed and repressed. We watch as he is baptized along with his friend Mark (Ethan L.). Afterwards, the two boys towel off and change back into their Sunday clothes. T.J. strips naked, bare butt to the audience. Afforded a full-frontal view of his friend, Mark goes tongue-tied; his hormones hit Mach 1. Thus we witness an early link in the chain of events that charts the course of their lives, changes the nature of the two friends’ relationship. Credit the director and actors for giving this scene its due.

And other scenes likewise. A look at two of the boys engaged in celebratory mutual masturbation is juxtaposed with the Preacher’s spouting dire warnings to a third. The clergyman rails on about the dangers of temptation, of riding the devil’s merry-go-round of sin, about what happens when one gets off. Upstage, Mark and T.J. are doing just that. The scene—incorporating nudity—addresses on many levels the native strength of sexual desire and the power of religious and societal forces marshaled to constrain it. The Preacher prays with Andrew, “Please release us….” Indeed.

Not every player is able or willing to meet the playwright’s demands for physical exposure. No judgment from this quarter; we are all human and every actor an amalgam of real-live person and embodied character. As Andrew, Jake R. readily makes himself emotionally vulnerable to his audience. His face becomes a screen; an array of feelings play across it: excitement, joy, naivete, eagerness to please, sincerity of purpose, longing, physical attraction and desire, ache, shame, fear, grief, despair. Yet the actor refuses to follow his character’s lead in a pivotal scene that calls for physical intimacy. Alone in his room, Andrew strips to his boxers and masturbates to images in an issue of Playgirl. Except he doesn’t. Not in this production. This Andrew holds the magazine and touches himself circumspectly above the waist. I am not surprised to later learn he is the youngest member of the cast. Everything in its time. Kudos for venturing as far as he does.

After all, the play calls us to live within our limits. To go home, look into the mirror, and learn to love what we see there. To venture on a quest of self-discovery, to speak truth first to our inmost selves, then to those in power. Are we to speak the naked truth? Yes, insofar as we are able.

WISDOM FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY IN SOUTHERN BAPTIST SISSIES

MUNCIE, IN—Southern Baptist Sissies, written by Del Shores and directed by Robby Tompkins, continues its run at Muncie Civic Theatre’s studio space through March 2. The show left me winded. I’m trying to understand its impact on me by writing about it. Too, I grasp at some way to say thank you for the ways theater can illuminate, quicken and confound. I mean these words to convey some sense of my gratitude.

SPOILER ALERT: These ruminations assume you’ve seen the show, and make little effort to conceal plot denouement.




Wisdom from the Peanut Gallery: What to Look At from Southern Baptist Sissies

While serving as a comic foil to the angst and turmoil amongst the four leads, barflies Preston “Peanut” LeRoy and Odette Annette Barnett pepper their one-liners with telling observations about life. Cheryl Crowder’s Odette is a hoot, referring to one unfortunate incident after another, none of which she cares to discuss in any detail. She knows what she is—and what she is not. “Oh honey, I’m not a lesbian,” she tells her newfound friend and drinking partner Peanut, “I’m an alcoholic.” All through the play she’s eying men in the gay bar, struck by this and that one’s resemblance to a person she once knew. Only towards the end does she reveal the object of her search—her brother Buddy whom she kicked out of the house over his being gay. She breaks down over her betrayal of him.

As Peanut, the diminutive Bryan Hamilton has been playing the role of the aging queen for laughs. Now he grows quite serious, speaks truth to his friend: “Look around you, Odette. All these boys are Buddy. All these troubled young men. They’re all Buddy.”

Odette takes her leave. She’ll move onto another gay bar in her continued quest to to find her brother, make amends. She studies a young man standing in the shadows who resembles the Buddy she once knew and loved. It’s Andrew, feeling conflicted over his escapades at the bar tonight, caught between longing and loathing. His religion tells him one thing, his desires another. The divinity he worships hates him and his kind. Everything he wants is wrong, everything he touches doomed. Odette steps over and kisses him on the cheek. He startles, stares, silently touches his cheek long after she walks away. Can anyone truly love him as he is?

Peanut rouses him from his reverie. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m not a hustler,” Andrew replies.

“That’s alright, I’m not looking to buy sex, not tonight,” Peanut says. He studies the youth, then offers a devastating self-critique. “Don’t become like me, Andrew.” Then he extends a pearl of great price: “When you go home tonight take a look in the mirror and learn to love what you see.”

Look in the mirror and learn to love what you see. Good advice for any troubled young gay man. For any of us. For you. For me. And what’s more, I don’t have to wait until I go home to look in a mirror. The play shows me my own reflection. It’s not always pretty.

"SISSIES" SIZZLES AT CIVIC THEATRE

MUNCIE, IN—Whole lot of preaching going on over at Muncie Civic Theatre's studio theater, and hymn-singing, and coming of age. Robby Tompkins elicits stand-out performances from four leading actors in a dynamic production of Southern Baptist Sissies by Del Shores that overcomes the script’s inherent preachiness to deliver a funny, moving piece of theater.

A preacher opens the play with fiery exhortations. Another Sunday in the Bible Belt. But no. One of the boys in the youth choir interjects a caustic remark, then another, and another. Ah, so the boy is now a grown man and the preacher’s words are among the memories of childhood he is sharing with us—memories that have lost little of their power to cut and wound.

How much power is made clear as Mark introduces himself and three other boys who grew up gay in a fundamentalist religion and church that relies on scripture to condemn homosexuality and demonize those who engage in it.

The tormented Mark (Ethan Litt) reacts in barely-supressed anger and rage to the mixed messages he receives both from the church and from his best friend and youthful love interest T.J. (Chandler Chastain): "come closer; go to hell." Litt's Mark moves at a furious clip throughout the story. He questions, argues, longs, and at last lands in a place that mingles bitterness with hope. 

Chastain offers a convincing portrayal of confusion, earnest denial and closeted self-righteousness. After an early taste of forbidden love, T.J. runs back into the closet and slams the door after him. 

On the surface, Benny (Matthew Bettencourt) has the easiest time embracing himself as he is. He lets his winning smile and ramrod posture carry him through life. As an adult he transforms himself into the fabulously outfitted country music diva Iona Traylor, offering high-energy lip-synched portrayals of such artists as Dolly Parton and Wynona Judd. Saturday night he drew whoops and cheers from his audience when he finished one number by doing the splits. 

On the other end of the self-acceptance spectrum, Jake Rura's sweet conflicted Andrew plots a tragic trajectory, turning in vain to family, church, and community for affirmation and support. He was able to bring forth real tears as in anguish he assailed heaven, "What's wrong with me? Why can't you love me?" 

Adding comic relief and ironic commentary on the whole affair is the oddball couple of straight floozy Odette Annette Barnett (Cheryl Crowder) and diminutive aging queen "Peanut" LeRoy (Bryan Hamilton). As Hamilton lends a sympathetic ear, Crowder delivers her one-liners with aplomb, and strikes the perfect tone in her more serious moments. Costume Coordinator Susan Lankford knocked herself out in dressing these two barflies. 

Undressing is the provence of John (J.P.) Bechtel III who appears as a male stripper at the bar. Musical Director Cody Ricks dons a red-sequined vest to serve music and drinks as pianist/bartender, doubling as church musician Brother Chaffey in traditional suit and tie. 

David Whicker's preacher is an instantly recognizable figure, and he strikes a balance between hellfire-and-brimstone delivery and caring, well-intentioned appeals. Molly Casey has the occasionally difficult juggling act of playing each of three mothers (“all but T.J.'s, cause his mother was dead, and that would be just weird,” Mark tells us). Ensemble players include assistant director Kodie Egenolf and Andrew Dalton (in his first stage appearance EVER, according to his cast bio—kudos to Tompkins for giving him a line to speak aloud).

Sid Ullrich's lighting design helps maintain focus and makes the most of limited stage area. The intimate studio space lends itself to emotionally-charged drama, and Tompkins delivers plenty of this.

At odds with the performance is the large and complex stained glass window that dominates the stage. It seems better suited to a Greek Orthodox cathedral than a traditional Baptist church. The window serves as backdrop to much of the story. Had Tompkins chosen instead to place a large cross of stained glass at the center of the action, he could have added layers of symbolism. The ways in which fundamentalist religion crucifies its gay adherents is central to the play's message.

Shore’s script is bitingly funny, sure, and heart-wrenching, but also melodramatic and sometimes downright preachy. Credit Tompkins and his strong acting ensemble for letting the story flow, delivering plenty of laughs and heartfelt performances full of soul.

The show is not for everyone. It’s very frank and explicit, rated NC-17. Yet there is much here that will resonate with anyone who has wrestled with themes of identity, self-discovery, acceptance, inclusion and the role of religion and the outsider. The play delivers a message of hope and love even as it calls for acceptance and tolerance. 

Southern Baptist Sissies continues at Muncie Civic Theatre's studio theatre through March 2.

Artwork used by permission.

AND NOW I AM A HORSE

REFLECTIONS ON EQUUS • AT MUNCIE CIVIC

STUDIO THEATRE

I'd heard about Equus only from the notoriety Daniel Radcliffe (aka Harry Potter) received for appearing naked on stage in the revival of the 1970s psycho-thriller drama. I'd not seen Peter Shaffer's play (nor the movie version starring Richard Burton) until Marty Grubbs and the Muncie Civic Theatre cast brought it to life. The show runs through Sunday, 11 April.

In the opening scene a rumpled aging psychiatrist (ably played by Barry McMullen) talks directly to the audience—and to himself. He thinks a lot about the horses, he says. I get the notion he almost identifies with them. Strange way to begin. By the final scene I understand.

Grubbs transposes the setting of the play to Muncie or whichever area small town you are from. Patched-in references to the Hoosier landscape seem forced, while other lines of the play referring to particularly British aspects are left untouched. Yet Grubbs makes the point: the unthinkable could, can and does happen here. Right here. The play centers around a crime of passion: how might an ordinary kid of 17 from a "normal" family from a "normal" city—Muncie, Indiana, say–come to blind six horses? What could bring him to such an act? What implications do his actions hold for the rest of us?

The meaning for psychiatrist Martin Dysart becomes clear. His client has experienced in his young life a passionate intensity that makes what the good doctor has settled for look like an empty husk, an unrealized dream, a sell-out to the demands of profession and society.

And the therapist is asked to cure the patient, to remake him into his own dull, lifeless mold. He begins to doubt himself and his calling.

Teenager Alan Strang (Taylor Anspaugh) has blinded six horses. That much is clear. The mystery is why. The play's structure parcels out this information a little at a time, keeps the audience wondering, wanting more.

Anspaugh's Alan is brooding and recalcitrant, believable in his evasive answers and adolescent scorn of authority. He gives a convincing display of the deeper currents running below the surface. I watch his hands (or are they hooves?—he tries his most to be human when he spreads his fingers–) clench and unclench, the startle movements he makes, the way his mouth works, almost as if there were a horse's bit between his jaws.

McMullen's Dysart paints the psychiatrist as tired, very tired, yet committed to the boy, and awake enough to voice the questions that come up for himself. He alternates between loud and soft, focused and weary. He confesses to his magistrate friend (and perhaps would-be paramour) Hester (an engaging Rita Wessell) the lack of passion in his life, yet his involvement with and commitment to Alan's treatment belie his words.

Alan works weekends at a riding stable. Under the push-pull of his very religious mother (Kelly Myers) and religiously irreligious father (Scott McFadden), Alan has devised his own rituals of worship that involve the horses he adores. He must deal with his sublimated sexual desires and fumbling attraction to an older, more experienced female coworker, played by Tonya Kunkel. She shows the girl as warm and tenderhearted.

The psychiatrist Dysart is torn: can he heal his patient? What will be lost if he does? He brings the audience right into the story, asks them to ponder the questions, as well.

Black. The stepped-back set is black, blue and gray, echoing the dark cave of the psyche Dysart warns us we will peer into, the layers through which we must descend. The few pieces of furniture (a desk, a couch, a bed) seem somehow out of place, spots of the familiar in a landscape of dreams.

The tightly written script keeps me enthralled, alternately repulsed and thrilled. It asks me to think.

The play includes nudity—kudos to Grubbs and the Civic for not shying away from play for this reason—and it serves the plot in making a dramatic psychological point. The characters bare themselves on many levels and take the attendant risks. Their courage moves both the story and members of the audience.

Still, Muncie is not the easiest town to get naked in, literally or metaphorically.

Most days I can easily meet the overly devout Christian mother on Walnut Street; the repressive father who wants nothing to do with God-talk may be sauntering along High Street right now. And the troubled Alan Strang—the play asks me to look inside and see if he's not within me. So too, to look for the weary sell-out, the one who has settled for less than what might have been.

Is there yet hope for healing of these disparate characters within me? What might such healing look like? What do I give up in the way of spiritual energy in order to fit in, to be accepted and acceptable?

As I was born and bred in the Midwest the play sounds several themes with special resonance for me: the role of religion, of belief in a divine spy cam that sees all, of passion, of sublimated sexual desire, sexual naiveté, what and how therapists work and what they claim to heal, the power of secrets, the importance placed on fitting in and appearing normal. Too, there's something about the connection between my regard for chickens and Alan Strang's love for horses. Animals can serve as teachers, companions and open a doorway to that which is beyond our ken.

In some ways I identify with each of the characters: the disturbed passionate teen, the doubting healer, the bewildered parents with secrets of their own, the winsome girl, the compassionate upholder of law and order, the blustering stable owner (Jeff Rapkin), the tough-as-nails nurse (Debby Girtman), the horses (Drew Eberhard, Nick Gilmore, Brad Root).

The horses. Perhaps it is the horses I most closely identify with in the end. On stage they are represented by bare-chested actors wearing huge skeletal metal masks in the form of horses' heads, platform footwear ending in horseshoes. Eberhard's Nugget makes a very sensuous equine companion (would that the erotic connection between Alan and Nugget were explored visually—what we see as the lights come up on the opening scene looks very stand-offish; it doesn't carry the charge one might expect from the story). In the play the horses are a source of primal mystery, stern lessons, controlled power, divine love, selfless service, and ultimately, senseless sacrifice. Who looks deeply into the horse's eyes may be looking into the human heart, as well. Equus invites the audience to do just this.

Muncie Civic Theatre

www.munciecivic.org

April 2-3 & 8-11