In 1998, Matthew Shepard was beaten, tied to a fence and left to die. The members of the Tectonic Theater Project (portrayed at TCR by Sarah Jarmon, Jennie Kies, B.J. Moeller, Jessica Moore, David Morton, Phillip Schramp, Brian Smith, Mike Wilhelm and Alex Williams) went to Laramie, Wyoming in person to conduct a series interviews that eventually became The Laramie Project. They set out as outsiders, artists in search of the Other. They crossed a lot of distance, both physical and aesthetic. What they found, however, was very close to home; they found the human spirit in all its aspects, weak and frail, inspiring and intimidatingly brutal.
In The Laramie Project, the members of the Tectonic Theater Project (and hence the audience), start as outsiders, strangers - a little aloof, a little baffled and a little bemused. The miles of political and philosophical distance, however, are crossed in an instant by a dramatic device: Mike Wilhelm, portraying actor and writer Greg Pierotti, puts on a hat and a coat and becomes Detective Sergeant Hing before our eyes. He leans back at his desk, relaxes into the part. He speaks the words Hing spoke, in his best Wyoming accent. It's easy to take the cue, suspend disbelief: we, in a moment, are there. Other voices fill the stage: the diverse population of Laramie. The stage fills with light and with people, and we're there, by the magic of theater.
At the same time, we're immediately made aware that we're watching these people from a distance. Hing describes talking to an outsider, a reporter, who wanted to know how Shepard's body was found. Aaron Kriefels, who found him, was out riding his bike. It's a popular area to run, Hing says. The reporter was baffled: "who the hell would want to run out here?"
"I didn't feel judged," says Hing. "I felt that they're stupid...they're just missing the whole point."
The site of the incident, on the outskirts of town, is certainly an idyllic view. It's also become the object of pilgrimages, according to Unitarian minister Stephen Mead Johnson. As audience members, it's a pilgrimage we must make. Director Jason Alberty takes us there in a simple but very effective way. The two screens upstage of the action show film of the fence itself, and downstage we hear from Kreifels, a stranger to Matthew Shepard. Flanking him are two other strangers: Dr. Cantway, the emergency room doctor who treated Matthew, and Reggie Fluty, the police officer who responded to the 911 call. They describe the incredible brutality of the beating, and their efforts to save him. Moore, Williams and Jarmon do an incredible job with Alberty's direction. It's easy to imagine Matthew Shepard out there, in October, alone in the cold, struggling for his life. It's a terrifying image, and it frightens us. It angers us. In the words of Dr. Cantway, "it offends us."
It should offend us. It should anger us. This sort of violence is appalling, and something deep inside the human spirit rejects it. While Matthew Shepard was being treated for his wounds, vigils across the country sprung up in support of his family.
Eleven years later, The Laramie Project still hits a sensitive spot in our country, and wherever the play is done, the issues of gay rights and hate crime seem to come up. In reaction to a rumor that Fred Phelps and Westboro Baptist Church were coming to protest the show, a large group of people set up a counter-protest on the south side of 1st Avenue. Some came out in a show of solidarity towards TCR, others to support gay rights. Fortunately the counter-protest was peaceful (the WBC never showed), and it's good to have warm vibes on a cold night. TCR Artistic director Leslie Charipar called the counter-protest "one of my proudest moments of being a Cedar Rapidian."
And that's good. I'm proud, too. But if you honked in support of the counter-protesters and drove on past the theater, you only got part of the story. The Laramie Project, as Alberty says in his show notes, "is not about Matthew Shepard or homosexuality - nor is it really about Laramie. To put it in such a small box would be to limit its power. This show is about hate of "the other," whoever that may be - an often blind and visceral hate - and how that hate affects individuals and communities." Ironically, the Fred Phelps on stage is much scarier than the real Fred Phelps. As a dramatic symbol, he has a lot more power than the man - who, after all, will soon die and be forgotten. What he symbolizes, however, is an integral part of the human character. It is fear. It is anger, hate and violence. It is the part of us we often succumb to in little ways, whenever we create that distance, whenever we get too tied up in labels and stereotypes, whenever we put up a wall between ourselves and the other person.
When a tragedy like Matthew Shepard's murder occurs, the natural reaction is to reject it, to remind ourselves that it happened somewhere else. That's only natural. But is it accurate? The Laramie Project, as The New York Times said, is "
Back inside the theater, Act II examines the idea in depth. Zubaida Ula, a Laramie woman, implores us not to distance ourselves, not reject hate and violence as something to which we're immune. "We need to own this crime. I feel. Everyone needs to own it. We are like this. We ARE like this. WE are LIKE this."
The Laramie Project reminds us that both sides of the coin - the battered boy tied to a fence and the two bestial boys that beat him - are, as Marge Murray puts it, "absolutely human." Laramie's Catholic priest, Father Roger Schmit reminds us that Russell Henderson and Aaron McKinney, the perpetrators, "must be our teachers. What did we as a society do to teach you that?"
TCR's production brings home this theme fairly well. One scene in particular deserves mention: after Ula's speech we hear from Shannon and Jen, two friends of Aaron McKinney. They are young, perhaps in their early twenties, and very jaded. It's a bit troublesome watching these two: both seem to be lost already, the epitome of wasted youth. Shannon is nervous; he giggles a lot and doesn't seem comfortable in his seat. Jen won't look at the interviewer; she turns away and chews distractedly on her hair. They feel compassion for McKinney, but they're both ironically aware of the hopelessness of the situation. Shannon sits up and poses at the end of the interview: "we're products of our society." He laughs. He thinks it's a joke. It isn't.
Williams and Jarmon do an excellent job with this scene. Too many young actors fall into the trap of playing these two for laughs; Williams and Jarmon approach them with compassion and sincerity. They do not dull the tragic irony with comic exaggeration; they merely trust their instincts and let the story tell itself. It's some of the best acting in the entire production.
While the reality of the situation in Laramie is frightening, the play is not at all dreary. It does not simply shine a light on the shadowy depths of the human soul and walk away, leaving us to stare in despair. There is a redeeming aspect to the piece, as Shepard himself is used to symbolize hope.
A wonderful poetic image of Matthew comes from a very unlikely place. Sherry Johnson, wife of a highway patrolman, objects to the press's treatment of Matthew Shepard. "The media is portraying Matthew Shepard as a saint. And I don't think he was. I don't think he was that pure." Johnson is well awake to the human tragedy, but she dismisses the idea that Matthew Shepard was special: "he was just a barfly."
The image is perfect. Matthew Shepard wasn't pure. None of us is. Even those of us with our eyes pointing towards the heavens are walking on the muddy, messy ground of the real world. Father Roger Schmit, when pointing out that the incident did a lot for the community, warns that he doesn't want to "condemn Matthew to perfection." His statement adds some perspective to Johnson's; where the divine meets the human, it isn't perfect. It isn't pure. Through the cracks, though, we see the light. Hope shines through in Matthew Shepard, and it shines through in Laramie.
Through Matthew, the patron saint of barflies, Christian philosophy and secular humanism meet and work towards the same ends - hope, healing and compassion. Father Schmit organizes a vigil despite his fear that his superiors will object. Romaine Patterson, a friend of Shepard's, organizes a peaceful counter-protest to combat Fred Phelps' fire-and-brimstone sermon. She takes the stage from Phelps, and on the screen behind her, his inflammatory signs are blown away by angel wings.
The county attorney's office wants to pursue the death penalty in the trial of Aaron McKinney. This is another major political issue, and it divides the town. Some are angry and want McKinney to die. Others oppose the death penalty on moral grounds. Dennis Shepard's statements decide the verdict: in the name of his son, he asks the county not to give McKinney the death penalty. "This is the time to begin the healing process," he says. "To show mercy to someone who refused to show any mercy."
In addition to these grand gestures, there is a lot of dialogue about the implications of the incident. Detective Rob Debree is troubled when he learns how many gay people actually live in fear, and it causes him to change his political views. "This is America. You don't have the right to feel that kind of fear." Jedediah Schultz, a University of Wyoming Theatre student, stands up to his parents and defends his participation in a college production of Angels in America. Jonas Slonaker, a gay Laramie resident, however, is still frustrated that no civil-rights or hate-crime legislation has been passed: "what's come out of this that's concrete or lasting?" (Recently, Congress passed the Matthew Shepard Act, which expands the 1969 federal hate-crime laws to protect LGBT individuals)
TCR's production of the The Laramie Project is well-thought out and moving. It is a fitting close to the "TCR Lindale" era; the space, despite its shortcomings, is ideal for plays that are intimate in theme but broad in dramatic scope. Alberty's direction is strong; an actor himself, he understands his cast and plays to its strengths. The cast is singularly committed and brings a lot of courage, honesty and empathy to its portrayal of the diverse town of Laramie.
From a design standpoint, the use of projection screens is troubling, however. It's ideal for the first act, when it shows actual footage of Laramie - particularly the fence where Shepard died - but films of the actors portraying characters on the news is unsatisfying. The use of film creates an artificial distance that doesn't really serve this play, and it took a lot of the power from certain scenes, such as the media frenzy, the breakdown of hospital director Rulon Stacey and the showdown between Phelps and Patterson.
Most importantly, the character of Aaron McKinney is dulled by the use of film. The footage of the interrogation room is somewhat surreal: black-and-white, and filtered a bit to look like a pencil outline, it makes McKinney into something safe. He is a cartoon, a faraway monster that we don't have to worry about it. This risks undermining the entire play; for the piece to work, we have to feel empathy for Aaron McKinney - as unpleasant as that may be. He needs to be on stage; he needs to be human. A television screen can be turned off, but a real human being must be dealt with. The audience needs to let Aaron McKinney be its teacher. It's a very difficult thing to do, but it's central to the play.
Outside of that choice, the production is very effective. If you haven't seen The Laramie Project yet, you should. It runs until January 24th at TCR Lindale. More information here.
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