Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson a Raucous, Ribald Spin on Historical Philosophy

By James E. Trainor III

Cedar Rapids—Ever since I was a child, I've loved political cartoons, especially older ones. I used to, and still do, thumb through history books just looking at these pictures like a little boy at breakfast who steals the comics from the newspaper and leaves the headlines for the grownups. These caricatures of politicians and oversimplified analogies of complex political issues sum up eras of history in a snapshot, not only giving you a clear idea of what was going on but giving you a very entertaining view of what at least one side thought of the issue. Long lists of lineages can be exhausting and complex battle maneuvers can be confusing, but a funny face with a clever caption draws me in and makes me want to know more about the issue right away.

That's what Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson is: a live-action political cartoon set to music. Loud, crude, rock music. Leave the bookish historians to argue the subtleties of whether Jackson was a radical reformer or a mass murderer; here he is portrayed as he can be only in a rock musical: as an angry young man whose rage and arrogance transform him into a force of nature. Michael Friedman and Alex Timbers submit Old Hickory to merciless satire, and he isn't alone: other important historical figures such as Henry Clay and Martin Van Buren also get treated irreverently in this very funny show.

TCR's ensemble, directed by Leslie Charipar, does a wonderful job with this material. They're loose, broad, and very very funny. The opening number, which was quite amusing despite some sound issues, segues into a hilarious comic scene that depicts the death of Jackson's parents. Daniel Kelchen and Aaron Murphy do some excellent comic acting in this scene, creating outrageous characters while still managing to set the stage for the conflict between the elitist northerners and the brave frontiersmen of the south. The scene is totally over the top; something of a Howard Zinn meets Family Guy feel. It's crude and irreverent, and it works; it sets the ball rolling for an outrageously entertaining evening of loosely historical satire.

There are many fun characterizations in this play, too many to enumerate, but a few stood out: Jim Kropa's mad, cackling Henry Clay plotting against Jackson; Rob Merritt's slapstick redcoat beating him with a pool noodle; Hannah Spina's ribald groupie offering him sexual favors, and Ken Van Edgon's bumbling Van Buren trying to keep him in line. And, of course, Tim Arnold as Jackson himself.

Arnold definitely has the energy and the audacity to play this role. He comes out strong right from the top, running the scene like a rock show (the lights, by Derek Easton, play along, flashing around the stage and often into the audience). He plays the character with humanity and subtlety at times, too; in some of the earlier scenes you can see his courage clash with his insecurity, while in the later scenes you can see his exhaustion mount as the stakes get higher and higher. He can belt with the best of them, and he fills the stage with a charisma and physical presence worthy of such a huge historical figure.

Nicolette Coiner-Winn is wonderful as Rachel, Jackson's wife. She has a great voice and is able to play with comic energy as well as sensitivity when the time comes. Coiner-Winn and Arnold work well together and support each other through some challenging material. "Illness as a Metaphor," perhaps the show's riskiest number, depicts Rachel bloodletting Jackson, which looks a lot like the contemporary practice of "cutting." Portraying the Jacksons as morbid sex-crazed teenagers, smearing blood on each other and making out, could easily be seen as insensitive. However, the tone is so over-the-top, and the lyrics are so clever and silly, that you just have to laugh. After all, the blood is only metaphorical.

The Rachel subplot gives the show something of a coming-of-age story; he has to give up his political career to be with her or risk everything and be lonely at the top. Or, as he puts it: "I love you, but I have to kill an entire native population." The Rachel/Andrew scenes are a lot of fun, especially given the emo rock context, but they also hint at a deeper meaning of the play: as with the Indians, Jackson has given Rachel an unfair bargain. In "The Great Compromise," a song Coiner-Winn delivers with skill and passion, she sings of how he never gives what he promises.

Meanwhile, some sort of reckoning has to come from Jackson's double-dealing with the natives, and some of these choices are what lead many historians to take such a bitter view of the president. For, even if this blood is only historical, it is very very real. Jackson's policies resulted in the deaths of thousands of Native Americans, and though it is quite funny, "Ten Little Indians," sung primarily by Hannah Spina, is at the same time haunting and infuriating. Under a stage bathed in red light, Spina sings down the verses in a cold, clear voice, while Arnold wheels and deals with members of the ensemble representing different cheated and defeated Indian tribes. The whole number, though riddled with jokes, has a vicious, brutal feel, and that is what turns good comedy into great satire.

Because for all its crudity, the show has some insightful things to say about our national identity. We're walking around on land that we had to trample other people to get, and we often take it for granted. "Second Nature," sung with heart by Sam Butz, takes a more serious, thoughtful look at these contradictions. We want to feel politically correct and civilized and reject Jackson's brutality, but at the same time we live in a society that would not be same without it. Many of history's "great men" were also butchers, depending on which side you were on.

Charipar won't let us forget those dead Indians. She herself plays the role of Black Fox, an Indian chief who sides with Jackson but later betrays him. During the final number, just before the curtain call, Black Fox is killed -- comically -- but she doesn't get up. She doesn't get up as the others take their bows, or as they acknowledge the band. She doesn't get up when the audience begins to file out, or when the last person is asked to leave. She remains there, a grim reminder of the price that was paid for all of this.

I urge you to go see Bloody, Bloody, Andrew Jackson. It's not often that a community theatre channels such skill and energy into such an original and challenging piece. Whether you love or hate our seventh president, this show should give you something to think about -- and a lot of laughs along the way.

Bloody, Bloody Andrew Jackson runs through October 20 at Theatre Cedar Rapids. Tickets are $25-30 ($20 students/$15 rush).