In this brief life, three little words are supposed to make all the difference. Three little words that excuse immaturity, lapses in judgment, and self-indulgence. Let’s whisper those three little words together: “work in progress.” When confronted with a show bearing that tag, critics are put in the impossible position of having to encourage the playwright and point him in the right direction, while simultaneously cautioning the paying audience against a disappointing evening.
Two-time Obie winner John Kelly has collaborated with composer Richard Peaslee (of Marat/Sade renown) and lyricist Mark Campbell to forge Akin, a disjointed, often interesting, never boring, sometimes laughably amateurish, family epic. A Super 8 film sequence (spliced with a dull axe) begins the evening on an inept note, as a white-faced fellow lays coins on a railroad track. The fellow (Peter Becker) then appears in the flesh as a Medieval stand-up comic, singing songs in an attractive baritone and reciting a Chauceresque limerick.
An amusing sequence follows in which he and his wife produce several female children (rag dolls), until, finally, a boy arrives. He thrives and goes out to make his way in the world. On one level--the level that sort-of works—Akin is the old tale of a father watching his son bungle through life, gambling, fighting, and whoring, while Papa sits helplessly by, dropping a coin for every transgression. But Kelly & Co. aren’t content with that familiar familial structure; they’ve made Junior’s journey span the ages, from the castles of the 13th century to the gay bars of the 20th. Along the way, the son (Kelly himself) runs into a cross-dressing Joan of Arc cum Edith Piaf, plus a number of not-so-subtly disguised AIDS parables.
Backed by a lovely sounding medieval band (Mollie Glazer, Annette Jolles, Roberto Pace, and Steven Silverstein), Peaslee’s songs are usually melodic. While Campbell’s rhymes aren’t bad, his sense of meter is variable. Unfortunately, Kelly’s contralto voice, an acquired distaste, reduces potentially moving tunes to bird squawks. I admit to ignorance of most modern dance, but if it consists of the spasmodic arm twists displayed here, hoofing’s in a silly state, indeed.
Still, these minor complaints are just a roundabout way of saying the whole piece doesn’t come together. Yes, Kelly’s to be commended for his experimentation--even for flirting with the ludicrous--but what’s the story of Akin? What’s its message? How can we identify with the father and son? Those questions deserve answers, even from a work in progress.
