By Alex Rendon
By Monica McGivern
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Alex Rendon
By Monica McGivern
By Ian Witlen
By Christina Mendenhall
By Michele Eve Sandberg
When American poet Adrienne Rich wrote, "The personal is political," she reminded us that political acts cannot be separated from the circumstances of individual lives. Too often drama that attempts to convey an ideological message does so by striving to be "universal" at the expense of the characters' discrete choices and motivations. In A Bicycle Country,Cuban-American playwright Nilo Cruz both avoids this trap and proves Rich's maxim correct, combining his poetic skills with a keen knowledge of theatrical conventions to create a play that is both lyrical and relevant.
The plot of A Bicycle Country is simple, and familiar to South Florida audiences. Set in 1994, the action takes place in Cuba and in the waters of the Florida Straits. Julio (John Rodaz) is paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair. His best friend Pepe (Carlos Orizondo) finds a physical therapist to help him recover. The physical therapist, Ines (Marcy Ruderhausen) convinces the two men to risk escaping the country with her on a raft.
Yet upon this modest foundation, Cruz has constructed a work of incredible depth and complexity. Cruz is a gifted wordsmith who knows how to use the physicality of the theater to convey his themes. The theater-in-the-round staging of A Bicycle Country, whose set is merely a square platform with a column in the middle, heightens the sense of confinement --especially in the second half of the play, when the stage becomes a makeshift raft. (In a subtle yet effective visual device, set designer Steve Lambert uses a hydraulic system to rock the stage as if it were on water.)
Even the props take on a poetic identity. Chairs, an old trunk, and a couple of pillowcases go from being instruments of diversion to those of destruction. A captivating visual moment in the play comes from the use of simple linens, which at first represent family and memory ("I was just imagining all the women in your family who have slept on these pillowcases," Ines says to Julio). Later the pillowcases give Julio and Ines the anonymity to love one another, and to dare to escape repression and poverty in Cuba.
"We are going to play a game," Ines explains. "When we take off these pillowcases we will be in a new place." They place the pillowcases on their heads and reach outward, exploring each other's features through the cloth. The items take on new meaning yet again in the second half, when Julio and Ines include Pepe in the game. When the three of them stand in a distant triangle with their heads shrouded in an attempt to renew their sense of hope, they end up looking more like hooded prisoners awaiting execution.
The same objects still are present from the beginning to the end giving the stage -- whether it's an apartment or a raft -- the impression of both transition and permanence. Like the pillowcases, other objects take on vastly different meanings depending upon context. As metaphorically rich as this lack of change is, it threatens to make the show extremely static. A small stage, an abundance of rich language, and not much action could add up to bored audience, even with Cruz's scintillating dialogue. Fortunately director Michael John Garcés has instructed the actors well in their movement. Whether they are dancing, arguing, or rowing, there is a fluidity on the small stage that keeps the viewer engaged.
Even so, it is Cruz's script that truly drives this play. Like Garcia Lorca, Cruz is as much a poet as he is a playwright. The play's second half shimmers with images of water as the three actors speak in a dizzying round robin of visceral metaphors. Cruz has given us new images of the sea -- no small feat under the shadow of writers such as Derek Walcott and Jose Lezama Lima. A scorched and dehydrated Ines speaks of a dream where water flowed from her breast: "I couldn't drink because I couldn't bring my mouth close to my chest. But you came close to me and sucked the water from my breast and gave me some water to drink." In one of the most beautiful moments of the play, Julio and Ines make love on the raft, perhaps for the last time. Julio tells Ines: "We don't have to move. The sea is already moving."
For all the startlingly original poetry in A Bicycle Country, the dynamic among the characters is the tried-and-true triangle. In this dramatic threesome, Ines represents love, poetry, and freedom. But she is also well-grounded in the role of caretaker and organizer; Ruderhausen demonstrates more than enough range as an actress to convincingly portray Ines' wide range as a character. Ines is both the idealist and the pragmatist: While the decision to leave the island is a leap of faith, it also is a carefully reasoned choice. Ruderhausen wisely gives us the no-nonsense Ines in the first half, the powerful, poetic Ines in the second.
Even though Orizondo plays the good-natured Pepe with ease and fluidity, the role's lack of intensity saps some of the vigor from the first half of the play. While his character facilitates their attempted escape, he just doesn't add that much dramatically in the first act. His role would be fine in a larger cast, but in a triangle, he is obviously (sometimes painfully so) the weakest side. In act 2, though, he begins to hold up his end. As each character slips into his own hallucinatory world, together they weave an imagistic tapestry of trains, ships, umbrellas. The desperate poetry of their impassioned incoherence echoes the cacophony of Beckett's Waiting for Godot.