The Rep’s mostly brilliant Blueprints to Freedom lets in a draft at the end

November 4, 2015

Liz Cook,

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A talented cast and dazzling design work make Michael Benjamin Washington’s Blueprints to Freedom: An Ode to Bayard Rustin, a world premiere co-production of the Kansas City Repertory Theatre and La Jolla Playhouse, an essential experience.

Set in 1963 but depicting a vision of social justice that feels current, the play follows Bayard Rustin, the most influential civil rights leader you’ve never heard of. Much of his invisibility stems from Rustin’s then-radical identities: as a gay man, as a conscientious objector and as a former member of the Young Communist League. Washington’s ode takes an atomic approach, focusing on the days leading up to the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom (the source of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech). The result is more problem play than character study — those hoping for a deep dive into Rustin’s life may come up short — but the script is tauter and more affecting for it.

The play begins when A. Philip Randolph (Antonio T.J. Johnson) approaches Rustin (playwright Washington) to organize the march. Rustin is initially reluctant to take charge, fearing that opponents will focus on his past. He’s also a man of faith, something that Randolph, an atheist, is quick to capitalize on. He offers Rustin “a warm thermos full of Jesus” if it’ll help inspiration take root.

But Rustin and Jesus aren’t on speaking terms. Inspiration instead takes the form of Miriam Caldwell (Mandi Masden), a young mother and college graduate who signs on to be Rustin’s assistant. She appears to be a dramatic invention — perhaps loosely inspired by Anna Arnold Hedgeman — and she provides Washington with the smart means to synthesize a voice for his social-justice concerns. Caldwell scolds Rustin for leaving a woman out of the lineup of speakers, urging him to consider the ways in which black women are devalued or oppressed. “The civil rights movement should be a human rights movement,” she argues.

Washington’s script is keenly attuned to the ways in which public-relations progressivism can sweep less “palatable” minority identities under the rug. Rustin struggles, over the course of the play, with whether to claim his fractured selves or compromise — to fade into the background — for the sake of the march. It takes a former lover, Davis Platt Jr. (Mat Hostetler), to remind him: “You’re not just Negro but gay, too. You belong to more than one community.”

Washington pounces on each of Rustin’s lines with fierce conviction. His Rustin is every bit as impulsive and brilliant as we imagine, and speaks with a forceful calm that affirms his belief in the efficacy of nonviolent resistance.

Johnson summons a seemingly bottomless gravitas for his portrayal of A. Philip Randolph, yet he never loses sight of the play’s warmth or humor. Masden is both tenacious and perceptive as Miriam Caldwell, portraying a woman sensitive to the power structures around her but committed to having her say. And Ro Boddie makes a serious but relatable King.

Director Lucie Tiberghien deserves credit for eliciting these and other strong performances, though scenes are too often staged dead center, parallel to the proscenium. The cast clings too tightly to furniture as well, diverting energy into chair backs. (In Tiberghien’s defense, breaking this widespread acting habit is a Herculean task, one that some directors have written off as hopeless.)

But Tiberghien is unerring in vision. Blueprints features some of the most stunning design work yet this season. Neil Patel’s architecturally apt scenic design leads the charge, with a march headquarters that’s all austere wood panels and pocket doors and angles as hard as Rustin’s resolve. Late in the play, flats part to reveal a partial rendering of the Washington monument and the reflecting pool. Here, Patel swaps out dark wood for stark gallery white but keeps the panels, connecting both sets into an abstract dreamscape.

Lap Chi Chu’s lights provide a striking assist, heightening contrast and boosting visual drama. A warm yellow light peeking through cracks in the floorboards (a hideout on the Underground Railroad) creates a chilling moment of theatrical magic.

But the greatest stage trick belongs to projection designer John Narun, who projects Rustin’s looped handwriting on a chalkboard throughout the show. No hyperbole: The simple effect is cooler than a laser-light show. Each line of script appears on the board as Rustin speaks, then fades slightly, building up faint “erased chalk” outlines as the show progresses.

Narun and Tiberghien join forces for one of the play’s most memorable sequences: Rustin “conducting” real footage from the march as it’s projected onto the white paneled walls.

The play effectively ends with Rustin holding the baton, and the implication is clear: His contributions helped guide the march to success, but Rustin could be only the conductor, not the soloist. It’s a natural, even bittersweet resolution, one that left me primed on my seat for a standing ovation.

But the play actually ends much later, with a jump forward to see how the organizers handle a retaliatory church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama. On the surface, it’s a sensible move — their work didn’t end with the march, Washington reminds us — but the scene stretches far beyond mere denouement. Rustin sings, weeps, wails in an apostrophe to God. I lost some of my priming and shifted in my seat as the climax’s energy dissipated like vapor.

If I had to diagnose a particular ill of contemporary theater, it might be this: Not enough people know when to stop writing. Washington’s play has deservedly earned high praise already, so the ending seems unlikely to change. But when an indulgence such as this one lets so much heat out of an otherwise airtight construction, it may be time for the playwright to pack away the blueprints and roll up his sleeves.