MET hails August Wilson’s Jitney with a fine cast
“Colorblind casting” has come under fire as a buzzword for more diverse theater. The Actors’ Equity Association prefers “nontraditional casting,” a term with its own ontological baggage. Whatever you call it, it can’t come soon enough.
That was one thought left in my mind after I watched Metropolitan Ensemble Theatre’s latest production. During the show, I kept asking myself: Why don’t I see these actors more often? And: Why did it take a script mandating actors of color to bring them together?
I’m grateful nonetheless for the occasion of the latter: August Wilson’s Jitney, a freewheeling script about five men working at an unlicensed cab service in the 1970s. Jitney is one of 10 plays in Wilson’s Pittsburgh Cycle, all of which are anchored by the experiences of African-Americans, and nearly all of which are set in Pittsburgh’s Hill District.
MET’s production, directed by Karen Paisley, stretches the station’s buzzing hive across an extra-wide set. The opening scene is a revolving-door introduction to the five jitney cab drivers and their associates. Actors dash on set for a few lines or a quick game of checkers, only to grab their coats at the report of the payphone (incoming calls are free) and the prospect of a fare.
Becker (Granvile O’Neal), the station’s founder and boss, runs the show with more bark than bite. Despite his grumblings, he lets bookie Shealy (George Forbes) take bets on the station phone. He refuses to fire Fielding (Desmond “337” Jones), a former tailor-to-the-stars who drives his taxi drunk, stashing liquor bottles like Easter eggs across the station. And he endures the aggressive posturing of driver Turnbo (Jerron O’Neal) with a pacifist’s patience (and distaste for firearms).
Becker, we learn, has more important things on his mind. His son, Booster (Damron Russel Armstrong), is soon to be released from the Western State Penitentiary after serving 20 years for murder. And the city plans to board up Becker’s station in two weeks, before tearing the whole block down.
Wilson lets these conflicts slowly bubble on the back burner; tension builds more from the men’s bragging and infighting than from external threats. The constantly ringing phone is a convenient dramatic device, providing easy ways to exit conversations or isolate characters in new tête-à-têtes.
MET’s cast makes each new configuration more rewarding than the last. These actors are effortlessly good, bringing Wilson’s easy chatter (and less easy camaraderie) to life.
Frank Oakley III tempers the prickly male ego with moments of embarrassed introspection as Youngblood, a Vietnam vet with nobler aspirations. Jones inhabits Fielding with humility and a Cheshire-cat grin, delivering an engaging, understated performance that resists lampooning his addiction. Theodore “Priest” Hughes is dependable as Doub, the station’s reluctant moral center. Forbes, as Shealy, and Sam Salary, as Philmore, bring precision and humor to their small roles. And Shon Ruffin sizzles as the pragmatic Rena, a woman tired of young love and its empty promises.
The fraught relationship between Becker and his son comes to a head at the end of the play’s first act, when the two open old wounds and pack their guilt into weakness-seeking missiles. As Becker, Granvile O’Neal perfects the bitter growl of a man furious with his son for squandering his advantages. As Booster, Armstrong returns the blows with critical accuracy, loosing two decades of pent-up rage at an unjust world. Their late-play sparring is an energetic highlight, even if the shouting scorches some nuance in its wake.
The technical elements are pure 1970s. John Story’s sound design is a period playlist of jazz and James Brown, seamlessly adjusted to provide cover for scene changes or ambient radio noise. Atmospheric effects — the gentle rumble of a thunderstorm, the squeal of wet brakes — add texture to scenes without overpowering the dialogue.
Erica Sword’s costumes are another throwback treat, recalling the era’s high-waisted denim, wide lapels and chubby neckties. And Paisley’s set design coats the stage in wood paneling and Orange Crush. The shabby, mismatched furniture hints at the station’s modest earnings.
The set defines several smart playing areas, but the production’s only hitch is that the actors seldom make use of them. The blocking often seems aimless, with actors circling couches or tracking the full length of the stage in one speech. Motivated movement (and some inventive stage business) could help focus the energies of a solid cast.
But a little restlessness is hard to fault in a play full of characters waiting — for the next cab fare, for the last straw, for the receding American dream. When one character dies, the drivers bemoan the loss of a man who “never got out of life what he put in” — an epitaph, we sense, that may eventually apply to any of them.
