License to ‘Iliad’

“As God disposes man laughs or weeps” — Sophocles

What’s the last work of art that made you uncomfortable, got you thinking, or maybe even messed you up a little? For me it was probably L.P. Hartley’s 1953 novel “The Go-Between,” or Fassbinder’s 1978 film “In A Year of 13 Moons,” the German director’s creative exorcism following the suicide of his partner. Most recently, it was last night’s performance of “An Iliad” at the Kansas City Repertory Theatre, a rambling one-man retelling of the Trojan War written by Denis O’Hare and Lisa Peterson, directed by Jerry Genochio, and masterfully executed by solo actor Kyle Hatley.

It took more than a few talented people at the Rep to stage such a powerful production, with a plywood set design resembling crashed war ships, innovative musical accompaniment by Raymond Castery (who shares the stage in a non-speaking role), as well as the work of the technicians and producers. But it’s Hatley’s performance that captivates, entertains and terrifies. “Muses!” he bellows toward the back of the stage at the play’s outset, less an invocation than the scream of someone who fears they’ve been forsaken.

10363663_10152636158832155_6622503899298935898_nHatley’s character is a nameless Poet, doomed to retell centuries-old war stories, which he intersperses with witty tangents and contemporary analogies (Achilles’ fury is compared to someone who has been cut off by another driver). The storytelling is spirited and athletic, with the Poet leaping around the set, adjusting his volume and pitch to inhabit different moods, events and characters. I (along with much of the audience, I later learned) assumed he was ad-libbing much of the text until he explained in a post-performance chat that each one of the pauses and stutters were written into the script. Hatley inhabits his character so thoroughly, however, that you never would have known it.

As the war story drags on, an intractable weariness sets into its teller — the guilt of someone who came, saw, conquered and has looked back in disgust ever since. As the Poet details the confrontations and brutalities he witnessed among the Greeks during the sack of Troy, the American audience member can’t help but think of accounts of the My Lai Massacre, Abu Ghraib or any of the other dark moments in American military history.

At one moment late in the play, the Poet cuts short his historical narration to list the names of wars and conflicts throughout history, dating from the ancient world to the present day. While listening to (and anticipating) the names of wars, we realize with mounting horror that all the vivid, bloody, heartbreaking details of the Poet’s story are but a tiny fraction of the apparently unending history of human warfare. Hatley’s unflinching, rapid-fire delivery in this scene marks it as a true crescendo in the performance; the vibrating lights and sustained dissonance of Castery’s musical score creating a scene of almost hallucinatory intensity.

As powerful as this scene was, I was maybe even more impressed by a quieter moment in which the Poet gently pushes one of the hanging glass light fixtures, sending it into an elliptical orbit around him as he continues speaking. I kept expecting it to collide with another prop or the actor himself, but it never did. As the light swings harmlessly around him at increasingly tighter angles, the Poet never once pauses to mark his footing or position on stage, almost as if he’s inhabiting a different plane altogether. It’s the kind of quiet intensity and skillful stage movement that makes Hatley’s performance in “An Iliad” so transcendent.

By the time the narrative reaches the episode of the Trojan Horse, the Poet appears unwilling to continue, either because it wasn’t part of Homer’s poem, or because he’s still too sickened by the memory of that infamous deception. That there won’t be a happy ending to this play seems a foregone inclusion, but I would argue that it’s not entirely devoid of hope. Earlier in the play, while recounting Priam’s pleas for Achilles’ to hand over the body of his slain son, Hector, the Poet describes how Achilles miraculously quiets his rage just as it threatens to reach a boiling point. “How did he do it?” the Poet asks, a question no less critical for remaining unanswered. In a world in which mankind is just a plaything of the gods, does he still have the agency to turn away from war and conflict?

Further examination of the play’s themes would require closer study of the text, which I haven’t yet had time to do. But I did leave the theater with the sense that playwrights Denis O’Hare and Lisa Peterson have found a way to crack open historical drama and make it something immediate and exciting, using modern language and references to create the same sense of catharsis so integral to ancient Greek theater. I also left wondering how I’d gone so long without seeing a performance by Hatley, surely one of Kansas City (and Chicago’s) finest young talents. If you get a chance to attend one of the four remaining performances this weekend, by all means, don’t miss it.


Thanks for following along the daily posts these pasts 7 weeks or so. I’m still writing each day and wrapping up a few personal projects, but I want to start out 2015 by following up on some interviews and write-ups of other people’s work. Feel free to send me a message in the meantime. Or just check back in later this month. Happy New Year.


Just a little bit ago I got back from the party store, where I bought a lot of fun but unnecessary items like hats, party poppers, balloons, paper plates, glow sticks and silver glittery 2015 “blowouts” (the technical term for the things that you blow into and unfurl while making a cheap duck call noise). We went to a Boulevard Brewery tour earlier this afternoon. As usual, watching the bottling line was the most fascinating part. In our tour group was a heavyset younger guy wearing a red shirt with the Mr. Kool Aid face on it. I saw one dude sneak a picture of the guy with his phone and show it to his buddy, who laughed. But I didn’t feel bad for the big guy. He seemed more comfortable with himself than the other guys ever would be. He might have even been the coolest guy in the room.


Yesterday I noticed a bunch of lost-looking white teenagers in fairly generic but not totally inexpensive clothes walking around in clusters, giggling, holding Starbucks cups and straying into traffic crossings regardless of what color the light is. Then I remembered this is the week downtown KC hosts the International House of Prayer’s “One Thing” conference, which brings thousands of youth together to get pumped up about the coming rapture. The slogans always tend toward the euphemistically apocalyptic (“He’s coming, and it’s going to be awesome!”), but if these kids are alarmed, they aren’t showing it. They just look excited to be out on the town eating lunch and getting coffee with each other. Of course the headlines sometimes tell a different story, such as the bizarre case of Tyler and Bethany Deaton (written about in a firsthand account here, if you don’t trust the national press). I always thought it seemed a little cruel (and potentially harmful) to tell kids not to have premarital sex while also warning them that the world is likely to end at any moment. Especially considering some of them have been speaking in tongues and mentally transporting themselves into heavenly realms by the age of seven. But you don’t have to take my word for it. There’s plenty of fascinating firsthand accounts online of the teachings and methods at IHOP and its ancestors, the “Kansas City Prophets.” Sometimes I wish I wasn’t interested enough to read about them, but I can’t help it. As someone who grew up attending an occasionally dull but (in retrospect) refreshingly normal Christian church, I’m always curious about how, when and where someone draws the line between healthy God-related activities and being drawn into aberrant, cult-like practices. But that’s a subject for a different conference altogether. Whether or not these truly are the end times here in Kansas City, they certainly are interesting.


I went out for an early morning walk so I could get some fresh air and maybe come home and write the 12/29 post before the day was more than an hour old. I walked a mile north to a friend’s house so I could see their Christmas light display before the season ended. I’d seen them in the daytime and noticed how he’d used plastic mounting hooks for each individual light instead of every few feet, which must have taken hours. It was almost midnight when I set out, so I wasn’t sure they would still be turned on. I thought about texting in advance, but decided at that point I should just venture out as a leap of faith. I brought my discman along for the walk and listened to a compilation of early home-recorded experiments in electronic and new age music from before that was any official genre. On the walk I thought about a lot of things, such as how impressive it is that my 2-year-old can name all seven of the seven dwarves (I always got stuck on Happy). I also thought, as I often have, about how I am the only person I know who still uses a discman. When I got to my friends’ street, I could see their house’s lights from a whole block away. I only paused to appreciate them for a few seconds, because I didn’t want them to look outside and see me standing there on the sidewalk, just staring at their house. That might look a little strange.


For the first time in this daily blog cycle, I unpublished and rewrote the post scheduled for today. It was a short commemoration of forty days of daily posts. Apparently it came across as as being a little self-pitying, because I heard from at least one person assuring me that it’s not a completely lost cause. As one pointed out, it’s maybe a little unfair to complain about not getting comments when you don’t even have them turned on. And in retrospect, the whole comparison to Christ’s forty days in the desert might have been a little rich. I got a nice note from Jess, who said she’d had to make peace with her own blog not being too widely well read beyond the sphere of friends and family. “It isn’t always easy to post stuff when little recognition is received,” she wrote. “We all want to be noticed and loved. But it is good for us all to be ignored every so often from the masses.” Though I hardly intend to hang up the chromebook, I appreciated her encouragement and talking points. Especially the question “What is ego, anyway?”  I can’t claim to have any answers to that one. But I’m certainly willing to entertain suggestions. In the parlance of WordPress, all you have to do is leave a reply.


This morning we watched 101 Dalmatians. You notice different things in a film as a grownup than as a kid. I was amused at how Roger Radcliffe did nothing but play piano and smoke his pipe until his dog literally dragged him into a romantic counterpart. The scenery of London looked lively, sophisticated and inviting, especially the benches and sidewalks in the park. Aside from her not entirely believable plan to make a coat of Dalmatian fur, Cruella de Vil didn’t come across as that outlandish of a character. She even seemed like she’d be fun to hang out with once in a while — someone you wouldn’t want to be visited by often, but who probably threw great cocktail parties at which everyone was encouraged to chain smoke, gossip, and drink far more than they could handle. “The virtue of redeeming vice,” as Roger Cohen described it in a column in yesterday’s New York Times, praising (as aging journalists and ex-smokers often do) “the time-canceling waft of tobacco.” Cruella knew it well, and I suspect her animators did, too. Disney Studios in the ’60s … Swinging London … Litters of 15 puppies … Those were different times.