Review: A skilled cast evokes Stalin-era horrors
This theater image released by The Public Theater shows Ron Rifkin, left, and Noah Robbins in "The Twenty-Seventh Man," running at The Public Theater at Astor place in New York through Dec. 9. (AP Photo/The Public Theater, Joan Marcus)
NEW YORK (AP) — "Judaism isn't my life," a prisoner says in "The Twenty-Seventh Man," Nathan Englander's sad and chilling play about a group of Jewish writers rounded up by Josef Stalin's secret police. "It's my culture, my language. No more."
The tragedy of that statement is, of course, clear to everyone else — to the other prisoners in the cell, and to the audience. Stalin and his henchmen, like the Nazis, didn't seem to care about such subtle distinctions. A Jew was a Jew, no matter how he "defined" his Judaism.
An undercurrent of deep sadness runs through the 100 or so minutes of "The Twenty-Seventh Man," which opened Sunday night at The Public Theater. That's because the end never seems much in doubt. The question is how we will get there.
Director Barry Edelstein does an admirable job of keeping the action moving, with little real action to speak of; Until the (very effective) final moment, the scene shifts only once, from the freezing cell where four writers are kept, to a prison office, and back again. And Edelstein is blessed with a uniformly excellent cast.
The one weakness — and this is unfortunate given that the play speaks of the beauty of language — is that sometimes the language feels stilted. Though this is a new play, adapted by Englander from his short story of the same name, the dialogue sounds, at times, dated and musty, particularly as philosophical discussions among the prisoners ramble on.
This theater image released by The Public Theater shows, from left, Chip Zien, Ron Rifkin, Noah Robbins, and Daniel Oreskes in "The Twenty-Seventh Man," running at The Public Theater at Astor place through Dec. 9. (AP Photo/The Public Theater, Joan Marcus)
Not that there aren't touches of welcome humor. The wise Yevgeny Zunser, sort of an elder statesman among the writers, explains why he dresses in such a dapper manner: "Real work does not get done by a man in his underpants," he quips.
There is certainly no humor, though, in the particularly biting scene in that prison, between the Agent in Charge (the very title induces chills, and the accomplished actor Byron Jennings adds his own) and Vasily Korinsky, the self-important poet who seeks to prove he's not like the others. It's all a big mistake, Korinsky insists with brio, leading up to this meeting. He's a great patriot, after all. And he has connections, to boot. Soon this will all be resolved.