I looked forward to this conclusion of Angels in America, anticipating that Perestroika would be the resolution of an undisputed American classic. Ala I looked forward to this conclusion of Angels in America, anticipating that Perestroika would be the resolution of an undisputed American classic. Alas, I was disappointed. It is a powerful work, full of ambitious experiments and powerful effects, but it is too diffuse and disorganized to fulfill the promise of the nearly perfect Millennium Approaches.
I hesitated as I wrote the preceding paragraph, for fear I may be guilty of a common critical failing: criticizing a work for not doing what it never intended to do at all. Indeed, the author Tony Kushner himself issued this cautionary statement in his “Playwright’s Notes”:
It should also be said that “Millennium Approaches” and “Perestroika” are very different plays, and if one is producing them in repertory the difference should be reflected in their designs. “Perestroika” proceeds forward from the wreckage made by the Angel’s traumatic entry at the end of “Millennium”. A membrane is broken; there is disarray and debris.
Nicely put, but I don’t buy it. Disorder can exhibited without being modeled; at the very least, they can be contained within an overarching structure. King Lear does this, so does Moby Dick. But I don’t think Perestroika--as fine as it is—achieves this sort of greatness.
The sequence of Perestroika’s scenes is anything but inevitable, and individual scenes sometimes end without anything approaching resolution. Louis condemnation of Joe’s politics, though rhetorically effective, is dramatically inadequate, Roy’s decline seems rushed, and Joe just seems to get lost along the way. Worse, some scenes seem arbitrary, not really necessary at all. (Kushner admits as much in his “Notes,” suggesting Act Five, Scene 5 can be severely truncated in performance, and Act Five, Scenes 6 and 9 cut entirely.)
Still, with all its faults, this is an effective work. The angels are appropriately alien and impressive, Louis’ Kaddish for Roy, and Ethel’s reconciliation with him, are extraordinarily moving, and the low key, gentle comic ending strikes just the right note. For all its “disarray and debris,” everything in Perestroika affirms Kushner’s beliefs that “the body is the garden of the soul” and that life is a continual restructuring (perestroika), a leap into the unknown.
This disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all, and the dead will be commemorated and will struggle on with the living, and we are not going away. We won’t die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come
Sometimes I turn giddy when I sense I am reading a classic. I feel impelled, as if by a great force, by an old god who could perhaps kill me, but it i Sometimes I turn giddy when I sense I am reading a classic. I feel impelled, as if by a great force, by an old god who could perhaps kill me, but it is a god who is ridden by genius, a genius who knows how to ride.
I felt like this when I first read Tony Kushner’s Angels in America: Millennium Approaches. First produced in 1991, Angels is set in 1985 in New York City, during the period when AIDS—a problem in the gay community for at least half a decade—began to be recognized by the general public. It tells the story of four men: openly gay decorator Prior Walter, who is afraid of the process of dying of AIDs, and the loneliness and enlightenment it brings; Louis Ironson, Prior’s lover, who is afraid of the sordidness of death itself and the experience of watching someone die; the recently diagnosed, closeted Roy Cohn, the influential right-wing lawyer, who fears the loss of political influence stemming from the label “homosexual”; and Roy’s protegee Joe Pitt, the unhappy married Mormon lawyer, who is afraid of just about everything: his melancholy wife, his cynical career, his sexual identity, his very self.
From the beginning, the play bursts forth with vivid language and memorable characters, and soon, although it never loses its edge, it breaks the bounds of realism and glories in hallucinatory revelation. Joe’s wife Harper, in a fantasy drug haze, visits Antarctica: Roy Coen converses with the on-stage character Ethel Rosenberg, whose execution he engineered a generation before; and Prior—like a young Ebeneezer Scrooge in a gay “Christmas Carol”—receives visits from two of his ancestors (each named Prior) and The Angel of America herself.
The play is a wild congeries of sensation, filled with searing confrontations, witty dialogue, ambitious expressionistic effects, and almost impossible staging. Yet never for a minute do you sense that Kushner lacks control over his materials: each character is finely etched, with a distinctive voice, and the pace and tone, though continually shifting, always seems connected to the overarching themes, the greater melody.
I look forward eagerly to Angels in America, Part II.
Here is an excerpt that gives a good idea of the poetry and depth of Kushner’s language. Prior, diagnosed with AIDS, tells his lover Louis an old family anecdote:
PRIOR: One of my ancestors was a ship’s captain who made money bringing whale oil to Europe and returning with immigrants—Irish mostly, packed in tight, so many dollars per head. The last ship he captained foundered off the coast of Nova Scotia in a winter tempest and sank to the bottom. He went down with the ship—La Grande Geste—but his crew took seventy women and kids in the ship’s only longboat, this big, open rowboat, and when the weather got too rough, and they thought the boat was overcrowded, the crew started lifting people up and hurling them into the sea. Until they got the ballast right. They walked up and down the longboat, eyes to the waterline, and when the boat rode low in the water they’d grab the nearest passenger and throw them into the sea. The boat was leaky, see; seventy people; they arrived in Halifax with nine people on board.
LOUIS: Jesus.
PRIOR: I think about that story a lot now. People in a boat, waiting, terrified, while implacable unsmiling men, irresistibly strong, seize . . . maybe the person next to you, maybe you, and with no warning at all, with time only for a quick intake of air you are pitched into freezing, turbulent water and salt and darkness to drown.