'Of Mice and Men' Captures Steinbeck's Pithy Prose and Picturesque Pastures

Onstage at the Actors Theatre of San Francisco, "Of Mice and Men" brings

to life a cast of outsiders and visually highlights the disabled body (and

mind). You were probably forced to read John Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men"

in your California high school, but the staging of this familiar story

opens a new way of imagining the friendship of Lennie and George.

Already at the beginning, their relationship is strained: George bemoans

the burden of looking after Lennie, who has a mental disability and a

troublesome penchant for stroking soft things. Together, they're about to

start a new job on a California farm with a dream that they'll one day

have their own farm to tend. This time, though, they need to keep Lennie

from getting into any more messes.

By the end of the play when all the actors line up and take their bows,

there is hardly a character unmarked by disability, powerlessness or

marginalization. Count them: two people murdered, one crooked back, one

crushed hand, another one missing and plenty of lonely outsiders. All of

these characters are powerless to stop the actions that befall them.

Perhaps that's what prevents the play from being astounding or simply

great-the script and original text drive the play to its completion while

the audience and even the actors are along for the ride. Both Christian

Phillips as Lennie and Scott Agar Jaicks as George prove satisfying leads:

Phillips is an endearing yet pitiable Lennie while Jaicks is as tense as a

loaded gun. In pure face time alone, as actors they can withstand the test

of the heavily fated plot. They are distinguishable, idiosyncratic and

wholly human in the way they butt heads and come together onstage. Jaicks'

jittery hands betray his character's proclivity to fly off at Lennie.

Phillips wipes his own pair on his disheveled overalls as if seeking

something soothing to the touch. At the very least, these are humans

behind the characters and more than just characters defined by the script.

The other characters-mainly the farm workers-tend to disappear into a

nameless obscurity. This production leaves no room for lingering on

entrances or for an easy delivery of lines. Some lines are stumbled over,

uttered so fast that the actors never have time to keep up. The rush to

develop the story after the long first scene between Lennie and George

leave the other characters behind. Even as the first scene changes into

the next, as a pair of bunk beds are pulled out and a sitting area

assembled, the actors throw themselves into their opening lines before the

scene is even set. Here, the audience sees quite clearly the mechanism of

the plot turning over the actors, when the first glance and first words of

an actor must compete with the artifice of the production.

Characters rendered powerless (or those just pushed aside) struggle to

stand out. Curley is fortunate in that he, in part, turns the screws in

the play as he actively looks to start some trouble. His character is

nuanced-Curley's nature makes him disliked and his stature, scrappy-yet

the performance denies any human register. Michael Carlisi as Curley is

anger at full blast and nothing else, even at the sight of death. His

performance is at such stasis that the volume of his anger renders his

character muted. Another character, impotent and disabled.

Despite a blurred cast, the Actors Theatre production still leaves the

audience fulfilled. Steinbeck's story as a visualized spectacle finds a

home on the stage, where the powerlessness of characters is at least seen

and tangible if not brilliantly portrayed.

Tags: ACTORS THEATER SF