Whether you know it or not, you’re familiar with the work of writer Walt Whitman. Have you ever heard of Ray Bradbury’s novel, “I Sing The Body Electric!”? The title was taken from Whitman poetry. Did you hear the song of the same name performed in the 1981 movie hit, “Fame”? Then you heard the words of Whitman set to music. Did you ever see Bette Davis’ classic 1942 performance as the spinster Charlotte Vale in “Now, Voyager”? Poor Charlotte has emotionally withered under the long shadow of a controlling and manipulative mother. A compassionate psychologist helps Charlotte step out from under that shadow and into the light of a new life. Her guides her with a few words of Walt Whitman’s typed on a little piece of paper. In short, Whitman’s poetry has long been a part of American pop culture.
Downtown in Manhattan’s Chelsea section, a group of actors perform Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass as naked as the day they were born. Most of the body types are young, fit, slim, able to spring quickly into action. One has seen a few autumns and moves a tad slower. All perform the poetry with passion. The tickets are $20.00. Is it worth the money to spend about one hour one evening to hear poetry performed by naked people? Yes. Frankly, it’s the kind of avant-garde downtown theatre that made thousands of us want to move to New York from other parts of the country in the 1970s and ’80s. That was before the vampire known as Disneyfication sunk its teeth into the theatre scene and made nocturnal fare that was magnetic but without a soul really. Besides, when’s the last time you read classic poetry or listened to any? How colorful and passionate is your everyday speech in this technologically advanced 21st Century? Consider your words in speech and the notes you send. Does anyone chuckle, chortle, giggle or guffaw anymore? No. We hardly even laugh. We LOL — “Laugh Out Loud” in internet-speak. Whitman’s words are intoxicating, like a fine wine. They’re words you want to say to a lover in bed.
About a half dozen actors perform Leaves of Grass. The cast is constantly in motion, cleverly directed in the small space by Jeremy Bloom. His direction doesn’t get in the way. It’s not about him. It’s about the text and the text praises the human body. For that, young Mr. Bloom deserves a big hand. The production opens with a poem read by an initially clothed LaChrisha Brown. She’s almost a bit too young for it. The piece chosen demands more vocal color and shading. Another actor well into middle age could’ve provided just the right seasoning for that thanks to his or her age. She’s followed by the naked Dillon Porter. He recites a passage about being “…a man of 37.” He looks more like he’s approaching 27, but his voice is commanding, deep and firm. It immediately grounds the production. While the actors speak, some of the words are projected onto a wall. It would’ve been more effective to project the poetry onto the actors bodies, making them the canvass. Another good performance is given by a tall, slender black actor named Joel Mercedes. He’s naked except for pair of dark horn-rimmed glasses, giving him a 1950s beatnik in Greenwich Village look. Nice touch.
Did the actors really need to be naked for the whole show? No. But it’s a selling point. Would people pay today to experience one hour of poetry without a strong gimmick? Ask yourself that. The nudity accentuates the open, non-intimidating sexuality and sensuousness of Whitman’s poems. The nudity draws you into the words like a sweet embrace. Coupled with low lighting, it’s a very intimate evening. When the show is over, you may feel that your everyday dialogue is flat and unimaginative. It may inspire you to go home and find Walt Whitman’s work online. Or, better yet, go to a bookstore and buy some. Bravo to the brave cast!
Leaves of Grass runs at the Cell Theatre on West 23rd Street between 8th and 9th Avenues through August 27th. You can call 646-861-2253 for more information, or go here:
thecelltheatre.org
