A frequent theatrical error is to
confuse the statement of a problem with the in-depth exploration of it…
to confuse the question with the answer, in short.
The Body Of An American is
confused on this score.
In 1993, Canadian Paul Watson wins a Pulitzer Prize for his photograph
of an American trooper’s body (he hoped the victim was dead, anyway)
being abused by a mob on the streets of Mogadishu. For years afterwards
he is haunted, literally, by the trooper, and worries both about his
exploitation of that personal horror to the trooper and his surviving
family, and the broader matter of the part played by the iconic
photograph in raising both awareness and the self-confidence of
al-Qaeda prior to 9/11. More than a decade later, playwright Dan
O’Brien contacts Watson with a proposal to write a play about him; the
two correspond, and finally spend some days together in the Canadian
Arctic.
O’Brien’s play is largely drawn verbatim from his and Watson’s own
words. It demonstrates – I am sorry to be so blunt here – two different
kinds of pointlessness. The first, which offers a disheartening
prospect in the play’s opening minutes and recurs a couple of times
later on, consists of the two actors describing Watson’s photographs in
detail even as they are projected on to the walls at either end of the
traverse stage. The still image doesn’t come alive for being so
narrated, nor is the testimony elevated simply because we can see its
basis. James Dacre’s staging, with a lot of over-deliberate slamming
down of the two chairs which are the only props on the
synthetic-snow-covered stage, does nothing to alleviate the problem.
The majority of the play, though, consists of that confusion I
mentioned earlier. Merely having the two men tell each other and us how
conflicted and messed up they each are does nothing to give us any
insight into the conflicts or messes. Indeed, in giving himself some of
the spotlight, O’Brien both exploits Watson the way Watson worries
about having exploited the soldier, and is just plain arrogant. William
Gaminara and Damien Molony perform more strongly than the play deserves
(although Gaminara exhibits the classic Brit-doing-transtalantic
intrusive rhotic R: his Watson has visited Rwander, Jakarter and Burmer
and met Mother Tereser), but their skill cannot conjure up substance
that simply isn’t there.
Written for the Financial
Times.