Photo by Andrea Meggiato
I smirked from the privilege of my front-row seat when a woman was exiled to the back of the full house and was not able to sit with the
rest of her friends. I stretched my legs
in front of me in celebration but, as soon as they
were out, my overconfident limbs were scooted right back in. when the space
was needed for a row of folding chairs… with giants in them.
Superiority squashed. Ironically, this petty easy-come, easy-go attitude
is constant in Below the Belt, a revival eager to sink its teeth into
these little power games that we all participate in—whether we like it
or not.
In the play, Dobbitt (Ara Shehigian) is one of those that likes it not. He arrives to be a “checker” at a generic factory, and simply can’t understand why his roommate/co-worker Hanrahan (Chad Brigockas) is so unrelentingly hostile to him. Neither can the audience, at first, but as we meet their boss, the off-kilter Merkin (Larry Preston), Dobbitt’s prayers to God, and his general optimism and kindheartedness do come to seem like understandable threats. This is a place where stupidity and arbitrary bureaucracy prevail (“When I get the memo you’ll be the first to be memo’d,” Merkin comforts Dobbitt with, as unidentified animals gnaw at the gates) and just as a reward is dangled, it is taken away. Doesn’t Hanrahan need to have the edge? Don’t we all?
A descendant of Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, Below the Belt shows a workplace that exemplifies all routine work, and the banal evil it perpetuates. Typewriting prowess must remain unspoken, and to remind someone of a foolish dancing incident at a function is to tear down his entire self-worth. This soul-sucking commentary is boosted by the cold, construction-worker orange that pervades the set. Combined with the repetitive actions, the clank of the radiator, the stilted conversation and Merkin’s beeps to summon his employees (one beep for Dobbit, two beeps for Hanrahan) an eerie atmosphere is achieved that could be Melville—or even Poe.
Preston's sour voice and awkward, robotic statements ("Let's laugh at Dobbitt.") set a sallow, dizzying tone especially well, which makes sense, since he's also the director. It works so much so that the “party” they have, while full of modern quirk—with one streamer hung, and name tags on the cups—still feels set for an appearance by the Masque of Red Death. The fact that they throw the party because they’re not fully invited to the one at the factory also adds to the macabre. Checkers are the "shadows" to the workers, and the workers don’t like having them around. Thing is, you really might not either.
When Hanrahan and Dobbit have chats by the bridge over the river—which is situated in the aisle between the audience—not many of those who had to turn their heads to watch made the effort. Most were happy to rest their eyes and take a break from watching these shadow figures. And I can't totally blame them. The situation is disturbing, and the tone is compelling, but there’s a reason everything I've mentioned so far has been literature, and not drama.
Not that the actors wouldn't definitely be willing to wake you up. The trio, who have all worked together before, capture a totally odd picture of American masculinity (in one power grab, they argue over who has the worst marriage—Merkin’s wife is dead, so, winner). The fact that these isolated men exist is believable, and so are some of the strangest sacrifices to industry. But besides a wonderfully weird dance sequence, which they make the absolute most of, Dresser’s play keeps things too bottled in the second act to let the actors show all their sick dimensions. Perhaps they can in their next play together. Poor bastards.
In the play, Dobbitt (Ara Shehigian) is one of those that likes it not. He arrives to be a “checker” at a generic factory, and simply can’t understand why his roommate/co-worker Hanrahan (Chad Brigockas) is so unrelentingly hostile to him. Neither can the audience, at first, but as we meet their boss, the off-kilter Merkin (Larry Preston), Dobbitt’s prayers to God, and his general optimism and kindheartedness do come to seem like understandable threats. This is a place where stupidity and arbitrary bureaucracy prevail (“When I get the memo you’ll be the first to be memo’d,” Merkin comforts Dobbitt with, as unidentified animals gnaw at the gates) and just as a reward is dangled, it is taken away. Doesn’t Hanrahan need to have the edge? Don’t we all?
A descendant of Herman Melville's Bartleby the Scrivener, Below the Belt shows a workplace that exemplifies all routine work, and the banal evil it perpetuates. Typewriting prowess must remain unspoken, and to remind someone of a foolish dancing incident at a function is to tear down his entire self-worth. This soul-sucking commentary is boosted by the cold, construction-worker orange that pervades the set. Combined with the repetitive actions, the clank of the radiator, the stilted conversation and Merkin’s beeps to summon his employees (one beep for Dobbit, two beeps for Hanrahan) an eerie atmosphere is achieved that could be Melville—or even Poe.
Preston's sour voice and awkward, robotic statements ("Let's laugh at Dobbitt.") set a sallow, dizzying tone especially well, which makes sense, since he's also the director. It works so much so that the “party” they have, while full of modern quirk—with one streamer hung, and name tags on the cups—still feels set for an appearance by the Masque of Red Death. The fact that they throw the party because they’re not fully invited to the one at the factory also adds to the macabre. Checkers are the "shadows" to the workers, and the workers don’t like having them around. Thing is, you really might not either.
When Hanrahan and Dobbit have chats by the bridge over the river—which is situated in the aisle between the audience—not many of those who had to turn their heads to watch made the effort. Most were happy to rest their eyes and take a break from watching these shadow figures. And I can't totally blame them. The situation is disturbing, and the tone is compelling, but there’s a reason everything I've mentioned so far has been literature, and not drama.
Not that the actors wouldn't definitely be willing to wake you up. The trio, who have all worked together before, capture a totally odd picture of American masculinity (in one power grab, they argue over who has the worst marriage—Merkin’s wife is dead, so, winner). The fact that these isolated men exist is believable, and so are some of the strangest sacrifices to industry. But besides a wonderfully weird dance sequence, which they make the absolute most of, Dresser’s play keeps things too bottled in the second act to let the actors show all their sick dimensions. Perhaps they can in their next play together. Poor bastards.
anonymous
