A play of movement. A play of possibility. A play of accusations and attack. A play that forces change. A play that exposes the underbelly of racism and prejudice and the danger of role-playing. Yes, Baraka takes the title from both the famous ghost ship, the Flying Dutchman, as well as the slave ship of the East India Company to indict racist white culture. And the subway setting creates an eerie, seething world in the entrails of the city. But the term dutchman also refers to the simple, theatrical muslin gauze that connects two stage flats and gives the appearance of a seamless wall. These walls, therefore, are easily ripped apart. As easily as Baraka rips apart the identities of Clay and Lula who treat each other as objects, things, others. They project their images onto each other, but as things, not real people. And it reminds us, as Baraka says, “The imagination is the projection of ourselves past our sense of ourselves as ‘things.’ Imagination (Image) is all possibility, because from the image, the initial circumscribed energy, any use (idea) is possible. And so begins that image’s use in the world. Possibility is what moves us.”

Less the American Dream, and more the particular dreams of a particular American family. So much has been said and written about this landmark play that I really only want to focus on a few minor moments I’ve only recently come to understand. The first is a line in the famous first stage directions: “On a shelf over the bed a silver athletic trophy stands.” I always knew this trophy represented Biff’s youthful glory, Willy’s expectations and the like, but I always glossed over the fact that it is silver (i.e., second place). And as we know in America, coming in second means losing. And perhaps it is because I recently blogged about Oedipus, but line 28, after Linda reminds him he never went for his glasses, Willy says: “No, I see everything.” Of course this is ironic, but it is also a tragic moment of admitting he really believes what he sees, including his past and his dead brother. Thus, a few lines later where he describes his long drive back into the city: “But it’s so beautiful up there, Linda, the tress are so thick, and the sun so warm. I opened the windshield and just let the warm air bathe over me. And then all of a sudden I’m going off the road!” As we later find out, they no longer even have a car with an opening windshield, but that is irrelevant because it is truly what he “sees.” And it is this error — this longing — that sets the play in motion. Finally, I’ve always felt like the play belonged to Biff. He is the one who finally recognizes who he is (”I’m a dime a dozen,” “I’m a nothing.” Then why isn’t the play called “Life of a Salesman’s Son?” Well, I think the beauty of the actual title is it works for both Willy and Biff. After the humiliating visit to Oliver’s office, where Biff steals his pen, Biff finally recognizes (and admits) “Who ever said I was a salesman . . . I was a shipping clerk . . . I was never a salesman.” Here, too, is the death of a salesman; the death of Biff’s false sense of self. For him, there may still be time. For Willy, not. Already “the woods are burning.” The same woods that Willy “saw” out the open windshield as “so beautiful . . . so thick.” And yet, even if they are a dime a dozen (the 10 of 12), that means they are the same. Or if they are the the lucky and unique pair out of that dozen (the 2 of 12), they are still the same. Either way, it is both a comfort, and a tragedy.

Short. Poignant. “I Love Lucy” and 9/11. Sanchez offers a moving example of what all good monologues should do: approach their subject from the side, not head on. It’s the key to avoiding sentimentality. The young character Tomas can only come to terms with his father’s death through the seemingly unconnected memory of the re-runs constantly playing in his house. His imitation of Lucy’s cry “Wah!!!!!!” quickly changes into “real pain” then “silence.” It’s a well crafted shift on the part of the playwright, and a subtle entry point for this character into real grief and commemoration. Good monologues should have a certain tension; a sense of reluctance on the part of the speaker to actually talk about the subject at hand. So they often pick an arbitrary, random, unlikely departure point. But good monologues also make sure we end up where the speaker doesn’t really intend to go, but certainly needs to. And we appreciate it.

Comedy equals contrast. And this delightful little monologue is the perfect illustration of that equation. It also has the most brilliant set up: “(In the darkness, we hear an announcement.) Due to the unfortunate fencing mishap in the scene previous, the part of Robert Keyes will be played the remainder of this evening by assistant stage manager, Morris White.” Then lights up on the terrified ‘fish out of water’ upon whom everything now depends. Unfortunately for our hero, the show must go on, even though he desperately wants it to end. This gem is an hysterical curtain raiser, a great audition piece, and a downright hoot.