Trio
It was with great anticipation that I attended the second night performance of the American premiere of Trio. I knew it had had a five-year run in Russia, playing to sold-out houses in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kiev, and the Ukraine. I knew it was about those geniuses, Robert Schumann, his wife Clara, and their student Johannes Brahms. The relationship between the three was extremely interesting in itself and I believed the play would undoubtedly offer some beautiful music.
Music it did serve up, but unfortunately, little else. Playwriting is a unique art form. Rarely has it succeeded as a teaching device. No matter how interesting the subject, something else besides linear facts and suppositions are demanded. Writers are always told to write about what they know, using their own experiences, grief, and joys to find the inner heart and soul of a character and give a sense of truth and depth to development and resolution. It is simply not enough to love the Schumanns and Brahms and the music they created. Somehow, one must fill the story with one’s own knowledge of insanity, thwarted creativity, and consuming drive and genius. No one knows why Schumann went insane, but the writer must know and be able to explain it at least to a certain degree. And trite lines delivered with pride and confidence, such as "an artist must consume everything in his path” make me wince. Are there still people and tribes who purport this kind of reasoning? Revelations about Clara Schumann—her desires versus her society—was more thoroughly thought out and, thus, had greater impact than any other aspects of the play.
Trio was not served by the performances. Phony acting can be spotted so quickly. The voice is somehow detached from the person, usually at a higher pitch as declamations ring out sonorously purporting infinite profundity, but in reality putting the audience to sleep. Acting improved somewhat in the second act but pomposity and self-obsession made all the characters unlikable. Clara (Meghan Maureen McDonough) fared better than the others, both in characterization and acting.
The fine set (Joel Daavid) and lovely costumes (Sharell Martin) quickly make evident this is a period piece. The director must take some responsibility for not inspiring the actors to be simpler, talk to one another, relax enough to feel a real emotion, and not try so hard. In the 1850s people may have stood up straighter, worn corsets, known how to bow, but they were still real human beings attempting to relate and respond and fit in.
It is my feeling that the play and production needs a lot more work.
Lounge 2 Theatre
6201 Santa Monica Blvd., Hollywood, CA 90038
March 12 through April 10
Fridays @ 8 pm Sundays @ 7 pm
General Admission: $25