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Sunday, June 01, 2003

By Tim Colbert

SEATTLE -- The great August Wilson as stand-up comic?

This storied Pittsburgh native and two-time Pulitzer Prize winner is the playwright without peer whose decade-by-decade exploration of the 20th-century African-American experience (only the '90s remain) is one of the towering achievements of American drama. The guy's in textbooks and anthologies. The works.

I've journeyed 2,500 miles to that strange world of coffee and flannel, Seattle, to bear witness to his latest work: "How I Learned What I Learned." Directed by my friend Todd Kreidler, it stars Wilson. The man can write, and he's a consummate storyteller. But can he act?

Larry King once wrote that you should never pretend to be what you aren't. Sound advice. Except on a first date.

So, as they say in this business, it's time for full disclosure: I'm neither critic nor journalist -- except for my fascinating 1992 article on ROTC maneuvers for The Duquesne Duke. I work in marketing and PR, so my fidelity to the truth is immediately suspect. As a confirmed theater buff, so, perhaps, is my grip on reality. What the heck am I going to write about that a) anyone will be interested in reading and b) will do justice to this occasion? Panic sets in.

"You're a friend and a fan," advises Post-Gazette drama editor Chris Rawson in soothing tones. "And you're there."

I arrive at Seattle Repertory Theatre the evening before opening at the appointed time to meet up with Kreidler, garment bag and luggage in hand. The front-of-house staff, after repeated que-ries, has little idea where Kreidler and Wilson might be, if anywhere. "Do you have somewhere to go if we can't find him?" I'm asked, the young woman eyeing me suspiciously. This is not exactly the welcome I was expecting.

It's Kreidler to the rescue, finding me in the lobby proofreading Seattle Rep's latest propaganda. He ushers me into a fluorescent-lit circle of faith. At the center is Wilson, nattily attired in what I always took to be his uniform: black turtleneck, dark sports coat, hat. With him, rehashing the evening's rehearsal, is his wife, Constanza Romero, elder daughter Sakina, assistant Dena Levitin and stage manager Michael Paul. The conversation is warm and inclusive, and I have the strange desire to hug them all.

After about 20 minutes, we leave through a long series of darkened corridors. The five of them are silhouetted in front of me as we make our way through the dimly lit scene shop to the exit. I am overcome with emotion. The romance, excitement and sheer joy of a life in the theater hit the base of my spinal column, dormant DNA recharging their batteries.

Late the following morning, Kreidler and I are catching up on life. His temporary quarters are about a block from the theater, and a large part of it houses visiting Seattle Rep actors who spend their weeks rehearsing and put-ting on a show before heading off to their next gig, or more likely home to New York (and unemployment checks). The weather is a most un-Seattle-like: sunny, a warm breeze drifting in through the open sliding patio doors. Kreidler's mood is tense, hopeful and fueled with that combustive blend of not enough sleep, too much coffee and plenty of cholesterol-laden diner breakfasts.

"On Oct. 22, 1999, sitting on the loading dock at the old Public, I heard my first August Wilson story," he said, looking around and breaking into a laugh. "Who would have thought?" Just the other day, they both taped a National Public Radio interview.

"I have no idea how it went or what I said," he admits. "I just hope they edit out all of my 'you knows.'" He turns serious: "I'm confident that it will come off well tonight -- that's not necessarily a reflection on me -- and I just want to make sure he enjoys it. Man, he's shown courage, a willingness to put himself out there and perform these stories. The key point in doing this is to fulfill him artistically."

Early afternoon's final rehearsal is approaching. We head to the theater to go through sound and light cues prior to Wilson's arrival. Kreidler leads the way back through the subterranean hallways. Several technicians are milling about, including an aging preppy in Polo who prepares the cordless mike. A few minutes later, punctual as ever, comes Wilson in uniform, brandishing a package from his longtime producer Ben Mordecai. "Ben sends me a note every opening. This must be number 26. He started repeating himself around number 12," he says with a sly smile. It's clear he's just warming up.

The run through begins. He's up, he's down, he's pacing, he's adjusting the stool. If Kreidler's goal was for Wilson to enjoy himself, this is clearly the case. He's cracking up everyone in the space -- himself included -- with a string of one-liners and observational humor. There's joy in watching this artist stretch. He's building on the established text, trying out new material, varying the phrasing ever so slightly, akin to a jazz artist at the top of his game, riffing within and without the proscribed measures. ("It's like those three old women at every church service. They don't care about sitting next to Negroes in church, they're just worried about their Social Security and their cats" is transformed into "We all know those three little old ladies. They're in every church. See, they're not worried about Negroes sitting next to them. They're worried about their Social Security checks and the price of cat food at the grocery store.")

The guy's a natural. The timing, the gesture, the expertly timed double take -- such an intoxicating mix of the natural and the larger than life.

Rehearsal is over, and I leave Kreidler and Wilson to their pre-show ways and head out for a bite to eat and to don an opening-night suit. Being Serbian and a Scorpio, I'm superstitious and never visit anyone in the green room prior to a show. Two hours later, I'm standing in line waiting for the house to open. I'm nervous as hell for both of them. I don't see the director anywhere and grow irrationally concerned, my mind wandering back to when Kreidler directed "Twelfth Night" for the Public's Young Company. He was a wreck, sloshed by 7:30 p.m. and barely sentient at intermission. But I reason he's so much older and wiser now, at 28, so there's probably nothing to worry about.

At last, the hour is upon us and the music ("What Is America to Me" as sung by Paul Robeson) begins. Kreidler ducks in, apparently sober, jaw set, his expression south of despair and north of hopefulness. The music is ending, the house lights are coming down, offering us a last look at the elegant wing chair, side table, stool, coat rack and flip chart that define the arena for "How I Learned What I Learned."

And in strolls the man for the main event.

The language runs from lyrically poetic to earthily funny to barbed social commentary. (Pausing mid-story to light a cigarette, the inveterate smoker says, "By the way, I'm allowed to smoke. When I agreed to do this show I had two conditions. One: that I could smoke. Two: that I have an understudy.")

The 90 minutes have a wonderful, structural integrity. Comedic set pieces turning in on themselves later in the show, whipsawing the audience into contemplation.

In a night when so much went so well, one thing stands out: Wilson's eyes had a luminous, fired-from-within brightness. And it's not every day that an audience is enlightened by August Wilson on such far-ranging subjects as "Linguistic Environment," "John Coltrane" and "Oral Sex."

Too soon, he winds it up ("How do you know you learned what you learned? Well, you don't.") and invites Kreidler on stage to share the bow. Embarrassed and abashed, Kreidler resembles a sheep dog in a black sport coat. Yet one more example of Wilson's magnanimity is placed in sharp relief. The standing ovation is genuine and heartfelt.

The circle of faith, to which I've lately been happily invited, reconvenes: wife, daughter and assistant eagerly await playwright/star and director. It's a heady, heady night.

The following morning finds us at breakfast -- if fish and chips count as breakfast -- at the York, a regular Augustian haunt in his neck of the woods, up on the main drag in Seattle's Capitol Hill neighborhood. If Shadyside were grittier, or the South Side had more chain stores, it could pass as Capitol Hill. Tired but clearly buoyed by last night's success, Wilson is in his element and joins us at our booth. A regular, he settles in with a coffee and cigarette and starts spinning a string of hilarious stories about a "lovable crook" he's had occasion to know.

We depart promptly at 1:55 p.m. Wilson had been told that the August/Todd NPR interview will air locally at 2:06 p.m. Bill settled, we hustle down to the minivan parked three blocks away in a residential section. With two minutes to spare, we assume our listening positions: Kreidler in the front seat, Wilson sitting shotgun, I sequestered in the back.

It was an insightful, funny segment. All of Kreidler's much-feared "you knows" had been excised. And even by NPR standards, it was a long interview, easily in excess of 10 minutes. Watching them listen to themselves, with plenty of ribbing and commentary, it hits me with the force of downing a Yuengling after mowing the lawn: This is the big time. Not only will the two of them be heard across the country during "All Things Considered," but they are truly at a crossroads, Wilson as performer and Kreidler as director. It's awesome to share this moment with them both.

That night's show is, on balance, even better. But Wilson was saving the best for Saturday. Well-rested, facing his first capacity house, he was in the zone long before the show began. "Tim, do you swim?" "No." "Me neither. And there's so few of us left." Well, he nailed it. He soared. His punch lines exploded. The darker sections plumbed further depth of meaning. And the in-between? Ah, here was the real difference. The shades of gray were more fully explored, ambiguities stretched and searched. It was a thrilling performance. Kreidler's prophecy continued to come true; after the show, I overhead three audience members say how much "Mr. Wilson" seemed to be enjoying himself. I was sorry to leave the next day.

Tomorrow arrived. As my cab sped toward the airport I tried to make sense of this most incredible and moving experience. That first night, which in many ways seems so long ago, Wilson was worrying over his sore throat. His daughter, Sakina, had some simple advice: "Quit telling stories, Dad."

I wouldn't bet on it.

Tim Colbert, formerly communication manager at Pittsburgh Public Theater, is director of marketing at Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens. "How I Learned What I Learned" wraps up its Seattle run with an evening performance tomorrow.