Thursday, February 05, 2004
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Stage: Inhuman condition

By Newt Briggs

In 1968, when Israel Horovitz unveiled his Obie Award-winning play The Indian Wants the Bronx, its brutal climax probably came as a stomach-turning shock to New York's theater-going bourgeoisie. Afterward, it's easy to imagine these dazed socialites stumbling onto the cold concrete of Broadway and sitting in silence as their drivers whisked them uptown to the relative tranquility of their high-rise sanctuaries.

Not so with the contemporary audience. Numbed to the Clockwork Orange/Menace II Society/Kids nightmare of youth run amok, today's viewer looks to The Indian for more than just a familiar parable about boredom, misunderstanding and rage.

Amazing what a 30-degree night and a frosty metal bench can do to revitalize an old story. Set at the west end of Katherine Giancalis Park, Cockroach Theatre's midnight production of The Indian immerses the audience in the terrifying world of Gupta--a lost East Indian seeking to reunite with his family in the Bronx. Waiting at a bus stop, the Hindu-speaking Gupta--played wonderfully by Vince Ragazzo, a native English speaker who learned his Hindu lines phonetically--is confronted by Murph (John Lorenz) and Joey (Levi Fackrell), a pair of inner-city punks on the late-night prowl. Unsettled by their bizarre behavior, Gupta is drawn into a series of one-sided interactions and eventually a botched game of hide-and-seek. Meanwhile, Murph and Joey struggle with Gupta's heritage, variously speculating that he is either Turkish, an American Indian or from Indiana.

The strength of the play, however, comes in the uncomfortable proximity to the action. As the night advances and the source of the punks' rage is revealed, a bad ending becomes a foregone conclusion. Helpless to protect Gupta, the shivering audience leans forward in an unwanted but irresistible act of voyeurism. The darkness closes in as Joey throws Gupta to the ground, and when Murph produces a knife, the heart is filled with the same chill that assaults the skin. At that moment, The Indian Wants the Bronx is no longer a timeworn period piece. It's a living, breathing, shivering plunge into the depths of the human condition.