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Anne Nelson’s The Guys, a play about a
fire-captain unable to find the words to eulogize his men lost in
the rubble of the World Trade Center and the writer who helps him
search inward, makes an unspoken argument that perhaps we in the
city were already aware of. That in many ways September 11th
did not happen to the universe, or the civilized world, or even to
the United States of America - it happened to New York. The
film, directed subtly by Jim Simpson who also helmed the stage version, personifies New York
and makes it the third
player in a dramatic triangle filled out by Anthony Lapaglia as
the (literally and figuratively) speechless captain and
Sigourney Weaver (who originated the role on
stage) as a writer – representing the typical New Yorker who
feels a gaping void and emptiness despite suffering no personal
loss of friend or family. But the play (I will continue to call
the film "a play" because it essentially acts like one and likely
should have remained one for aesthetic reasons) reminds us with
stunning lucidity why September 11th affected us so
deeply.
Because our
city was wounded.
Our city was wounded.
New York, the cosmic being, the constellation, suffered
a tragic amputation, a violent disfigurement on that day – one
that can never heal. Think about the following: An image of the
2003 skyline of downtown New York. What bothers you more about the
glaring absence of those towers? Is it that you
are reminded of the loss of human life on 9/11 or – and
consider this – is that you somehow sense that the city is in
pain – that the city, like a mother made of concrete and steal,
misses her two strapping twin boys? It’s similar to a modern day
version of Jeremiah’s Lamentations with New York speaking
instead of a ravaged Jerusalem.
The Guys deals directly
and specifically with this vision of September 11th
through Weaver’s journalist character who lives with her family on the UWS.
Her journey provides the complex psychological heart of the play.
(cont'd above) |
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Lapaglia’s
stoic yet understandably vulnerable Nick takes on the burden of
portraying normal but obviously difficult sorrow and shock after
the deaths of many friends and acquaintances. I say “burden”
because the film is in no way political or opinionated. Nick is
not allowed to reflect on the larger picture and so his purpose
is to break the events of the day down into a very human, very
New York experience, and unfortunately he is one dimensional
because of it. Lapaglia is dealing with his men being killed on
the job. Period. No mention of terrorism or war or revenge –
which, as we know, was the case. The job he speaks of is of
course not ordinary – these guys were firemen – men who rush
into infernos to save other men’s lives – The play allows
the gravity of that to linger without spelling it out. Nick is
on screen for a very practical purpose. He needs to find nice
and insightful things to say about dead young men at a memorial
service. The Guys knows that we know how and (with reservation) why
they died, and so the play allows us to fill in those blanks –
Anne Nelson wants us to think about individuals – with
qualities and families and futures – who died – and then
hopefully the tragedy of 9/11 will take on a more human,
textured mold.
As New Yorkers, the play couldn’t be more
relevant and familiar. It captures that unstable, almost ghostly
few weeks following September 11th 2001 where there was
an overwhelming sense of connection and understanding in the city.
We felt each other’s nausea, angst, and insecurity. We were
reborn as sensitive men and women willing to look into the eyes of
our strange neighbor and say comforting things like “God bless
America”, “How are you doing?” and “We’ll be all right.”
The event consumed us for a short period of
time and The Guys accurately reflects all the helplessness and
directionless determination of those unreal days. That may be its
single triumph.
The Guys will (or should) have you in tears.
On that front it is a shameless manipulator. It is a film centered
on tearful, emotionally convincing eulogies delivered by Lapaglia
with grace and feeling. Sure you are being choked up by dialogue
constructed to draw those tears, but remember that the play was
written in October of 2001. Back then we felt as though we’d be
crying forever. Now, almost two numbing, self-involved years later
we have the opportunity to cry again – and it works – it feels
right. It is a harrowing reminder: Perhaps we have moved on to
other things since that collapse of reality in September, but the
city may still be in mourning.
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