Balancing act

Fry's Phoenix is a matter of life and death

by Bill Rodriguez

A PHOENIX TOO FAR. By Christopher Fry. Directed by Pat Hegnauer. With Alyn Carlson-Webster, Rae Mancini, Tom O'Donnell. At 2nd Story Theatre through November 21.

Freud built a thriving mental health industry on the observation that Eros and Thanatos, the urge for love and the appeal of death, stand inseparable on the scales of experience. In A Phoenix Too Frequent, playwright Christopher Fry makes it amusingly clear which side he hopes will tip the balance, as an enjoyable production by 2nd Story Theatre is showing us under Pat Hegnauer's direction.

It takes place in a tomb in ancient Greece, but tragedy is not on the bill this night. The lady Dynamene (Alyn Carlson-Webster) is weeping on the sarcophagus of her recently deceased husband Verillius. She intends to starve to death there in order to join him in Hades. Her servant Doto (Rae Mancini) is a chipper sort, matter-of-fact about her belief in the afterlife, facing it as though looking forward to a picnic across the river. A bawdy woman, her only complaint is that Aphrodite keeps sending her images of men, a deprivation far more annoying than not having eaten for two days.

Dynamene is too smart and well-adjusted to be acting out of cultural momentum. It's her sincere way of grieving. But now, several days after the death of a husband who was very punctual, among other virtues, she is beginning to feel guilty about requesting her servant to sacrifice herself as well, asking: "Have you no grief of your own you can die of?" To which Doto brightly replies, "Death's my new interest in life."

Into the tomb wanders a soldier who had been on duty nearby. Tegeus (Tom O'Donnell) brought his supper basket with bread and honey, but at first Doto has more of an appetite for him. He's pretty high-minded for a soldier, but when Dynamene wakes, pleasantly startled to find a guide to the nether world, he soon is enchanted. He sees a nobility in her selfless act. Soon all three are drinking his wine and chatting about matters mortal and im-. The conversation is rather urbane for a cave. Dynamene says of her husband that "his brain was an ironing board for all indecision." When one of them admires his cups, he says that now that the war is over there are pottery classes. Clearly we're in capable hands with Fry, who can pull off such banter while not trivializing the life-and-death matters also under discussion.

O'Donnell gives us a noble figure in Tegeus, a seen-it-all veteran who admires selflessness and duty as more than an obligation in his own work. As Doto, Mancini draws a clear portrait of a lusty, simple woman who has nestled into her religion like a squirrel into a winter nest. I could have used a similarly vivid personality from Carlton-Webster's Dynamene, perhaps a healthy strong-mindedness, to give veracity to her clinging to her husband's memory. As it is, she seems to have drifted into the tomb out of thoughtless obligation and could as readily waft out. We know that this serious soldier is going to be pitching more than woo -- he's bound to be tugging her back toward life, and we need to know there's some serious conflict roiling within her. Since we don't, it's also hard for us to pick up on the serious chemistry between them that must be going on.

The set design by Julia Bernert and John Montano establishes the right tone. The humor is cued by a frieze of Barbies and other dolls, painted white and nailed high on the back wall. Ceremonial candles are abundant, and throw pillows help provide the atmosphere of a living room rather than a funeral parlor.

Christopher Fry is credited with almost single-handedly reviving verse drama in modern theater. He always had a penchant for religious themes and managed to successfully finesse any preachiness with humor. Staged three years after Phoenix, his other most popular play was The Lady's Not for Burning (1949), which was able to make witchcraft in 15th-century England comical. In Hollywood's inimitable way, MGM had him work on the screenplays for Ben-Hur (1959) and The Bible (1962).

Fry pulls a wonderful conclusion for us out of left field, a deus ex machina with bells on to save the day with a crisis I don't want to reveal. As we're set up to expect, this tragi-comedy ends up tilting toward the happily life-affirming. But the playwright has earned that payoff with more than clever plot manipulation -- he has built it out of a warm and intelligent discussion that, hopefully, will still be staged another half-century from now.