Would that the jury of playwright Reginald Rose's Twelve Angry Men had sat in judgment on Bigger Thomas, the anti-hero within Native Son, novelist Richard Wright’s tragedy of court-sanctioned murder-by-racism. With Twelve Angry Men's jury, Bigger might have been spared the electric chair. But Rose takes on more than the toxic results of bigotry in his drama of deliberations, running thorugh April 17 at Raven Theatre. Directed by Aaron Todd Douglas with a momentum that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat whether you know the outcome or no, Twelve Angry Men is also an indictment of bullies too stubborn and/or stupid to engage in any sort of meaningful argument.
Meet Jurors Nos. 10 and 3. You know these guys: Back them into a corner with reason and sincerity, and they lash out with name-calling and sarcasm, forever raising their voices in the staunch belief that he who shouts loudest wins.
At the onset of the Twelve Angry Men, it appears 3 and 10 have inarguable righteousness on their sides. The evidence against the 16-year-old Latino on trial for patricide seems overwhelming. The jury’s 11:1 in favor of finding the kid guilty and sending him to death row without hope of appeal or a lesser sentence. Over the course of 90 taut minutes, the evidence starts to erode, as Juror No. 8 (C.L. Brown, creating a character that crosses the unpretentious, everyday heroism of Atticus Finch and the dogged, understated detective skills of Columbo) quietly, determinedly insists that the rest of the group pay attention to matters both large (the burden of proof lies with the prosecution) and seemingly inconsequential (a witness’s habit of rubbing her nose.)
8 has an uphill battle, made all the steeper because there’s simply no way to argue with proclamations such as “you’re crazy.” Yet with the ebb and flow of debate and diatribes, the cracks in the iron-clad guilty verdict start to widen into fissures. With the end of Act I, Douglas creates a cliff-hanger of such terrific suspense that intermission seems like an annoyance.
The tension escalates in the second half as Juror No. 8 continuing to serve as the catalyst for the jury’s evolution. Key to that evolution are No.10 (Reginald Vaughn, nailing the dangerous rage of a bigot with a lot to lose) and No. 3 (Dan Loftus, memorable and convicing as he morphs from chest-thumping blowhard to crumbling insecurity).
No. 10 is just getting started when he proclaims that the defendant is one of “them” – “them” being a race of violent, chronic alcoholics that multiplies “like wild animals” with the intent of “breed(ing) us out of existence.” Plus, 10 adds, they don’t even try to learn proper English. The more 10 talks, the tighter the noose of his own making cinches around his neck. In a scene that illustrates the power of Douglas’ fine ensemble, the other jurors slowly distance themselves from 10 – some literally, some figuratively. They don’t say a word, but by the close of 10’s shocking rant, it’s crystal clear that he’s become a pariah. No. 4 (Bryson Engelen, cool as a cucumber as an unflappable business man who seems to have stepped right out of the pages of GQ and the Ivied halls of Yale) provides the withering knock-out punch, an elegant verbal jab that’s swift, sure and immensely satisfying.
Loftus’ No. 3 also gets a red-meat passage, a monologue that rips the scab off the character’s long-festering, nearly bone-deep emotional wounds. Those wounds make No. 3 almost empathetic, despite his vitriol. How, after all, can you condemn a man so pathetically blind to failings that seem as obvious as flares to the rest of the world?
Every man in the cast creates a character of depth, but as far as plumb roles go, some are more equal than others in
Twelve Angry Men. Eddie Diaz’ No. 7 is a machismo, intensely charismatic Yanks fan whose change of heart is complex and fascinating; Kenneth Johnson’s foreman is a no-nonsense leader who suffers no fools; Steve Herson’s No. 2 looks like a bow-tied nerd of dubious spine but gradually reveals unexpected fortitude and insistent goodness; Fernando “Mojo” Albiar ’s No. 5 provides a moving defense of the juror’s barrio roots and an unnerving finesse with a switchblade. Dwight Sora (No. 6), J.J. McCormick (No. 9), Ron Quade (No. 12),
Leonard Kraft (No. 11) and Carthy Dixon (the bailiff) complete the powerful cast gathered in set designer Kelly Dailey’s appropriately grimy jury room.
For all its verbal pyrotechnics, Twelve Angry Men could easily disintegrate into a snooze-fest. It’s all talk, very little action and potentially a nightmare of boring blocking since the characters spend most of their time hunched around a long table or milling among battered chairs. Douglas delivers a thriller. For all the talking, Twelve Angry Men is never talky; for all its morality, it’s never preachy. Bravo.
Twelve Angry Men
runs through April 28 at the Raven Theatre ,6157 N. Clark. Tickets are $25 and $30, $5 discount for students and seniors. For more information, call 773/338-2177 or go to www.raventheatre.com or click herev
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