In 1939, when William Saroyan won both the New York Drama Critics Circle Award and the Pulitzer Prize for The Time of Your Life, a civilization pummeled by the Great Depression now had the unimaginable carnage of World War Two around the corner. If Saroyan’s play seems rather leisurely for the urgency of the day and somewhat arm’s length from the world’s unrelenting brutality, one can certainly understand why. The time needed hope, the time needed reminding of life’s inherent worth, reminding that some good exists in humanity. Part of this work’s appeal is that it promises compassionate reprieve, though not escape, from an unforgiving world.
The setting, according to the lovably blunt bartender Nick, is “the lousiest dive in San Francisco.” Yet although wood surfaces are worn down by the decades of human lives that have passed through the swinging doors, a surprisingly unembittered lightness of goodwill prevails here. The eager paperboy bubbles, “Good morning everybody….paper mister?” Several of the men are stylish and wear fedoras indoors and out. While reed-slanted bands on the jukebox mellow out the atmosphere with waltzes, five cents a play, dresses hang on the hookers, gentle as moonlight, from derriere to knee. The banter, though sometimes pushy, never means any harm.
One life drifts into another in this place and it’s repeatedly obvious that many of the habitués need to be heard or held or given some respect. The Prospero of the joint is Joseph Ziegler’s philanthropic Joe, a man who seeks “a life that can’t hurt any other life.” He asserts, “I believe dreams sooner than statistics.” and dream after dream is given the go-ahead though his doing. Most notably, he nurtures the romance of Tom and Kitty Duval along, giving Tom personal direction and bankrolling Kitty’s escape from whoredom.
Kindness is all in Saroyan’s world and, like a beneficent echo to Joe, Nick gives casual work and free lunches to the destitute. At the same time, understandably, he despises Blick, quite despicable in the hands of Michael Simpson, who “hurts little people” and at one point deeply humiliates Kitty. Happily, two bullets eventually end Blick’s existence, for even Saroyan allows that kindness can go only so far. Otherwise, human spirit continues to celebrate itself in many small but meaningful ways in this dive.
The play and production offer an endless supply of memorable characters and many a usually starring actor, in this superb cast of twenty-five, goes right for the heart in a poignant vignette performance and then disappears. Jane Spidell as Mary, for one, is haunting in her brief exchange with Joe, one that seems almost like Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence on the seedier side of life. Another is Krystan Pellerin who as Elsie speaks volumes in a few lines as she imagines her Dudley being “sent to be killed in uniform.” As Lorene, Tatjana Cornij departs after only a few poignant lines and our hearts go with her.
Others have extended, decisively etched and thoroughly engaging roles, some of these being Stuart Hughes as the flamboyantly wild and yarn-spinning Kit Carson, Kevin Bundy as the limited but endearing Tom, Karen Rae as a Kitty of lingering sorrows, and Jeff Lillico as the never-say-die Harry, all very human with subtle complexity, no matter how dynamic their individual stage presences. These people stay with us after final curtain and in truth this list of ace performances, thanks to the direction of a concisely imaginative Albert Schultz, needs to be a roll call of all the roles.
Saroyan’s text is lightly wry, spiced with poetically human insights and paradoxes. Says Joe, “We were in love, at least I was, you never can tell about anyone else.” Later, “Everything’s right, right and wrong.” And since he made his fortune by hurting other people, Joe well knows that “money is the cruelest thing in the world.” The local cop, Krupp, warmly shaped by Oliver Dennis, wonders, “Why are we all so lousy? This is a good world….it’s wonderful to move around….. (but) nobody takes things easy.” As you might note, the frequent philosophizing has an everyday, wistful quality. Thus, the audience becomes almost a character in this joint as we relax and nod in agreement each time.
This remounted and widely-praised production won Dora awards several years ago for Ziegler, understandably since his performance implies a lifetime beneath, and for Stuart Hughes. If there’s a Dora for dialogue with each actor’s mouth quite packed with chewing gum, it would take that one hands down. One bonus, in this production bursting with quality goods, is the presence of jazz singer Denzal Sinclaire, a man of stylish chops who evokes an era of not that long ago with each piano riff and each vocal shading. That, as black musician Wesley, he takes an unprovoked beating from racist Blick certainly reminds us how whites gave -and still give- repayment for the musical heart of our culture born in black ghettos.