Angels in America (41 page)

Two Omitted Scenes from
Perestroika

In previous published versions of
Perestroika
I included two scenes which were almost always cut in production. In preparing this new version, I decided it was time to acknowledge the verdict of twenty-two years of production history and remove the scenes from the play. I'm including them here for whatever enjoyment and interest they provide readers; the play in production unquestionably works better without them.

This scene, formerly Act Five,
Scene 6
, immediately followed the scene in which Prior confronts the Angels in the Hall of the Principalities.

Act Five, Scene 6

On the streets of Heaven. Rabbi Isidor Chemelwitz and Sarah Ironson are seated on wooden crates with another crate between them. They are playing cards. Prior enters
.

PRIOR
: Excuse me, I'm looking for a way out of this, do . . . Oh! You're . . .

SARAH IRONSON
(To the Rabbi)
: Vos vil er? [What does he want?]

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: Di goyim, zey veysn nisht vi zikh oyftsufirn. [These Gentiles, they have no manners.]

PRIOR
: Are you Sarah Ironson?

(She looks up at him.)

PRIOR
: I was at your funeral! You look just like your grandson, Louis. I know him. Louis. He never wanted you to find out, but did you know he's gay?

SARAH IRONSON
(Not understanding)
: Vi? [What?]

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: Dein aynickl, Louis? [Your grandson, Louis?]

SARAH IRONSON
: Yeah?

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
(Sotto voce)
: Er iz a feygele.

SARAH IRONSON
: A
feygele
? Oy.

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
(To Sarah)
: Itst gistu. [You deal.]

PRIOR
: Why does everyone here play cards?

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: Why?
(To Sarah)
Dos goy vil visnfar-Vos mir shpiln in kortn. [The goy wants to know why we play cards.]

     
OK.

     
Cards is strategy but mostly a game of chance. In Heaven, everything is known. To the Great Questions are lying about here like yesterday's newspaper all the answers. So from what comes the pleasures of Paradise?
Indeterminacy!
Because mister, with the Angels, may their names be always worshipped and adored, it's all gloom and doom and give up already. But still is there Accident, in this pack of playing cards, still is there the
Unknown, the Future. You understand me? It ain't all so much mechanical as they think.

     
You got another question?

PRIOR
: I want to go home.

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: Oh simple. Here. To do this, every Kabbalist on earth would sell his right nut.

     
Penuel, Peniel, Ja'akov Beth-Yisroel, Killeeyou, killeemee, OOO-oooooooo-OOOO-oooooohmayn!

(The ladder, the music and the lights. Prior starts to descend.)

SARAH IRONSON
: Hey! Zogt Loubeleh az di Bobbe zogt:

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: She says tell this Louis Grandma says:

SARAH IRONSON
: Er iz tomid geven a bissele farblonjet, shoin vi a boytshikl. Ober siz nisht keyn antshuldigunk.

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: From when he was a boy he was always mixed up. But it's no excuse.

SARAH IRONSON
:
He should have visited!
But I forgive. Tell him: az er darf ringen mit zain Libm Nomen. Yah?!

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: You should struggle with the Almighty.

SARAH IRONSON
: Azoi toot a Yid.

RABBI ISIDOR CHEMELWITZ
: It's the Jewish way.

END OF SCENE

In earlier versions of
Perestroika
's Act Five, this scene followed
Scene 7
and preceded
Scene 8
(in the current version's numbering).

Roy, in Heaven, or Hell or Purgatory—standing waist-deep in a smoldering pit, facing a great flaming Aleph, which bathes him and the whole theater in a volcanic, pulsating red light. Underneath, a basso-profundo roar, like a thousand Bessemer furnaces going at once, deep underground
.

ROY
: Paternity suit? Abandonment? Family court is my particular metier, I'm an absolute fucking demon with Family Law. Just tell me who the judge is, and what kind of jewelry does he like? If it's a jury, it's harder, juries take more talk but sometimes it's worth it, going jury, for what it saves you in bribes. Yes I will represent you, King of the Universe, yes I will sing and eviscerate, I will bully and seduce, I will win for you and make the plaintiffs, those traitors, wish they had never heard the name of . . .

     
(Huge thunderclap)

     
Is it a done deal, are we on? Good, then I gotta start by telling you you ain't got a case here, you're guilty as hell, no question, you have nothing to plead but not to worry, darling, I will make something up.

END OF SCENE

With a Little Help from My Friends

This essay was originally published in the
New York Times
on November 21, 1993, and was included in the two previous published versions of
Perestroika.

Angels in America, Parts One and Two
, has taken five years to write, and as the work nears completion I find myself thinking a great deal about the people who have left their traces in these texts. The fiction that artistic labor happens in isolation, and that artistic accomplishment is exclusively the provenance of individual talents, is politically charged and, in my case at least, repudiated by the facts.

While the primary labor on
Angels
has been mine, over two dozen people have contributed words, ideas and structures to these plays: actors, directors, audiences, one-night stands, my former lover and many friends. Two in particular, my closest friend, Kimberly T. Flynn
(Perestroika
is dedicated to her), and the man who commissioned
Angels
and helped shape it, Oskar
Eustis, have had profound, decisive influences. Had I written these plays without the participation of my collaborators, they would be entirely different—would, in fact, never have come to be.

Americans pay high prices for maintaining the myth of the Individual: We have no system of universal health care, we don't educate our children, we can't pass sane gun control laws, we elect presidents like Reagan, we hate and fear inevitable processes like aging and death. Way down close to the bottom of the list of the evils Individualism visits on our culture is the fact that in the modern era it isn't enough to write; you must also be a Writer, and play your part as the protagonist in a cautionary narrative in which you will fail or triumph, be in or out, hot or cold. The rewards can be fantastic; the punishment dismal; it's a zero-sum game, and its guarantor of value, its marker is that you pretend you play it solo, preserving the myth that you alone are the wellspring of your creativity.

When I started to write these plays, I wanted to attempt something of ambition and size even if that meant I might be accused of straying too close to ambition's ugly twin, pretentiousness. Given the bloody opulence of this country's great and terrible history, given its newness and its grand improbability, its artists are bound to be tempted towards large gestures and big embraces, a proclivity de Tocqueville deplored as a national artistic trait nearly two hundred years ago. Melville, my favorite American writer, strikes inflated, even hysterical, chords on occasion. It's the sound of the Individual ballooning, overreaching. We are all children of “Song of Myself.” And maybe in this spacious, under- and depopulated, as yet only lightly inscribed country, the Individual will finally expand to its unstable, insupportably swollen limits, and pop. (But here I risk pretentiousness, and an excess of optimism to boot—another American trait.)

Anyone interested in exploring alternatives to Individualism and the political economy it serves, Capitalism, has to be willing to ask hard questions about the ego, both as abstraction and as exemplified in oneself.

Bertolt Brecht, while he was still in Weimar-era Berlin and facing the possibility of participating in a socialist revolution, wrote a series of remarkable short plays, his
Lehrstücke
, or learning plays. The principal subject of these plays was the painful dismantling, as a revolutionary necessity, of the individual ego. This dismantling is often figured, in the learning plays, as death.

Brecht, who never tried to hide the dimensions of his own titanic personality, didn't sentimentalize the problems such personalities present, or the process of loss involved in letting go of the richness, and the riches, that accompany successful self-creation.

Brecht simultaneously claimed and mocked the identity he'd won for himself, “a great German writer,” raising important questions about the means of literary production, challenging the sacrosanctity of the image of the solitary artist and, at the same time, openly, ardently wanting to be recognized as a genius. That he was a genius is inarguably the case. For a man deeply committed to collectivity as an ideal and an achievable political goal, this blazing singularity was a mixed blessing at best and at worst, an obstacle to a blending of radical theory and practice.

In the lower right-hand corner of the title page of many of Brecht's plays you will find, in tiny print, a list of names under the heading “collaborators.” Sometimes these people contributed little, sometimes a great deal. One cannot help feeling that those who bore those minuscule names, who expended the considerable labor the diminutive typography conceals, have gotten a bum deal. Many of these effaced collaborators,
Ruth Berlau, Elisabeth Hauptmann, Margarete Steffin, were women. In the question of shared intellectual and artistic labor, gender is always an issue.

Last spring, after
Millennium Approaches
had opened on Broadway, on the day when the Tony nominations were being handed out [May 1993], I left the clamorous room at Sardi's thinking gloomily that here was another source of anxiety, another obstacle to getting back to work rewriting
Perestroika
. In the building's lobby I was introduced to the producer Elizabeth I. McCann, who said to me: “I've been worried about how you were handling all this, till I read that you have an Irish woman in your life. Then I knew you were going to be fine.” Ms. McCann was referring to Kimberly T. Flynn; an article in the
New Yorker
last year about
Angels in America
described how certain features of our shared experience dealing with her prolonged health crisis, caused by a serious cab accident several years ago, had a major impact on the plays.

Kimberly and I share Louisiana childhoods (she's from New Orleans, I grew up in Lake Charles); different but equally complicated, powerful religious traditions and an ambivalence towards those traditions; Left politics informed by liberation struggles (she as a feminist, I as a gay man), as well as socialist and psychoanalytic theory; and a belief in the effectiveness of activism and the possibility of progress.

From the beginning Kimberly was my teacher. Though largely self-taught, she was more widely read and she helped me understand both Freud and Marx. She introduced me to the writers of the Frankfurt School and their early attempts at synthesizing psychoanalysis and Marxism; and to the German philosopher and critic Walter Benjamin, whose importance for me rests primarily in his introduction into these “scientific” disciplines a Kabbalist-inflected mysticism and a dark, apocalyptic spirituality.

As both writer and talker Kimberly employs a rich variety of rhetorical strategies and effects, even while expressing deep emotion. She identifies this as an Irish trait; it's evident in O'Neill, Yeats, Beckett. This relationship to language, blended with Jewish and gay versions of the same strategies, is evident in my plays, in the ways my characters speak.

More pessimistic than I, Kimberly is much less afraid to look at the ugliness of the world. She tries to protect herself far less than I do, and consequently she sees more. She feels safest, she says, knowing the worst, while most people I know, myself included, would rather be spared and feel safer encircled by a measure of obliviousness. She's capable of pulling things apart, teasing out fundamental concerns from their camouflage; at the same time she uses her analysis, her learning, her emotions, her lived experience, to make imaginative leaps, to see the deeper connections between ideas and historical developments. Through her example I learned to trust that such leaps can be made; I learned to admire them, in literature, in theory, in the utterances people make in newspapers. And certainly it was in part her example that made the labor of synthesizing disparate, seemingly unconnected things become for me the process of writing a play.

Since the accident Kimberly has struggled with her health, and I have struggled to help her, sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing; and it doesn't take much more than a passing familiarity with
Angels
to see how my life and my plays match up. It's always been easier talking about the way in which I used what we've lived through to write
Angels
, even though I sometimes question the morality of the act (while at the same time considering it unavoidable if I was to write at all), than it has been acknowledging the intellectual debt. People seem to be more interested in the story of the accident and its aftermath than in the intellectual genealogy, the emotional life
being privileged over the intellectual life in the business of making plays, and the two being regarded, incorrectly, as separable. A great deal of what I understand about health issues comes from what Kimberly has endured and triumphed over, and the ways she's articulated those experiences. But
Angels
is more the result of our intellectual friendship than it is autobiography. Her contribution was as contributor, teacher, editor, adviser, not muse.