Brilliant production, flawed play, seems to be the critical consensus around this rare revival of Lorraine Hansberry's drama, which she started writing in 1960 and didn't quite finish by the time she died of cancer at 34 in 1965.
However, I'm more inclined to think that the play, with its thrillingly articulate, racially charged argument, and its audacious historical and territorial sweep across colonised Africa, has finally got the production it deserves. A little context wouldn't go amiss here.
With the Chicago-set A Raisin in the Sun, Hansberry was the first African-American woman playwright to be staged on Broadway. Although Raisin was populated mainly by a black family, one of its unforgettable scenes involves a white man who attempts to prevent them from living in his white neighbourhood, something which Hansberry's family experienced when she was a child in the 1930s.
But the political mind behind what became a modern classic about the African-American condition had the ambition to break out of the world in which Hansberry was raised. And it was this that, with the help of her Jewish former husband Robert Nemiroff, drove Hansberry to turn her focus to Africa under colonial rule. For this production, the latest play-script has been honed further by director Yael Farber with the help of dramaturge Drew Lichtenburg, and Nemiroff's stepdaughter Joi Gresham, who is also the trustee of Hansberry's work. The result is quite unlike any play about race I have seen. Farber, a South African-raised Jewish director with a track record of deploying black African, Xhosa ritual in her Africa-set productions, uses that theatrical magic to stunning effect here. The play begins with the stage, shrouded in shafts of smokey light, encircled by four chanting black African women whose music is, as the play puts it, "half lament and half marching song." Equally haunting is a lone, semi-naked woman, described in Hansberry's script as a dancer "painted for war" but who, in Farber's production, is a tall figure (Sheila Atim) as fragile as she is formidable and who moves with a haunting lope.
Somehow, she embodies the pain of Africa's colonialist past and its future. Later, this mute figure will, unseen by the rest of the cast, enfold herself along the spine of Hansberry's returning hero, Tshembe Matoseh, a widely travelled son of the land in which a war of independence is now gathering.
The other major figure here is visiting white American journalist Charlie Morris (Elliot Cowan) whose job is to write romantically about the poorly equipped missionary hospital in which much of the action is set. However, experience soon begins to darken Morris's rose-tinted view of the altruism of his white hosts.
It is through the intellectual returning son Matoseh, played with finesse and immense power by Danny Sapani, that Hansberry achieves the remarkable feat of viewing, judging and, through Clive Frances's ruthless Major George Rice, even humanising European imperialism. And all this while bringing to bear the experience of black America and Africa.
At the core of this tragedy of continental proportions is Sapani's mesmerising Matoseh, a man forced to take on the nationalistic struggle of several generations, made no easier by a world view that allows him to see the flaws of his cause. Sian Phillips's Madame Neilsen, the wife of the missionary whose motives are revealed to be less than pure, is also worth a mention.
This isn't the first time Les Blancs has been revived. But here is a version that finally elevates a neglected play to the heights it deserves.
