A Review of "An Iliad"

A nameless vagabond walks into the room. He's wearing dirty old jeans with holes in each knee, an old wool coat, worn boots, and an olive green shirt adorned with a drawstring collar. He carries an old, hard-case suitcase. He whistles a little as he walks in. Then he notices us, his audience. "Fuck," he mutters. And the old story begins anew.


Algernon D'Ammassa, from my estimation, is a storyteller, pure and simple. He tells stories the way stories should always be told. He never brags. He never preaches. He lets the story and the characters do the work. I have had the pleasure of knowing him for just a couple months now. In that time, I have worked with him in varying capacities. He plays a substantial role in the main stage production of Unto These Hills, in which I play a small, ensemble role. He performed the part of a Scottish woman in Engaged, a farce that I directed. We worked as partners during a handful of exercises while taking stage combat courses. I've had a number of conversations with Algernon, sometimes sitting around a campfire, sometimes simply in passing as we go about our days, sometimes running into each other at the local Cherokee Coffee Shop, a place we both regular. From these various conversations, I have gathered that Algernon has lived a varied life of adventures and misadventures. He is a traveler. He is a father. He is an actor. He is a storyteller. And when he walks into the room to tell one of the oldest recorded stories, he does it right.

An Iliad by Lisa Peterson and Dennis O'Hare is a modern adaptation of The Iliad. The writing is tight, and the premise alone is compelling. There's a reason Homer's epic poem is still around a couple thousand years after he wrote it down. The Trojan War is a fascinating story of adventure, intrigue, suspense, heroes and gods and men. Homer, of course, was writing works from an oral tradition and Peterson and O'Hare's play takes us back to that tradition. A single storyteller walks us along the shoreline, across the fields, through the towering gates, onto the ramparts, into the magnificent city of Troy. Along the way, he introduces us to Achilles and Hector, to Priam and Agamemnon, to Paris and Helen, to Briseis and Patroclus who Achilles loved, and to a number of other characters. It's a complex story of relationships, adventure, war, and heartbreak. It's a story that has stood the test of time both in textual form and in various adaptations--be they film, television, prose, drama, the list goes on and on. In this version, Peterson and O'Hare return us to the tradition of the single storyteller and over the course of an hour and forty minutes, we are invited to imagine the old war once again.

Needless to say, in the hands of a weak actor, this play could drag and flounder. Everything hinges on the back of the performer. To pull off a one man performance of this epic story, the actor must be on top of his game. He must have a strong handle on the material. He must understand all of the characters, both major and minor. He must be able to show us the story through his telling. In short, he must be a true storyteller.

A nameless vagabond walks into the room. He's wearing dirty old jeans with holes in each knee, an old wool coat, worn boots, and an olive green shirt adorned with a drawstring collar. He carries an old, hard-case suitcase. He whistles a little as he walks in. Then he notices us, his audience. "Fuck," he mutters. And the old story begins anew.

I have had the pleasure of viewing Algernon D'Ammassa's performance of An Iliad twice. These performances took place a month apart from one another in two totally different venues--once in the canteen of Unto These Hills in Cherokee, NC and once at a small tavern, White Horse in Black Mountain, NC. Both times, I found myself transported across the millennia back to ancient Greece to witness personal narratives of a few of the heroes of the Trojan War. Algernon D'Ammassa's performance is a powerhouse performance. He gracefully moves from character to character as the story dictates, playing each figure in his turn. As Achilles, we see Algernon rage and despair at the loss of his friend--his "friend"--Patroclus. As Hector, we see Algernon nobly fight for his city, for his people, for his wife and his son. As Paris and Helen, we see him a weak and cowardly figure. As Agamemnon, we see him reek of greed and pride. As Hermes, we see him playful and Puck-like. As Priam, we see a father mourning for his son. Algernon brings every character to life. He plays each character with slightly differing physicalities--no easy task given the number of characters. His commitment to each action throughout the play sells the story and pushes the dramatic action forward. Algernon plants kernels of truth in every role. These people, even though they are heroes, gods, and legends, are presented as people. I cannot imagine someone less traveled, less experienced, less adventurous than Algernon D'Ammassa bringing the nuances of the humanity of these characters to the stage successfully.

An Iliad's protagonist remains nameless throughout the performance. Just who is this vagabond? Is he a poet? Homer himself? One of the Trojan soldiers? A Greek soldier? A peasant? As I think about it more, I keep coming to the conclusion that, in Algernon's performance, the vagabond is Algernon D'Ammassa or at least a part of him. Was he actually there at Troy? No, of course not. But he has clearly done his homework. He knows the ins and outs of the script. His technical proficiency in performance is as good as anyone's. His stage presence commands attention. Both times I saw his production, I never looked away from the man on stage. Why would I want to risk missing any of his display of raw humanity? Algernon creates a cathartic experience throughout his performance. He makes the audience laugh. He makes us wince. He makes us think. He asks us to think about the nature of war, the way it affects not only the lives of those fighting in it, but also the women and children and peasants, the small people. At one particularly powerful moment, we're led through a a countless list of wars over the course of recorded history. This section in weaker hands could easily become diluted in preaching and dull repetition. As Algernon presents it, we cannot help but listen to the list with full attention, nearly holding our breath as he reminds us just how often humanity has tried to destroy itself through the horrors of war. As he finishes this section of the piece, every person watching is still and silent. Algernon breaks the silence himself with a broken moan. His moan is our cue that it's okay to return to ourselves, that it's okay to release the inward tension that has knotted in every audience member's gut in the last few minutes. The play continues.

Suffice to say, for me, Algernon's performance of An Iliad is what theatre is all about. It's entertaining, thought provoking, and it takes us on an incredible journey. Algernon's professionalism is outstanding. Being live theatre, mistakes or the unexpected can happen. During one of the performances I saw, Algernon had a slight name slip--it was quick mistake, I don't even know if he was aware it happened. He said, "Agamemnon" instead of "Achilles." Yet even the staunchest critic in me cannot hold this against him, for, if he was aware of the slip, he didn't show it. He continued without missing a beat and it's only as I write this review looking for something to criticize that I remember that moment at all. During the performance at White Horse, there was a slight incident that in the hands of a lesser actor could have ruined the moment. At the climax of the show, as Priam came to ransom the body of his son Hector from Achilles, a couple sirens passed the building. I can't tell you if they were cops, firetrucks, or ambulance, because even with that distraction, I couldn't take my eyes from Algernon. How did the the storyteller respond? He quietly acknowledged the distraction. "If we'd had those back then, they would have been going off. That's the kind of thing that was going on in Achilles' head. But let it go and all at once his anger was released." What a moment that was. Algernon dealt with the distraction professionally and incredibly without breaking even slightly. Frankly, I was flabbergasted.

A vagabond walks into the room. His name's Algernon D'Ammassa. He's wearing dirty old jeans with holes in each knee, an old wool coat, worn boots, and an olive green shirt adorned with a drawstring collar. He carries an old, hard-case suitcase. He whistles a little as he walks in. Then he notices us, his audience. "Fuck," he mutters. And the old story begins anew.

And what a story, what a performance, it is. If the opportunity to see it a third time ever comes, I will be there in a heartbeat.

The Smith Traders

In Unto These Hills, I portray a couple of nameless soldiers, both of whom are killed during the show. Not one to sit by and just let my characters be nobodies, I decided to write a back story. My characters are Nigel Smith, Senior and Nigel Smith, Junior. This is their tragic story. Oh and for the record, supposedly, Ahuli is a Cherokee name meaning drum; my source for this is the Internet, which means it might be true. For the sake of the story, let's just assume it is.

~The Smith Traders~

My father, Nigel Smith, Senior, was not a bad man and neither was I, but in the affairs of country, personal ethics don't matter too much. Reasons for the outbreak of war are innumerable, seems everyone has their theory, and I'm no historian to deal in discussions and debates about the whys. It happened. Let that be sufficient. My father was a trader and he joined the militia out of duty to his neighbors more than a duty to his country, though certainly the township took fair pride in the new country of the United States of America. When the pot boiled and the dark days of 1812 began, the town hesitated only for a moment; by the end of the year, she sent the bulk of her militia to join the fight. Mama asked Papa not to go, as wife's are oft to do. Whether or not it was a cold, winter evening, I don't know for sure, but that's the dramatic picture in my memory: cold, snowy, my brother Jeb and I huddled for warmth in our bed and three candles casting shadow dancers around the two room cabin.

Mama and Papa were outside, I think. If my memory is true, their voices crept in through the walls, and, though I tried not to listen, I heard the fight. I heard Mama begging him to stay with us, telling him he was going to get himself killed and his family, we, would be left struggling to survive. We would be left dying. Father balked. He argued duty to his neighbors, his brothers and friends. And what of his duty to us? I never heard an answer. The militia trumpets sounded and, an apologetic goodbye later, father was on the road to join General Jackson's forces. One thing I remember without a doubt: Mama cried and then Jeb cried and I--well, despite my best effort, I just whimpered, and my face stayed dry. I wished there was something I could say to be comforting to my family, but I was young and scared, and I did nothing.

Over the next months we got occasional, hastily written letters. Having been a trader before the war, Papa spoke some of the Cherokee language. This helped him move forward in the ranks. Indeed, Papa wrote that he met General Jackson himself. He spoke of Jackson as a shrewd man--smart but with a cruel, cold streak. My father didn't care much for Jackson the man, but he spoke highly of Jackson the general's presence and his blue-eyed charm. Father was far more positive about the Cherokee than he was about the man who would be one day be president. Even before the war, Papa had believed in always doing fair business with the native people. Be friendly to all men--a good businessman makes friends, not enemies, he'd say. These sentiments echoed in his letters, as he spoke of the people he fought beside. He told us of one man in particular, an Indian named Ahuli.

Papa met Ahuli two months after the militia joined the fight. Even as he fought in the army, father was always a trader deep down. So it was that, one night, sitting beside a small fire, he made an exchange with Ahuli. They shared a bowl of soup and a cup of water and traded stories of home and of their families. Papa found Ahuli a kindred spirit, and native man became a regular figure in father's letters after their meeting. If history were only letters, my father's story and, indeed, my own story, would have no tragedy, but war is war. Eventually, the letters stopped, and my mother, Jeb, and I heard nothing more from my father, Nigel Smith, Senior.

When father left, Jeb and I had done our best taking over the trading post, but without our father's guiding hand, and with many of our regular customers gone to fight in the war, business was slow. Still, we kept at it as best we could. Jeb and I were at odds time to time. He thought we should focus on trading for gold and coin. I believed in trading for tools and goods. I guess if I'm honest that's what hurt the business most of all. We were siblings and we fought as such, for we were assured in our youth and didn't understand our mortality. Mama, bless her, did little in those days. She prayed and waited for letters and, though she tried to hide it, I heard her crying every night. I wish I had comforted her better. I wish I had held her and been strong for her. Instead, I did nothing.

One hot day near the end of June, while we were cleaning the trading post, I told Jeb I was worried about Mama. I told him her crying was scaring me. He told me to pay it no mind, that being scared was being weak, that I was being a coward and that father would be ashamed of me. In those days, Jeb spoke down to me often. I don't hold it against him now. I think he was just as scared as Mama was, just as scared as I was. We all missed Papa and we all worried. However, none of that crossed my mind. Instead, I struck my brother square in the nose, the fears and worries all firing up in me and releasing from me as rage. Jeb lashed right back against me and, before we knew it, we were on the ground rolling in the dirt, hitting and kicking and screaming. Mama came quickly, yelling at us to stop, and I'm sure a passerby or two stopped to give a pitying nod. We paid nobody no mind, just kept on beating our emotions out of one another. I guess this would've kept on keeping on for a good while until one of us was knocked out, except that a voice louder than a drum barreled through the trading post: "If you are the sons of Nigel Smith, stop this foolishness at once. I bring sad news of your father." So it was that we met Ahuli.

The native man had traveled on foot hundreds of miles to deliver the story of my father's death to his family. The Battle of Horseshoe Bend put an end to the Creek War and was a strong victory for the United States in the War of 1812. It was a battle in which my country's men killed several hundred Creek warriors and suffered minimal casualties of our own troops. I do not take pride in the knowledge of the overwhelming suffering we caused the families of those we killed or the destructive treatment of the Indians after the battle was finished. I know that the Creek suffering as a whole was greater than the American suffering, but my Papa who was one of the few Americans killed on the battlefield and my family suffered that loss with great sorrow. Ahuli's tale was an honest one. Papa had escorted a Creek prisoner off the battlefield. After handing him over to authorities, my father ran back to the field to rejoin the fight. He killed only one warrior before being struck with a knife. He fell without fanfare, without being noticed by his own countrymen. Ahuli dragged him from the battlefield and promised him he would find us. My father died in the arms of a Cherokee man who loved him as a brother.

Ahuli finished his story. The trading post was quiet in the summer heat. With hardly a sound, Mama thanked Ahuli for finding us and turned away, staring at nothing, silent. Jeb didn't move; he, too, was silent, a dark rage beginning to grow deep inside him, a rage which would never stop simmering. My own silence lasted only a moment. Then, suddenly, unlike the night my father went away, the floods came. I wept and my mother looked away and my brother fumed. As I began to collapse, I felt strong, warm arms around me. Ahuli, my father's friend, a Cherokee Indian, held me.

Jeb lashed out. He pushed Ahuli away from me calling him a filthy redskin. He slandered our father's friend. Liar, he said. Vile Indian. He screamed and raged and forced Ahuli out of the trading post. My mother and I, shocked, did nothing. I don't know what became of Ahuli after that. By the time I was back to myself, the native man was gone. I wish I could say Jeb didn't mean his words. I wish I could say it was all shock and rage and emotion, and perhaps at the beginning it was, but he never let go of that rage. My brother Jeb, by choice or not, unfairly blamed all Indians, even Ahuli, for our father's death for the rest of his life. I never agreed with him about this, but I never spoke up. I didn't feel it was my place. I let it be. I did nothing.

Mama passed a few years later during a harsh winter. After her death, my brother Jeb and I left town together. We followed in our father's footsteps, joining the United States Army. I joined to honor our father's memory. My brother joined to seek revenge on natives. When Andrew Jackson, as president, signed the Indian Removal Act, Jeb and I were both involved in the removal. I took no pride in it. Indeed, I struggled with it.

Marching the Indians across the country, I can't count the number of times I hesitated to carry out my orders. Again and again, I thought of Ahuli. I thought of the unfairness of what we were doing. But still, I carried out my orders on that terrible trail. Once I was called upon by my superiors to put chains on the Cherokee hero Junaluska. I did so fearfully and ashamedly, and in my fear, I struck out, pushing the defeated man in a petty display of power--false power; I trembled as I struck him. My brother walked by my side for much of the march. Then, one day, a group was ordered to chase after Tsali and his sons, a group of Cherokee who were resisting the removal. I was among that group. Jeb was not.

We found Tsali and had him in our custody, but soon, a skirmish broke loose. Tsali's granddaughter cried out, begging to go home. My commanding officer smacked her, telling her to be quiet. I trembled at his brutality, aghast at his anger towards a little girl. I was shaken by his cruelty. I was shaken, and, for a moment, I didn't see the lieutenant at all--I saw my brother. Before I knew what was happening, Tsali's sons had wrestled my gun from me and, like my father before me, I, Nigel Smith, Junior, was falling to the ground, the warmth of my own blood pouring from a knife wound.

As I laid there, alone, dying, I sobbed, wishing for someone like Ahuli to hold me. But Ahuli was long gone, driven away by my brother's anger and by my hesitation to act.

Some time later, Jeb learned of my death. Since then, his anger towards Indians has only continued to grow. I wish I could speak to him. I wish I could tell him it wasn't their fault. I wish I could tell him that rage helps no one, that acting out against the native people honors neither my father or me. But my brother, like so many other American citizens, lives and hates, and my father and I are long dead. And I can do nothing.

A Retrospective of Fight Class from the Society of American Fight Directors

The alarm clock rings at 9:45 in the morning. I force myself to roll out of bed, grabbing my contacts on the way. I stretch just a little, put on some clothes, pause in the restroom to brush my teeth, grab a piece of fruit, a granola bar, and my water bottle, and I head out of the door across the old brittle sidewalk, across the asphalt road, into the one air-conditioned building on the hill. It's 10AM by now and other actors are trickling in. Everyone is dressed in gym clothes, and the atmosphere is one of tired energy. Dan Granke, a fight director from the Society of American Fight Directors (SAFD), comes in carrying his red backpack, which is full of training knives. Class begins.

We grab partners for the majority of our work. We grapple with one another, pushing one another back and forth across the room. We play with knives, testing what it feels like to make contact to one another with them. We discuss concepts developed by Michael Chekhov. We imagine that we stand in the center of invisible bubbles, essentially our personal bubbles. We test what it feels like to move around other people in our bubbles, conscious of not only our own but also everyone else's. We test how it feels to contract and expand our bubbles. We continue to practice grappling and using knives. We discuss martial skills and what attacks and disarms and defenses would actually do if one were to apply them with complete force. Knowing our target objectives is important. A sense of reality is important.

We choose partners for scene work, scenes which we will serve as our fight tests. One partner for unarmed fighting and one partner for knife fighting. My unarmed partner is my friend Elena and we choose a scene from Barefoot in the Park by Neil Simon. My knife partner is Kemper McDowell, an older actor who I don't know very well and we choose a scene from Tristan and Yseult.

Every Monday through Saturday, over the course of three weeks, we meet to work on our training. With Elena, I practice punches, elbows, kicks, knees, falls, chokes, grappling on the floor. With Kemper, I practice stabs, slashes, punches, knees, disarms, grappling with knives in our hands. The scene with Elena is a lovers' quarrel; in it, there is no intent to kill or seriously injure. My character while angry, does not want to actually harm his wife. The scene with Kemper is a fight against an invading king; in it, we fight to the death. I am disarmed, stabbed in the gut, and as I gasp for air, I disarm Kemper, taking his own blade which I use to fatally stab him through the eye.

The choreography is tight. We watch our classmates work. Everyone does the same choreography but the scenes are vastly different. We see bits of Shakespeare, we see contemporary works, we see a particularly terrifying fight between two women doing a scene from The Crucible. Every pair refines their fights so as to work with their own physicality. This shows us just how different working with different people can be. All of the scenes are strong. All of the fights are strong. And all of them are unique to their pairs.

As the days go by we continue to discuss the technical theory behind the work we're doing. We practice acting exercises to help us fine tune our work. We get out short pool noodles and have a competition we refer to as the UTH World Cup Knife Fights. We fight in pairs. The first person to get three clean hits wins. Day one of the competition, we split into three groups of four. Each person is required to fight everyone in their group. The two people with the most wins in each group will continue on into elimination rounds for the final. My first fight is the first one of the competition. I'm fighting Travis, the UTH fight captain. In a dumb luck moment, I upset the roster by a fluke disarm. Then, fighting Elena, I find a spot she has trouble defending, and I win again. Kemper, however, beats me. I move on to the quarter-final.

Between the first round and the semi-final, we do a different exercise with the noodles. The premise is essentially the same: two fighters face off. This time, however, Dan side coaches us as we fight. The only rule: we cannot leave the scene until he tells us. We are fighting to the death, and this work is brutal, emotional work. We're asked to imagine actually fighting as if our lives depend on it, as if we are really killing someone. Our movements change drastically. The exercise somehow doesn't feel like a game anymore. It's disturbing and emotionally draining. After each fight ends, we take time to stretch, to breathe, to calm down and recenter ourselves. We discuss the emotions and effects of such awful things as killing another person (or of dying in such a terrible way). The exercise reminds us of the danger of weapons, the danger of fighting. It is disturbing, but it is an extremely valuable exercise. It informs our work not only in fighting but in acting in general. It pushes us into a different place, one we don't necessarily want to go, but it gives us a new tool we can use.

The quarter-final round of the Knife Fights is single elimination. My first fight is against Anthony, one of the two most athletic guys on the hill. He's fast, strong, and intimidating in a fight--though outside of a competition, he's one of the most chill and friendly guys you'll ever meet. The fight begins and I take a solid stance, holding my position. I hold still, waiting for him to strike. He tries to bait me into moving, but I'm not falling for it. He lands a hit on me. I stagger. He lands another hit on me. Down by two, knowing if I'm hit again, I'm out, I refocus. I patiently wait. I get a hit. Anthony dances around me, moving in circles. I only move slightly, always facing him. He moves to attack. I dodge and hit him a second time. Next hit wins. We're both sweating. We're both tense. We have several moments of hitting at the same time, moments we refer to as doubles which do not count towards our scores. It has to be a clean hit. Anthony raises his arm to begin a downward slash. In that moment, I make the first true lunge I've made the entire fight. I strike him straight on, winning the fight.

I move into the semi-final. My next opponent is Chris, a ruthless fighter who uses scare tactics. They don't work on me, but he's even faster than Anthony. He's more precise. I only land one hit on him, and he beats me. He proceeds to beat Eric in the final, winning the competition undefeated. Eric and I face off for second place and the match ends the same as the first one of the competition: a fluke disarm, and I earn second overall.

Class continues, our scenes continue to be tweaked and cleaned up as we improve our movement, as we learn our lines, as we work on building our characters. Every day we're covered in sweat and new bruises and carpet burns. We're all getting beat up each day. We're all tired. But it's fun work. It's enjoyable. It's acting work. And the general consensus is that Dan Granke is a wonderful teacher, not to mention just a great guy. He's friendly, extremely knowledgeable, and he works from an acting perspective. His criticism of our work never feels discouraging. He explains things in ways that are clear and precise, and even when he has to repeat himself, he never seems annoyed. He works to help his students learn and grow. If ever I have the opportunity to work with him again, I would say yes in a heartbeat.

The day of our fight tests comes along. Scott Mann, a fight master from the SAFD is our judge. He watches our fights with a smile. He then takes us through two short masterclasses. These are focused on fighting for film. We do a short knife fight pattern in one. In the other, we do a short unarmed punching pattern. Scott, in the brief hours he is with us, strikes me as another fantastic, knowledgeable teacher.

All of us students exit the building for a brief time so Scott and Dan can discuss our work. When we're called back in, Scott lifts up a fight certificate and says, "Daniel Banks. Please talk to your teacher after this. Fail." He tears the certificate apart. An audible gasp comes from everyone in the room. A beat. Scott laughs, "I'm joking, of course. Look, you all passed and several passed with recommends. This was one of the strongest sets of fights I've seen in a long while."

I did not receive recommends for either of my fights, but the pass is still good, and Scott gave advice and feedback on what I need to continue to work on.

These last three weeks have been extremely busy. Our classes had four hours of work a day with an hour lunch break in the middle. The first week of class was also production week for the farce I directed. Then over the last two weeks I was in rehearsals for Glengarry Glen Ross, which was a difficult production and I had a ton of work to do in a short amount of time. Over these three weeks, I got around 6 hours of sleep a night, and my day would start at 9:45AM and go until about 1 or 2AM without much of a break. I've been exhausted, but I have had a blast. The weeks flew by.

So, what happens now? Well, I'm taking a break. Sure, I still have performances of UTH every Monday-Saturday, and I have Time of War performances every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. But overall, my schedule has opened up dramatically. Yesterday afternoon, I sat and read for fun for a while. Last night, I hung out by the nightly bonfire. I actually got a full night's sleep. I'm planning on continuing to read a lot. I'm planning on writing more often (both blogging and working on some stories/scripts I have rolling around in my head). I'm going to pick up running again. I'm going to take walks and go swimming and try new restaurants. I've just started to look at possible MFA programs in Directing--Dan actually gave me couple suggestions of potential schools to look at. The constant workload has been wonderful, enjoyable, and I am so glad for all of the training and experience I have received from it. But I am also extremely glad that it's vacation time. It's breathing time. And I fully intend to enjoy every moment.