THE CRYPTOGRAM
By David Mamet
Ambassadors Theatre, London.
23 July 1994.

In David Mamet's two-character play, The Woods, Ruth tells her boyfriend, "So little counts, Nick. Just the things we do. (Pause). To each other. The right things." But, in The Cryptogram, Mamet's superbly crafted, deeply disturbing, and emotionally devastating new drama which premiered in London in June—the second of Mamet's plays to do so—there is little possibility that we could characterize the things done as "the right things." The situation, structure, theme and moral dilemma are characteristically Mamet, and reminiscent of Mamet's mystical plays, The Water Engine and The Shawl, with the distinctive difference that this play is highly personal.

In a charged atmosphere bristling with tension, cloaked in secrets, and heavy with mysticism, totemic images, and transformation symbols, Mamet dramatizes the profound betrayal and abandonment of family and friendship in three short scenes in which the lives of three characters are upended. In sharp contrast to the hard-boiled terrain of con artists, Mamet rivets attention on personal treacheries in an encoded drama set in 1959 in the family's living room on three evenings, the last separated by a month's interval. As setting, the home is a rarity in Mamet's canon, and coupled with the night-time scene and the evocative power of three—the heavenly number of the soul, the human family, the triads of truth, courage, and compassion, and past, present, and future—it signals an intimate night journey inherently dangerous, painful and ultimately enlightening.

Immediately, Mamet raises the subject of a journey when John, a precocious ten-year-old, impressively played by the highly gifted child actor Danny Workers (who alternates in the role with Richard Claxton), appears barefoot, having packed his slippers for a camping trip to the woods with his father scheduled for the next day. With her long-time friend, Del, John's mother Donny, a woman in her late thirties (who inspired Mamet's original title for the play, Donny's March), attempts to put her agitated, overwrought son to bed while she waits for her husband Robert, habitually delayed at work. But, as the plot enfolds, the lateness of the hour, Donny's irritability with her son's chronic insomnia, and a shattered tea kettle announce that nothing is quite right in this apparently amiable environment. Del proves a calming influence who engages John's attention and trust, as well as our own. Mamet's first overtly homosexual character, Del assumes the role of a father figure who befriends the intelligent boy, engages him in conversation, teaches him a game to sharpen his skills of observation and memory, and eventually provides the lap in which John is finally secure enough to sleep.

Despite the lack of backstory and elusive and enigmatic references, Del and Donny compose a credible picture of their longtime friendship through points of reference, such as an old photograph in which they both appear, a blanket once used in the country, but now torn, and a borrowed book. But it is John who brings the larger picture into focus by his discovery of a letter. With Donny the audience learns of the Robert's betrayal of his wife and abandonment of his family and is stunned by Del's complicitous behavior in this betrayal. Whereas the presence of the child heightens the pathos of the play and imbues it with vulnerability, it is the haunting absence of the father who has betrayed them all that brings the enigmatic play into sharp relief. The ferocity of Donny's anguished explosion pierces the silence and provides a stunning dramatic moment: "What, what, what fucking sense can we make out of it . . . what possible poor understanding. Can we find. What order. In this constant betrayal," she cries, but in the play's last and strongest scene she explains to her son, "Things occur. In our lives. . . the meaning of them . . . is not clear."

Under Gregory Mosher's skillful direction, the play receives a fine production—although in my view not as effective as the play which packed more of a punch after viewing than during. Lindsay Duncan's performance is flawless, striking the perfect pitch of confusion, compassion, and contempt, as slowly she gains an understanding of what she has seen and chosen not to know. His acting laced with irony, Eddie Izzard as Del is superb communicating an affection and generosity outweighed only by the desperate urgency of his need for the family and friend he betrays, although at times he is not entirely comfortable with Mamet's rhythmic prose. Beautifully complementing the complexity and mysticism of The Cryptogram, Bob Crowley's set, resembling a Rothko painting, and expertly lit by Rick Fisher, is dominated by a huge staircase that seems to disappear into the shadows, and is especially effective in the final disturbing moments. Having learned well Del's harsh lesson to observe closely the moments of upheaval and surprise in his life, the boy, John, ascends the darkening stairs.

LESLIE KANE
Westfield State College