Anne Galjour: 'Class' act
Theater Review
Toolbox
By tarin chaplin Arts Correspondent - Published: November 21, 2008
URLINGTON – Playing to a standing-room only crowd, Anne Galjour took stage at FlynnSpace Nov. 14 and 15 for her one-woman show about class in rural New England. It was not the lightning speed of changing from a mom on welfare pursuing her bachelor's degree to the old rabbit-skinning, beer-drinking curmudgeon living in the rusty teardrop trailer, to the flatlander, school custodian, or land-developer that took us in; it was the stories themselves, threading these lives together.
You Can't Get There from Here's production elements were suitably simple — sparse as the characters' lives. The set: a persimmon-color ladder-back chair and a few curtains abstractly painted to represent valleys, mountains and sky. The costume: cocoa pants and print blouse. The sound track: an occasional slammed door, barking dog, radio show (all arguably unnecessary, given the clearly-drawn scenes).
As the show begins, we hear the cranky, slightly out-of-tune, ponderously slow, patriotic strains of an elementary school band at its year-end recital. Oh, we know this well, as do we know the first familiar story Galjour recounts, "Piece-by-piece they had to sell it off. If I coulda bought the land, to keep it in the family …" she says, leading us in.
It's an ongoing tale. Now the developer is coming to Bert and Abigail's place. She's put out the laundered doilies and hung her sampler of the Bill of Rights to cover up the cracks in the walls. Why shouldn't she try to make the place look nice so he'll bid high? After all, she and Bert deserve to be snowbirds, head to Florida like other folks for a few years of the good life after decades of cold winters, and him being called up at all hours of the night to come over and fix a plumbing leak (or whatever).
Daughter Regina has put her foot down to Kip and kicked him out because of his drinking. But he hasn't touched a drop for two weeks now, his back has gone out, and the least she can do is give him a massage. Her daughter, pre-teen Penny, is off in the woods alone, where Regina's repeatedly told her not to go. She finds beer cans, broken bottles, a midden, no sign of anyone — until she hears rustling. "If I see a bear, I'm going to rise up my arms and sing opera, loud as I can!"
Galjour keeps the successive monologues chasing one another like squirrels on power lines … too rapid for the New Englanders I know, and too … many … words. They all have so much to say (more like flatlanders than sixth-generation Vermonters). But she gets the story out all right. And she gets the wide-eyed bounce of young Penny, the staid heaviness of Abigail, the determination of Regina. The distinction's not so good between the four men who all have the same tight jaw, pulled in chin, gravelly voice.
That said, this seasoned actor ripped on impressively for an hour and a half. Co-commissioned by the Flynn Center and the Hopkins Center, the Louisiana born-and-bred woman from the bayous (who now lives and works in San Francisco) did her research well. "The powerful exercises," gleaned from a mini-workshop led by Felice Yeskel on issues of class, "provided me with language and techniques to dialogue with the community about class and economic inequality." Thoughtfully and respectfully she held story circles in the Upper Valley and in the Burlington areas, meeting with dozens of people from all walks of life.
She spent months transcribing the tapes herself so she could "listen over and over to their voices" and recall their presence. Folks don't easily reveal their inner stories among strangers, but Galjour said Yeskel's techniques helped tremendously.
Parts of the writing got a bit gimmicky — like always using the same construction to describe a character by the color in their eyes: "green as dollar bills," "brown as maple syrup," "white as nickels." But the stories, taken straight from these people, was where the power of the play and characters lay: Regina won't quit; she's going to get her diploma so she can rise above public housing to someday buy a home of her own (though she reminds her daughter, "Where you live does not change who you are"). Regina is more than her welfare credit card, "People don't see that I have a 3.7 grade point average; they just see that I clean houses." Her car accident, resulting in a broken ankle, a few busted ribs and a couple of crushed discs, can't stop her. Regina is the teacher, the wisdom woman, when she tells Penny, "It's a class line; it's not based on reality; it's an imaginary line."
Class, huh? Galjour describes herself as "a working class artist." I'd say she's more of a class working artist. She got to listen to stories I wish I'd heard myself. She got a window on the landscape, while I only get a glimpse, driving by a trailer or swinging my grocery cart into the next aisle at Shaw's.
Talking about how high we can dream: "For some people in America, the sky's the limit; for some, it's getting through to the end of the week. Don't write it off as the fault of low self-esteem. When you don't have a safety net, you fall "mighty quick."