Tis true my form is something odd,
But blaming me is blaming
God.
Could I create myself anew,
I would not fail in pleasing
you.
If I could reach from pole to pole,
Or grasp the ocean
with a span,
I would be measured by the soul,
The mind’s the
standard of the man. — a poem by Isaac Watts frequently
quoted in letters by Joseph Merrick
A confession: I walked out of the McCoy Theatre’s The Elephant
Man desperately wanting to drive to Studio on the Square for a late
showing of the Michael Jackson documentary This Is It. Jackson’s
story and that of The Elephant Man have been intertwined since
Jackson toured the Royal London Hospital where he was shown the
twisted, misshapen bones of Joseph Merrick, the “Elephant Man.” In a
1993 interview with Oprah Winfrey, the King of Pop denied pervasive
rumors that he’d tried to purchase the skeleton. Then Jackson, a
reclusive plastic-surgery disaster who practically had been born on
exhibit, confessed an affinity for Merrick, the tragic freak-show
exhibit of the Victorian age.
“I love the story of the Elephant Man,” Jackson told Oprah. “He
reminds me of me a lot.”
What’s extraordinary about this admission is, of course, that
Merrick’s doctor, Sir Frederick Treves, noted that in spite of his
hideous figure, keen intelligence, and romantic imagination, the
Elephant Man had become a perfectly polished mirror. People who came to
see him, whether they were royalty or rough trade, saw themselves
reflected in Merrick’s deformity and good nature. The fictionalized
Treves in Bernard Pomerance’s faithful stage adaptation of Merrick’s
story elaborates on the phenomenon, noting that nobody on the Elephant
Man’s visitor’s list is really alike. Except, of course, for the fact
that we all eventually become monsters.
It’s easy enough to find oneself reflected in director Leigh Ann
Evans’ thoughtful, if too introspective, staging of The Elephant
Man. Ed Porter is particularly effective in the role of Merrick.
Pitching his voice into a higher than natural register and twisting his
body into an uncomfortable snarl, Porter has no need for prosthetics
and projects his character’s hideousness, physical pain, emotional
yearning, and eventual complacency with incredible subtlety.
Porter’s physical commitment to the role is unfortunately not always
echoed by his homogenous castmates who do honest work but are too
rigid, even for England in the age of empire. If there is a crucial
element missing from this production, it’s proof that Treves was right
in declaring us all different. Ross the carney (played by David
Yarborough) doesn’t seem that much different from Treves the doctor
(Pieter Smith). And for an actor, one of the most fun parts of doing
The Elephant Man is asking the question, What kind of
monster am I?
Alicia Queen is a commanding presence in the role of Francis Carr
Gomm, the traditionally (and historically) male chairman of the Royal
London Hospital who helps to facilitate Merrick’s illusion of normalcy.
The dynamic character actor could be much more than a presence, but
there is an invisible barrier preventing her from fully engaging with
Treves. Likewise, Madison Hannahs is excellent as the actress Mrs.
Kendal who befriends Merrick and becomes his nurse and emotional
confidante. Opportunities for a richer character study may have been
missed, but Hannahs charms the audience as easily as she charms Merrick
and shows Treves his own secret deformities.
Laura Canon’s set is very useful and very gray. It begs for actors
to complete it, and it begs for them to be at least a little more
colorful, animated, and engaged than they ultimately are.
If, like me, the thought of capturing a pop-culture moment by
watching The Elephant Man and This Is It back-to-back is
irresistible, do it soon: The McCoy Theatre closes its run this weekend
with a Sunday matinee.
