Don't Be Beastly to the Redskins

Virginia Woolf once wrote that after reading certain novels she felt as if she were expected to write out a check. Such sermonettes, with their demand for moral reparations for evil deeds of the past, infest the modern theater. If one were really to believe Hochhuth (The Deputy), Weiss (The Investigation) and Arthur Miller (Incident at Vichy), one would conclude that the playgoer is responsible for every human crime and flaw since Adam ate the apple. The latest playwright to join this tiresome mea culpa crew is Arthur Kopit. His play Indians argues that Americans were once beastly to the redskins, a heady bit of information.

In Oh Dad, Poor Dad, Kopit displayed a minor gift for surrealistic comedy, and in Indians he has attempted to entertain when not pulpiteering. The format is that of a Buffalo Bill Wild West show. In London, where the work originally opened, the parody-circus scenes came first, including the last-minute rescue of the innocent maiden from the ignoble savages. The somber account of the expropriation, humiliation and decimation of the Indians followed, together with the pleas of their chiefs.

At Washington's Arena Stage, where the revamped play is now running, Kopit has interspersed the two elements without gaining any visible harmony of mood or purpose. One redeeming element is the staging by Director Gene Frankel: the menacing beat of tom-toms, eerie flickering lights, harsh ritual dances and the brooding presence of totemic animal masks give the play a body that the text lacks. Stacy Keach's Buffalo Bill is pistol-bright as the showman, but the man within remains tantalizingly masked.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.