The work of Naomi Wallace has mainly lived on the fringes of New York theatre. Perhaps because it is too sermonesque, too figmental, a little delusive. I read One Flea Spare as a teen and found it rather disgusting, but appreciated its aversiveness. Now, another callous work of Wallace’s makes its off-Broadway debut. Slaughter City, published in 1996, tells the story of a somewhat Appalachian meat packing plant in the 90s. The typical subsets of class critical theatre à la Brecht are with us; an abusive boss who targets female employees, disgruntled and perverted workers, and overarching heightened thematic elements. Its usual proceedings and toils are disrupted (more so enhanced) by a character named Cod (KP Sgarro), a vaguely Irish former scab who works his way up to the kill floor. Upon arriving, they begin spewing critical theory surrounding class and labor systems–akin to David Graeber, a leader of the Occupy Movement–to his co-workers. The irony of a white queer person talking down to non-white, working class people was not lost on me. An elusive Sausage Man (Alan Simon, innocently sadistic) is later introduced and soon emerges as the puppetmaster of Cod’s life and the play’s events. You would think that a team mounting an older play somewhat ahead of its time, especially in trans representation, would do something interesting in presenting the material to a new audience. That is not the case. But, to be fair, this was a press preview with a sparse audience, mainly consisting of the production’s team members. This was also the second to last performance before opening.
The designers did their best to find their elemental place in the world of the play, but everything looked as if it were in pieces. Nothing was concise in a way that would actually convey the conditions of this setting and world. The costume design by Hannah Bird, for example, was not entirely committed. Cod’s mother, a Textile Worker, played by Gabrielle Kogut, waltzes around in a fugue state dressed in long fabrics with delicate trimmings, embellished by pins, plastic tape measurers, and other modern sewing materials. This look felt too current, too rooted in recent microtrends that champion softly gothic, faux victorian garbs. Perhaps this was apt–the character perished in a particularly infamous fire–that all of her outfits look taken off the digital fast-fashion rack. It could have be interesting commentary, but the intention was too unclear. The set and props design, by Forest Entsminger and Jonathan Schatzberg, respectively, had some clever functions, like hanging meat carcasses filled with fabric guts, operable from a pulley system. The same can be said for the lighting design by Celia Krefter, illuminating but shadowy, and grating sounds by Emma Hasselbach. But none of it seems to aid the story to the extent it should. I don’t think that’s exactly their fault, though.
Reuven Glezer’s direction was bizarre. At its best, it’s contained, and at its worst, egregious across many fronts. The traverse staging he has chosen rarely considers its audience. I often found myself completely unable to catch certain movements and even dialogue, despite being front row, center, and a mere five feet from the stage. Reviewing the script notes, many key instructions and details were overlooked by Glezer. Whether said details textually work is perhaps another question, but the omission is notable. “No one cries in Slaughter City”, reads the text, yet tears are shed. The set is stated to be “not ‘realistic,’” but clearly resembles exact locations like the factory floor and an office. A majority of the characters are supposed to be in their 30s-50s, but act and appear significantly younger. Meanwhile, the juvenile Brandon (Ben Natan, the artistic director of Small Boat Productions, responsible for this production) seems the most aged of the workers. Glezer, in a talk with Theresa Buchheister for Staff Picks, stated “the number one rule” for his direction of this play was “no displays of naturalism”, yet the efforts made to mimic the conditions of such a dehumanizing yet generic environment felt entirely naturalistic; there was nothing augmented about most of the acting or directorial choices. Dramaturgically, this production lives somewhere between realism and surrealism, with some unintentional naturalism lurking on the side. It’s in too muddled a place to clearly deduce an intended vision.
Two performers carried the weight of the evening’s performance, and though this responsibility was too great, I was grateful for their commitment and poignancy. Gil Charleston as Tuck, a black former line worker turned floor supervisor, is the most grounded in conveying the lived-in experience of the workplace setting. This, in part, is thanks to the text. Tuck has the clearest arc in the play. But beyond that, Charleston soars above what is expected from a concise yet observational role. He emotionally and physically grapples with his circumstances in subtle and explosive ways; feeling like he’s winning for the first time while being a pawn in someone else’s game, the someone being his boss Baquin (Nicolas Eric Sanchez). Witnessing Tuck go through the five stages of grief was nothing short of thrilling. As longtime line worker and union rep Roach, Le’Asha Julius turns out a searing performance. With a character so appallingly underwritten, Julius unearths a level of viscerality invisible in the text. This is the work of a skilled, thoughtful actor. However, this skill is perhaps pushed too far. In an especially harrowing scene between Tuck and Roach, near the middle of the piece, Tuck is forced to sexually and racially objectify his employee. While performed exceptionally by Julius and Charleston, its place leads one to question the playwright’s intent.
Whiteness comes with an inherent racial bias, and white theatremakers often find a way to pervade said biases through their work. The white gaze of this play is extremely apparent and makes me curious of Wallace’s own racial perceptions. In Cod, specifically, Wallace relies on the theory of ‘white freedom’ as the crux of their character and, ultimately, as the culmination of the play. This theory, coined by historian Eric Foner and expanded upon by Ta Nehisi-Coates in his essay “I’m Not Black, I’m Kanye” (this lineage of thought comes from Maggie Nelson’s On Freedom), posits ‘white freedom’ as something only for oneself, while ‘black freedom’ is a universal, shared ideal. When Cod chooses their coworker Maggot (Lucy Buchanan) over their colleagues, their choice to pursue their yearning leads to drastic consequences for everyone in his periphery. Even after rallying his coworkers to strike, they are only interested in their own liberty. “Whiteness don’t have to be a color, Gadus. It can be a wage.” Tuck tells Cod earlier in the play. By the end, this feels more nuanced. Both Tuck and Cod feel more privilege in their daily lives, compared to their colleagues. But even Tuck, who presumably makes more than Cod and his fellow floormates, chooses resistance in the end: solidarity with himself and those who toil ceaselessly as he once did. Meanwhile, Cod continues to choose their own self-centered desires.
Previously, it came to light that Cod wears a chest binding, alluding to his transness, to which Maggot, at first, reacts poorly. Near the play’s climax, Maggot asks to see Cod’s chest. The script tells us “though we cannot, Maggot can see Cod’s chest”, and yet, no efforts were made to show this. We, the audience, see Cod just as Maggot does, bare and all. This directorial liberty was pin in the production’s coffin for me. Whether we agree with them or not, we owe theatrical texts some level of sanctity when it comes to respecting directions for the actors and translating that to the audience carefully. Plays are games. They have rules, instructions, and loopholes. When we try to go around them without the technical skills, necessary tactics, or tenderness to avoid them, we inevitably fail.
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