By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Eric Nicholson
Times being what they are, one line in Act 2 of the play Transatlantic Liaisonisguaranteed to goose the audience to attention. "What a thankless people, the French,'' growls Chicago author Nelson Algren to his paramour, French Existentialist writer Simone de Beauvoir.
On opening night at Theatre Three, where the play is onstage now in a lusty, film noirish production, the crowd hooted and applauded this put-down, which has nothing to do with current events, of course. The two-character drama by French playwright Fabrice Rozié is based on love letters exchanged between the writers from the late 1940s to the early 1960s. Algren's complaint about the French in those postwar years and the modern audience's knee-jerk reaction to it merely underscore the contentious relationship we Yanks have had and continue to have with those people.
Maybe part of our clash of cultures and ideas lies in how differently we regard amour, or at least that's what comes to mind while watching Algren and de Beauvoir grapple with their white-hot attraction in Transatlantic Liaison. The American way with passion is to hope it leads to love and commitment. For the French, love and passion may remain mutually exclusive, even experienced in simultaneous relationships. The play asks which is stronger--love or passion?--and lets us watch as two fascinating characters discover the answer for themselves.
Algren (played with sweaty intensity by Matthew Stephen Tompkins) and de Beauvoir (mature and beautiful Elizabeth Rothan) meet "like a corny movie story," as she puts it. Already a famous feminist author in 1947, de Beauvoir embarks on a tour of the States. Algren, not yet well-known, is her Chicago escort, awkwardly offering a sightseeing trip to the slaughterhouses. Instead, de Beauvoir enjoys the City of Big Shoulders by going to bed with a writer who has them. And let's just say right here that allowing Matthew Tompkins repeatedly to strip down to his tight white undershirt for love scenes with Rothan makes the most of a meaty role and a muscular actor.
But back to the storyline. At 40, Algren and de Beauvoir need love. He is divorced. She lives with her mentor and companion of nearly 20 years, Jean-Paul Sartre, in an arrangement that has long ceased to be physical. Early in the play, de Beauvoir tells Algren he's ignited real sexual passion for the first time in her life. He tells her she is the first real love he's ever had. "If there was ever a woman made for me, it was you," he says between smothering bouts of kissing.
And there you have it. She's content with all-consuming passion. For her, Algren represents the exotic, ideal boy-toy, a fellow writer who's great in the sack and who doesn't risk running into her father figure, Sartre, down at the local boîte.
Algren, bless his heart, wants passion and love. That de Beauvoir is brilliant comes as blessing and burden. "I never think of you as a brainy woman," he says. She takes it as a compliment. What smart woman in her 40s doesn't dream of being treated as a sex object?
Although Algren and de Beauvoir's fling comes close to the real thing, it is doomed by their divergent values. She's a darling of the Parisian literati. He hangs out with pimps and junkies and lives in a squalid one-room flat on the Polish side of Chi-town. De Beauvoir treats her beau to glamorous vacations in Mexico, but always returns to Paris and her beloved Sartre. She tells Algren that Sartre is her only "true friend" and that the French philosopher deserves all the credit for her success and personal growth. She can sleep guilt-free with the American, she says, because "I don't bring Existentialism to bed."
Algren begs de Beauvoir to marry him, but when she returns to Paris, he doesn't pursue her. Inevitably, she comes back to Chicago and Algren's arms, blithely believing the commuting can continue indefinitely. She gives Algren permission to sleep around. When he does, she's consumed with jealousy. For all their animal attraction and intellectual bonhomie, de Beauvoir and Algren simply are too incompatible to last. She is too French. He, too American.
As theatrical fodder, this story of fiery literary stars and their star-crossed romantic flameout makes for two fast hours of ripe drama and rich language. The script of Transatlantic Liaisoncomes from the authors' own writings. Playwright Rozié drew from more than 300 unpublished letters--de Beauvoir wrote all of hers to Algren in English and he never threw one away--and uses their words to construct a series of flashbacks as de Beauvoir recalls the affair later in life. She does most of the talking throughout both acts. He does most of the grabbing and ripping off of garments. Body Heat with better dialogue.
What's so great about the production at Theatre Three is how well director John McLean, who brought this project from Paris to Dallas, translates Transatlantic's sensuality through his talented cast. With the wrong actors, this could be a too-talky two-hander about a pair of horny middle-aged writers. But in casting Tompkins and Rothan, McLean gets mature actors equally matched in their acting styles and in their ability to inhabit complex characters who express real emotional and sexual abandon onstage.